Hebridean adventure 5

From inside our compact little travelling home we peep out of our tinted windows at the world outside. We have just made ourselves some toasties for lunch as we relax and reminisce on our short stay in the Outer Hebrides. We have made a decision and booked a return ferry from Castlebay on Barra back to Oban on the mainland, an early sailing the following morning which should enable us to drive from there and be home the same day. The reason for us leaving now is simple and it is primarily about the weather. We always knew this would be the main factor determining our return date and that it would be the one thing we could never predict. We did think that we would be cycling more often, perhaps battling the wind, but it turned out that with the wind comes rain, often as heavy squalls, these being regular but unpredictable. In the end this put us off cycling completely and even walking any distance risked a soaking so we have done very little of what we might have expected to do.

There have been, however, a load of big positives to our adventure. We have explored countless stunning beaches with views across the ocean or towards off-lying islands and rocky promontories. We also take away a real appreciation of what life here is like today and have an insight into what it must have been like in the past too. Little things have caught our eyes. Wheelie bins are not safe here unless tied down securely! Garden trampolines, the things that are notorious for flying away in the slightest wind, are rare here but we did spot one, presumably anchored down with some mighty big pegs. The houses are generally built low, close to the ground, and are widely spaced out rather than being grouped into compact villages. This perhaps mirrors the position of the croft houses which preceded them.

Driving on the narrow single track roads is very much a part of the experience. Despite the roads using the same numbering system as the rest of the UK an 'A' road is just as likely to be single track as a 'B' road. Driving requires courtesy, looking ahead to see if there is another car coming then indicating to show you are moving into the next passing place so they can come forward. The wave by both drivers as you pass each other is a given.

There are relatively few shops here but most seem to be owned and run by the local community. Those that do exist, however, are always welcoming with staff willing to  pause for a chat.

Many of the campsites are located on the machair, sand dunes grown over with a mix of vegetation which have always provided grazing for the crofters' sheep and cattle. The pitches are often uneven so finding a level spot is not easy and some care is needed to avoid spinning wheels. Most sites seemed to be closing at the end of September since beyond this visitor numbers will fall off.

For us though, a plan for the homeward journey now being in place, we need a camp spot close enough to the ferry terminal so we don't miss the sailing in the morning. We then get a text message telling us that the ferry we have booked is going to leave an hour earlier, now at six o' clock in the morning, so this becomes even more important. This is due to strong winds forecast for later in the day, so they should not affect us, but the ship has to return to the safety of Castlebay on Barra on the same day.

One final island on our list is Vatersay, hanging off the south end of Barra by another short causeway, so this is where we end up, on a narrow strip of the Machair midway between east and west facing beaches. We thought we might have the spot to ourselves but two other vans drove up later, one of which promptly lit a fire to cook some sausages, despite the rules forbidding fires. [But I guess we did get our own back with the noise of our early departure the next day.]

We had a pair of beautiful beaches to visit this time, one of which even enticed Kate in for a swim. We retired to bed early and slept well enough but four in the morning is never going to be a good time to get up. And what we then discovered was that driving on the tiny single track roads in total darkness is a whole new experience, especially when the sheep bedded down on the road are still sleeping. Once on the ferry, a much larger one for this journey, most of the passengers crashed out wherever they could and tried to catch up on their sleep. We on the other hand started with some breakfast, found a good spot from which we could watch the dawn arrive then had fun trying to identify the Scottish mountains as they came into view.

We passed close by the Isle of Lismore which once again brought back memories of my singing with the campsite manager on Lewis. Music in one form or another is clearly an important part of the lives of many islanders and I am delighted to think that I participated in this.

Our drive home was uneventful, although we did pick up a pair of hitchhikers on the way, a young Czech couple carrying a mass of luggage so they could camp each night. And we later discovered that our bed at home does not shake and rattle when the wind outside blows! This, along with a number of other things, will take us days to re-acclimatise to. We also discovered that everything in the garden seemed to have been growing at great speed whilst we were away, testimony to the wet weather here too. All that remains now is to give the van a good wash to try to remove all the salt and sand that has stuck to the paintwork during our time away.

So what about the bikes, how did they fair perched on the rack behind us whilst being rained upon daily and then doused in sea spray? Time will tell for sure but it seems that the bike cover, the thing continuously noisily flapping about in the wind and needing extra cords wrapped around it to keep it from flying away or ripping into shreds, largely did its job and kept the bikes dry. Whilst away we saw many other vehicles with bike racks on the back but none seemed to be flapping as much as ours so maybe we need to rethink the cover a little. 

Hebridean adventure 4

Looking ahead to the next few days the weather forecast was not encouraging. The wind was guaranteed, still coming from the south-east, but the rain was also going to be a given, heavy showers with brief interludes seemed to be the pattern, based on previous days. After a night in the relative comfort of a proper campsite we decided to book another, this time on Benbecula, the next island in the chain but this being only a relatively short drive we decided to detour on a round trip of North Uist, to experience as much of the island as it could give us. Which was how we ended up stopping to visit a woodland overlooking Loch Langais.

This woodland was planted some years ago as a community project and it is, uniquely, the only piece of woodland on the island. It clearly provides a home for a population of pixies, who have built little houses everywhere you look although on reflection some local schoolchildren might have had a hand in decorating the trees and the mossy ground beneath. The big story associated with this place is about an eight foot high bear called Hercules. Although brought up tame from his youth, some years ago he escaped from his handler and spent several weeks roaming the landscape around here, despite considerable efforts to capture him. He clearly had not been taught how to hunt because when he was finally recaptured he was very thin and desperately hungry. A large wooden commemorative statue stands in the woods today in memory of Hercules the bear.

We were also very impressed by the toadstool population which we could not resist taking pictures of as we walked around the woodland and as a special treat we watched a pair of eagles soaring above the trees whilst we stood gazing up at them from below. Most significantly for us was that once in the woodland we realised we had found a place that gave us complete shelter from the wind and that this had another unexpected benefit - it was quiet. Instead of having to shout at each other we found ourselves conversing normally again, for the first time in days.

At this point in our travels we made a decision to move on to Barra the next day, the last island in the chain. This would involve a short drive from Benbecula across a causeway, a drive down the length of South Uist, then across another causeway to Eriskay from where the ferry to Barra departs. Three different islands again but this time the wind had notched up to gale force and the rain was coming down sideways, continuously. The first causeway was relatively benign but on the crossing to Eriskay, a long straight section, there was spray breaking right across the road from the sea on one side. There was no alternative but to drive across this to get to the terminal despite the risk of our van being blown over but when we finally arrived at the terminal there was no ferry. All sailings were cancelled for the day due to the storm. The only campsite nearby was back on South Uist which meant a reverse crossing of the causeway. By this time the tide had gone down a little although we still got sprayed with salt water. Our adventure in the Outer Hebrides had become an exciting tussle with the first September gale. What better place to experience this than the windiest corner of Scotland.

The night that followed was noisy, rain hammering down on the roof in heavy bursts and the van was violently shaken about by the wind making sleeping difficult. Others in the campsite with taller vans (or giant motorhomes) might have feared for their safety, worrying about whether their home would be blown over, but at least this didn't concern us too much. We had tried to book another ferry for the next day but due to everybody's travel arrangements being disrupted only the evening sailing had room for us. We therefore arose slowly from our beds in the morning, packed up, visited the campsite cafe for a late breakfast coffee and cake then decided to move to the ferry terminal on the off chance that an earlier sailing might have a space. The wind had abated, rain showers still came in but the sea looked calmer and it was clear that the ferries were running to schedule once again.

We joined a queue and were told there was little chance of us getting on the midday sailing but once the ship had loaded, somehow there was a tiny space just big enough for us to fit in, crammed in tight behind a couple of big lorries. [In this picture our van looks like it's a toy.] Remarkably the sea was quite smooth, most of the big swell from the overnight storm had died down as we crossed the Sound of Barra at last.

We even had time to explore a little before driving to the north end of the island to a campsite close by yet another glorious beach. Just around the corner from us (to the right in this picture) is the airport, planes landing on the beach when it is not covered by the sea. On another walk from the campsite along the beach, this time avoiding the rain, we met a couple drawing artistic creations in the sand with a small grass rake and using sea-worn pebbles and other debris to decorate their works; temporary structures, since the next tide will inevitably wash it all away.

Out of all the Hebridean islands the one that appeals most to us is in fact Barra. If we were being honest then the reason for this is that it feels most like where we now live in Argyll. There are hills stretched right across the island, some of which are forested, and people live in houses which are closer together, in small communities, instead of being scattered widely across the landscape. Popping round to a neighbour's house for a cup of tea on Lewis could be a significant hike, especially when the wind is blowing hard. Neighbours on Barra don't have this problem. It also has a road which encircles the whole island, something we were hoping to do as a bike ride were the weather a bit kinder. We are delighted to have travelled the whole Hebridean island chain but thrilled to have arrived on Barra at last, as if this is where we always wanted to be.

Hebridean adventure 3

Although being somewhat disappointed at not making good use of the bikes strapped on the back of our van we had gradually become reconciled to the fact that the constant wind and the random heavy showers that came along with it might mean that the bikes would go home without ever being used. The distances between our overnight stops were not great, maybe only an hour or so of driving, so in some ways we felt we were cheating ourselves by moving on too quickly. Not that we were unimpressed by the landscape, the scenery, the incredible views and the challenges the roads themselves introduced us to. But nevertheless after consulting our maps we decided at this point that we would drive to Leverburgh, the departure point for ferries to North Uist, the next island in the chain. We did not, however, choose the most direct route there. Instead we had noticed a tiny single track coastal route down the east coast of Harris, with a 'seal watching point' along the way which seemed a reasonable place to stop for lunch. It was, in fact, a cliff top overlooking a sheltered bay which contained a small island used by the local seals for hauling themselves out. We were too far away to photograph them but through binoculars the large lumps of seal could be clearly seen.

Onward then to Leverburgh where we stocked up with food in the local shop before parking for the night in a spot right by the ferry terminal. We had booked a crossing for early the next morning, one of only three a day, but treated ourselves to a meal out before turning in for the night. Having a van in which we are self sufficient in everything does mean that we can stay almost anywhere.

The parking spot we had chosen was quite exposed so once again our van was buffeted about all night by the wind although after a quick downpour the rain did hold off for most of the night. We had an early start for the ferry and thankfully by this time the wind had reduced a little.

The crossing to Berneray is far from direct, reminding us a little of the narrow roads we had been driving on, bumpy but with many twists and turns. The changes of direction in this case were necessary due to the small islands and rocks that fill the Sound of Harris, many of these being hidden from view beneath the water.

Our ferry dodged from left to right following a chain of green and red navigation buoys until about an hour later we were approaching Berneray harbour under a clear blue sky. This is a very small island and almost immediately after driving off the ferry we crossed the long man-made causeway onto North Uist, three islands in one day... something of a record?

Once again we had chosen a campsite to aim for which was off the beaten track on a tiny promontory facing the Sound of Monach (named after the small cluster of off-lying islands) where there was a small bird sanctuary close to the shore. The wind was our constant companion as usual but this did not prevent us setting off on a three mile walk around the protected area. 

The coastline here is wild and beautiful although quite featureless, unless you count the heaps of large round pebbles and the piles of kelp ripped up from the seabed by recent storms. The smell from these was amazing. We were about half way along our walk when the rain started. It came in gradually, shooting at us sideways on with the strength of the wind and we had no choice but to battle on when the path turned straight into it. We were a little unprepared but our clothes soaked up the moisture nicely and when the going got tough our bodies generated their own warmth. We also had the comfort of knowing that the campsite had a drying room once we made it safely back. The walk is not something we would willingly repeat in such conditions but it refreshed us and left us with quite a buzz. And given that the reserve was a bird sanctuary, did we see many birds? We might have expected birds we normally associate with living by the sea but instead there were flocks of starlings, wheeling about in formation, as they do. They are in fact quite common here.

Hebridean adventure 2

Something of a strategy seemed to be needed as to where we might spend the coming night although at this point in our travels we barely had a plan beyond this. Somewhere, some time in the future we would arrive on Barra, the southernmost of the Hebridean islands, from where we would take a ferry back to the mainland, but we had nothing booked and no urgent need to be home at any point in the next few weeks. We had discovered that we enjoyed visiting remote beaches and most of these seemed to be located at the end of tiny single track roads, so after studying the map for a while we decided to head for the tiny crofting village of Cnip, simply because it met these requirements.

The beach here gave us even more delight, some amazing patterns across the sand caused by dark grains carried there in runoff from the surrounding land, although by this time the wind had arrived which, together with the odd shower of rain, meant we were spending less time outdoors than before. This turned out to be a memorable place and I refer back now to the earlier blog here where I explain why this particular place will always hold a particular good memory for me.

On our journey to this campsite we paused to inspect the standing stones at Callanish, a place where there are multiple stone rings, leading to immense speculation as to the purpose they served and the justification for the effort in raising them back in the days before humans had the mechanical devices we have today. The assumption that they are evidence of religious worship of some kind does not sit well with me but without their creators on hand to ask we will never be sure.

The Hebridean islands are known for their exposure to winds arriving from the west along with depressions which have crossed the North Atlantic pushed along by the jet stream. An easterly breeze is unusual and winds coming up from the south are also less common but they do bring warmth to this northerly outpost. What we now experienced were stronger and stronger winds coming from a south easterly direction. A run of such days followed, with the van being rattled and shaken during the night. The bikes stayed on their rack (although their rain cover needed re-securing many times) and our walks often ended with wet clothes and shoes when we were caught out by sudden downpours. Our strategy of driving to remote beaches continued, however, one of which, at a place called Hushinish (or Huisinis in Gaelic) took us along fourteen miles of a single track road barely wide enough for our van's wheels. Not that our van is particularly wide. Nothing like as wide as some of the many enormous motorhomes that were constantly passing us. It seemed to make little sense to bring such a vehicle here.

Sheep seemed to prefer grazing on the grass bordering the road whilst standing on it, as did several herds of Highland cattle, the ones with those enormous horns sticking out sideways just above their eyes. A tarmac road will absorb heat from the sun, which is perhaps why these animals behave this way, but they clearly are very used to big motorhomes passing by and will make little effort to move when they approach. This is an unexpected challenge to exploring in the Hebridean islands, but not one to be bragged about in case the tourists are discouraged from coming.

By this time the stock of food we carried with us was beginning to get a bit low so the community shop in the township of Tarbert seemed a good place to head for. We soon discovered, however, that Sunday closing is observed faithfully on both Lewis and Harris so instead we pressed on southwards until we reached the turnoff to Luskentyre (Losgaintir in Gaelic), another narrow single track road leading to yet another glorious beach. If ever there was a tourist hotspot then this might be it. The narrow road was littered with overnight parking spots and the road ended at an unmanaged parkup/campsite with very basic toilet facilities.

The beach here is bordered by massive boulders of Lewisian gneiss, rocks formed over three billion years ago and one of the oldest rocks still visible on the surface of the earth today. Such rocks underlie much of these islands and are quite stunning to see dotted about although I would guess that few visitors are motivated to come here for that reason.

Hebridean adventure 1

Like many of the things we do, very little planning had gone into this adventure apart from deciding on a date for departure and buying the ferry tickets. This left us with a vague plan for how we might get to Ullapool for the ferry crossing to Stornoway, a long drive from home, and with a 10:30 am ferry departure we knew we would need to stay the night somewhere close by in the town. But that was it. Once we had loaded the campervan, lashed the bikes onto the back, added a stock of food and water to keep us going for a few days, why not just hit the road northwards.

Glencoe seemed a reasonable place to stop for the first night, a campsite known as the Red Squirrel that we have used many times before. Heavy rain showers drummed on the van roof at intervals throughout the night but we slept well after a meal in the Clachaig Inn then carried on the next day to our Ullapool campground.

That evening we were treated to a magnificent sunset followed by a calm and peaceful night and the forecast for the next day was for light winds, something quite rare in these parts. As it turned out the ferry crossing was uneventful, across a calm sea and by the time we docked in Stornoway we had a plan, of sorts, for our first night in the Hebridean islands.

Our choice of camp spot was dictated by its distance from the Butt of Lewis, the northernmost point of the northernmost island which has a reputation for violent storms and crashing waves. A five mile bike ride seemed about right for us and what little wind there was blew us along quite easily. The return was also a piece of cake, thankfully, and a good chat with a local crofter ended the day nicely. The fact that the tiny site we had chosen offered nothing except an electric hook-up, which we didn't need, mattered little.

What we did get was perfect peace, not another vehicle in sight, and an interesting morning walk to the nearby beach. The only thing missing was the wind, something for which Lewis is famous, and we knew that we could not expect this to last forever.

Dawn came on day two, still with only gentle breezes, so we decided to explore another beach, this one being on the northern tip of the island of Great Bernera. The drive there gave us our first taste of minor roads here, twisty strips of tarmac which rose and fell with the landscape, although as yet we had not met any serious hills.

Once again we found a remarkable sandy beach, so good that Kate was tempted in for a swim, only to be greeted by a curious seal who was also looking for a bit of fun. Two days on the island with plenty of sunshine and light winds. It could not last, of course, and sure enough the forecast showed we could expect fresh winds coming up from the south for the next few days at least.

Hebridean adventure 0

The beach at Cnip (Kneep in English) stretches far away, pure clean sand with ripples left by the retreating sea and small puncture marks left by raindrops which fell earlier in the day. The ever present wind sweeps across the landscape keeping us cool but never too cold as it arrives from a southerly direction where a warmer climate rules.

We are on Lewis, the northernmost of the Outer Hebridean islands, camped for the second night of our latest holiday/adventure. The campsite lies amongst the dunes behind this vast beach and on arrival we find a notice in the window of the facilities building giving instructions to new arrivals. We call the telephone number provided and speak to a man whose name we later discover is Fin Morrison, this being a local name. His accent is strange to us, faintly Irish to our ears, but he tells us where to find an empty pitch for our campervan saying he'll be by later to collect payment. The site is quite spread out, grass covered sand with markers to ensure adequate spacing between pitches, and it is far from level so it takes us a while to find a spot where the van is not leaning too much.

We settle in and cook ourselves a meal as the wind whistles through the dunes then, just as we are tidying away, we notice a black saloon car has driven up close to us and an elderly gentleman emerges. His face is lined with age and his beard in need of a good trim but I guess (correctly) that he is Fin who I spoke with earlier. We open the door for him and begin to answer his questions as he writes out a receipt for the twenty pound overnight fee.

"Where are you from?" he asks. His reaction when we simply say "Argyll" is one of sadness for it is a place where the Gaelic language is rarely spoken, something that is clearly very important to him. We comment that we try to embrace the culture associated with the Gaelic language and I mention that I play in a band.

"Do you play fiddle?" he asks, so I confess to playing a concertina.  At this his eyes lit up and his interest seemed to spike. He wants to know more.

"What Scottish tunes do you play? Do you play waltzes?" He names a tune, which I don't recognise so I ask him to sing it for me. In hindsight this was a rather cheeky request but without hesitation he begins to sing the tune for me. Unfortunately I have to confess that I don't recognise it so he tries again, this time asking if I know Leaving Lismore. This one I know, of course, as it is part of the repertoire of the Fyne Thyme band.

At this point something amazing happens. We are parked on a remote windy campsite on the west coast of Lewis and suddenly I am singing a tune I know along with a local man who has come to our door to collect camping dues. Once started he continues singing, as do I, both parts of the tune, in perfect time and pitch until we reach the end. To him this is clearly better use of his time than collecting camping dues and for me I am filled with emotion as we come to an end. I thank him and he departs quickly, finally remembering what he came to do. I can only hope the song we shared has meant as much to him as it did to me. To think that I can join together with a local man and provide him with pleasure in this way leaves me thrilled and buzzing inside, a feeling that I take away with me on the rest of our journey through the islands.

Island over the sea

Can there be a better advertisement for a natural, nature-friendly campsite than this, red deer grazing outside your door, guaranteed, any time of the day or night? However these creatures are not put there just to add interest for the campers. Indeed they may be regarded as something of a nuisance for they are somewhat casual about where they leave their droppings and they can hop over onto the golf course next door as easily as wander into the road. They know the area so well and seem to assume the grass is put their entirely for their benefit. After all this is their home, and has been so for longer than anyone can remember. From the first steps ashore from the ferry at Lochranza on the Isle of Arran we notice how garden fences and gates are built shoulder high rather than at waist level, as if to ensure the inhabitants don’t escape onto the road. Only later do we twig that we’ve seen this height of fence before on Forestry land. It is the height that a deer cannot jump. So on Lochranza deer are being kept out of gardens, full as they are with such a delicious variety of food items, and the fences are not (just) to keep dangerous locals under control.

They certainly have remarkable freedom (the deer, that is) and their behaviour is tolerated far beyond what might be expected. The rut, for instance, when the stags bellow endlessly and joust amongst themselves for the ladies, must be a particularly trying time for those living here yet they seem to have adapted to this, stepping around the odd gaggle of hinds when they have to just as we do on the campsite.

We consider ourselves blessed as the sun comes out in some force after only one day of torrential rain at the start of our five day visit, a day that gave the legs a chance to recover from our eight mile coastal afternoon hike around the Cock of Arran on our first day. The worst part was when we were already tired and at our furthest point from ‘home’ when our path forced its way tortuously through a boulder field, studded with ankle wrecking dangers as well as being well supplied with midges and other biting insects. Given enough wind, midges generally find flying too difficult so the presence of a fresh breeze when out walking is normally welcome.

Less easy to avoid however, especially when passing through waist-high bracken, are the ticks, tiny black creatures who scuttle down beneath the clothing then latch on using a barbed probe, penetrating the skin to, well, suck up their host’s juices. The itching generally does not start until later and then goes on well after the creature’s now swollen body is extracted, a process that involves a specially shaped device and exceptionally good eyesight. Given that these beasts can carry Lyme disease a full body inspection is recommended after walking through any long vegetation, a minor price to pay really for the pleasure of so much fabulous scenery.

From Machrie Moor we look across Kilbrannan Sound to our home on Kintyre, where less than three miles away, our village nestles at the foot of its valley.

Although nobody can ever be certain about the precise date, I can say that some time after the last ice retreated 12,000 years ago and before about 750 BC, some large stones were dragged across Arran and firmly stood on end in such a way that they still remain standing today. As to how this remarkable feat was achieved or why it was done nobody alive today really knows, which seems quite sad considering the effort that must have been involved. Today we might use a large crane to lift something this heavy into place but archaeologists doubt that such things had been invented back then so the whole place is surrounded in mystery. We can speculate that their commanding presence, and there are lots of them here placed in circles or arranged in alignments that today we can only guess at, must have been quite stunning to those passing by when they were first erected… and they have lost little of that today.

Before coming to live in Scotland we had never heard of this magical place. So it seems strange that we should discover something like this so close to our home. In some ways it’s rather like finding Stonehenge is just down the road although the hoards of tourists are missing here. Remoteness does have its advantages.

To complete our slow circumnavigation of the isle of Arran we steer Ducky over the String Road back to Brodick, a long climb over the central mountainous backbone with a fast descent on the other side.

I regret to say that Arran has benefited little financially from our visit; only two nights were spent on formal campsites and most of our food was brought with us from home. There are plenty of places where we can pull off the road, get tucked in behind a few trees and find isolation and a quiet place to sleep, so apart from the cost of the ferry (twenty minutes spent sitting in a gently swaying van or waving farewell from the upper deck) this has been a cheap holiday. Our walking boots return a little muddier and our faces a little ruddier from exposure to the sun but we feel richer and wiser knowing what lies across the sea from our home.

Ducky’s meanderings - 3

Perhaps it might have been more sensible had we, prior to setting out on this broadly clockwise trip around Scotland, researched likely campsites to see which were open and whether they suited our needs.

But sometimes leaving campsite selection to chance can be rather fun, adding spice to the whole caravanning experience. It is a gamble that could go wrong of course, leaving us trawling the streets late at night like homeless immigrants, but as things have turned out so far we have struck lucky, always finding pleasant sites or else quiet spots where we can just pull off the road. True, we did pay a £10 premium in Dunnet Bay because we are not part of the exclusive Caravan Club elite, and that did hurt a bit, but we made up for it two nights later by pulling off the single track road beside Loch Brora and sleeping for free (although Kate tells me that the owls were noisy – I was too busy sleeping to notice).

Dunnet Head being the most northerly point of the Scottish mainland, the only way for us now is south as we are saving the Orkneys for another day. So it is that we rumbled into Helmsdale, one of so many tiny east coast fishing ports to have sprung into being when the seas were full to bursting with herring.

Whilst refreshing ourselves in the Timespan cafe we discover a way to explore the town in an interesting way, on a waymarked tour, so off we set on foot. A little over half way round, at the harbour, we meet a man called Jim Mackay, something of a local attraction although not figuring at all in the leaflet we are carrying. There he is standing in the sun at his front door greeting us in Gaelic and before long we are being treated to snippets of his long life story and being shown photos of relatives from his Canadian past. We surmise that some 200 years ago his ancestors, crofters living in the valley of Strath Kildonan behind the coastal town, were being evicted as part of the Highland Clearances. Many crofters from this area travelled to Canada to seek a better life (one ending up as Canada’s prime minister) but many, like Jim’s family, later returned to Helmsdale to live. We have read about and seen evidence of the Clearances in the lonely ruins dotted about the glens everywhere we have travelled in Scotland - it is a shameful part of the history of this country when the urge for profit for a few tore apart a centuries old way of life for the many – and suddenly we are confronted by a living piece of this history who stops us at random for a chat. Full of character and good humour he charms us both and only very reluctantly do we eventually take our leave of this place.

Equally charming and enthusiastic is the holidaying French policeman we meet with his family at Portmahomack on the Dornoch Firth. What brings him to this remote spot we don’t find out but he seems delighted to find two people who both understand and can speak a little of his language, although his own spoken English is exceptionally good. We leave him so he can indulge himself at the nearby Glenmorangie distillery (ah yes, that is why he is there) then drive off to try our camp site searching luck along the Cromarty Firth.

Kate’s father was at one time stationed in the RAF at Evanton and fortune once again shines on us by guiding us to an excellent site here. Then no sooner have we staked our claim to a pitch when we spy a small sign saying ‘Forest Walk’ on the edge of the site, pointing towards the dense skyline of trees. Now as it happens these two words are something we invariably find irresistible, and especially when need to stretch our legs after a long drive, so after a quick spot of lunch, off we go again.

This forest, however, has an amazing surprise waiting for us just a short climb away.

 A geological anomaly seems to have caused the river flowing down from the hills to fall into a narrow chasm whose weakness the river then exploited by making it immensely deep without any significant broadening. Black Rock Gorge is the result, a natural phenomenon hidden away in dense forest just a short distance from us.

A wooden bridge built to enable walkers to cross from one side to the other, gives no impression of the chasm beneath until one is precisely half way across, when finally the narrow cleft below, leading apparently, into the bowels of the earth, opens up. Looking down, the vegetation on both sides is lush and green, right to the bottom where there is a glint of silver from the river as it rushes through far below. Here, hidden away modestly, is a tourist goldmine par excellence, reserved only for the few who venture forth in a disorganised fashion, taking in whatever comes their way. We know that by travelling about so randomly we must miss a lot but somehow this is compensated for by what we do discover, on our own, by following our instincts or our noses, helped only by serendipity.

Ducky’s meanderings - 2

How do you define’ ‘bad weather’?

In the mind of the manager of the Durness campsite, bad weather is when it is too windy for the ferry across the estuary to the Cape Wrath headland to operate, this being largely because the ferry is part of his small business empire, and no doubt a nice little tourism earner too. In many people’s eyes if you have come this far then the last few miles to Cape Wrath itself are almost essential, despite the headland being entirely devoted to the military so that there’ll be no stepping out to explore without someone in uniform shooting at you. So a windy day is bad news for some then.

Our van has been shuddering all night, buffeted from side to side and lashed with rain. However in the morning with the wind still howling, building in strength, when we finally peep our noses outside Ducky’s warm interior after our almost sleepless night we find the rain has stopped, the sky is blue and the sun beams down. So despite the fact that standing upright outside is a struggle and anything light enough to carry will fly off at speed downwind if let loose, to us this is good weather.

But we have had enough of the ‘windiest campsite in Britain’ and have resolved to find somewhere more sheltered for the night ahead as this promises to be equally windy, if not more so. Our eastward journey begins with an awe inspiring cliff-top drive which gives us views down onto golden sandy bays where the sea is a turquoise blue and the wave-tops are blown off into dazzling white mist.

The strength of the wind is quite staggering, but nothing prevents us from stopping to examine the ‘erratic’ perched on a hillock close beside our road. It may seem selfish but in some ways we are grateful that this wild place is not everybody’s cup of tea so we get to enjoy it without having to share the experience. The roads are almost empty of traffic (which is just as well as ‘A’ roads in this part of the world are single track) and the tourist season is barely underway anyway. Of course this can have its drawbacks too, as we discover when trying to find a site for the night ahead. Each village (Sutherland has no towns) we pass proudly advertises the facilities it offers, many boasting caravan and camping facilities to die for, but finding them proves impossible; they are either closed or too well hidden. At Talmine we are tempted away down a tiny lane by a large brown sign and discover an empty field, close by the sea, with a sign on the gate that reads ‘Site Full’. Our intelligence insulted we drive past and soon pull up beside the tiny village harbour to make ourselves comfortable for the night. We have everything we need on board so if our money is not needed through lack of enterprise then the loss is not ours.

From our own private site we gaze out across the Kyle of Tongue and watch the battle between the Atlantic swell rolling in around the headland and the fierce south-westerly wind coming down the Kyle. A mist hangs over the sea, fine spray being picked up from each wave crest, and a distant rainbow hovers above the horizon supporting an arch of clouds like some unearthly bridge. An obliging visitor cavorts in the sea close by so we can sit inside with our eyes glued to binoculars. Bird No.1 in our Pocket Guide is a Great Northern Diver, something of a rarity it seems, but one has chosen this spot to grab a bit of dinner while we cook ours. I always find it hard to understand how such small creatures can survive in what is to us such a hostile environment but he seems to spend more time beneath the waves than above, suggesting that his perception of the world is vastly different from ours. Oblivious to the wind above, his world is perhaps calmer and more predictable than ours.

Ducky’s meanderings - 1

Late one afternoon we pull off the road at a sign indicating forest walks and a public toilet, both of which seem like a good idea and together, even better. We are confident that a night spent here will be undisturbed since Scotland’s laws respect this behaviour, so long as we are doing no harm, so we follow the path which takes us downstream to another bridge then stroll back up again on the other bank as the evening sunlight slopes through the trees. After cooking up a meal in the car park we draw the curtains and sleep, with not a soul to disturb us.

Several days later and we stop at the Clachtoll campsite which nestles into the machair between a couple of rocky headlands. Jim Galway (not the flautist, the campsite manager) makes us feel welcome then invites us to a ceilidh later in the evening.

He plays the whistle with some skill but we think his namesake might just have the edge on him.

Clachtoll, meaning ‘cleft rock’, is an apt description of the formation visible from our campsite with a backdrop of the Coigach mountains we had explored earlier in the day. The rocks here are mudstone, more resistant to erosion than that name suggests, overlaying a bed of Lewisian gneiss, the oldest rocks found anywhere in the British Isles. Mudstone breaks into regular chunks, which made it a good building material for the ancient broch we set off to explore before cooking our evening meal.

The signs of earlier settlements are plain to see on the landscape, raised mounds across the grassy slopes showing clearly where farming once took place on ‘lazy-beds’, and of course there are more recent ruins everywhere, houses abandoned to the Highland clearances.

To get here, earlier in the day we had followed a minor road, the road to end all roads, that hugs the Inverpolly coastline as best it can through some incredible terrain. Shown only as a fine yellow line on our OS map it cuts through amazing scenery and for its entire length the road is barely wide enough to fit a vehicle like ours. In places there were rocks sticking out jaggedly to the right while a stone wall to the left tried to guard us from sliding off into the sea some distance below. Without a doubt Ducky is the largest vehicle one would want to drive along here and the experience was at times a little over-exciting. This thin, tortured, strip of tarmac between the settlement at Badnagyle and the village of Strathan ranks as the most enjoyable piece of road we have ever encountered and driven along. Breath-taking views appear around every turn, once we are skirting the edge of a small loch then next, twisting down a tree-filled river valley (the river being in spate) before turning another corner where tiny inlets cut into the splintered coastline.

It is best not to be in a hurry here for who knows whether another like-minded driver will appear around the next corner or when a meandering sheep will materialise in the middle of the road.

And all the while the sun shone for us while the breeze lifted rain clouds over our heads onto the mountains further inland. At Lochinver we took a break to recuperate in the heritage centre, one of the best we have seen, and particularly informative about the geological past of this area, the land having been shaped and re-shaped by ice of immense depth that once covered everything except the biggest summits. The scars left behind are everywhere to see and erratics, boulders transported on the ice and deposited on its melting, lie dotted about like lonely monoliths.

More meandering roads soon bring us to Durness, a place where the road turns east as the land runs out. There are fewer roads to choose from now so we might have seen the last of our tiny yellow twisting lanes for a while but we plan to spend a few days here so this doesn’t matter. Then the campsite manager delivers unsettling news about a spell of bad weather which would prevent us taking the small passenger ferry across the Kyle to visit Cape Wrath. This really does concern us since in this part of the world a local’s definition of  bad weather is inevitably going to be pretty extreme, by the standards of those of us from more southerly climes. What concerns us even more is that the campsite seems to offer no pitches which might offer any shelter from the south-westerly gale that is coming and the position we eventually choose feels exposed already even before the gale gets going. In the night that follows we are shaken from side to side as the wind roars around us while torrential wind-blown rain hammers away on the roof. Sleep comes in small parcels as the storm builds to its peak around three in the morning but bang on cue as forecast at seven the sun comes out in force, just like the night never happened.

Winter is over

I can say with some certainty at this moment that winter is over here in Scotland. The weather will deliver up its usual flavours of wind and rain, no doubt, but I can be confident that it will remain mild, perhaps unseasonably so, right through until summer takes hold. How do I know this? Well because in our living room we have now have a wood-burning stove providing lots of warmth to the house and an embarrassment of hot water too.

All winter we waited for the moment when the big white van would stop outside our door and Robert the stove fitter would stagger in the door with the heavy steel beast to begin the installation. All through the coldest months, the gales and storms, the floods, the hail, we sat on the sofa and warmed our hands before an imaginary fire, wishing we could have a real one before winter ended, but our prayers going unanswered. Nothing we could think of doing would bring it to us any quicker, no magic words, no strategy nor financial incentive. We had placed our order and just had to wait our turn, wait for this moment to arrive. All this time we knew we could be certain of just one thing; that it would happen eventually. And so it did, just as the weather warmed. But fortunately we live in a place where the first signs of spring are accompanied by chilly afternoons and nights so our new acquisition does add the sudden benefit to our lives that we’d expected. And thus it is that I find myself slipping into the morning routine of clearing the ash, laying the paper and kindling in joyful expectation of the afternoon or evening to come when I can strike a match and watch the flames spread.

Rather than become too single-minded, however, for some weeks now we have been hatching another plan; to load up Ducky with provisions and head off northwards, in the general direction of the North Pole. A brief glance at a map reveals that there is a sizable chunk of Scotland that sits between us and the Arctic Ocean and it is this that we are keen to explore, right up to the very edge of the last piece of  land. So we abandon Carradale one wet morning, after taking fresh food parcels from house to campervan, stuffing warm clothes into cupboards and filling water containers to the brim, then just turn north along the edge of Kintyre and keep going.

The heavy overnight rain still falls as we charge through deep puddles which drench every inch of the van with mud-stained spray and it still falls heavily as we lurk in the car park outside Oban’s Lidl. But no sooner have we finished our shopping, stocking up on Campo Largo baked beans and Crusti Croc paprika flavoured crisps like we hadn’t seen a Lidl for months (which is true), when suddenly the clouds part and the sun shines down. In the blinking of an eye Scotland performs the magic trick we love, winter becomes spring, rain becomes shine, dark becomes light, wet becomes dry. My dark glasses are resting on my nose once more as I gaze out at Mull’s looming peaks across a sparkling sea. Ah yes, this is why we left our lovely new stove behind.

We do not intend to travel quickly as there is much to see along the way, loads of scenery to take in, so when I write the words “250 miles later” it needs to be said that nearly three days have elapsed since leaving home. We move along at a gentle pace.

But as it happens just 250 miles distant by road from Carradale (Ducky choosing to use imperial measurements) there is a mountainous chunk of rock going under the name Stac Pollaigh (which is pronounced ‘stack polly’). It stands 613 metres (according to our metrified map) above sea level and 549 metres above the car park that lies just below. More than thirty years ago when I visited this part of Sutherland I charged up Stac Pollaigh, as I was wont to do in those days when a summit looked as though it needed to be conquered, then danced along the summit’s rocky ridge, before galloping all the way down again and driving off somewhere else. I made a promise, as do so many others who climb this iconic hill, that I would one day return.

Which explains why Kate and I find ourselves in assault mode tackling the steep path which winds its way to the top, not alone, but in the company of both old and young, first timers and old hands like me, many of whom are also returning for the first time in thirty years. The summit’s very proximity to a road as well as its isolated position in the landscape make it into a ‘must do’ climb that traps many who come this way. It is just that sort of place.

It turns out to be a windy climb, the air cooling noticeably for each upward step we take, and we are not disposed to hang about on the summit ridge nor indeed dance along it. The strength of the wind makes this unwise. Instead we find a little shelter and wolf down the cream cakes that have made the ascent in my backpack, before pointing ourselves downhill again. With little warning a rain squall chooses this moment to attack and what seemed like an easy path becomes somewhat trickier as the wind tries to pluck us off the hill. Within minutes we are drenched to the skin and thoroughly chilled but away to the west we can see a line of blue sky so this is where we head, knowing we’ll be dry again in minutes once the rain stops. Scottish weather never disappoints.

Swale to Swaledale

Ducky feels more and more like home to us during this extended period of travelling about. Before we left Carradale we had a long list of places to visit, people to drop in on, but the next stopping place on our grand tour only occurs to us after we realise we would be passing so close. This is a surprise visit, it turns out, because we have no phone number to warn ahead that we are coming, but Geoffrey and Mary prove welcoming and accommodating just the same.

We knew they would, of course, because they are from our own village of Carradale and only recently took up residence here in Suffolk. Their beautiful new home is in many ways more suitable than their house in Carradale but they miss the place like crazy and are keen to hear all our news. The fact is that were it not for Geoffrey’s efforts a few years ago we might not have been visiting them at all for it was he who once converted the original minibus into the motorhome we arrive in - he is ‘the man who built Ducky’. As well as fitting out motorcaravans, Geoffrey is also a talented artist and many examples of his work now adorn his new home, romantically inspired pieces out of which peer some familiar faces. We share a sunny afternoon with them but regrettably we have to leave as we still have the task of locating our next caravan site ahead of us.

Despite there being hundreds, if not thousands of camping sites in Britain, if there is a single up to date publication which includes every one, we have yet to find it. Using the Internet as our primary reference we have found that many listed sites no longer exist (or at  least we cannot find them). Fortunately, however, out in the real world there are plenty which are clearly signposted with brown road signs and there are still more surprise ones whose existence only becomes apparent on arrival by chance at the entrance. Then there are the barren lands where nobody camps. These ‘camping deserts’, as it were, only become evident when we have nothing planned and are driving along relying on chance to find a site for the night, becoming more and more desperate as the day lengthens. Like buses, of course, they will soon all arrive at once and we have a cluster of them to choose from.

It is a combination of chance and planning, however, that brings us to a campsite in Yorkshire’s Swaledale where the red-haired manager directs us to a position backing onto the River Swale itself. Perhaps he senses we have travelled so recently from that other Swale back in Kent and wants us to compare and contrast, to see which we prefer. The two pieces of water could not be more different, however. This one runs in a single direction, fast over stones, clear water which is alive with sticklebacks and other tiny fish, water which is slowly eroding itself deeper and deeper into the land. The Swale we are more familiar with back in Kent sits on its bed of mud which each year becomes thicker, the water shallower, the creeks gradually silting until they become land and only the faintest outline remains of what was once sea. We conclude that it is only the name that these two waters share.

What might be the last visit on this journey around England takes us to see friends Adrian and Jill who live in Barnard Castle on the edge of the north Pennine hills. We take tea with them whilst catching up on our separate stories since we left them outside Kew Gardens some four years ago. The intervening years have seen us sail around Britain once or twice whilst they and their three young children emigrated to New Zealand for a spell. We take pleasure in showing off Ducky to them giving them ideas for their next adventure, we hope.

Leaving ‘Barnie’ we have high hopes that our GPS lady, K2, can guide us across the country to the tiny village of Colby in Westmoreland where our guidebook tells us is a large, superbly appointed camping ground with every possible facility on offer.

The air is spectacularly clear and as we drop down from the moor the whole of the Lake District is spread out before us, Colby nestling in a quiet valley somewhere below. Eventually the voice on our dashboard politely informs us we have arrived at our destination, the centre of a quiet village of less than thirty houses and an unlikely setting for a large campsite. But then, through a gate, we spot a sign welcoming us to a tiny field no larger than our own back garden so we squeeze through and make ourselves comfortable.

This is certainly not what we expected, the amenities are sparse, to say the least, but we have a self-contained camping style and need only the basics to keep us happy. The real charm this place has, which is not to be found in the guidebook, are the guinea fowl, rotund, grey birds with disproportionately small heads, who strut around beside us as we watch the sun go down. That, and the fact that we share the place and the night with no other campers.

Despite Britain being an island we realise that we have travelled many miles since our last sight of the sea back at Oare Creek near Faversham in Kent. Because we missed seeing the River Thames estuary by driving beneath it, the next time we catch sight of the sea is on crossing the Erskine Bridge over the River Clyde in Scotland, with home only a few hours away. Throughout this long journey north the sun shines bravely on us, one single weather pattern progressing across the country at about the same speed as our own movement so that the rain behind it never quite catches us up. Fortune smiles on us, although one result of this is that our fly-spattered windscreen badly needs a wash by the time we arrive home.