A few weeks ago I headed up to Scotland for my first 'holiday' post pandemic.
I've wanted to visit the highlands for a while. A second summer of pandemic, government ban on international travel and a campervan I could borrow meant this summer was as good as any to take a trip up there.
Initially, I had planned to take 14 days to do as much of the North Coast 500 as possible, but my partner could only take 8 days off work so we shortened it a bit.
After watching a few North Coast 500 Youtube videos, and asking a friend who had been up to the far far North, both suggested basically avoiding the North East coast entirely. I'm pretty sure the North Coast 500 was invented so that tourists would stop doing that but I took their advice and planned a route that would keep us in the North West.
Tebay Services
One weird question I like to ask people is why are train stations often considered architectural masterpieces and yet motorway services are mostly dull & dreary?
Answers have varied from "because truckers don't have to use Kings Cross on the regular" to "a lack of a decent fascist government".
(The second answer needs some qualification. Apparently Mussolini (or General Franco) did build some iconic gas stations, much in the same way 20th c. dictators did with train stations.)
Anyway, after a few years of pondering that question I was blown off my feet when I stopped at the Tebay Services Northbound for breakfast having stayed overnight in their rest-stop.
It's a newly developed farmshop, with a buffet restaurant set up around the perimeter of a man-made pond. There's stunning views of Lake District scenery.
I asked a friend who grew up in Tebay why he'd never thought to mention this to me before. He responded what that there was "one in Gloucester too" and "one in Scotland if you keep going".
It seems service station farmshops are popping up all over the country. Not a dictator in sight.
The weather was really nice that morning so we stopped off in Lowther Castle to stretch our legs before continuing on the M5 north...
Killiecrankie
Driving into Scotland is vastly different from driving into Wales. On the M4 you go over the dramatic suspension bridge, you notice the hills stop rolling and start pointing. Then you cut through the town and tunnel in Newport.
When you drive into Scotland you pass the sign, nothing changes for about an hour until you hit some traffic coming into Glasgow. I'm not saying it's a bad entrance, it's just an anticlimax compared to a lot of other border crossings.
Killiecrankie was the site of a famous battle between the Jacobite's and government forces. I believe the Jacobites were plucky underdogs and won, which is why the Corries wrote a song about it, but their leader died during the battle's equivalent of extra time and penalties. So they won the battle but lost the war.
Much more relevant for our trip was an old friend and colleague of mine had just bought the Killiecrankie Hotel to do-up. We parked up in their front garden, watched the Euros, had a tour of their building site and played quite a good board game called Ticket to Ride, European version. Would reccomend.
The evening was lovely and, it being late June, we got our first taste of it still being light at 11pm. We also got our first taste of the Scottish midges. More on them later.
Loch Ness & Ullapool
People in camper vans love to set off early. It's all about getting out there and making the most of what the day has to offer. I do not subscribe to this view. Slow starts would become a regular fixture throughout the trip. A combination of late evening light and a surprisingly comfortable bed meant we were often last to leave the campsite.
Our first day was an exception, we were out of the blocks by 10ish. The initial plan for Friday evening was to wild camp in the Alladale wilderness reserve. Alladle is a rewilding project where they've planted loads of trees and is at the forefront of trying to reintroduce an apex predator to the highlands. It's about 2 hours north of the Cairngorms and would've been a nice stop off before Ullapool.
However, there was small matter of a Friday night Euros fixture between two minnows of the tournament, England and Scotland. I was quite excited to be in Scotland for this one and wanted to be somewhere I knew would have a pub that would show it. So we skipped Alladale and I looked for a scenic drive that would take us along the north side of Loch Ness and onto Ullapool.
The drive to Loch Ness took us on the outer edges of the Cairngorms via Spean Bridge, Invergarry and Fort Augustus. The Lonely Planet recommended a stop off at the Dogg Falls near Glen Affric. We parked in a passing place maybe 50m up the road which was a stroke of genius because had we gone another 200m up the road we'd have hit the Glen Affric pay and display car park. We did the signposted walk through a wood and up to a viewpoint. The view down to the Loch was fantastic, but we were being eaten by midges, so we cut the walk short rather than heading over the hill to the popular Plodda falls.
The drive from Glen Affric to Ullapool from was also stunning in parts. As we headed west the mountains got taller and the weather more ominous. Once you reach Loch Glascarnoch you're firmly in North-West highland territory and only half an hour from cosy Ullapool.
We were hoping the campsite in Ullapool might have some space for our wee van, but it had shut gates to visitors by the time we'd got there at 7:30.
A call to a nearby campsite recommended "Get out of town. Go as far from civilisation as you can. Get away from peoples houses and gardens."
The tone of the recommendation was as severe as it sounds and I wondered whether Ullapool was plagued by locusts come sundown. Thankfully, being so far north, we had a few hours before that.
By 8pm we were hungry and I was keen to find somewhere to watch the Euros. Wondering through the town we could hear a few cheers coming from an area near the campsite. It turned out the be a garden party. We tried the nearby Arch Inn, who said they were full. They recommended we try the pleasantly named Ceilidh place. They weren't showing the game. So we gave up and settled on just having a meal there.
After dinner we wandered down to the ferry terminal, which functions as a direct route to Stornoway and the Outer Hebridean islands. It was a beautifully still night and we headed out to a point at the end of the sea front. A seal was playing close to the shore, and halfway out in the bay I saw what I assume was the fin of a porpoise swimming out to sea. The midges were back by this time though so after a few minutes we walked back through town towards our van.
As we turned the corner from the ferry terminal, we heard a walrus like yelling coming along a perpendicular road. Down the street in the dim, late-evening light was was a lone Scottish man, kilt and sporran adorned, jogging with his fist clenched above his head screaming "I'm coming hame. I am coming hame..."
Further behind him he was supported by four men in Scottish football jerseys also jeering. I checked my phone to see that Scotland had secured a goalless draw against the old enemy. Our initial apprehension turned to laughter as he trotted right past us with little to no acknowledgement of us or anyone else's existence.
We climbed in the van and headed back to a lay-by my girlfriend had spotted a few minutes before we drove into Ullapool. When we pulled up there were 3 or 4 other campers setting up for the night. We joined them, set up our fairy lights, bed and whatnot and I read up on a few things we wanted to do the following day.
The Assynt & the Stoer
Ullapool is nice in that it has a Tesco superstore despite it being about 3 hours from anywhere else. It's got to be a contender for the smallest superstore in the UK, but it was well stocked enough for us to pack our van for two-three days.
The plan for the day was to explore the Assynt peninsula. A friend who had been up this way recommended wild camping by Ardvrek castle, saying it was one of the best things he's ever done. So the plan was to drive there in the morning and size it up.
It was spitting with rain as we left Ullapool. Any disappointment was relieved by the sense that every mile we drove was taking us further from civilisation. And while you pass lots of other camper vans and cars, once you turn off the main road after Loch Assynt, you start to feel another layer of civilisation fall away behind you.
Ardvrek Castle is easy enough to spot. It somewhat resembles a sea stack and it sits on top of a hill overlooking the Loch.
We ate our Tesco meal deals in the car park before going to take some photos in the drizzle. Of most concern were the signs saying "No Wild Camping" that was initially on the agenda. We wondered around for 30 mins before getting back in the van.
We drove along a spectacular the road Lochinver. If you peer to the left you see a few munros (tall mountains) and one of either the Cul-Mor and Suilven peaks are a really iconic dome shape. We didn't stop at Lochinver other than to turn-around to head on towards Achmelvitch Beach, which the Wild Swimming Guide said was a white sandy bay with turquoise water.
The weather was still pretty cloudy at this point but the sun started to peak through as we wondered 300 yards over a hill to find a secluded bay. Actually getting down to the beach is a bit tricky, but it was completely worth it as we were the only people on the beach. We managed a swim and a few photo opps before a few families found their way over the hill.
Next on the agenda was a stop at the Stoer lighthouse at the North West tip of the peninsula. The drive from Achmelvitch to the lighthouse takes you through the unusual crofting community of Clachtoll. It's not like anything I'd ever seen in the UK before, and actually reminded me of some of the townships you drive through in South Africa.
If the Lonely Planet is to be believed, Crofting is a historic type of farming where highland peasants were given very small and unprofitable patches of land to work on and could be evicted by the landlord at any point. So there was little incentive to really invest in the land so it doesn't have the charm of normal farmland area.
Clachtoll was unusual in that it had lots of really small fields with what felt like too many sheep in. Many of the sheep were itching their bums on fences at the edge of fields and there's just patches of wool dotted all over the fields, roads and fences. You can imagine a rural-Scottish equivalent of Hillybilly Elegy being set here.
As we drove out the village we saw signs in cottage windows saying "Go Home!" "Stop the North Coast 500"which pleasantly confirmed my prejudices.
From there it was a zig zag of country roads out the the Stoer lighthouse. It was bright sunshine with clear views at this point so the drive was pleasant.
The lighthouse is also the car park for a 6km walk to the Old Man of Stoer sea stack. As we parked up a lady accosted my girlfriend saying we needed to pay if we wanted to stay the night. My girlfriend said we weren't intending of saying the night here and a suspicious stand off ensued.
The walk to the Old Man of Stoer was pretty up and down along some remarkably high cliffs. It's hard to gauge when you're them but the ripples of the sea were as distant as the seabirds flying above them. It was such a clear day that you could see the outlines of Harris on the horizon. The walk dragged on a bit but was nonetheless pleasant in the 6pm sunshine, very little wind and with satisfying views to highland peaks draped in grey clouds.
It was almost 9pm when we got back to the van so we decided that it actually was probably best we set up for the night here. Somewhat sheepishly we put £5 in the donation box by the composting toilet and a note with out reg number on.
There were maybe 4 or 5 other campers setting up for sunset. We enjoyed cooking our first meal in the van and opened a bottle of toffee vodka we'd purchased in Tebay services. Cooking in the van is a constant game of moving things around to get to that thing only to realise you now need something in the cupboard you just put something on top of. The saving grace was that with the sun setting at 10:30pm, and 45 minutes of light after that, you never felt you had to rush anything before it gets dark.
Streaming up to Sandwood
Sunday's agenda was to head north once again and wild camp at the iconic Sandwood Bay. It's one of the most remote beaches in Europe and was among the top things recommended in every guide book.
We had timed it so that we'd be there on the shortest night of the year. As it's one of the furthest north-westerly points of the UK mainland I was excited by the possibility of midnight-light.
There was a minor complication in that it was the day Wales were playing Italy in the final game of the Euro 2021 group stages. They had beaten Turkey the day we left and I'd listened to about 5 hours of Euro related content on the drive up. I'd located a hotel near where we were headed so we had a bit of a goal to get there before 5pm.
That meant a leisurely start to the day driving past the sweet village of Drumbeg, including overtaking and being overtaken by a peloton of Sunday cyclists. The cycling looked pretty tough with the ups and downs of the hills, but the scenery is incredible so I'm not surprised there were so many at it.
We left the Assynt peninsula behind when we crossed the iconic Kylesku bridge, which I still don't know how to pronounce. Then passed the intriguingly named Badcall, through Scourie and then up to the Cape Wrath peninsula.
Although not too far from each other, Cape Wrath and Assynt peninsulas have a very different feel. The topography and flora differ noticeably and the southern parts of Cape Wrath feel much more Norwegian than the Britain but dramatic and remote feel of the Assynt.
The sun came out again for most of the drive up to Kinlochbervie. My girlfriend posted a photo on Instagram and was informed by one of our friends that Kinlochbervie is the setting for a famous play - Faith Healer - and that he'd always wanted to visit.
I can't tell you what I was expecting but Kinlochbervie wasn't what I was expecting. You pass a rewilded football pitch alongside a loch as you descend a steep road. This reminded me that we were only a few hours away from kick off so we decided to drive past the Kinlochbervie Hotel, where I'd intended to watch the game.
Once again, not what we were expecting. Looked abandoned. Not sure they even had a TV in the 'bar' we peered into. Decided against it. We'd passed an Old School house that was converted into a cafe/bar 5 minutes back the way we came, so we headed back there hoping they might have a TV.
They didn't. But it was a nice spot so we bought a coffee, a can of Belhaven and a bottle of cider. I resigned myself to the possibility of streaming on my phone, in an area with no phone signal.
We drove back past Kinlochbervie once more and headed to Oldshoremore beach, which was another white sandy bay with crystal clear water.
I paced up and down the white sand chasing bars of 3G that would tantalisingly appear and disappear. I lay on a towel in a grump because ID mobile had not anticipated this situation for a loyal customer. I was missing the game. Meanwhile my girlfriend walked along the Caribbean shoreline, collecting shells and avoiding any direct displays of contempt towards the teenager she was sharing a camper van with.
I agitated to move on and she obliged. We got to the Blairmore car park which functions as the start of the walk to Sandwood. I had noticed as we drove over a hill I managed to get two bars of 4G and so negotiated to go back there to get some signal and charge our phones for a bit.
An infuriating process ensued where I had to download the ITV Hub app, only to discover that ITV doesn't stream in Scotland. So I had to download the STV app. Only to discover the game wasn't on STV. Steam coming out of my ears I remembered the greatest thing welsh language campaigners ever did, and possibly the greatest thing about Wales, S4C.
Finally, I'd managed to stream the game, in welsh, and I opened the can of Belhaven and began to relax. Such bliss was to be short-lived as shortly after Ethan Ampadu was red carded we were approached by a local saying we were parked on private land and told to move on.
Realising that the world did not want me to watch or enjoy this game the executive decision was to go back to Blairmore car park and start packing tents, sleeping bags and food ready for the walk to Sandwood Bay.
Like the walk to the Old Man of Stoer the evening before, the path to Sandwood was deceptively long. The remoteness is palpable as there's nothing but purple heather growing as far as the eye can see. You pass a few ponds and lochs and the views of the mountains further inland are very dramatic.
This time we were carrying heavy bags and camping chairs, which meant the pace was slower. I quickly tired and had to sit down a couple of times. The pains of aching shoulders momentarily disappeared as we turned a corner where vast sand dunes, cliffs and thick stretch of white sand appeared in front of us.
The beach is vast, with a sea stack to the south and clear views of the Cape Wrath lighthouse to the north. There is an 8 hour walk from Sandwood to the lighthouse that I thought would be exciting, but would have to be for another day.
The weather was still nice, a stiff sea breeze picked up and some clouds blocked the sunset just above the horizon. It was 9pm by the time we set up our tent. We camped behind one sand dune just off the beach to shelter us from the wind, cooked some dinner and listened to our music. Being a Sunday night there were only a smattering of other tents pitched among the dunes.
As we tucked into bed the wind picked up, making for an uncomfortable night. Only to be topped by some heavy rain from midnight to 1am. By 2am the rain stopped and I needed a wee so I popped outside. I looked up the coast to the blinking lighthouse, beyond it a warm glow sitting above the horizon. I thought it was so cool that it wasn't going to get dark.
We both had a poor nights sleep on the soft sand, which is really cold if you don't bring a carry-matt or some sort of insulated mattress. By the morning, the weather had turned a very British grey and we slowly packed up and trundled back to the van.
The plan from here was to head south. Part of me wanted to had North once more to the village of Durness, where there are some sea caves and beaches. However, the promise of fish and chips in Ullapool was the order of the day.
Gairloch & Shieldaig
Setting off from Sandwood Bay, we were planning on driving down to the campsite in Applecross that night - we had accepted this was to be a 'driving day'. With the stop in Ullapool and a scenic route round the Gairloch peninsula. Google maps says this would be about 4 and a half hours but with our van we knew there would be an additional 20-25% to any drive time.
One of the most frustrating things about having a 'driving day' is when it decides that's the day for the sun to come out. Pretty much from Ullapool onwards, it was glorious sunshine.
Not that we were complaining. The range of views we got over Little Loch Broom, the Isle of Ewe and the sun shimmering off the sea beyond Gairloch were stunning.
Come evening we were both pretty frustrated we'd spent such a lovely afternoon in the van. By the time we got to pretty little Shieldaig, we saw a few campers had set up next to the sea loch just beyond the cattle-grid entrance to the village. We thought it looked nice and decided to do Applecross tomorrow and park up alongside.
It was a tranquil, warm evening and we walked along the seafront looking for sea otters. I was surprised by how empty the place felt. For a picturesque street of cottages, in a village with a big campsite, we wondered where all the people were. We strolled up further towards some public toilets at the north end of the village. This was where the bigger vans were parking up overnight and I was glad we weren't there.
Walking back the way we came a few punters were sitting outside the hotel having a drink. This looked like everything I wanted after a day of driving. We popped our heads inside and soon realised it was rammed. There wasn't a single table inside free, so we ordered a round and sat on their upstairs balcony.
Pubs are frustrating places during covid because all you want to do is to ask a few questions of people to see what they've been up to, if they have any good tips about where you're going and visa-versa. Covid has made butting in on someone's conversation or just approaching any stranger in a pub more threatening than charming. In a way it's completely kills any sense of spontaneity and this was probably one of the more frustrating aspects of the trip.
We headed back to the van for the night, by this time the midges were getting a bit bite-y and my girlfriend managed to use her craft skills to stick extra midge netting up at the back of the van so we could hear the softly breaking waves of the sea loch, without being eaten alive. Shieldaig was probably one of the best spots we stayed at the whole trip.
Applecross
There are two routes from Shieldaig to Applecross, the coastal route and the mountain pass. I don't know what the coastal route is like but the mountain pass is something out of Jeremy Clarkson's wet dream.
Before approaching the famed mountain pass we stopped off to look at a walk that was recommended in the Wild Guide. Rassal wood is the most northerly ash woodland in Britain, apparently 6000 years old. On the guide it said it could be quite overgrown in summer and it was. We took the boggy walk up the hill and very quickly lost the path. After 10 mins of puffing, panting and confusion we followed a fence back down wondering what we were supposed to be looking out for. We did see a deer hop by which was pleasant, but also an ominous sign of bloodthirsty creatures.
This was only five minutes before the Applecross mountain pass which is very dramatically signed "do not pass in wintery conditions".
The van actually managed the hair pin bends well, and much bigger camper vans passed us on their way back over which was reassuring. There are frequent passing places so it's not too difficult, but as a queue of cars builds up behind you, and cyclists tear downhill past you, there are a few hairy spots you wouldn't want to get caught on a foggy day.
At the top we were treated to a crystal clear view over the sea to Skye. It was blowing an ice cold gale when we stepped out the van for a photo so we didn't hang around long.
Down the other side of the mountain to Applecross felt a lot shorter than the hairy journey up. As with many of the villages in the north-west, it's a lot smaller than I expected, with pretty much a campsite and a row of cottages on the seafront. An intimidating mountain sits to the North as the sea splashes on some riprap. Once again, we had no luck trying to watch the Euros as it was the final group games for Scotland and England that evening, but the delightful Applecross Inn was shut on Tuesdays.
That night we stayed in our tent. I was awoken by a very distressed girlfriend at 2am who said she could feel a lump on her tummy. When the phone torches lit up the tent, what looked like a squashed tick was firmly hooked into her skin. Distressed and drowsy, we checked our legs and both of us had smaller ticks clenched onto our shins and ankles. We got them off with tweezers, being careful not to break the body and leave the pincers. We both assumed we had caught them on our rather frustrating walk through Rassel Wood. It's a reminder that walking around in shorts in long grass is not wise whatever the weather.
Over the sea to Skye
Leaving Applecross meant going back over the famous mountain pass. The weather had turned the evening before and our new friends clouds and soft drizzle were blanketing the majority of the pass this morning.
Whereas yesterdays ascent was dramatic and scenic, the fog built a tension in me I haven't felt since my driving test. Barely able to see more that 10 meters in front, I desperately hoped there wasn't a boy racer flying down the single track road towards us. I was able to spot the glowing pods of motorcyclists before they would pass but cyclists would ghost out of the mist with no warning.
Once over the summit, the hair pin bends were fairly straightforward minus the knowledge of a 500ft drop beyond the barriers. Once again, the cyclists coming up were practically invisible. Fear turned to patience as we waited for their broken peloton to ascend in their lowest possible gear.
Ee emerged beneath the cloud to a great view of Loch Karron. Only now could I begin to relax into our journey to Skye via Glenelg.
The quickest route to Skye is over the bridge, but a friend had tipped me off about having seen a sea otter while he crossed via the Glenelg ferry. As my girlfriend had grown up in a Glenelg the other side of the world, it ticked too boxes as a reason to pass through.
The drive down to Glenelg meant we passed by the iconic Eileen Donan castle, stop and take a photo but not for long. Beyond that there was another mountain pass to get over to Glenelg. I was completely disorientated by our whereabouts as we ascended in and out of cloud again, but there was a sense that on a clear day the road we were driving on might have been magical.
Glenelg village was nothing to shout about, but we nosed around the local shop to ask for directions to the ferry.
"Head that way, turn left, stop when you get to water." delivered the shopkeeper with the I am very friendly, you are an idiot deadpan tone that only Scottish people are capable of.
At the Ferry port there's a sweet cafe and I spotting three-to-four grey seals fishing in the channel while I sipped my coffee. For £15 the ferry must be one of the most expensive per minute in the world, but it was a worthwhile detour as an ageing Border Collie enjoyed gnawing the tennis ball off the tow bar of our van for the duration of the crossing. 10/10 would recommend.
Skye - meaning sky - is taken from the old Norse for Cloud. And when we were on Skye it lived up to its name. The main road from Broadford to Portree is visibly set up for tourists. It didn't have the enchanted feel I was hoping for, but I guess the guide books, song and stories of Skye had done their job by getting us there.
We stopped at the Fairy Pools which were admittedly very pretty. Then we needed to head to our campsite up by Loch Snizort (an unusual name for the area - Z isn't a letter you see much in Gaelic or Norse/Scandi placenames)
The Camping and Caravanning club site had all the mod-cons. The wifi meant we could refresh our Spotify playlists and we cooked dinner, played cards and drank until it eventually got dark.
The next morning the weather was still very bleak, we drove to Dunvegan as the wild guide recommended the castle, but I was put off by the car park and cost on entry. Instead we drove to Uig where there was a brewery/distillery. This sounded much more appealing on a grey day, but alas it was just an outlet selling the bottles.
Nearby was the enchanting Fairy Glen. We explored the curious the mini-hills, some resembled mounds of a ship burial and one a mini-mountain peak. Someone had even set up a mini-stone circle which added to the vibe. The weather was pretty grim still so we sacked off the waterfall walk and drove to Portree to get a coffee.
The plan for the following day was to climb Ben Nevis, so we knew we had a decent drive ahead of us. We wanted to get the ferry off Skye to Mallaig, primarily to avoid doubling back on ourselves but also I'd wanted to glimpse the remote Knoydart peninsula. Alas, the ferry website said we needed to book ahead and we weren't convinced we'd make it in time for the 5pm departure anyway.
Over the Kyle of Lochlash bridge it was, back past Eileen Donan and another hour in-land. The scenery changes noticeably once you get south of the Caledonian canal. Once we passed Invergary, we were closing the loop on the northern part of our trip.
We had been warned that Fort William was an awful place and it was definitely not attractive, despite a Loch-side setting. I was well directed to the Achintee road car park at the foot of Ben Nevis, which functions as basecamp for many hikers doing the three peaks challenge.
I managed to light a fire, which kept the midges at bay, while my girlfriend did some cooking. A few wild campers from Derby pitched up opposite the car park. Assembling their tents in the horizontal rain provided some welcome entertainment for those of us in camper vans. Eventually the rain extinguished my fire which served as a signal to go to bed.
Ben Nevis
Is the tallest mountain in the UK.
We managed to get up and down in just under six hours. It's not a tough climb but it does go on and on. We had some really good weather for the first two thirds of the ascent but then hit cloud for the final climb.
You can see on the Strava there's a repetitive zig-zagging phase before you feel like you're at the final top. There was a snowy pass which was fun to see people sliding down on their bums.
I was glad we did it but to some extent only so that I don't have to do it again. I've thought about doing the three-peaks challenge since but I can't really see why it's enjoyable. Ben Nevis was super busy when we did it, and so is Scarfel and Snowdon. For me, it fails the would I still do this if I couldn't tell anyone I did it? test. I get much more fulfilment out of doing something like hiking to explore Sandwood Bay than I do collecting the stamps of the three peaks.
Loch Lomond
The final weekend of our trip we'd planned on spending on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.
The loch is Britain's largest body of water but more importantly it's the inspiration for one of Britain's finest folk songs.
There are a few different versions of Loch Lomond. As with many folk songs, the chorus largely stays the same but the verses differ.
The most familiar is the stadium-rock version by Runrig. This is the version you'll hear on the terraces of Hampden or at 1am when the nightclubs close.
There's a very pleasant version by Alastair McDonald, who gives an insight to the origins of the famous line Ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the low
But the version most befitting of a fireside sing-song is by The Corries. Sung in the Scots dialect, it tells the story of a Scottish soldier who was captured at the battle of Culloden, longing to see his Moira once again.
Our campsite was on the eastern shore of the Loch, which was billed as 'camping in the forest'. We pitched up quite late in the evening and found spot equidistant between a toilet block and the beach. We would later come to regret this for reasons out of our control.
Before the trip we'd expected the North to be where the midges were really bad. But this really took it up a notch. We had mastered erecting our tent in under 2minutes but 2 minutes was enough time to find every millimetre of your face covered with these awful creatures.
It was my girlfriend's birthday the following day so we had a few activities planned.
First up was a three-dram tasting session in the Glengoyne whiskey distillery. Unique in that the distillery is located in the Highlands, and then 100ft across the road the whiskey is casked (left to settle?) in the Lowlands to the south.
It was my first whiskey tour so I learnt a lot.
Similar to Champagne, it's can only be called scotch whiskey if it's made in the highlands of Scotland (apparently this is the same for Bourbon and Kentucky but Wikipedia says otherwise).
That distillery was quite dismissive of smokey, or peaty, whiskeys. There was an element of snobbery around "being able to hide a bad whiskey behind a smokey taste". This is the opinion I will use to sound learned and impressive to people next time they offer me a whisky.
Glengoyne's master distiller was much more focussed on creating a fruity, nutty and spicy flavours. None of which anyone in the room could taste before the host suggested those were the intended flavours.
I helped myself to a few tiny sips, as I was driving, but they do provide you with 3 drams to take away which is good.
Next activity was canoeing from Luss Beach. A Scottish friend had informed me that there was an island on Loch Lomond that housed 60 breeding pairs of wallabies. I thought it would be really cool to rent a canoe for a few hours we and paddled out.
The weather was warm and cloudy. We paddled slowly around Inchconnachan looking for an appropriate spot to explore. We passed a set of campers who were accompanied by a hissing family of swans. These campers seemed very nonchalant about any threats of a broken arm as the swans waddled inside their tents.
There's a narrow passage between Inchconnachan and a neighbouring island. An enticing path cutting through woodland caught my eye. Alas, a silent walk through the centre of the island was not enough to for us to spot any wallabies. We did manage to see a white tailed eagle perched on a branch before it flew off to said neighbouring island.
At this point Wales v Denmark had kicked off and I was less interested in spotting any mythical creatures. For the next two hours I would be very unpleasant company, as my girlfriend paddled and I listened to the humbling sounds coming from BBC Radio Wales.
Despite the football, it was a very pleasant afternoon. We headed back to the campsite and booked dinner at The Oak Tree in Balmaha. It was quite a long walk there from our campsite, sweetened by the presence of a field full of Highland Coos, one visibly stuck in the mud.
Balmaha is situated along the west highland way, a popular walking and cycling route, so was probably the 'poshest' place we'd been since Tebay services. The pub sang Happy Birthday to my girlfriend and we played cards till we were chucked out.
We arrived back at the campsite late but the most eventful moment of our trip was yet to come!
As we walked back to the tent we could hear some expressive stories being told by a young mother to her children. We assumed she was REALLY into children's stories and didn't really care that they were audible to most of the campsite.
Fast forward 5 minutes and the tune of children's stories had changed. The family had pitched up awkwardly close to us earlier in the day and now there was murmingings of discontent.
"DADDY DOESN'T GIVE AN EFF-YOU-SEE-KAY - ABOUT ANYONE ELSE. DADDY ONLY CARES ABOUT HIMSELF"
We thought this one probably wasn't the text of a children's book, and the statement was delivered with some animosity.
We listened with our eyebrows raised as the dispute, which was largely a monologue, echoed around the campsite for a further 5 minutes, before falling quiet.
The tension had not settled before a quiet drumming could be heard inches from our van.
Boom ba da boom ba da boom ba da boom... went the tapping of said drum at 12 midnight. Our eyebrows raised further.
The drumming would raise in tempo and soften in volume ever so often, always inches from our van.
I was genuinely confused as to what was going on. I pondered what to do if this continued for another 5 minutes. Perhaps Daddy really didn't give an eff-you-see-kay about anyone else?
My tension abated briefly as I heard a Spanish-speaking gentleman walk over. I couldn't hear the conversation but it was clear our neighbourly percussionist was the same woman who had been quite vocal earlier. It was also clear that there was some disagreement between her and the gentleman.
"But I am not playing a f***ing drum!!" the Spanish man suddenly yells.
"What did you say?!" replies our drummer in a thick Glaswegian accent.
At that moment another Spanish-speaking lady walks over. There is some kerfuffle, exchange of words before she yells "You fakking beetch!"
Our Dumbarton drummer did not take kindly to this intervention.
Further expletives were exchanged before we could hear her physically grab the Spanish woman by the hair - and proceed to fight for a good few seconds.
A few other campers came out of their tents to de-escalate the situation. There were calls from some to phone the police. Others ran to get the site wardens. We sat in the van curtain twitching, grateful I didn't proactively address the drummer earlier.
The dispute continued for a good half an hour as various grenades were thrown. Memorably, the drummer accused the Spanish-speaking folks of a few very modern crimes.
"You Spanish people, you all come over here... you come over here and take our... [the campsite holds its breath] take our camping spots [exhale]..."
"You're all the same. You're colonisers" she continued.
"Racist!!" exclaimed a Spanish accent. "We're not even Spanish" she continued.
"Spanish people aren't a race" returned the drummer.
"SHUT UP!" screamed another Scottish camper from the comforts of their tent.
"Why don't you shut up?!" returned the dummer.
"MAKE HER!" screamed a child from the anonymous tent.
Drummer's attention was drawn back to the not-Spanish group.
"Yer a pack o wolves! Yer nothin' but a pack er wolves"
This dragged on and on until the campsite warden arrived, isolated the Scottish woman and empathised with her story.
She successfully portrayed herself as the victim of a random attack by Spanish wolves, but the warden could sense she was unhinged. Ever so often she would talk herself to tears before sending another grenade over to the hounds.
The warden successfully didn't bite and the adrenaline levels began to climb down. Many campers managed to get a full nights sleep. In the morning she was nowhere to be found. We saw her partner (Daddy who didn't give an eff-you-see-kay) pacing around, child in one arm, on the phone probably trying to locate her.
Outro
And that was in effect, the end of our Scottish trip. All that was left was the 8 hour drive back to London.
The trip was immense, and though my descriptions won't have done it justice, Scotland is exceptionally beautiful. Between the weather, the midges and the ticks - there's always something to moan about. But it possesses so much variety. The far north felt truly remote. The people are hilarious.
I used the Lonely Planet and the Wild Guide to Scotland as my main tour guides. The Lonely Planet has an excellent chronological history of Scotland that gave me a new perspective on why and how different it is to the rest of the UK.
There's so much we didn't do there's plenty of room to go back. I think a trip to the Outer Hebrides and a weekend on the Knoydart peninsula would be next on the list.
If you made it this far, I hope you think it's worth a visit!
