Scotland Part 4: Isle of Sky & Edinburgh Revisited

Applecross, Continued:

We had a little drinkypoos in Applecross to celebrate the fact that we'd managed to find someone who could show us where to fill up with fuel. Now, I know that probably doesn't seem like a satisfactory resolution to the big cliffhanger I left you with in the last entry, but I've go something even more exciting lined up for you - get this:

 
We bought some scran from the local fish and chip vendor to eat on the van. I had - wait for it - battered rib. It was all set to be the most delectable nosh-up of all time... and then, BANG! It turned out to be mediocre. How about that for a fucking twist?

We were parked up high above the coastline, on a sloping parking area off the main stretch into Applecross. There were loads of other motorhomes around us, and the view out to sea was a pretty incredible one. However, after letting my battered ribs go down, we decided to sacrifice our high perch for a lower, flatter park up in a little green enclosure a few minutes up the road.

Air Bastards

We were trying to convince Moo she didn't need to go for a walk, because the evening air was black with a particularly small and nasty Scottish pest.

Midges. The midges were mental. You couldn’t stand outside and enjoy the views for longer than 30 seconds. Thankfully, we had plenty of windows to look out of. Of course, having any doors open even slightly was a complete no-no.

It's difficult to decide what are worse out of mosquitoes and midges. On first analysis it may seem like mosquitoes deserve the title; afterall, they make that horrible sound, whereas midges are silent, and mosquitoes' bites itch for longer than midges' do. However, on balance I actually think midges are a worse prospect, for two reasons: First is their sheer number; you go outside in the evening in rural Scotland and you'll have thousands of the bastards nipping away at you. You've got no chance. It's like trying to fight a cloud. You at least have a fighting chance with a dozen mosquitoes (as the infamous Battle of Haven Lauwersoog proved). Second, their size; midges are about 10 times smaller than mosquitoes, so they are much harder to keep out with nets. The mosquito net did absolutely nothing to hold the little bastards back.

Also, if we're honest, mosquitoes are sexier. Long legs and tongues and stuff. Whereas midges are just like little bits of dirt that can fly. So mosquitoes win.

Gympig

Rach completed her interview recordings for a job application for Gymshark. I say 'completed', but she got cut off mid-sentence on her last question because she'd forgotten what she'd planned to say, went silent for 20 seconds and then had to try and cram it all into the last 5. She went from flustered chatterbox to slumped grumblepig the instant the recording stopped. She was so frustrated. I tried semi-successfully to cheer her up by saying the rest of it went really well, which it did. She later got invited for a round 2, which was a proper zoom interview, so there you go. 

Epic Mountain Pass Whose Name Begins With a 'B'

After a brief stroll on the nearby beach, which contained all manner of small diseased crabs, we drove back up through Applecross to visit a local photography gallery, which was exhibiting various large and impressive photos of the local natural environment. The most popular subject seemed to be a rather epic mountain pass whose name begins with a 'b'. Hold on.

Bealach na Ba Viewpoint! That's the one. I suffered a severe strop on the increasingly steep drive up there after Rach had said I wasn't changing down to a low enough gear when passing oncoming cars on the tight winding lane. It really got my back up. I pulled the van over, making sure the handbrake was on well enough to stop us from rolling back down the mountain to our certain deaths, then stormed off down to the back of the van, refusing to drive us any further.

Eventually I drove us further. All the way up into the misty heights of the mountain pass. The weather was grim, so the views weren't the clearest, but it was still pretty impressive.

Mr Ballen

We decided to stay in the hills over night. It was so quiet, like we were the only people around for miles. As it got dark, I had the idea of putting on some scary YouTube stories. The algorithm eventually led us to a channel called 'Mr Ballen', where some reverse-baseball-cap-and-flannel-shirt-wearing yank regales you with tales of ''the strange, dark and mysterious''. It's pretty decent. We listened to story after story as the light outside faded. Eventually, all was dark and silent.

Of course, the whole situation shat Rach up royally. Which from my point of view was half the fun.

Isle Of Skye

Isle of Skye is possibly the highlight of the UK for me. Or at least of the UK that I've seen. It's something to behold, it really is. I suppose, technically, everything is something to behold. But this was... wow. I really beheld it.

There were four major highlights of the few days we spent on the Isle, the first of which was our trek up to The Old Man of Storr, a stunning rock formation which has over centuries separated from the rest of the valley and now just stands there, like a collection of giant jagged shards dropped from the heavens onto the mountain side. Not only were the rocks amazing, but the views from the top back down over the horizon were equally incredible. The seemingly never-ending Scottish rain festival had thankfully been put briefly on pause, allowing us to make the journey up the muddy inclines to the top, where the thick, thick fog added to the otherworldly atmosphere created by the rocks.

The Footprint

We drove on to Staffin, situated in the north of the isle, to visit a beach which supposedly had fossilized dinosaur footprints on it. I was so effing excited. I mean, I was skeptical that I would actually find anything, but boy, was it exciting. I was just really excited. We parked up on arrival and got down onto the beach. Man, this was exciting.

Rach seemed to be keeping a cool head. Fair play.

It only took a few minutes to find a print, as there were other people on the beach, and we noticed that a few of them were clearly gathered around something of note. We approached, and sure enough, there it was. It was just mind-boggling to think that we were looking at an actual preserved footprint of a dinosaur from 165 millions of years ago. Jeez, this was exciting.

After taking a few photos and having a look around the rest of the shoreline, we made our way back up to the van. Later, once the beach had emptied and with a bee firmly in my bonnet, I went back down on my own to see if I could find some more prints. There was supposed to be more than a few. I cleverly located where I thought some of them were using a photo online then, assuming the prints must've been hidden under layers of wet sand, I began digging with a large flat stone to find them.

I stopped digging when I saw a couple approaching the beach, for fear of looking like a maniac. Eventually, I gave up trying to find any other prints and went back to the one we did find for one last look. Then I made my way back to the van where I spent the next few hours looking at the photos.

Leaving the Isle

We were making our way back through the isle towards the ferry port to get back to the mainland. On the way we stopped off at the other two highlights mentioned earlier. First, Portree, a gorgeous little colourful town surrounding Lock Portree on the east coastline, followed by Sligachan Bridge, a beautiful 200 year old stone structure for pedestrians and cyclists only, which crossed the Sligachan river parallel to the A87. We took a walk to some nearby mini waterfalls before grabbing a coffee at a nearby establishment. The whole area was beautiful, as is the norm on the Isle of Skye.

The Harry Potty Steam Train

A 21-arched viaduct curving high through a picturesque Highland valley is always going to be impressive, but it's even more so when you actually get to see a Jacobite steam train passing through. This was the experience we were treated to after we spontaneously decided to stop and explore, after seeing signs for the viaduct while passing through Glenfinnan. Scotland just keeps on giving!

Apparently the viaduct and steam train was used in Harry Potty, a film about a magical boffin. Delightful!

Under Caravans

After driving from west to east, we spent a day and night at a great little campsite in Perth and Kinross. It was set up high on a field overlooking a beautiful lake below. It was a site which housed permanent residents in caravans as well as people passing through in tents and campers.

The following afternoon we spent four glorious, fun-filled hours attempting to get Moo to come out from under the fucking caravans. We'd payed up and were getting the van ready to leave when she managed to get off her lead and run off.

''No big deal'', we thought. ''She'll be back in a sec.''

How wrong we were. For some reason, she just would not come out. Presumably because she could tell we were leaving and didn't want to go? Are cats capable of that? I dunno. What I do know is that I was just about ready to burn the entire fucking campsite down just to smoke her out, and then shoot myself in the face as dessert. After a while half the campsite was out helping us. Some were more helpful than others, of course, and after a further while, everyone sort of got bored and wandered off again. It was farcical. We'd manage to get her out from under one caravan and she'd just run under the next one along. It was as if she'd had a personality transplant with a rat. About 12 weeks later, I managed to grab her and take her back to the van. I could feel her struggling to escape again but she had no chance; I'd totally engulfed her in my arms, tight. Little shit.

Edinburgh Revisited

Rach finally - finally - got her battered mars bar on the last evening of our second go round in Edinburgh. And I don't believe it disappointed the way my battered ribs had. Neither had Simon Evans, the comedian I'd booked us tickets to see at the Edinburgh Fringe. Visiting the Fringe was a big tick for me; something I'd wanted to do for a long time. The show was great, combining some good laughs with a heartfelt and meaningful through-line. Rach really enjoyed it too, which I was pleased about as for some reason her default position on live comedy is that it makes for a terrible experience. ''Not if it's good'', I tend to respond. I do find it a baffling opinion.

Any road up, as my dad used to say his dad used to say...

Earlier during our second Edinburgh stay we also explored Stockbridge, a vibrant village on the city's outskirts, full of Georgian and Victorian terraces, trendy pubs, shops with 'stuff' in them and posh delis. We bought a sausage roll and pork pie to share from a butchers; they were divine. That's right, the pork pie was divine. We strolled down Circus Lane, a famous old curving cobbled lane replete with amazing homes and flowering frontages. Edinburgh is the shit.

We had a drink in a quiet bar which was tucked away off a spacious, posh residential street before tracking down Oxford Bar, a pub that my dad had recommended previously. It was crammed full of dusty old locals. We passed.

Edinburgh Fringe was our last act in Scotland. Actually, no - Rach's battered Mars Bar was our last act in Scotland. We got back to the van in the dark and crossed the border into north-east England, 90 minutes later, a little sad. We'd spent 10 weeks in Scotland in total, and loved every minute of it. It truly is one of the most incredible countries in Europe. Top five, absolutely no question. Well played, Sconchland. Well played.