And so to Christmas

A pre-Christmas dawn arrives gently to reveal Ailsa Craig sitting out there like the milestone it is, pointing the way so that our family can find their way to our house. When Christmas morning arrives, all our three sons are with us for the grand present opening and our living room floor gradually disappears beneath layers of discarded wrapping paper. Our lives follow convention (to this extent at least) and the sun makes an appearance too, low on the horizon but beaming right through the house.

For many weeks now Kate has been counting rows and clicking her knitting needles, working away to create a masterpiece in twisted wool for Ben’s girlfriend, Naomi. It fits her form perfectly and is received with so much delight that she would have worn it right through Christmas lunch had our house not been so warm. Our cast iron stove is lit every day to provide heat for the whole house and we are now burning our way through the log pile we stacked up under cover outside the back door twelve months ago. The ruddy glow inside helps us forget the cold and wet outside, the short days and the winter winds.

On Boxing Day our motor caravan, Ducky, comes into its own as a people transporter so we can visit the ancient capital of Dunadd, once the centre of power and commerce for this whole area, located today in the middle of a wilderness. It is a cold day, the wind cuts through us as we climb the twisting path to the top of the dun, but the reward is just to stand there and imagine the world as it was some 3000 years before, to put back the people, the houses, the trees too and the boats that brought in goods from across the known world and to let our minds try to make sense of the landscape spread out beneath us.

There are marks and shapes down there that could tell us the story of the people who once lived here, if only we could read them, but in reality the impressions they left on the place have faded away to almost nothing. Maybe the most we have left from that time is in the blood of those living today who are descended from them, and no one can know whether they have this in them or not.

Cold as it is, our van’s new gas heater enables us to huddle inside and lunch in comfort beneath the dun. Without this we would have been driven away too soon and we would not have been able to offer tea and warmth to a gentleman called Bill who is visiting the dun on his own and looks like he needs company. He is full of tales of a long life working as a nurse in the military and tells us how he is drawn towards Seil Island, which lies beside the Firth of Lorn, and is a place where his late wife’s family came from. The conversation moves on and it isn’t long before between us we have put the world to rights, solving the energy crisis, voted on Scotland’s independence and misted up the van windows with good craic.

Before returning home, and just before the forecast rain arrives, we visit a few of the places along the Crinan canal where Cirrus spent so much time a few years ago. Bellanoch is unchanged, it was a quiet, damp place then and still remains so. The village of Crinan itself is as attractive to our eyes as it always has been so we drop in on friends Roger and Veronica who helped us through the summer and autumn of 2009 and whose simple philosophy for life we admire greatly. We gaze in admiration at their home beside the sea from which they can look out across the Sound of Jura and watch the sun as it sets, light their wood-burning stove and sit cosily as the weather blows by.

Off we set towards home and the heavens open on us just as we reach Tarbert, the single-track road along the coast of Kintyre becoming a challenge to navigate in the windswept darkness. Somehow we manage to miss the worst of the potholes and keep the wheels on the narrow strip of tarmac that leads us home to Carradale.

Our day out has taken us into the world as it was a few thousand years ago and then seamlessly back again to the present day.

Ben and Naomi stay with us here in Carradale for a few days more then load up their tiny car with all the musical instruments they brought with them, guitar, violin, mandolins, concertinas and of course Naomi’s harp. Incredibly the musicians’ car takes everything and we wave them farewell on another damp windy day. This Christmas has enabled us to renew our bonds with our scattered family and push aside the world outside, at least temporarily.

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A week or so before Christmas my mother, despite having only just recovered from a mild chest infection, left Scotland and set off south on a long-planned voyage on a cruise liner heading for the sunshine-blessed Canary Islands.

This might have seemed like a a good idea at the time of booking, to leave higher latitudes during that period when at midday the sun only rises high enough to skim the roof of the house across the street and when its rays make zero contribution to domestic heating bills, but sadly for her the holiday was to be cut short by yet more illness. Not long after the ship had left British waters and had endured the crossing of the notorious Bay of Biscay she was taken ill again. With only limited medical facilities on board the ship she soon found herself lying in a hospital in Casablanca, Morocco, probably the last place on earth she would have chosen to spend Christmas.

Back here in Scotland this news comes filtering through by phone so that throughout the holiday period we find ourselves waiting expectantly for calls from abroad with information on her condition, on how long she is likely to be incarcerated there and on whether her insurers can make arrangement to bring her home. From her perspective this whole episode must seem like the traveller’s worst nightmare; stranded in a foreign land where the languages spoken are not your own, the customs strange and disconcerting, discovering that your ship has left port without you; a far cry from the comforts of the luxury cruise she signed up for. Fortunately the excellent health insurance cover she took out before leaving and the helpfulness of the cruise company do succeed in bringing her back to Scotland, albeit on a rather roundabout route, and we now await news on her condition from the Glasgow hospital she now graces with her custom. 2013 is continuing, so it seems, to have a hospital-based theme to it.

Hospitals

Finding ourselves getting to know the centre of Glasgow so well was not something we really expected when we came to live in a remote part of the Scottish Highlands. Throughout our working lives we had been committed to living close to one large conurbation or another – in alphabetical order the list is Canterbury, Exeter, Ipswich, Liverpool, London, Newcastle – but we had been tempted to think that on retiring from work the dubious delights of city life were behind us. Not so, it seems.

On our second visit to accompany Mike and help him secure the treatment he needs, non-stop rain suited our mood but otherwise added nothing to the experience. Across the city large ponds of water spread out over the roads - something I believe the forecasters describe as ‘localised flooding’ - making walking on the pavements risky and needing sharp reactions when a bus sprayed out of the dismal light and swooshed past us. Everything about us was shiny and wet and the water gradually penetrated our shoes as we tramped about the streets. It was weather to stay out of, and normally we would, but on this occasion we needed to be here in the middle of this big city. Mike has many more visits to the city to endure over the coming winter and he will be getting to know the ins and outs of the Scottish health system better than is probably good for him. The experience is not always entirely beneficial to good health, particularly if you ever have to rely upon hospital transport to carry you from one hospital to another.

 Expect a long detour around the city, many hours of sitting uncomfortably in the ambulance staring out at the rainy darkness with no idea of where you are going and no end in sight, before finally going anywhere near your destination. They call this “patient care” and it is strangely at odds with the otherwise attentive and professional service being handed out by the medical profession.

Throughout all this, and without really having to say anything, spiritual and moral support for Mike has come pouring in from our village community, from family and from friends old and new. We are grateful beyond words for this.

Then, just when we thought things could get no worse for our family health-wise, my mother has her own turn in hospital – Campbeltown and Oban for her – with a chest infection. Once again the Scottish Ambulance Service rolls into action and takes her on a lengthy and uncalled for detour through Inveraray so we are beginning to think that this is the norm here for hospital transport rather than the exception. Normally one would not complain about a free ride through beautiful Highland scenery but to be put through this unexpectedly when not feeling in the best of health is maybe not a good recipe for quick recovery. Maybe they have confused their motto with that other SAS; ‘Who Dares Wins’ has become ‘Who Cares for a Spin’.

There is one member of our family who favours concert venues over hospitals and this has taken him around the country once again with The Albion Band. Ben’s role playing lead guitar

is gaining him rave reviews in places that matter, cementing his position and gaining recognition for his talents. The Band have just finished their Autumn/Winter tour and the video is from their final gig at the Great British Folk Festival at Butlins in Skegness. Thankfully Ben is keeping himself well away from hospitals.

Turning out to be quite a year!

When starting to write this blog nearly five years ago we had only a vague purpose in mind and even vaguer ideas on what we would write and who we expected to read it. Our primary thinking was that whilst travelling about on our boat it would be a means by which family and friends could keep track of our progress without us having to send out loads of postcards. Over the years it has gradually taken on a life of its own, has acquired some unexpected followers, and has also become a place we can ourselves look back on to recall earlier moments in our lives. But we have always been conscious that by using a public webpage as a medium we are exposing our lives for anyone to see and that this raises some important issues, the main one being to what extent we are willing to expose to the world events in our lives that are unpleasant or make us unhappy, the less desirable things. This year, as it seems to be turning out, we are getting a good sprinkling of these.

When our son Mike joined us here in Carradale some months ago it took him no time at all to integrate and find work for himself, which surprised and delighted us all. He admits that the work he found, mowing people’s lawns and doing other gardening work, was physically demanding at first but he enjoyed the freedom of being outdoors after his previous deskbound existence. Village life here suits him well and there is little he misses from his earlier life, so things were looking good for him. What none of us expected was a serious health problem to arise for him, and coming after Kate’s diagnosis this is a double blow to us. Mike’s medical care and subsequent treatment is being managed from Glasgow, our closest specialist care location, and our normal lives are on hold for the time being.

The journey by road to Glasgow from Carradale takes around three and a half hours, on a good day.

Fortunately the Scottish Health Service takes a pragmatic view on providing treatment for those in remoter areas of the country and puts patients on the plane that flies from Campbeltown airport, a thirty minute hop to Glasgow. This is a service that would barely survive without the business the Health Service provides and it is just part of the way of life for us, living so far from specialist medical care as we do. So Mike and I were not unduly surprised to find ourselves bouncing around in the sky over Arran on a windy day in a small twin-prop aeroplane heading towards Glasgow. It may not have been a pleasure flight for us but nevertheless we still took delight in from seeing Arran from above, looking at places we know from a different angle… except that this time we flew in thick cloud all the way and the rain streamed across the windows all the way.

Despite this health setback Mike is remaining his usual cheerful self as we all prepare for this new phase of our lives. Ducky, our newly acquired motor caravan, may well have a support role to play and as autumn closes in we realise that we need a heater which can run independently of the engine, an alteration which will give us the freedom to camp anywhere, at any time of year.

Our new gas-powered heater is a splendid thing, enclosed within a large red box, but as this takes away some of our internal storage space we have had a new high-level cupboard installed to compensate. We are now firmly stamping our own individual mark on the vehicle.

Again, thinking through what might be needed for camping ‘off-piste’, so to speak, we have had a roof-mounted solar panel fitted which will keep the caravan battery topped up all year, we hope. And for those cynics who might think that at fifty-five and a half degrees north and with an annual rainfall of some two metres we don’t have enough sunlight to justify such an extravagance I would point out that when the sun does shine here, which it frequently does, it shines through air so clear and free from pollution that our solar panel just pumps out the volts. So there!

Whilst we are basking in the sun here in Scotland, of course, the news from America is alarming. Our friends Kyle and Maryanne, fellow catamaran mariners who we met in Oban a couple of years back, are spending this winter living aboard their newest acquisition, Begonia, in a marina in the centre of New York City. We were greatly relieved to hear that against all the odds and with destruction all around them they and their boat have come through Super-Storm Sandy unscathed. Nice one, guys!
Oh, and there has been an election over there too.

The otters of Kilberry

A journey of less than forty miles from our house, a drive of nearly two hours as it is almost exclusively along single track roads, brings us to a spot where Ducky can stop on a patch of grass just ten metres from the sea and, it being a camping site, we can spend as long here as we wish just gazing out westwards across the Sound of Jura.

The famous Paps dominate our horizon with the isle of Islay hiding just behind them and away to the south there is Gigha floating on a sunlit sea. The breeze gently nudges at our van but it is the sound of wavelets tumbling onto the tiny patch of sand which we hear as we drift off to sleep. This tiny cove of white sand gives the place its name, Port Bàn.

Seen through twenty-first century eyes this is one of the remotest places on these isles, on an isolated peninsula of land almost, but not quite cut off by long sea lochs which slice into the rugged coastline. There are isolated houses dotted about - at Kilberry (the accent is on the second syllable, by the way) there is what tries to pass as a village; well, there is a small bar – but nothing around here approaches the size of what could be described as a township. The single-track road meanders on and on endlessly as it circumnavigates the land making access by road a slow and painstaking process. Blind corners and summits follow one another, simple passing places providing the only refuge when meeting a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. To drive as far as the most westerly piece of land, Kilberry Point, requires determination and in poor weather something else again, a risk-taker’s temperament perhaps.

What tempers our thinking today is that we get about on roads, strips of tarmac artificially constructed to enable us to travel across land which would otherwise be almost impassable. So, faced with a single long and winding road, wide enough throughout most of its length for just one vehicle, we tend to regard destinations far along that road as remote, difficult of access, isolated. But it was not always thus. Man has lived in this place long before anyone thought of building roads, long before anyone even thought of putting one wheel beside another one to take the weight of goods or family on a journey. People arrived here from the sea, such an obvious trunk route that why would you even bother to construct anything on land. Difficult land too, full of hills and forests, mountains and valleys. So putting on ‘ancient eyes’ enables us to see this place differently, not as a remote point of land but as a convenient hub, a stopping place on a longer journey perhaps, a place to trade, to live and farm. If the waterways, the deep sounds that separate the islands, are the trunk routes then this place becomes a service station, a place to rest awhile and re-provision, a place to make a home, to spend your whole life. Thus our remote camp site is not remote at all, it is merely our modern way of living that makes it so.

None of which makes getting Ducky to the campsite at Port Bàn any easier, of course, but we are determined, not least because we are reliably informed that the place is home to the one particular creature that Kate has long wanted to catch a glimpse of. Once persecuted almost out of existence these elusive mammals now thrive best in places where there is an absence of humans, places just like Port Bàn in fact. So where are they? Seals lie about in full view on the rocks. Buzzards soar all along the raised cliff line, calling to each other and showing off acrobatically in the air. We pause for lunch on a walk inland and hear the roar of a rutting stag echoing around us then again close by in the forest. A heron drops out of the sky close to our van just as the sunlight fades away but still there is no sign of the creature we most want to catch a glimpse of.

One evening we take a stroll along the shore, walking into the wind so our scent does not carry, and scan the rocks and kelp beds for a small dark head peeping above the waves.

 I sense that maybe they are watching, for I spot a line of footprints in the sand next to my own, small ones with tiny claw marks, a row of them heading towards the sea. We even find a scat, a fishbone-filled residue, which we are certain our animal must have left behind. We are surrounded by such a variety of wildlife that you would think inevitably sooner or later one small otter would come into view somewhere along this coast. But no, it is not to be. And when finally we take our leave of Port Bàn we are still otter-less, devoid of otter, otter free, with neither sight nor sound of the beast. Otterly disappointed, one might say.

There are compensations, however, for the absence of otters. The land, sea and sky to the west of us together put on a endless show of colour second to none. The Paps of Jura, volcanic remains with scree-covered slopes, look almost snow-covered and the deep Sound beneath them swirls with powerful tidal currents. The clouds are in a world of their own.

Moment by moment the scene changes.

Rain squalls drifting along the Sound create this bizarre scene looking like something T M W Turner might have painted. He would have placed some small boats in the foreground, painted the sea in wild turmoil and might then have faced criticism for being too surreal or impressionistic. But we know better as our camera cannot lie.

Returning home after all this is tough but we know we have to come down to earth, to face reality and not complain. We have a boat to sell so we spend the day at Tarbert removing all the personal belongings and detritus we have accumulated over the twelve years of our ownership. Strangely Cirrus Cat floats no higher above her waterline after all this effort. Click anywhere here to see what is now on offer.

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.

A world away

Our son Mike, whose decision to relocate to Scotland and make Carradale his home was made just a few months ago, is astounding both himself and us. Unlikely though this might have seemed when he first chose to move, he has found work here, regular and enjoyable work that will keep him active and healthy. Anywhere in the world this would have been impressive. In our tiny village this is astonishing and we are proud of him and his achievements. Each morning he is picked up by Matt, whose ancient red van is well known around these parts, and the pair of them drive off somewhere and work together through the rest of the day, largely engaged on cutting lawns at the homes of our residents and the holiday homes of our non-residents. If this sounds uninspiring, then put yourself in the position of someone who has spent the last five years working in the pressured environment of a busy call centre where you are treated like a piece of furniture, where you have to ask for permission to carry out basic bodily functions and are then threatened with losing your job for talking too long with callers who may only have called in for a chat in the first place.

Working out of doors at a steady pace in a fresh seaside environment whilst surrounded by beautiful forests and hills is suiting him just fine, indeed it is just what the doctor might have ordered. He is finding out for himself what we too have discovered… that once they know you are here, if they like you then the people draw you in to the community and will support you just as you support them.
Oh, and Mike has cut his hair too.

I now turn to the subject I can avoid no longer – I must write about Kate.

Her recent diagnosis (skin cancer identified in a mole on her left arm) has left her with a mix of emotions ranging from fear through anger to resignation and defeat and has crashed open the door to a new phase in her life. At this stage there is no ‘treatment’ as such, it is merely a matter of close monitoring, particularly for the next two years or so, in case further instances are discovered. But the shock of the discovery of this unwanted guest is profound, to her and to those around her. Exposure to the sun’s rays, never wise for the fair-skinned, now forever carries a far greater risk for her and this must be avoided in a way never before considered necessary. To someone who loves the outdoors as she does this has all come as a dramatic blow, such that the last month has been tough, with much soul-searching and self-analysis going on. But the diagnosis leaves no alternatives, no way out. The door behind her is closed for good.

Part of what she finds most distressing, of course, is the effect of her diagnosis on those of us who are close to her, those of us who must now pass through the same door to stay with her. Having Mike living with us has helped enormously in getting her though this since his arrival has brought with it changes and adaptations inside our house, pointing the way forward. In any event we do have considerable experience of changing course mid passage when a sudden squall threatens to overwhelm us. We are plotting our way towards a new destination and making radical choices along the way.
A sailing vessel of one kind or another has been a part of our lives together almost from the start and our present one, Cirrus Cat, has brought us through storms, tidal races, tumbling turbulence and through many a rocky close shave. Finally she brought us here to our home in Scotland. But soon our lovely red catamaran is going to be on the market for sale. No matter how much we enjoy sailing, we must all accept that for Kate, exposure to sunlight both from above and reflected from the water poses too great a risk for her. Exploring the land via the sea, something we have long taken great pleasure from, is just not an option any more.

This new chapter in our lives will be different from the last but in many ways we hope to achieve the same goals. We still yearn to explore this beautiful country, to peer into its remote corners and islands, to walk ourselves into the ground trying to climb its many peaks. So since boating is no longer an option we must travel by land and this time the shell we will carry with us is a motor caravan, or as the French would say, a ‘camping car’. To my way of thinking Scotland is the ideal place, in fact the only place where I would be prepared to drive such a large vehicle simply because the roads we intend to explore will be remote and relatively traffic free. I derive no pleasure from driving when it is accompanied by the stress of high volumes of traffic, but negotiating the back roads on Kintyre and elsewhere in the Highlands is often done without meeting a single vehicle… so the pleasure remains.
Then barely had we made this radical decision when fortune suddenly smiled upon us. A tip-off pointed us towards just the very vehicle we need, at a good price, in superb condition and in Carradale too! It is a former minibus (although some might say it looks more like an ambulance), converted privately by the owner before sadly he became too ill to drive, and it is deliciously quirky inside, conceived in the owner’s mind and executed by him with a high standard of care. We feel instantly comfortable with the way the van is fitted out inside and are already imagining ourselves pulling off the road and bedding down for the night with the sound of the sea shushing close by and the wind rustling the trees. Maybe we will peer out at the stars, a whole Milky Way full of them, or just close our eyes in total darkness.