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This week’s Hidden Scotland Weekly opens with a story of grit, sea spray and an Ayrshire woman who refused to wait for the wind. Betsy Miller, better known as the Queen of Saltcoats, took command of a cargo ship in the 1830s and made history as Britain’s first official female sea captain, with her sister as first mate.

We’re also heading north, following photographer Richard Gaston on a 240 mile trek from Fort William to Cape Wrath. It’s a journey of wild glens, endless bogs, and a final push to Scotland’s edge. Some trips stay with you. This one rewrote what it means to connect to the land.

There’s a quieter moment in the story of James Robertson, a botanist who made the first recorded ascent of Ben Nevis. He didn’t go for glory, but to collect plants. In 1771, he climbed Scotland’s highest mountain with little more than paper and purpose.

Also this week, a day in Moray that’s full of surprises, from medieval ruins to wide sandy beaches. We’ve got a look inside The Lovat in Fort Augustus, and your chance to win a 3 night stay for six at Glen Dye Cabins and Cottages.

As always, this week’s quiz is waiting, along with new features now live on the site.

Thanks for reading, and for being part of the Hidden Scotland community.

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Betsy Miller – The Queen of Saltcoats

Betsy Miller was the eldest of 10 children, born and bred in Saltcoats on the Ayrshire coast at the end of the 18th century. Her father was a successful merchant and captain, so seafaring was in her blood, but it was her brother who was to take over the family business.

Betsy had a quiet job in the company office instead, although she would have been out on the waves whenever she had the chance. In 1833 tragedy struck and her brother died, leaving the company with debts to pay. Things for both the family and the crew that depended on them were on a knife edge. Thankfully, Betsy stepped up to the mark.

Captain Betsy was in her 40s when she took command of the family ship Clytus and her crew of 14 seasoned sailors. She inspired devotion amongst her crew and not a single man questioned her authority or ability to lead. She became famous locally as the Queen of Saltcoats.

Betsy sailed the Clytus back and forward between Ayrshire and Ireland trading timber and coal. Most ships would wait for a favourable wind to carry them across the sea, but Betsy had a point to prove and money to make. She would simply shout "I don't wait for the carry" and somehow manage to navigate the Clytus across the water anyway.

The Queen of Saltcoats was the first officially recognised female ship's captain but she wasn't the only girl on board. Keeping things in the family, she chose her younger sister Hannah as her first mate. Between the two women, the Miller’s business improved dramatically.

Betsy had humour and grace, but no fear of the waves and her crew loved and respected her for it. When their leader ordered them out into a storm, they dutifully followed. The captain achieved all of this while keeping up the appearances of the day, looking impeccable in a pristine dress.

She carried on sailing until her retirement at the age of 70. By then the Queen of Saltcoats was a local celebrity with a firm reputation as one of the best captains to cross the Irish Sea.

Reach the story online here.

Words by Graeme Johncock

Turning Point - Traveller’s Tales to Cape Wrath

Photographer Richard Gaston recounts his 240-mile self-supported trek from Fort William to Cape Wrath. The route—one of the UK’s toughest—took him through wild glens, remote beaches, and endless bogs. Along the way, moments of hardship gave way to clarity, connection, and an unforgettable ending at Scotland’s northwestern edge.

Cape Wrath has been on my radar ever since my love for the Highlands emerged. The appeal was the idea of pushing north until you can’t physically go any further; in other words “The Turning Point.” To get there would require a 240-mile self-sufficient journey from Fort William in the heart of the Highlands to Cape Wrath, the most northwesterly point of mainland Britain. The route would span over two-and-a-half weeks and is regarded as one of the most challenging long distance walks in the country, encountering Scotland’s finest wilderness, grandest mountains, loneliest glens, highest waterfalls and most remote beaches.

The elements were deeply embedded in my consciousness. Water determined everything. Forming the way of our route, flowing down beside us along every glen we walked up, pooled at the top of every bealach we crossed and lurking in bogs - endless bogs we grew to curse, loathe and dread. Following the yellow weather warnings on day one - a respectable introduction to the wrath - we bashed our way through the lush green glens of Knoydart. Supposedly one of the wettest regions of the UK - it certainly felt like it that day. The rain washed us in sideways sheets in Cona Glen and soaked us in downpours as we passed over the featureless moorland above Inverlael. It influenced our decision making, our kit choice - head-to-toe in GoreTex Pro but that wasn’t enough to keep us dry - or how and when we declared our campsite and utilised our negotiation tactics to cross rivers. It always played on my mind; knowing there was a river crossing later on in the day, or the approaching rain that was forecast. I became so fixated on keeping my boots dry. All my efforts to dry them out over the night were immediately dampened as we began the morning fighting through the boggy terrain surrounding Maol Bhuidhe bothy. A bootless errand you might say. Mentally and physically it wasn’t easy. Moments of frustration developed by the impact the wet weather had on me (which don’t seem so bad now I’m sitting in the comforts of my home). However we considered ourselves lucky, having two near perfect (for Scotland) weeks of weather bookended by rain meant it could always be worse.

Through the struggles certainly came rewards as the water works in wonderful ways. The mist rolling in from the Sutherland hills and hovering above Loch Stack at sunrise and the trout launching out of water to catch the insects at sunset. The rivers lazily making their way down through Glen Oykel, the warmth of the morning sun bursting through a sheet of rain and illuminating Eas a’ Chual Aluinn waterfall (the highest in the U.K) and the sunset over the Atlantic at Sandwood Bay. These were the first sounds of the ocean during our journey and signified us nearing the end with only eight miles to go to Cape Wrath. On reflection the entrance to Sandwood Bay provided the real moment of concluding euphoria - the waves crashing in from the Atlantic Ocean and lapping the mile-long white sands with the evening sun drawing down cinematically behind the Am Buachaille sea stack.

How simple a trip like his becomes. We were in our daily methodical groove of walking 13 miles and experienced ecstatic emotions when the perfect camp spot was declared between 4pm and 5pm each night. Repeatedly packing and unpacking our bags and tent. Each morning we’d fire up the jetboils to make a green tea and porridge, in the evenings deciding which freeze-dried meal took our fancy, followed by the same dessert. A rhythm that would inevitably be broken by the turning point. We could venture no further north as we had reached the Cape Wrath lighthouse. It was time to make our way back to civilisation. I’ve visited the Highlands countless times, however waking up and going to sleep in the elements for days on end allowed a connection to the land I hadn’t experienced before. Nearing the end, I sat at Glencoul watching the sunset over Kylesku and heard the mournful call of the rutting stags echo in the glen - a sound that followed us throughout, broken only by silence and rivers rushing. I knew the reality was fading, but the memories would live strong.

words & photography // Richard Gaston

Read the full article online.

On This Day in 1771: The Botanist Who First Climbed Ben Nevis

It is hard to picture what James Robertson saw when he first looked up at Ben Nevis in 1771. The summit would have been hidden in cloud, the slopes bare of the paths and cairns walkers use today. He was a botanist from Edinburgh, travelling the Highlands to collect and record plants for a complete survey of Scotland’s flora.

For him, the climb was not about glory. It was another stop on a long journey, another place to study the vegetation and soil. Nobody had left a record of reaching the top before, so Robertson’s notes stand as the first written account of an ascent. There is no sketch of him on the summit, no description of the view, only the fact that he went up and came down.

The mountain itself is not an easy walk, even in summer. The lower slopes rise gently enough, but soon give way to loose rock and steeper ground. The weather can change in minutes, and the upper reaches are often swept by wind and rain. Robertson would have had to pick his way carefully, carrying whatever tools and materials he needed to take his specimens back.

It was a practical trip. He wanted to see which species grew at which heights, and how the conditions changed as he gained ground. What he carried away would have been pressed samples and careful observations, the kind that could be studied in detail long after he returned home.

In the centuries since, thousands have made the same climb for sport, challenge, or the view from the top. Robertson went for science, and in doing so, became the first name in the mountain’s recorded history. The ascent may not have made headlines in its day, but it quietly marked the beginning of our written relationship with Scotland’s highest peak.

The Lovat

At the southern end of Loch Ness, The Lovat sits back from the canal in Fort Augustus, only a short walk from the loch and set apart from the busiest stretch. The white Victorian building has been here for generations, its windows looking over rooftops and towards Loch Ness. Inside, the pace slows. Rooms are plainly comfortable, nothing fussy, and the welcome feels natural. Station Road, the in-house restaurant, cooks with what is close at hand, using fish from the coast and vegetables from nearby growers. It is the sort of place where attention to detail feels natural and unforced.

Find out more here.

A Day in Moray Full Of Surprises

The region of Moray isn’t as well-known as some of its near neighbours, but it has a way of surprising you. One moment you’re gazing up at a soaring cathedral, the next it’s an enormous, 1000-year-old Pictish stone and before you know it, a beautiful coastline stretches into the distance. There’s a lot you can pack into just one day in Moray!

To read this full itinerary please click here.

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