This far North, in January, it never really gets light. I can see the sun peeping over the tops of the hills that mark the horizon, but it’s so low it could be being wheeled over the hills in a wheelbarrow. It’s even bright, I have to squint to look into the sun, but even so, at mid-day, the light on the landscape has an evening feel to it as if dusk is only minutes away. The sun gives no heat only a flat insipid light that tones down the colours of the grass and the outlines of the hills. I’m on the tarmac road that leads over the hill from the Kyle of Durness to Cape Wrath. Technically this is a public road but it is cracked and pot holed and single track as it rolls it way across the moor. I think this little road can justifiably claim to be one of the remotest in Britain. It doesn’t connect to any other road and only runs from the jetty that connects this place with civilisation, some elven miles, to the lighthouse at the end of mainland Britain. Orkney and Shetland are further North and to the East of Scotland the land can boast being a few degrees closer to the pole but this place beats all of those for its remoteness, the grandeur of its scenery and the drama of its position as it head buts its way out into the Atlantic Ocean. This is the true North.
Ever since I can remember I’ve had a fascination with travelling North. In my imagination the Northern lands were places of wilderness, wild weather and even wilder men.
Read more here
http://johndburns.wordpress.com/2014/01/15/true-north/ 
