An eco-conscious adventure through the Scottish Highlands

On the grassy meadows of Achinreir Farm, not far from Oban in Argyll, Scotland, a herd of sodden-haired Highland cattle are sheltering from persistent rain under an oak tree. Heads tilt and horns shake, a warning to approach carefully. Few signs of the Atlantic temperate forest that once dominated the coastal glens of the West Highland seaboard remain. Now, the ground is overtaken by invasive rushes and brackens, and the cattle stare, unmoved and ambivalent, chomping grass and watching our every step. One heifer, in particular, scowls haughtily, regarding us with contempt. Don’t turn your back, I’d been told. No sudden movements.

“That’s Daisy,” whispers cattle farmer Jane Isaacson, as we creep to within a horn’s breadth. “Her full pedigree name is An Uiseag 9th of Eileanmore. And next to her, that’s Ban, or Banarach Ban of Achinreir, and her calf, Banarach Breagha 3rd of Achinreir from Jock 17th of Woodneuk.” In the next field, I’m told, there’s also the Glaistaig of Roisbheinn line and the Morag of Roisbheinn line. “Both are bred by my Uncle Alan over in Moidart. Let’s go and say hello.”

Instead of being used like most herds, the 18-strong group of cattle on Achinreir Farm are carving out a different existence, providing the UK’s first Highland cow wellbeing experience. The idea, Jane explains, is to walk with the cattle, watch them for a while and learn how they’re helping rewild this 132-acre regenerative farm near Barcaldine. They might be the world’s oldest recorded breed of cattle, long registered by bloodline with wonderfully honorific titles, but you can almost feel that they’re part of a new energy.

The presence of that Highland Fold is partly due to a shift in attitudes across Argyll and the Highlands. Slow travel and sustainable tourism are reshaping this part of Scotland and I’m here to learn more about it first hand from a variety of entrepreneurs and environmentalists. Once, you had to look hard for evidence of green tourism. Now, there are new ways to discover this ancient landscape, with many experiences offering a better sense of connection with the land in its purest state. Frankly, it’s all about big trips with small footprints.

As we pick our way through the field, I learn the fold’s grazing habits prevent overgrowth, encouraging natural regeneration by reducing the prevalence of more vigorous plants. In between times, their milk is also used for what’s believed to be the world’s only Highland cow ice cream, a sustainably minded product that’s now putting this unsung community on the food map. It’s a mini farming evolution, but one with added tutti frutti.

Walking, whispering, squelching, Jane opens the fence to another pasture. We slip out into a second field overlooking Loch Creran and ringed by nettles and meadowsweet. Where the ground is rough and steep, a burn flows clear. Ponies raise their heads under Douglas firs in the next field. There’s a rare stillness here — of birdsong and river rush — and the sensation is of the body and mind opening up to life on the farm. “Life’s too fast these days, don’t you think?” asks Jane. “People come here to experience a sort of inner peace.”

Highland Fold is not the only pioneer of green tourism in the area. A road trip by electric car provides numerous opportunities to explore the region and enjoy plenty more sustainable experiences. The day after my visit, I find myself a short drive away on the Appin coast, where I meet Michael Leathley from The Pierhouse Hotel. He’s pulling in lobster-filled creel traps right from the lochside in his chef’s whites, metres from his waterfront kitchen. It’s high tide when I arrive and I watch him scramble along the rocky shore with silhouetted Castle Stalker reflecting moodily on the loch’s surface in the distance. The air smells of algae and gulls squawk before taking flight.

“The biggest difference with what we do is having boots on the ground,” he explains. “I meet all the foresters, farmers and fishermen, and I know how the seasons, the land and sea work for them and for me. This loch here is my giant lobster tank. And there’s not many chefs that can say that.”

Ask Michael today and he’ll tell you sustainability is all he thinks about; it’s become a gut instinct. “What makes Argyll unique is the symbiotic relationships that exist — everyone supports each other and there’s a real mindfulness about where our food is sourced,” he says. “We’re not thinking in terms of our lifetime either, but what the impact will be for this community in 100 years’ time.”

Inside the hotel, I’m presented with the day’s sustainable pickings. Oysters in sugar-kelp mignonette, garlicky langoustines, a lobster on the half-shell. Seafood restaurants from London to Edinburgh brag that produce is locally sourced, but what arrives at my table is mere metres from the brine and barnacles. No seabeds have been dredged, no ecosystems disturbed. The creel-baited langoustines are lured by local fisherman Eoghan Black off the coast of Lismore, while oysters are hand harvested by Judith Vajk, who runs Caledonian Oyster Co. on Loch Creran. Dessert, to follow, is natural ice cream from Highland Fold. The feeling is more time and effort has been put in, and at lower environmental cost. I like to imagine everyone in the community has bought into the ideal.

Hope returned

Eco-adventures can take travellers even deeper into the Highlands, and this is where the road leads me next. It’s only recently that tourists have started to venture into the river glens surrounding Loch Ness. Whereas previously access to the land was restricted by private shooting lodges offering members the chance to bag a stag or grouse, these vast estates are dwindling in number, replaced by sustainable tourism initiatives looking to shift perspectives.

One of the most impressive projects is the Dundreggan Rewilding Centre in Glenmoriston, the world’s first visitor campus of its kind, nestled in a vibrant corner of the Highlands. This centre aims to address the climate crisis and combat biodiversity loss, taking travellers along for the ride by offering in-depth tours of the grounds.

For me, this is the essence of elemental eco-tourism cranked up to 11. Pine marten, amid silver birch and juniper trees, stretch their legs in the sun. Osprey strut on montane grasses and a golden eagle perches on a Scots pine. Swallows, chaffinches, mistle thrushes, sparrow hawks, pipistrelles and brown long-eared bats have all made homes in this cloak of woodlands. Life is returning and the vibe is David Attenborough meets Narnia.

Dundreggan, where I join a morning 4×4 safari, was once the site of a 14th-century royal hunting ground. Its healthy population of game helped it prosper during the height of Victorian-era country sports, but where a denuded landscape of open hills was once an advantage, it now makes the area vulnerable. An overabundance of red and roe deer is a common problem throughout the Highlands and the negative impact they’re having on the landscape is profound. Existing woodland is critically damaged and new trees often struggle to grow, upsetting the ecological balance.

But for all this lack of harmony, hope has returned. The Dundreggan Rewilding Centre was acquired by the non-profit Trees for Life in 2008 as part of the landscape-scale Affric Highlands vision. This 30-year plan is designed to rewild the areas of Glens Moriston, Affric, Cannich and Shiel, transforming them into santuaries where nature can thrive. Now, nearly two million native trees have been planted across the 10,000-acre landscape and the onsite nursery is delivering up to 100,000 extra trees every year. It’s time and effort well spent, I think, and a good place to be a mountain hare, migratory bird or butterfly.

“By limiting deer numbers, our plan is proving effective; we can now see trees flourishing all the way up the hillside,” explains guide Stephen Couling, a devotee of the glen who now spearheads voluntourism weeks. “Part of the rewilding story is to be good neighbours and engage the local community, but also bring people along with us on our journey. It’s about connecting hearts and minds.”

We bump across the hills in the late-morning gloom, anticipating the next thump, before Stephen brings the 4×4 to an abrupt stop on a ridge overlooking the glen. Below is silvery Loch Cluanie and then, down through northern slopes of pine forest, Glen Affric appears. I survey the landscape. There are plenty of areas left for common grazing where trees won’t be planted, but larch, pine and birch are taking root. From the corner of my eye, I catch a golden eagle spiralling in the thermals. An unusual bubbling call catches in the air.

“That’s the black grouse,” says Stephen. “It’s lekking season, so they’re up here somewhere.” This behaviour is rarely glimpsed by visitors, but those who witness it are treated to the sight of agile males performing elaborate courtship rituals, reminiscent of Strictly Come Dancing routines as they waltz for potential mates. There are rumours, too, that there are numerous feral pigs, but I see no signs.

The afternoon wearing on, we return to the visitor centre, where I’m shown a Gaelic map of the area covered in place names that reference features of the natural landscape. There’s Creag a’ Mhadaidh (‘the hill of the wolf’) and Creag Bheithe (‘hill of the birch’), and also Creag an Fhir-eoin (‘crag of the golden eagle’), Carn nan Earb (‘hill of the roes’) and Allt nan Gobhar (‘burn of the goats’).

These are the names the ancient Gaels gave Glenmoriston’s landscapes, and there’s something everlasting in that, because it strikes me that what was once forgotten is now being welcomed back again. There are deeply rooted stories here and the wrongs of the past are being challenged. There are reflections, too. They can be found in the lochs, burns and streams, and each one is a mirror to remind us about the world we live in and what we choose to make of it.