Ullapool’s Christmas tree is made of fishing creels. They stack them on the waterfront, put lights on, and it looks exactly as odd and as right as that sounds. This is a harbour. The decorations come out of the same world as the boats.
It is not an ancient ritual. It is a town amusing itself, then doing it again because it worked. People photograph it. Locals walk past it on the way to the chippy. Both are correct.
If you are here in December, put a hat on and go down to the front. If you are here in July, there is no creel tree, there is a car park argument and a ferry. The town in winter is the one we actually live with — wet streets, a yellow window, the smell of peat if someone has the stove on. That is closer to the Ullapool candle than a summer postcard. More on the place itself: Ullapool.
