Puerto Natales: in search of astonishing...

Sometimes, you go to a place supposedly of outstanding beauty and it's a bit of a disappointment. Waikiki, for example, which Ros and I were decidedly lukewarm about. And, when you've travelled 9,000 miles or so, you really don't want to be let down.

A surprisingly comfortable bus took us on a three hour journey to Puerto Natales, a small town on the shore of Ultima Esperanza Fjord (yes, that's "Last Hope") and the gateway to the Torres del Paine National Park. and, whilst the journey was perfectly pleasant, our arrival into the town did not augur well.

The bus station is on the outskirts of town, next to the local prison, in a fairly grim suburb. Luckily, a convenient taxi whisked us away quickly to our home for the next three days, the Noi Indigo Patagonia, described as a boutique hotel, a phrase which can mean virtually anything.

Not a bad backdrop, is it?

We received an unexpectedly warm welcome from Nicolas, the enthusiastic manager, who introduced us to the Excursions Manager, Javier, and registered us. Everything we had asked for had been arranged, and we were directed to our room. One of the things that had attracted me to the hotel was the view... And, as views go, a fjord leading to snow-capped peaks has a lot to commend itself. They even left a bottle of something sparking, as well as diet-busting slices of chocolate cake. 

The town begged a little exploration, so we took a walk down to the port, where someone had clearly decided to invest in a tourism facility. The apparent absence of tourists was something of a blow, and the empty restaurant suggested that any tourists that did show up wouldn't stay for long, but the tourist information office was at least staffed - not that the person on duty appeared terribly hard pressed. We left, and headed into town, before making our way back to the hotel for dinner.

An early night was needed, for we were off to the National Park in the morning...

"Speed, bonnie bus, like a bird on the wing"...

It still wasn't very nice as I left Inverness (again). At least it wasn't raining as hard as it had been for the most epic part of my rail adventure, involving two trains, a ferry and two buses, one of which might not actually exist.

The railway line to Kyle of Lochalsh is another of those well-known railways to nowhere, passing through a whole lot of nothing on the way to a ferry port which lost its raison d'etre when the bridge to Skye was built. Admittedly, the 'whole lot of nothing' is insanely scenic, but you do wonder how such a line survives even now. I'm not convinced that the number of fare-paying passengers really justifies keeping it, but as the sort of person who can think of little finer than gazing out of the window of a moving train, accompanied perhaps by a nice cup of tea, I am grateful to the powers that be for funding it.

The train rolled into Kyle of Lochalsh at 11.30, leaving me less than five hours to get to Mallaig, the furthest extent of the West Highland Line. The obvious route was via the Armadale-Mallaig ferry, but how to reach Armadale?

There is a bus from Kyle of Lochalsh to Broadford, on Skye, which conveniently leaves the slipway, near the station, at 11.50 a.m., and so I headed there to catch it. I found it easily enough, a little thirty-seater operated by Stagecoach, and sure enough, it made its way over the bridge and onto Skye. Soon, I was in Broadford, which is the second largest community on Skye, after Portree. This is not saying an awful lot, but it has all of the key things that you might need, including a bus stop. It even has the Isle of Skye Candle Company, which offered an opportunity to do some minor gift shopping.

According to Traveline, there was a bus to Armadale Pier, run by Maclean's Coaches. There was, however, no mention of it on the bus stop, and the company website indicated that there was no summer timetable. I could, however, ring them for information, so I did, only to get a voicemail message which indicated that I could leave a message, which I did. It also indicated that the bus stop was half a mile away.

And so, I trudged through the rain, suitcase trailing behind me, until I found the designated spot. I was not optimistic but, at almost exactly the appointed time, a slightly stretched pale blue minibus hove into view, which I flagged down, somewhat to the surprise of the driver. It was the mysterious number 601 bus to Armadale Pier.

I stopped for fish and chips (don't tell anyone) at a rather cute little cafe next to the port office for Caledonian MacBrayne, who run most of the ferry services in the West of Scotland, and did a little more shopping, before buying my very reasonable ticket to Mallaig.

Mallaig was wet (just for consistency's sake) but, having stopped for tea as an alternative to being rained on, I was fortunate to board the train just before the heavens opened with particular ferocity - not a good omen for the train journey ahead. However, I wasn't to be disappointed, for the journey to Glasgow is a sensational one. My personal high spot was, just as we left Rannoch, a stag decided to display himself close to the track, immediately followed by a rainbow.

The last part of the journey is a bit of an anti-climax (if you choose to do the journey, do it in the other direction, is my advice), but I did get to my hotel in Glasgow early enough to have a truly marvelous steak and Gruyere baguette, possibly a marker for the culinary treat to follow the next evening. For I was heading south...