ROAD TRIPPING (PART 2)

Another long post, but it could have been worse! Now...

SCOTLAND

I love love love Scotland, and was very excited to take my mum and sister up there, as neither had been before. First on our (unwritten) list of Scottish Things was Hadrian's Wall, constructed around AD122 to keep those nasty Scots/Picts out of Roman Britain. We visited the part at Chester's Fort, which was built slightly after the wall itself and is now apparently the best preserved Roman cavalry fort in Britain. On the day we visited, it was waterlogged, wet and windy, but we thoroughly enjoyed wandering through the remains of the barracks and bathhouse and imagining a Roman army garrison facing the same weather conditions 2000 years ago. Actually, when I say "we" enjoyed it, I meant me and my sister. Mum was wet and miserable and would have preferred to sit in the car instead, but I wouldn't let her. How do you like the old, "you'll thank me for this one day" line being used on YOU, huh mum? Huh?

(She loved it though. I was SO right.)

Lovely Scottish weather

Then it was onward to Edinburgh, one of my favourite places IN THE UNIVERSE. Mother Nature obviously didn't get my memo about wanting to impress my mum and sis, though, because the weather was abysmal. It was wet, windy and slippery. There were a few close calls for all of us, but in the end I was the only one who actually fell on my arse. Also, we couldn't find anywhere indoors to stay, so ended up pitching our tent under an arched railway bridge adjacent to the perennially loud and annoying A7. It was totally legal, though. Trust me.

The next day was slightly better weather-wise, so we climbed Arthur's Seat (that big rock thing in the middle of Edinburgh - well, the one without a castle on it). It was warm and occasionally sunny on the walk up, we had a lovely picnic at the top, then got rained on during the descent. It all felt so very Scottish.

We were set to meet friends in Glasgow the next night, but rather than head straight to the city, we spent the day at Rosslyn Chapel. Dan Brown and Holy Grail legends aside, it's a really, really beautiful chapel. I'm not usually a fan of churches - I've been in London for 4 years and have yet to set foot inside St Paul's Cathedral - but Rosslyn Chapel is genuinely gorgeous and you should definitely go see it if you're in the area.

Right. Next.

By happy circumstance, I had about eight friends all in Glasgow at the same time, so we all had dinner together and then introduced my mum to the nightlife of Glasgow. As an extra bonus, she was treated to the sight of both her daughters getting rip-roaring drunk. I'm not entirely convinced she wasn't a bit tipsy herself, though. That's what I like to believe, anyway.

Loch Lomond

Incredibly hungover the next day, we soldiered on and drove to the lovely and calm Loch Lomond and then through the stunning scenery of Glen Coe into the Scottish highlands. The Highlands were more lovely than I could have imagined. We saw green mountains shrouded in mist, waterfalls running down craggy outcrops, lochs at the foot of bright green hills. I really don't think I've ever seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful. Photos can't do it justice, so I haven't even tried here. Sorry. Google has a good selection of images here.

It had been a tough day battling through our hangovers, and despite a nap in a carpark in Fort William, we were still struggling to get our brains working by that afternoon. I'd thought it would be nice to drive across to the Isle of Skye that evening, but we ended up sitting for 30 minutes at the ferry terminal before realising we'd missed the last ferry of the day. Whoops. Time for another accommodation-finding adventure! We drove around looking for somewhere to camp, and eventually found a lovely site on the banks of the Sound of Sleat. Yes it really is called that.

Waking up at the Sound of Sleat

After a chilly night, we were super-keen to get to the Isle of Skye the next morning. With cloudy skies threatening rain, we managed to pack up our tent and gear with impressive speed.  We crammed the last of the gear into the boot just as the first drops of rain started to fall. Perfect. Smugly self-satisfied, we jumped into the car and were all set to go, when my sister slid into her seat behind the wheel, looked down, turned around and said, "Um, where are the keys?"

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK !!!!!!!!

They were last sighted on a sleeping back in the middle of the tent earlier that morning. We jumped out of the car and into the rain, unrolled and shook open all three sleeping bags. No keys. Next we unrolled the lovely dry tent onto the wet grass, and crawled all over it trying to feel if there were any key-sized lumps under the canvas. No joy. We were soaking wet and getting desperate, so I unzipped the now sodden tent, crawled underneath the dripping wet canvas, and double-checked all the corners. Victory! The car key was tucked away in the front corner. Phew.

On we go.

With that bracing and soggy start to the day, we went onwards to the Isle of Skye, visiting the Clan Donald centre and brushing up on a few hundred years of family history. Some relative we didn't know existed had done this huge research project on Macdonald family history and my mum was named in his book as a direct descendent. The two-hundred year old family tree included her marriage to my father, but didn't list the next generation (ie me), so I promptly concluded that the researcher was completely incompetent and his life's work was a piece of rubbish.

We had lunch in Portree, the capital of Skye, and made a half-arsed attempt to plan out the next few days of our trip. By now we'd been on the road for ten nights, only three of which had been spent with a roof over our heads, and we were feeling a bit weary. Much like you're probably feeling at this point if you've managed to make it this far in this extremely long and tedious blog post. Making plans was all too difficult, so we just decided to drive back to the mainland, head in the general direction of Loch Ness and find somewhere to stay along the way. She'll be right, mate.

Driving along, we passed a few handwritten roadside signs that said "Bunkhouse - £10". The price was right, and for lack any other option, we decided to turn off the highway and check it out. The directions took us deep into the middle of nowhere. It was a very scenic nowhere, but still... We were driving for miles and miles alongside a loch, on a single-track road with hairpin turns and no houses or people to be seen. There were also no further signs to this mythical bunkhouse to be seen. I started calling it "Brigadoon". Well. Technically I started calling it "Bundanoon", which is a small town in NSW and not a mysterious Scottish village that only appears once every hundred years, but what I meant was Brigadoon. After about half an hour we had decided that the roadside signs must be some weird Scottish practical joke (like a sign to Brigadooooooon), and started to look for somewhere with enough width to allow us to turn around without falling into a loch or off a cliff so we could get the hell back to civilisation. Finally, at the point of defeat, we spotted another sign to The Bunkhouse.

We were so glad we persevered. The Bunkhouse was a little stone cottage with real beds, a kitchen, stove, lounge room and hot water. Oh lordy, it was heavenly. So heavenly, that I just said "oh lordy" when talking about it. Hmmm. The next morning we met the owner, a lovely Scottish chap called Willie, who brought us some fresh eggs for our breakfast. Willie also told us about a great walk to a nearby waterfall, which we did immediately after breakfast.  It was a lovely walk, a lovely waterfall, and a lovely place. Lovely enough for me to give it a proper plug (which I don't think I've ever done before): check out The Bunkhouse here. I could have stayed for days, but we were constrained by the limited amount of leave my sister could get from work, and our determination to visit absolutely everywhere, so we pushed on towards Loch Ness the next day.

Although I was surprised and disappointed to learn at the Loch Ness Exhibition Centre that the Loch Ness Monster isn't real (what what WHAT?), I enjoyed the scenery and stuff. It almost made up for the destruction of my dream of one day discovering and befriending a plesiosaur who had survived for 65 million years longer than any of her cousins and now lived at the bottom of a lake I lived nowhere near. Almost.

I'd been hoping we could find somewhere to stay at Inverness, but alas, it was not to be. We had a shitty meal in a crappy restaurant, then retired to a gorgeous campsite beside  Beauly Firth. Hooray! Our tent-pitching skills were now sufficiently 'leet', that we managed to do so through gale-force winds. The night was freezing cold, but the view of the Firth in the morning was spectacular.

The end is nigh, dear reader, so bear with me just a little bit longer...

The next day was spent at the Culloden Battlefield, which was absolutely brilliant. It is the best 'museum' I've ever been to in my life. I entered knowing nothing about the battle except its name, and even that was only due to the fact that Doctor Who once had a Scottish companion who joined the TARDIS fresh from the battlefield at Culloden. Now I wouldn't want to disparage the historical learnings imparted by Doctor Who, but the museum filled in the gaps about the Jacobite uprising, the highlanders' defeat, and the fate of Bonnie Prince Charlie that Jamie and the Second Doctor were too busy fighting cybermen, daleks and aliens to cover in much detail. I wouldn't mind going to Culloden again, actually. It's THAT good.

The rest of the day was spent driving around in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to catch glimpses of Cawdor Castle (of Macbeth fame) and Balmoral, the Queen's Scottish residence. Although we didn't manage to catch sight of the castles themselves, I can report that they both have lovely trees surrounding them.  Nice, big, solid, view-blocking trees.

After a less-than-successful afternoon of touristing, I should have known that we would struggle to find accommodation. Again. This was the night that we came closest to giving up and sleeping in the car. We drove around for hours, finding that every campsite was either locked or full. It was just after midnight when we finally snuck into one of those horrible caravan holiday parks that no human being with any grace or dignity should even set foot within. You know the ones - they advertise 'family-friendly' spaces and an indoor heated pool, but actually consist of skanky teens breaking away from their parents, drinking hooch, shagging in the bushes, having late night screaming matches, and throwing their empty bottles at tents.

It was awful.

We did the whole pitch-the-tent-after-dark-and-move-on-first-thing-in-the-morning thing, so didn't end up providing any financial contribution to the upkeep of that particular establishment. We'd unintentionally done that a couple of other nights of the trip - when we'd been unable to find the person we needed to pay and couldn't stick around for a half day until they showed up - but this was the first occasion I'd done so guilt-free. That place really sucked. Unfortunately this night marked the end of our stay in Scotland, and our trip was drawing to a close. Sad, sad panda.

A Hairy Coo!!

The next day we drove back into England. We managed to get a bit more Scottish tourist action even once we'd crossed the border, though, with a stop to visit the Highland Cattle Centre in Durham. I'm mildly obsessed with highland cows. The centre also had other farm animals, including large and terrifying pigs that went crazy as my sister and I approached them. I was scared they'd break loose and I'd end up trampled to death by 200 pounds of bacon. SUCH an embarrassing way to go for a vegetarian.

York Minster

After that little adventure, we continued our drive south to York. We managed to secure a room at the same B&B that I'd been at last time, so were treated to comfortable, warm beds and a wicked cooked breakfast the next day. Mum and sis visited York Minster and the Jorvik viking centre, while I wandered around doing sweet f*ck all. Win-Win.

That day was officially the last of our road trip. Sigh. We drove back to London that evening, with naught but our memories, M1 traffic, and intermittent radio reception to keep us entertained.

And so ended our amazing road trip, where my mum, sister and I managed to see the entire British Isles in only two weeks! Oh, but if any of you reading this actually know my mum, don't mention to her how good it would have been to visit Cornwall, Devon, Manchester, Leeds, the Midlands, the Peak District, the entirety of Wales except for Cardiff, the Yorkshire Dales, St Andrew's, central Scotland, and the inner and outer Hebrides.

Next time, Gadget, next time...