Fungus and ducks

It is that time of year again, that brief period when the woodlands erupt with pustules of fungal growth. Living things that have kept themselves hidden beneath the soil all year have been waiting for the first signs of autumn to send shoots up above ground so that their spores can be released into the air. Mushrooms and toadstools spend most of their lives in a dark underworld but need to poke something up into the air to propagate their species. The size, shape and colour of what rises above ground will vary but they are mostly soft, delicate, and vulnerable things which are easily damaged. Emerging by night or day seems to make little difference because they may only last a few hours before they are eaten or just blown to bits by the breeze. I cannot resist them. My camera swings this way and that focussing here and there in the quiet damp of the forest, trying to capture their essence as well as their image. The light is often dim between the towering spruce trees so a good photograph requires a steady hand. I do my best to snap what I can, quickly, before these exotic fruiting bodies, sporocarp, break apart and dissolve back whence they came.

Autumn brings out another creature around these parts. Bright yellow in colour, each one marked clearly with their own number, they are released into Carradale Water to bob off downstream, eagerly egged on by a sizable proportion of the population of the village.

Once again this year the weather on the day is kind to the Duck Race organisers (the ducks themselves don’t seem to care) but just two days earlier we had such a downpour that it seemed unlikely we would even have a village left. We needn’t have worried though for unlike many parts of the country, here in the Highlands no matter how much rain falls from the sky it just runs away into the ground. The river, although deep brown in colour, settles back to its normal level very quickly.

After a promising start duck #431 just seems to miss the point entirely and puts in a disappointing performance, swimming around in circles then hiding beneath a grassy bank whilst all the others hurtle off downstream towards the finish line. So no prizes for us then.

The inhabitants of Carradale have another treat in store on Duck Race day. For this we only have to wander along to the bus stop at the top of our road at the right time when along comes the Kintyre Schools Pipe Band, marching in formation and playing at full volume.

As the sun slowly dips behind the hill this multiple competition winning band give their all with a repertoire of familiar tunes and much drumming and twirling of drumsticks. We all feel very honoured and proud of these highly disciplined and impeccably dressed youngsters who must practice long and hard to reach this standard. The event just says ‘Scotland’ as powerfully as it can and makes us feel good to be here.

‘Duckie’ comes out - round two

Boots nicely muddied we leave Glencoe and take Duckie to Glen Nevis where we rub shoulders with some ‘proper’ motor caravanners on another highly organised site. It being quite late in the season we can park anywhere we fancy so position ourselves so that Carn Dearg’s quartzite summit winks at us through the trees just beneath the shoulder of the Ben Nevis massif. It appears that our new battery, which provides power for lights and also enables us to pump water inside the van, is not getting charged from the engine as it should but such a minor inconvenience does not prevent us from hitting the road again the next day, beating into a westerly blow and driving rain as we press on westwards to Arisaig. This is a place Kate remembers from her childhood holidays – this trip is turning out to be full of reminiscences.

Although we are fully equipped and happy to camp ‘wild’ we are finding that often this is discouraged where there are already camp sites to choose from so here on the Keppoch peninsula we locate a site that looks good, with a view across the sea to Eigg, Rum and Skye ready to greet us when the rain blows itself away.

The campsite owners have bravely placed a notice here stating that nightlife is likely to be absent, unless it is of the small flying and biting variety, but we find this encouraging rather than discouraging and soon the gentle rocking of the van in the wind lulls us to sleep.

Dawn brings with it a change in the weather and peering out at the view this confirms our decision to stop here. Pink-tinted clouds hover over a sea which is loaded with islands right across the horizon, a real treat for our eyes. Having had some experience of the changeability of Scotland’s weather, of course, we know better than to expect it to remain fine for long so after dawdling around on the beach for half the day we drive off again, making it as far south as the Ardnamurchan peninsula before the clouds once again roll in.

 A long, ridiculously narrow road brings us to Sanna where the mist hides the few small islands which lie between us and America, but we know they are there just the same. The beaches here are bright and clean, made not from sand but from coral and tiny pieces of shell which gives them a special quality, one that is favoured by a taller variety of limpet and cockles with shells that come in rainbow colours. Despite the damp the air is quite warm beside the sea but it is getting late so we retrace our track along the single-track road to find a spot where nobody is likely to disturb us, a place where even a large white van is lost amongst the heather and coarse grass. The sense of remoteness here on Ardnamurchan has a new order of magnitude. The by-road past Kilchoan is like a thread winding onwards over the hills, passing through a land shaped by nature where man’s influence is barely a scratch. Rounded boulders stick out of the heather-covered ground, formed volcanically then scraped smooth by glacial ice and still bare of soil after thousands of years. Either time moves more slowly here or else the land just resists change, of its own accord.

Driving slowly on, still on roads barely wider than our wheels, we reach Loch Sunart and follow its northern shore to a village called Strontian, a name made famous by the element Strontium, discovered in the now disused lead mines which lie hidden in the mountains close by. If ever there was a village which matches Carradale in terms of size, (in-)accessibility, general surroundings and sense of community, then this is it.

We find houses built to exactly the same pattern as our own, from the same set of bricks almost, and the midges even looked at us the same way as they do back home. Just like in Carradale, walk a short distance up the hillside and you are treated to a terrific view, in this case westward along the longest sea loch in the Highlands. Our camp site owner is an enthusiastic entrepreneur who was drawn to the Highlands in a similar way to us and is making a great life for himself and his family. Even in these remote places many of our overnight camping sites have been full of tourists, from England, Europe and the USA, so clearly there is a living here for anyone who has the imagination and enthusiasm to take advantage of the opportunities on offer.

The world of caravanning is slowly opening up before us as we travel about in our new home although we sense that we might not quite be doing things as others are. We don’t have a table and chair set to erect outside the moment we arrive at a camp site, somewhere to sit around eating supper and shivering whilst the midges feed. We sense others looking down their noses at our lightly equipped style and our one night stopovers but we don’t care. Before leaving Strontian, though, we have to take advantage of the fine morning to visit the ancient Ariundle oak woods. Amongst these trees are moss-covered stones, some of them once used in building a croft or an ancient fortified structure, which lie sleeping beneath the oaks and birches. The area is being actively preserved from intrusion by sheep or deer to preserve it as a uniquely valuable habitat and we would like to linger longer but need to head back to Oban to try to sort out the van’s electrical problems. From Strontian the quickest route is to use the ferry at Corran, a place where Loch Linnhe narrows, forcing the tide to rush through a small gap beneath the mountains of Ardgour. The crossing turns out to be very easy - we just drive up and bounce on board - and the meagre cost surprises us. We were expecting to pay more for our large vehicle but we grin to ourselves and keep quiet about it,  especially not bragging to the gang of bikers who are crossing with us.

These are serious tourists most of whom who have travelled up from England to a meet at Kilchoan on Ardnamurchan and we feel sorry for them later when the rain begins to fall.

At Barcaldine we pull into the former walled garden of a once great estate, now converted to a grand camping site, and have barely parked before the heavens open. This site has such a high sense of order about it that it terrifies us. The toilet/shower block closes for cleaning on the dot of 12.30 each day. It is beyond spotless. The grass grows only where it knows it must and there are gates which close at 11pm to prevent foolishly disorganised campers from arriving or departing. Despite these (in our view) failings there is a warm welcome from the managers who clearly run their lives around the camping season.

Our little break over, all that remains is to trundle back home. The electrical problem in the van persists and will need further attention by someone with greater skills than I but everything else works well and promises to deliver us a whole new world of adventures.

‘Duckie’ comes out

With a rumble of diesel exhaust our newest acquisition trundles slowly out of Carradale in the rain, heading for a spot of wild camping further up the Kintyre peninsula. Several things strike us immediately. The enormously long windscreen wiper blades that shoot across our field of vision every few seconds taking a bucket-load of water from the acreage of front windscreen at each stroke. These are a feat of engineering on their own. Then there is the seven-speed gear box (one of these gears is for going backwards) which encourages a new way of thinking about driving, one where engine speed is almost as important as road speed. And once we are moving we are struck by how quiet it is, the powerful engine barely catching its breath on the single track road along Kilbrannan Sound. Some miles later we simply turn the wheel to the left and glide to a halt on some grass beside the road in the dark, a road that ends just beyond the next bend or two, and we listen to the sound of the sea not twenty metres away from our back door.

We also count the traffic passing us; there were four cars that night and then at around eight in the morning the bus came along.

We are still babies at this motor-caravanning stuff, mere novices at the game. Our first night we sleep soundly on the cross-wise double berth which we later realise was at a considerable angle of tilt. We have the technology on board to adjust this – some ramps to raise up the lower wheels -  but in the rain and dark it hardly seems worthwhile. Sleep is more important. Our mobile escape pod has brought us somewhere different but the ‘where’ is not important just now, nor is the position of our heads relative to our bottoms.

We are heading in a northerly direction and next day find ourselves in Oban where we stock up on food and acquire a new battery to provide us with light inside the van. A cool box is installed which is supposed to provide us with the means to keep food fresh but we discover later that this was a poor investment which draws much electrical power for very little cooling effect. Beyond Tyndrum the road rises to the bleak wilderness that is Rannoch Moor then suddenly around a corner the ‘Big Shepherd’ of Etive comes into view, dominating the landscape and I am transported back forty years to when this massive mountain signified the end of a long overnight drive from London and the start of a week of climbing amongst the peaks and valleys of Glencoe.

For more years than I care to remember this place has been a favourite of mine, top of the list of places I want to be. It comes with so many familiar corners all of which are full of memories, of experiences with friends I have long lost touch with, and then more recent adventures with Kate and our young sons. We recall that it was in May 1987 that we walked and carried our children up a path leading out of the Glen to the magical Coire Gabhail, known to all as the Lost Valley. Our youngest, Ben, was barely two years old and bounced along in a backpack papoose slung on our shoulders. The other two boys climbed with only our encouragement to spur them on. Would the weather hold for tomorrow so we could retrace our steps of 25 years ago?

In the campsite called ‘The Red Squirrel’ we park our bus beside the river Coe then tramp up the road for a meal in the Clachaig Inn, thus opening up another set of memories for me which I shall keep to myself for another time.

We are learning rapidly about the art of caravanning, setting up on a level site, taking time to explore to make sure we can locate the toilets and showers which may be tucked away out of sight in some odd corner. Our van is equipped with everything for basic needs but not being a professionally done conversion it is delightfully quirky inside, which makes using it a real pleasure. It feels very big inside but we soon realise that compared with most motorhomes it is quite compact, bijou even. On the road it feels like we are driving in a big bus and then when we pull up for the night it suddenly becomes just the right size for us. Experienced caravanners the world over will know that the waste water bucket has to be positioned just so beneath the sink pipe and it is important not to drive away over it in the morning but these are skills we are just acquiring. Many campsites offer mains electricity for caravans and although we can connect our van to this we are puzzled as to what use to make of it. Life aboard a boat has taught that there is little that is essential to life that needs mains electricity to function so for the moment we save our pennies and manage without. We are self-contained and self-sustaining in our own little world.

The next day, after breakfast and a short drive back up the glen, we park Duckie (‘Ducato’ is the Italian for duck, surely) then leave behind the coachload of Japanese tourists to follow the trail to the Lost Valley. A descent to the river then we climb solidly for the next hour and a half, take an unwanted detour up some loose scree, but finally re-locate our route through the boulder-field that once formed part of the side of the mountain of Geàrr Aonach. Many thousands of years ago there was such a rock fall here that the route into our valley was closed off forever, lost from sight. The stream (Allt Coire Gabhail) dammed up behind the debris caused a build up of small stones which now form an almost level gravelly base to the valley floor, the size of three or four football pitches, and the stream now disappears beneath this, to emerge innocently much lower down from beneath one of the enormous fallen boulders.

The path up weaves in and out of these colossal lumps of rock before emerging onto the valley floor which is such a surprising contrast to the steepness of the surrounding peaks that it just takes the breath away.

I cannot explain the magic of this place but here is Kate carrying a two year-old Ben and here we are in Coire Gabhail twenty-five years on – we keep coming back. I would like to say nothing has changed but even the mountains, which change on a geological timescale, will not be quite the same as they were then.