Road to the Islands Part 6: Kylesku Bridge, Clachtoll, and Return of the Mojo

May 2014

It doesn't take a Genius to work out that I am a Gael at heart. I don't understand why (my family is from Kent for at least the last 150 years), but there is something I find so attractive about the Highlands and Islands of Scotland. I had enjoyed the East Coast, but one minor thing was bugging me. I'd driven up from Dover and, while I discovered a truly beautiful stretch of coastline, I didn't really find anything that I could not have found closer to home. East Kent, Suffolk, Norfolk, East Lincolnshire, East Yorkshire, and especially Northumberland... they are all so beautiful in that 'Big Sky' East Coast kind of a way. With so much East Coast Gorgeousness close to hand, there would be nothing really to take me back to the North East of Scotland now that I have enjoyed its cultural attractions.

The West Coast however... oh my goodness me, that is something else. Wild, desolate, rugged, and beautiful landscapes that are found in no other parts of the UK with a language and a culture to match. I can't get enough of it, so much so that I am now doing a University Course in Scottish Gaelic, aiming eventually for my first ever degree.

So... despite the fact I had remained as open-minded as possible, and I really had enjoyed my time on the East Coast and in the fantastic Naver/Nabheir Glen, I cannot deny that turning the corner at Durness (and leaving behind the rubbish experience at Cape Wrath) was a 'turning of the corner' in more ways than one. The weather went from OK to fantastic. The scenery went from fantastic to stunning. My spirits lifted beyond measure. Swooping through dramatic glens on deserted roads with my Airstream behind, I actually allowed myself to relax and feel good again. It was an uplifting afternoon.

Being the adventurous sort that I am (that's another way of saying 'disorganised' and 'running by the seat of my pants') I had no plans for the evening. I took a few side roads to see if they'd lead to nice places to camp for the night.

They didn't.

Twice I ended up having to unhitch the Airstream, spin it around, and head back. Given the to-do with the Cape Wrath experience, that made it three times in a day I had to turn the 'van around. This, my friends, is why I love my single-axle caravan, and why, being a single caravanner, I bless my motor mover. It's not that I cannot reverse my caravan, it's that quite often I'll end up with nowhere to reverse it into.

That night I finally ended up in a layby off the A894 at Kylesku, next to the bridge and just out of sight of the road which made me feel a little less conspicuous. Unbeknown to me at first, it turned out to be an interesting place to stop.

Like 99% of motorists I would have hooned over the bridge without thinking twice about it. Now, having stopped to breath and to rest, I had the time to examine the interpretation boards and explore the area.

The curved box girder bridge looked impressive from my makeshift pitch. Before the bridge was built, the A894 was broken by a ferry crossing at this point, and that ferry only ran in daylight. People rushing for the last ferry caused accidents, and many faced an unexpected night in Kylesku or a long, long diversion via Altnaharra.

You'd think that all changed sometime around 1964, wouldn't you? But no, this was the state of affairs until 1984, a mere 30 years ago. Fascinating.

Next day I set off with Clachtoll Beach Campsite in mind. It wasn't too far away, but my dear friend M had told me to take the coast road around the peninsula to Lochinver. What M had obviously forgotten was this sign as you turn off the A894:

Hey ho. These signs are there for a reason. I carried on along the A road taking the long way 'round, but nevertheless was still rewarded with an AMAZING drive. This, dear reader, is what caravanning is about - the joy of the journey and discovery:

 

My welcome at Clachtoll was warm and friendly, always super-important to a solo traveller. It was a lovely site for a night stop where I could unwind and catch up on work for a bit. Being anxious to get to the islands I only stayed for one night, but I enjoyed the area and the site so much I'm already planning my return visit. Next time I'll definitely be taking the motorbike as well!

Road to the Islands Part 5: Highs and Lows

May 2014

'What is your favourite Caravan Club Site?' is a question I am often asked. It's one that, until now, has proved impossible to answer. I like so many of them, and each for a different reason: There's Morvich, High Onn, Cirencester, Fairlight Wood, Crystal Palace, and many more besides.

Finally, I now have a firm favourite. That favourite Caravan Club Site is also the Club's most remote, most relaxed, and arguably one of its most beautiful sites, Altnaharra in Scotland. It's 20 miles to the nearest shop, and while the main 'B' road skirts the site, you'll be lucky to count more than three cars passing in an entire evening. 

 Pitches border Loch Naver ('Loch Nabhair' anns a' Ghàidhlig) and are surrounded by Munros, Corbetts, and Grahams - rich diverse Scottish names for what in boring English we may refer to as 'mountains and hills'. Call it what you like, it's stunning. 

 An enjoyable few days was spent here, discovering the nearby clearance village, and learning a little more about The Clearances at the Strathnaver Museum in Bettyhill. It was at this museum I had a very interesting chat with a Gaelic speaker about the language and the local attitudes towards it - more on that in a later Blog Entry. 

Whenever the sun shone, I'd be out with my camera. It was almost an addiction, it all just seemed too beautiful not to capture. 

However, all good things must come to an end, and I decided to arrange a trip to take in Cape Wrath on the next leg of my journey. 

John o' Groats is well known as being the furthest popular and accessible point on mainland Britain from its Cornish cousin Land's End. The South West to North East Axis is the popular one. By far less popular, but of more interest to me, is the South East to North West Axis, Dover to Cape Wrath. I'm a Dover lad you see, so it seemed fitting to make the trip to the furthest point from my home town. 

Cape Wrath is reached by a passenger ferry and then a minibus service across MOD land. I booked my place on the trip with the minibus operator who assured me that there was ample room to park the caravan while I was on the trip, and told me that I should turn up at 1pm for my booked trip. 

The trip to Durness, nearest town to the ferry to Cape Wrath, was not a happy one. With the Airstream in tow I was stuck behind a tag-axle Buerstner motor caravan (I remember it well) driven by the kind of selfish toerag that gives leisure vehicles a bad name. For the best part of an hour, I missed the lovely scenery as I was staring up the backside of this twitty twonk's ugly bus. A queue of cars (well, about three) built up behind me and I pulled over to let them pass on the single-track road, but still Buerstner Bar-steward refused to let me pass. A rental motor caravan caught up with us. I let him pass too. He then must have lost his rag with Numpty Features as I saw the reflections of flashing lights in the Buerstner's back panel after a while. After what felt like an eternity, with my teeth gritted and my nerves frazzled, Meanie Moho Man FINALLY allowed the rental motorcaravan, and me, to pass. I think the word 'Halle - bloody - luliah' may have emitted from the base of my stomach. Loudly. 

Still, I made it to the pier in time. But there was nowhere to park the rig. There wasn't even the space to park a car - the car park was jammed full. I continued to the turning area, but had to unhitch the Airstream in order to turn it around. I blessed my Motor Mover. 

Sadly, as the turning area was on a slope, the 'van rolled back until the brake fully engaged, which in turn snapped the breakaway cable. Ugh. 

With blood pressure reaching stratospheric heights, I got the rig turned around and now wondered where I was going to park it. Meanwhile, the ferryman was sitting in his van oblivious to my plight. I banged on his door. 

'Excuse me, I'm booked on the 1pm tour. Do I have time to park my rig down the road and get back in time to get the ferry?' I asked. 

'There's no point, you won't get on.'

'No, I will, I booked in advance you see.'

'But you still won't get on.'

'Pardon?'

'Well, I can take you over, but there's only one minibus and he is absolutely overwhelmed. You see those people on the jetty on the other side of the estuary? I took them over this morning and they are still waiting. You won't get on.'

'But...but...I've booked! I've come all the way from Dover for this!'

'I feel for you, I really do. It's a disgrace and it's not good enough. We have tourists coming from far and wide and are always turning them away. It's an embarrassment, but until we get a second bus there's nothing more we can do.'

'So what shall I do?'

'Complain to Visit Scotland.This is a disgrace and it's shameful. Visit Scotland need to get this sorted out.'


My heart sank. I'd booked! But then, I had booked with someone who told me that there was plenty of room to park the rig, which there was not. I didn't want to abandon my pride and joy in a layby somewhere while I took a ferry for no reward other than waiting about on a jetty all afternoon. I sloped off. As I passed the layby at the end of the road about half a mile away, its entrance was blocked anyway by a JCB being loaded onto a lorry. This, as my Mum would say, 'put the tin hat on it.' I skulked off to the next layby, where I pulled over to have some lunch and fit my spare breakaway cable. I was disappointed, but all the signs were saying; 'Don't go'. One of the important things about travel, and about life, is to listen to the messages you're getting and change your plans accordingly. Sometimes, it just isn't meant to be, and it's obviously not mean to be for a reason. You may never know what that reason is, but it's best to just go with the flow. That's exactly what we did, and as Dougal Dog and I continued with our journey, we turned a corner in more ways than one.

The Rocky Road to the Islands Part 2: Wee beasties, a long ferry ride, dark islands, and a dark mood

The drive to Oban was… OKish. You need to remember that despite the fact that this was my fourth trip to the Hebrides this year, the two that I had already done by car were in January and March. In May I came by train for the weekend. Now here we were in August, and that awful plague of little black parasites was swarming Scotland and making life hell for everybody there. Wee beasties they are. No, I'm not talking about the midges. I'm talking about the little black hire cars like the Vauxhall Corsa, Kia Picanto, and all those other basic little hatchbacks pootling along at 35mph while the idiot in the driving seat has neither the manners nor the decency to pull over and let other traffic pass. At one point I myself pulled over to allow the line of cars to pass my rig, thinking that at least they would have a better chance at getting around the wretched doddery git in front than I. One by one they all turned off until I was behind Mr or Mrs Numpty again. Every time a decent straight bit presented itself to overtake, they would speed up to 50. As soon as there was a kink in the road or a car came the other way, back to 30. ARGH! Finally, after what seemed like six hours (but was probably closer to 25 minutes) God smiled at me and presented a huge, long stretch of straight, open, empty road. I whumped the Navara into third and floored it.

Did the numpty in the hire car see that someone with a 40ft long 4 tonne rig was coming past? Probably. DId they slow down to allow me to safely pass? No. Actually, they did the usual thing and sped up. Forward vision was sufficient to put nobody in any danger, but let's just say that I may have cut back in before I would normally politely do.

The rest of the journey to Oban passed without event, and at check-in out came the tape measure to make sure the Airstream was indeed its declared length on the booking. 'It must be busy again' I thought as I took my place in the lanes.

A few minutes later I was joined by some cars in the lanes, and their occupants came up to me beaming and smiling. 'Nice move you made back there,' they said to me.  'We've been stuck behind that awful car all the blooming way, it's been dreadful!' and off they went to calculate how much brandy they could legally drink to calm their nerves and still be safe to drive upon arrival.

Out of the misty rain appeared our trusty vessel, Caledonian MacBrayne's mv Lord of the Isles, or LOTI to those close to her.

It is at this point that I admit to being a ferry anorak. You see, LOTI may be as old as the Ark, and her entire car deck is about the same size as an ashtray on the latest Dover-Calais superferry, but I love this ship. Many modern ferries look like a cross between a nightclub, a tart's boudoir, and a supermarket with their glitzy twinkly plastic interiors and polished chrome handrails. LOTI, on the other hand, is a ferry. Just a ferry. A comfortable ferry with plenty of outside space, a posh observation lounge (free of charge), a cafeteria, a purser's office,a quiet lounge, a TV lounge, and a wee bar cum coffee lounge, but still just a ferry.

We will come back to LOTI later in the blog.

Like all CalMac ferries with passenger space, LOTI has a Pet Area. I didn't need to leave Dougal in the car alone for the five hour crossing, he could come upstairs with me.

We went outside but the mist was thick so there was no chance of enjoying the gorgeous scenery that you get on that route where the Isle of Mull drifts past the port side and the equally splendiferous Ardnamurchan Peninsula drifts past the starboard. Therefore we got comfy in the pet lounge and got talking to a nice English lady who had not long previously spent the entire winter on South Uist. Her story intrigued me, as it's always in my mind to move to the islands one day. My biggest fear is the fear of loneliness, as I'm on my own without a partner. I am sure that this lovely lady had many battles to fight and had nobody but herself to snap herself out of bad days. However, the fact that the winter in the islands was always going to be be temporary, with her long-standing wife waiting for her when she went back home to England in the spring, kind of watered the whole thing down for me a bit.

It's a bit like when you see these idiots on the tellybox (not that I even have one) who make out they're out in the wilds all alone for six months, just like a certain presenter who did North Uist a couple of years ago. Oh yes, he was all alone alright, all alone with a production team of about six. Island gossip also reports that this solitary figure also flew home to England on many weekends to see his girlfriend. 'Tis funny how that was never mentioned in the series.

But I digress. My fellow passenger who had overwintered in South Uist still had an interesting tale to tell. The weather improved and the scenery appeared. We had a nice crossing.

The five hour crossing felt like… well, five hours really. Long enough to unwind and chill, and even to get a little bored. But that's all part of the experience. I love seeing the islands gradually appear in that painfully slow way, imperceptibly getting bigger by the second as LOTI powers her way through the inky black sea.

Lochboisdale is always a bit of an anti-climax compared with its prettier North Uist cousin Lochmaddy, and especially when compared to the ridiculously pretty ports of Tarbert in Harris and Castlebay in Barra. Castlebay was LOTI's next port of call, which would take two hours from Lochboisdale. As we approached port, a couple on board who looked as if they had really had enough asked me: 'Is this Barra?'. I explained that on Thursdays, the journey to Barra takes seven hours instead of five, as the ship comes to South Uist first. The look of abject horror and despondency on their faces was a picture.

To be fair, Lochboisdale (or 'LB' to locals, apparently) isn't too bad at all really. It's just the that wonderful breed, 'The Planner' at the local council decided that an ugly parade of shops was a suitable welcome for people driving off the ferry. Still, it beats Stornoway hands down where you are greeted by a pig-ugly Tesco that looks like an inverted ice-cream tub. Tesco has now decided to launch Home Delivery across the islands, just to make sure they finally finish off all the lifeline community stores. DON'T get me started...


Compared to the warm and sunny weather I had left behind in Kent, the weather in the Outer Hebrides was decidedly grim. 'There'll be no stunning sunset or sitting by the fire pit tonight' I thought as I headed off to one of my favourite wild camping spots for the night. By all means I had it in my head to try out the new sites on the island, but I like to wild camp on my first night just because… just because I can.

As I arrived at 'my' place, a VW Camper had beaten me to it. Of course, they had as much right to be there as anyone, but I was still a wee bit miffed. Stupid of me, really.

My trip was preceded by an unusual feeling of ambivalence. I had really, really enjoyed the warm weather and the offerings of my home county of Kent during July. Niggles and setbacks had prevented me from getting to the islands quickly. The weather was rubbish, and now someone was parked in MY spot.

Was this finally the end of my love affair with the Hebrides?

Off-grid caravanning in the Outer Hebrides. In January.

January 2013

Seeing in 2013 was spent sat around the camp fire with some dear Airstreaming buddies. For a grand total of eight hours we sat by the roaring flames, drinking whisky, laughing, chatting, and quietly enjoying each other's company. My idea of a perfect New Year celebration.

Funnily enough, something to do with the amount of whisky imbibed, I didn't drive anywhere the next day. So it was the 2nd January that I headed up to Scotland.

A lovely few days was had at the new Caravan Club Site at Strathclyde Country Park near Glasgow, which has rapidly become one of my favourite cities in the UK. In fact, as I type this entry in July 2013, I'm sat in my favourite dog-friendly vegetarian pub in Glasgow. It hardly goes with its rough, deep-fried-Mars-Bar image, does it? Proof that you shouldn't believe the one-sided hype presented in popular media, and that there is no substitute for checking out places yourself.

I had a plan though. It sounded bonkers, but it was a plan. Wild camping in the Highlands and in the Outer Hebrides in January. No hook-up, no site, no worries.

In JANUARY!

Off I set. My first port of call was Tarbert on the Kintyre peninsula to catch my favourite band, Skerryvore in concert.

 

Next day I headed to the pleasant Ardgarten Camping in the Forest Site near Arrochar.


 

From there I headed on off up into the wilds with no fixed plan. I just knew that I wouldn't make Uig in Skye before dark, and I would need to find a place to camp by about 3pm before it got dark. When dawn doesn't break until almost 9am, that doesn't give you a lot of travelling time.

As it happened, I found a lovely little place on the Road to the Islands. I struck camp, fired up the central heating, but more importantly sparked up the camp fire. It was such a lovely evening, it would have been a shame to have missed this fire pit opportunity.

 

So sound I slept that night, I woke up too late to catch the one and only ferry to Harris. Did I fret? Did I rush? Did I bogroll! Rushing and stressing was not on the agenda.

Instead, I headed to Uig on the Isle of Skye as planned, where I had seen a campsite by the ferry pier on many previous trips.

The proprietor of Uig Bay Caravan Park was a friendly, welcoming, charming chap, and I knew as soon as he agreed to my pitch that my 'accidental' sleep-in that morning was in fact a fortuitous occurence.

Next day, we were all aboard Caledonian MacBrayne's mv Finlaggan on our way to, you guessed it, the Isle of Harris. I had no clue as to whether the campsite would be open, but thought at least on Harris we would be able to tuck ourselves behind a mountain in the lee of the wind, unlike flat-as-a-pancake Uist where the winter wind has proved a problem in the past. The fact that the Skoon Art Cafe would be open was of course also a deciding factor. Were the weather to turn bad, I would need somewhere to shelter and eat cake. And if the weather was good, I would still want to eat cake!

I'm not sure if Horgabost Campsite was open or not. All the seasonal caravans had gone and the facilities were all locked up. However, just like the bulb fields of the Netherlands, they can't exactly take it away when it's not in season, can they? Most importantly, the water tap was working. I pitched up in splendid isolation and enjoyed a stunning view.

Now, people will quickly tell you that the weather in the Outer Hebrides is rubbish. I was fully expecting to stay about three or four nights and head back to the mainland having gone barmy at the poor climate.

I'm starting to think that this whole 'Bad weather in the Hebrides' reputation is pure myth. I think that the people who go off-season like to have the place to themselves, and therefore 'big-up' the weather to put other would-be travellers off.

Well, the weather was NOT rubbish. In fact, it was pretty good. Every day Dougal and I went walking, and most evenings I sat around the fire pit outside for at least an hour.

Soup, cheese, and cakes were consumed at the Skoon Art Cafe, and Saturday evening supper was enjoyed at the Temple Cafe in Northton.

I wanted - NEEDED - to stay longer, but the Alde Central heating is not frugal with bottled gas. My Gaslow refillable cylinders were emptying at an alarming rate (1 x 6kg cylinder lasting about 3 days) and I knew that in order to stay on, I had one of two choices:

1. Drive to Stornoway - 90 minutes - to refill
2. Find an Electric Hook Up

I figured that (2.) was the simplest option. I knocked on the door of the Lickisto Campsite and asked if I could pitch up.

Lickisto is a campsite I have not previously mentioned. For a start, it is not easily accessible by all caravans, only smaller single-axle vans. The hardstanding pitches can fit three camper vans or two caravan rigs, so of course it makes better sense for the owners to court the custom of camper vans.

These issues don't really apply in January, and the lovely owners welcomed me with genuine warmth and the offer of freshly-baked bread despite the fact that, actually, the site wasn't really even open. But in the Hebrides, such details rarely matter. Both sides give and take a little. It's one of the many things that make this place so utterly special.

Leaving the island was the usual sad, torturous task. As ever, I stood on the outside deck of the ferry at the aft end watching Tarbert disappear into the distance with tears filling my eyes. Little did I know that it wasn't quite over yet.

Snow fell as I journeyed across the Isle of Skye, and it was the perfect kind of snow. Enough to coat everything in a clean, smart, bright, fresh white powder, but not enough to cause any kind of disruption.

I headed to the same spot where I had camped on the outward journey, although it was nearly dark when I arrived.

Next morning, as I cooked my porridge on the BioLite Stove outside, the view was utterly magnificent:

As I made my way across Glencoe, the snow was deep, the sun was bright, and the sky was blue. 

So there you have it. Wild camping in Scotland in the middle of the winter turned out to be one of the most enjoyable and rewarding caravanning experiences ever. Utterly fantastic. 



Finally, naturally, there is a small video for you to savour of the trip. Enjoy!

Winter Caravanning in the Outer Hebrides

It just felt right.

It wasn't my intention to take a holiday at the end of August to coincide with my birthday, but it kind of just happened that way. I found myself with almost two weeks off work, with no touring features and no caravan reviews scheduled. After an emotionally draining year (mainly family admin), a holiday seemed to be the way forward. My batteries weren't just drained, they were on the last red reserves and in danger of shutting down. I needed desperately to recharge.


And I knew just the place.


Normally I would go to the Outer Hebrides in the early summer, but the Euro Airstream meeting put the kibosh on that this year. Originally I planned to go there at the end of September after doing a job in Scotland, and it would make no logical sense to hoon up there and come all the way back just for a week away. And I would be spending my birthday all on my own in a remote place.


But while it made no logical sense to make the 1200 mile round trip for a week's zoning out, it simply FELT like the right thing to do. And I have been travelling long enough to know that you follow your instinct, despite the logic. Or lack of.


I booked the late morning ferry from Oban for the Tuesday. Sunday night was spent at the topping Camping and Caravanning Site at Gullivers in MK. Definitely one to go back to when I have the kids in tow:







You know how, when you're trying to get away, and emails keep dripping in that need attention, and you never seem to get clear? Well, that was the kind of day that I was having that Monday. I spent most of the day tearing around Milton Keynes preparing for my trip and tidying up all the loose ends. Tesco car park became my office for the afternoon, and by the time I had filled up with diesel (for the truck), LPG (for the Airstream), and petrol (for the generator), it was 7.30pm when I finally hit the M1 on my journey North.


Pumping the co-ordinates for Oban ferry terminal into the SatNav, it came back with '468 miles, 05:45'.


The fact that it was a six hour journey cheered me. I'd be at Loch Lomond just after midnight to get my head down!


But half an hour later, the SatNav still said 05:45. With a crushing wave of disappointment, I realised that 05:45 was not the duration of the journey. It was the ETA. I was scheduled to do a Roy Orbison, and Drive All Night.


Fuelled by coffee, fresh air, and some good radio, I rolled into a lay-by at Loch Lomond at 5AM, where I caught a 3 hour nap.



It's not big, it's not clever, and it's not recommended to make such a trip in such a timescale. But adrenalin charged by an intense purpose of destination kept me alert.


I got to Oban with an hour to spare, and brewed some coffee in the queue for the ferry. Only once I had driven my rig onto the CalMac ferry mv Lord of the Isles, taken my position on the open deck, and looked out to the town of Oban as we dropped ropes and set sail, did it finally sink in.


I was going back to the Outer Hebrides.











As the adrenaline started to wear off and the experience of the moment finally started to sink in, my Island Journey became truly real and not an imaginary event in the future. In time-honoured tradition, I did what I always do at this point. I stood on the deck and blubbed.



The five hour ferry ride flew by. I hardly touched the magazines I had bought to read on the trip.


On the open deck I made a new friend, Dougal, who was off on his holidays to Barra.






Before too long, the dark peaks of South Uist rose out of the inky black sea.






At this point, there was no doubt in my mind that this reckless, crazy, irresponsible journey was totally and utterly the right thing to do. Sometimes, you do have to cast reason aside and listen to your instinct.