An Encounter with Lizzie (sister of the Loch Ness Monster)

I was pretty hesitant about the idea of writing this post, as I suspected It might lead me to become the target of ridicule and disrespect. But then I remembered that being the target of riducule and disrespect was "just another ordinary day at the office", so I went ahead, and here it is (complete with photographic evidence.)

Strictly speaking this page isn't about the Loch Ness Monster (scientific name: Nessietarius-rhombocterix. sensible name: Nessie), but her cousin Lizzie, who supposedly lives in Loch Lochy, which is next door to Loch Ness. It stems from an experience my family had in the mid '70's. I should add, my family has never claimed what this sighting was of, merely that we saw something unexplained. I leave the reader to speculate for themselves what we may have seen that day.

An Encounter with Lizzie

I was four years old and we were driving from Fort William to Inverness in our little blue three-wheeler van (which, incidentally, is the most embarrassing element of the story). We were alongside Loch Lochy when my parents suddenly pulled over in a right commotion. Next thing I know, my Mum has dived out of  the van with her camera and my dad is staring agog into the water. I don't remember his exact words, but they would've been something along the lines of "my goodness gracious me, that appears to be the darned Loch Ness Monster".

Yes indeed: he was staring at a large unidentified grey mass cutting through the water at a fair rate of knots. There were no windows in the back of the van, so by this time I'd unbuckled my seat and pulled myself towards the passenger window. I looked in astonishment as I saw what appeared to be a large trunk-like tail protruding from water. As any four-year would, I yelled "Daddy, It's the Loch Ness Monster!" - making exactly the same geographical mistake as my father had done moments earlier. At this moment, the 'beast', apparently reacting to my shouts, subsided below the surface. (I've been kicking myself ever since. So have my parents.)

Mum had run a good half-mile back down the loch-side so we set off up the road to turn round and collect her. My dad raced to the nearest layby and swung the van round as viciously as he could with only 3 wheels to play with. In the layby was a woman eating sandwiches in her car. As my dad pulled up, he yelled, "We've seen the monster! We've seen the Loch Ness monster!". Not sure what to make of a lunatic in a blue three-wheeled van ranting about fantastical beings, she rapidly wound up her window, and drove off at speed in the opposite direction.

We drove back and collected Mum, who by this time was somewhat flustered, and indeed traumatized - she had felt distinctly eerie as she stood alongside this strange beast. So... what about the contents of that camera?!

Ahhh... I can see the camera now - it was as much a monster as the object in the water. It was all dials and knobs and buttons, and not a hint of the word automatic. [Oh Kodak disposable or iPhone - where were you when we needed you?] Amazingly my Mum had kept her wits about her, and instead of firing off shots at random, she'd actually tried to set the picture up with the correct focus and exposure, as you had to do in those days. And this was whilst running along the road. Consequently she was delayed in taking the crucial photo, and my shouting had been badly timed, it transpired.

The photo was taken just as I had shouted and the grey object dipped below the surface, leaving just a huge wake in the water as evidence of its presence. Here is the photo:

The WAKE LEFT BY THE UNEXPLAINED CREATURE - ALTHOUGH MANY SAY “IT WAS A BOAT”, THIS BEARS NO RESEMBLANCE TO THE WAKE OF A BOAT, WHICH FANS OUT

Clearly we were disappointed that the picture didn't show the 'monster'. It was such a rare opportunity, to see something at such close quarters, and (quite by chance) to have a camera with us. If it was to happen again today, there is no doubt that with modern equipment we would have a series of photographs, possibly a video, that would have proved quite a talking (or even tweeting) point.

Notwithstanding, we still feel the photo is strong evidence for the presence of something in the water, as yet, unexplained. The wake is equivalent to something a mid-size power boat would make: not the trace of an otter or seal, although it doesn’t fan out like the wake of a boat. The object was clearly not a log or a rock - for where did it disappear to (and so quickly)? The photo was submitted for analysis by several experts, none of whom have been able to provide a definite explanation. It is documented in a number of books, and on a number of TV shows, and we still treat it with an open and intrigued mind.

The tale (tail) still brings a shiver to my spine as I recall it. Although I was four, the image is as vivid as it was the day I saw it. And although it might be tempting to think the story is an elaborate fabrication on the part of my parents, how on earth could they convince a four year old to go along with the story??

The Way to a Man's Heart is through his Food Storage Device

It feels like someone is stamping on my chest. This music is ear-bleedingly loud! Opposite sits my ‘mate’. I mouth various indeterminable phrases at him, and in response he leans over and splurts a foul cocktail of spittle and warm beer in my ear. I’m distracted. Across the swarming bar I’m drawn by the bright smile and prominent cheek bones of a young lady. She’s surrounded by a menagerie of gorilla-looking blokes. One of them, presumably her ‘significant other’, presses his forearm high against the wall in a cliched ‘cinema seat’ pose, trying vainly to make his attempts to wrap his arm round her appear completely innocent.

Our eyes meet again fleetingly. I want to know her, but any more and I’ll give the game away. I may even earn a knuckle sandwich from gorilla-boy.

This is so superficial, I feel my best, perhaps only, chance lies in asking her back to see my fridge. Setting aside the implausibility, it strikes me a refrigerator says far more about a person than any well-worn chat-up line.

Of the 100 ill-placed letters on my own fridge door, prominent phrases include “big hugs here” and “mad moo”. The faint pulse of my street cred is kept alive with “Helena wants to stay, x x x”. Though I’ve never yet explained Helena is my 6-month-old cousin. And if you look hard, you can probably construct “chocolate rules” (with a ‘zed’).

Back in reality street, and my mate waves his empty at me. The bar is heaving with pheromones, most of them condensing on the outside of my glass. But all this sexual charge is having an unpredictable effect on me. For here I am thinking to myself, “how am I going to get into.. her kitchen?”

Take the High Road

Crisp. Dry. It could describe any winter mountain scene, but this is actually my triple-strength coffee. Hot. Wet. Not a tropical paradise, but in fact my trousers. Like they say, you shouldn't drink and drive.

Caledonia is a land of beauty and great contrast, and a fabulous way to experience it is by car (and well sealed waterproof). But to do that, you have to get there, and the journey can be almost as epic as the destination, particularly in winter.

These days I always begin my journey at the eleventh hour. Nothing to do with spontaneity, but a question of conscious timing. Starting the 10-hour journey just before midnight means arriving in the Highlands in time for a sizzling Scottish breakfast and a warm slice of hospitality.

The journey is one of solitude, shared mainly with long distance truckers and snoozy coppers hidden in lay-bys, whose presence is marked only by a momentary flash of luminous yellow and blue.

In a primitive way, it is easier to measure progress simply by the movement of the sun. Although on this particular brisk night, the empty sky is filled with the crystal-like sweep of comet Hale Bopp. It's almost Christmas and its biblical gaze makes me wonder if I should stop at the next service station to pick up some gold-points.

This first landmark is the appropriately named Scotch Corner, although ironically it is barely half distance. Nor is it a corner. One sandwich and a trouser-drying session later and the steady rise west through the Pennines begins. It's easy to glaze over the grey detail of the undulating road underneath as the sun tentatively begins its dawn climb directly ahead. The sky is a cocktail of deep purple and orange, mutating through reddy pink. At its most intense, this vibrant palette lasts but a moment - any loss of concentration and the backdrop is rapidly approaching commuter-blue.

In this clear weather the road allows good progress. Only the need to negotiate the odd tractor serves to remind of the daily life that goes on outside my metal cocoon.

Half distance is marked by a pleasant change of direction north onto the M6. A dreary road, but swift. Besides, I have my radio for company, at least until the heights of the Lake District. Soon, the traffic reports begin to interject, and those luckless London-bound workers disrupted by carriageways of spilt milk seem a world away. That reminds me to sip my coffee. And slowly my mood rejects urban insanity and turns to the tranquility of the islands and drama of the snow-capped mountains.

Glasgow is the next target. The steady progress means I'm soon passing the very "Welcome to Scotland" sign. The lack of an immediate "Welcome to England" on the reverse once more makes we wonder what territorial antics are possible in no-man's-land between the signs?

Right on cue, the sky begins to loom with precipitation. Not sinister, but the characteristic dreich grey is best hidden by the sun visor. So much for telling the time by the sun.

The City of Culture beckons, and the twisting Lowland passage soon approaches the once-industrialised landscape of the Glasgow environs. Almost spontaneously I'm surrounded by civilisation. Traffic, tower blocks, and roundabout hell - the curse of the 60's 'New Town'. I'm fighting my eyelids which are adhesively heavy and gulping my liquid Java breakfast. In a stasis somewhere between reality and commuter madness, I'm drawn onward by the bold orange orb of sunlight, faintly piercing the city mist. Stage 2 complete.

The home run, as I like to think of it, requires a change of pace. This is the gateway to the Highlands, and the word 'haste' is not in the dictionary. The journey is spectacular, the weather unpredictable, and even the mobile phone drifts into solitude. By now, the main threats to journey time are stray sheep, black ice, or an irresistible urge to 'give it some welly': although with care, the first two are avoidable. The sensuous curves of the road make driving a thrill.

The "low road" twists along the craggy banks of bonny Loch Lomond, her surface churned up by a chilling breeze. Squeezed between the overhanging stone wall and tree-lined shore, the poise of even the most confident of drivers is challenged. It's too cold for a morning dip, with or without the car. (Anything to avoid wet trousers again.) The crackling into radio silence signifies a transition to the "high road". The well-maintained tarmac trail soars over Rannoch Moor; bleak and barren, inhabited by hardy deer, circling eagles, and lonely mountaineers treading the damp heather. It's the top of the world, but being frozen and exposed, there's no incentive to stop. Not even if nature calls.

Eventually, the trail tumbles through the glaciated landscape of Glencoe. A landscape characterised by the spray of waterfalls, craggy outcrops and slightly less lonely mountaineers. Over thousands of years, the river beneath has cut through rock as if it was butter. This is Ben Nevis country, and on either side, mountainous giants of the Ice Age stand guard, never faltering, leaving me feeling vulnerable and humble. This timeless vista deserves respect: for it claims lives. And yet the silent panorama kindles my thoughts of the warm welcome that soon awaits. (And the chance to dry my trousers).