It didn't take me all that long to think of that title.
Where it starts
So, the background story... I have a long and lasting love of a very particular kind of camper van.
I had grown up being installed into many a strange situation, transported there by my family campervan a ubiquitous Mk2 VW camper and then later a Mk3, heading to Denmark, Norway, Spain, France and all over the UK. I had a fairly unique holiday time, something often not believed when it was ‘My Holiday time’ when I got back to school!
I look back on those times as being a most marvellous introduction to the little part of the world that I live in. I consider myself to be quite fortunate even though we sometimes had to go and find our own pudding in the berry bushes around us. However, when me and my Mum talk about it, we always get back to the subject of the Pink Potty.
The Pink Potty? The trainee pooper’s sketch pad on those tentative days just out of a nappy. Probably, on my first mounting, it was 3rd hand, the design the same as it always had but in a proper 1960’s free spirit pink, 10 years out of date for my little bum.
In classic 1970s spirit, the three of us children would sit on the back seat of the camper, no seat belts, a good 3m clear flight from seat to windscreen in an accident, flapping may have helped, but there were no instructions.
However, there was the Pink Potty, sat on the floor to receive the offerings of anyone from 4 to 10 and the occasional adults who had been on the pop the night before.
The thing was an object of great fear and, whether empty or full, it was always, with little exacting toes, shifted from near to the back seat passengers to somewhere near the side sliding door in the hope that some deity of the management of bodily matters would just sort it out.
New legislation from humanity means all gods need to register themselves. Currently there are about 3500 registered deities but there is no potty god, not even in the totally bat-shit crazy category of gods. A niche market for an eternal being looking for a captive market if anyone is in the market.
Anyway. The Pink Potty. Jeepers, I think this thing is taking over the story… It would get poked to the front left of the passenger compartment because of its contents or quasi-vampire like imagination of what horrors it might contain, even when empty.
Whenever the side door was opened, to let the junior part of the family out, unless the wind was as still as a mountain, the Pink Potty would leap for freedom to spin across whatever beautiful location we had stopped at. We came, we saw, we ran after a pink potty and chose to ignore a bit of bangers and mash blowing over some sand dunes.
It was the 1970s, get over it.
Anyway, such fond memories had me always wanting to buy a campervan and many ideas had come and gone over the years. So many thoughts:
Buy an old one – cheap, but mechanically knackered, stinky and full of horrid things you really don’t want to know about. – Also, holidays on the hard shoulder.
Buy a new one – not even slightly able to do that.
Make your own – I had been seriously considering this, but the commitment, and probable poor finish of the thing would always be an irritation to me. This along with converting a vehicle which would eventually wear out, seemed like a lot of effort.
In the end, I never really made any plans, it was a bit of a pipedream.
And then.....
New thoughts
So, I’d made it to 50 which was quite a surprise, and after the boys had reached their 20s and no longer were likely to want to go on holiday with Julie and I, the thoughts of a little campervan came around again.
The problem was, just like my belly, everything had gotten bigger. These days a campervan was the size of a lorry with a moped on the back, car towed behind along with speedboat, jetski, snowmobile, quadbike and lunar excursion rover vehicle. It was all a bit much.
And then there was the people who drove the bloody things. Miserable old blokes who had cashed in their ringfenced index linked pensions for their unreversible vehicle of abject misery allowing them to visit every trailer park in the country populated by similar competitive campers with a massively unimpressed and permanently scowling wife.
Size kind of mattered. Being a lover of the wee roads, anything bigger than a largeish car was too big, even an unmodified VW transporter was a little too large and still way too much money. It also had to be a normal vehicle with 5 seats as it had to be a normal vehicle to be used as such.
Then we were introduced by a friend into the idea of the micro camper. A car/van with a removable camper insert that would allow the car to stay as a car but could be turned into a camper within a few minutes. Just for 2 and maybe a dog. That sounded good!
For half the price of a VW transporter we could buy a nearly new Citroen Berlingo type vehicle with 5 seats like a normal car and slide in the ‘boot jump’ to make it into a camper.
So we bought a 9 month old Peugeot Rifter on a very cheeky ex demo discount, along with the original and by far the best, although quite expensive, Amdro boot jump.
Every camper of worth requires a name. I guess it had to start with R. Revenge of the gods? Retrospective reaffirmation of one’s affirmations? Realisation of a slow burn mid-life crisis? Reet bad mistake? Rollicking bad decision?
In the end we ended up with Rita. Yeah, it was nice, ladylike and kind of dignified which was something that I had been missing for quite a few years of my life.
Also, this was a joint endeavour for Ju and I, something we were both very keen on, not something I was doing by myself. It had to be something we were working with together. So far so good.
First few nights and adjustments
After fitting in the boot jump, taking no longer than half an hour, It was a bit exciting heading off on our first night out in the Shropshire hills and we were soon really pleased how effortlessly it was to go from usual car mode to camper with table, cooker out and then to bed, it took less than 2 minutes to change modes.
However, this thing was designed for people up to 6 foot 2 inches and with both Julie and I being well over half to a full foot smaller than this, poor Winnie dog on the front seat didn’t have a huge amount of room. A bit of adjustment and re-shaping of bedding slats gave her much more room.
Adjustments to the cooker and a porch at the rear of the van allowed better living space and easier cooking. We also swapped things around to install a fridge.
Adding to this a leisure battery for charging phones, keeping the fridge going and having a heated blanket so the back door could stay open for longer made for some fairly luxurious living in the back of a wee little van.
Family troubles and commitments meant we were unable to head away for anything more than a night throughout 2022 but plans for a big trip away were never far from our minds or conversations.
Plans
2022 came to an end with things settling a little bit and the prospect of 2 weeks away from home became a little more likely.
Like a dog with two dicks, I was away planning a trip to take us away to some fantastic places to see.
The announcement of an extra day off due to some royal loving bullshit was most welcome and helped to plan putting as much distance between ourselves and royalist drones as possible.
After a call to Elon Musk, it appears an extra-terrestrial excursion was not possible. Also, a foreign trip seemed a little difficult seeming as the dog was more antivax than David Ike.
It had to be the UK, but where better than the Outer Hebrides. As far as you could get from bullshit central as possible and if anyone set up a street party, it would get blown away before a soggy egg sandwich could be thrown at it.
As a wee boy I remember visiting the Outer Hebrides in the blue and white camper. All I remember were huge large white sand beaches and being eaten to death by midges.
Well to go early May was likely to avoid the midges and hopefully the white sands would still be there. More likely than not, any Pink Potty effluent would be by now dealt with.
Firming up
We had decided on a new road trip, the last time we had done was this was BC, Before Children. We did a camping trip around Ireland over 2 weeks and it rained constant for 10 of those days. We saw and experienced some great things but the weather really was out to annoy us.
However, like the blitzkrieg of comfortable road travel, we now had Rita, a veritable Panzer II of small moveable light vehicle able to get right into the wee roads and once the target is identified, allowing a comfortable seat and marvellous cup of tea to be brewed in comfort and style. Somewhat better for us than the King Tiger type huge lunar excursion vehicle dragging waste of space vehicles clogging up the roads we see today.
I think the bike was sulking in the garage. Don’t worry ducky, your time will come soon!About to leave
I had spent so much money on getting the leisure battery in place given the modern actions of new vehicles. Special charge controllers, massive cables to feed the battery at the rear of the vehicle and fuses everywhere because I really didn’t want to set the whole bleeding thing on fire. I was papping myself that it would not work out but in the end everything seemed to turn out even though all sorts of angry car messages came through after I cut through the main wiring loom and introduced a new connector. Put in a new marriage context, it was like getting back an hour after when you were expected to get back. It went proper hateful. Electric handbrakes turned off, seat belts refused to acknowledge they were in and warning lights went all 70s disco.
However, things were holding together, and the anger passed for the majority of the time.
We booked the ferries with a month to go and were surprised how cheap they were. Subsidised by the Scottish Government, 4 ferries, some long 4-hour crossings cost a little over £160. Two crossing even had a special cabin to take the dog into. That was nice.
A few weeks before we left we spent a fun few days at Abergynolwyn in north Wales as a first trip out of the season. It rained, snowed and hailed on us but we where happy little piggies in our wee little space. We were ready for a long trip away.
So away the day after the May Day Bank Holiday, Off the mainland, away from the madness and suck up some sand, salt and Gaelic. Time for a little adventure with Rita, Ju and me too! I forgot to add Winnie dog to that, but it ruined the ditty.
Tuesday 2nd May
There is something a bit strange about setting out on holiday the day after a bank holiday, but A good quiet trip on the roads is always a good start to a road trip.
We started at 6am and was beyond Manchester and Preston before it really got going. Pretty relaxed and uneventful. Stopping at Lambrigg at Junction 37, next to the Lake District we had an early morning walk with the dog up to the imposing electricity windmills which where so huge and surprisingly quiet. Those sweeping sails kind of said ‘keep away from me’. We obliged.
Back on the road, the miles flew by as we entered Scotland and bypassed Glasgow, heading over the Erskine Bridge and then started up the road next to Loch Lomond.
Stopping for lunch by the side of the road we looked over the millpond still lake with beautiful forests on the other side of it while great lines of traffic followed slow moving camper vans into the Highlands. I got the premonition that slow moving campervans was going to be a reoccurring annoyance which would test my legendary patience.
Out of Crianlarich and into the Highlands the roads opened up and the mountains continued to grow in stature. I’d been down this road so many times always with a sense of excitement for what was coming up but this time instead of zooming though Glencoe and off to elsewhere, we were going to stop here and have a walk and then stay in the nearby campsite.
Arriving late in the afternoon it was hard to find a place to park but all three of us somewhat stiff were quite happy to take a walk up one of the valleys.
It was clear that there had been a rain inversion with England in Scotland over the spring because as England had generally had over 200% of its average rainfall, Scotland had had just 50% and the dryness of the bogs were something one would not expect unless in the height of summer.
I had spectacularly managed to remember my rather nice binoculars (binocular snobs would scoff, but they can kiss my crack), which did a cracking job of allowing me to scan the valley.
Before I had got through a quarter of the valley, Julie told me there was a group of over 100 red deer on the other side of the valley and she was not wrobng. I’m sure I would have seen them once I was looking that way…
The group was trotting along the mountainside perhaps a quarter of a mile away, quite a site to see.
Getting back to the van we headed off to the Red Squirrel Campite in Glencoe. Passing the infamous Clachaig Inn we decided to drop in for a tea and a pint. It was lovely to see the place doing well, full up with tourists from all over. There are many a tall mountaineers tale that either started or end at the Clachaig!
On to the campsite which was as lovely as ever and we found a good spot next to the river and set up camp. It was my turn to cook, so a mushroom stroganoff was produced which was nice an healthy but for me did produce a lot of hydrocarbons which within a microcamper can have a nasally negative experience.
With the windows open we had a good nights sleep.
Wednesday 3rd May
Today we needed to be places at the correct time, but there were dogs to walk and things to see.
Out of the campsite at a reasonable hour we worked our way up the Glencoe pass to the next valley along for a good walk with Winnie. No sight of any deer this time but the mountains and valleys were a wonderful sight.
However, we needed to be at Oban for a precise check in time so off we set straight into a huge traffic jam around a load of resurfacing work in Glencoe village.
Panic slowly subsided as we made good time after leaving most of the tourist traffic to head into the Highlands and we headed south toward Oban.
We were looking for Staker Castle, a little castle built on a little island but as the tide was out it looked like it was mainly surrounded by a greasy green beech. There is an internet supplied image destroyed for you by real life!
So off to Oban it was and as we moved through the town it struck me that this place was the middle of nowhere. Not in a bad way, every ferry to most of the islands would come in here and there were a few well know fashion shops, lots of boutiques and fancy places.
All we were interested in was the Lidl where we stoked up on grub.
Getting to the port we were informed on what we had already found out that the ferry had been delayed, so we headed off down the road to little bay where we parked by the side of the road and sat eating deli stuff from the supermarket and lots of tea.
Back to the port we were eventually loaded onto the ferry for the 5+ hour crossing. Barra was a good 90 miles away. The ship was a bit old and cronky from the 1970’s something a little different from the modern ferries I had been on going to Europe and not to far from the ‘erm ooh’ of Morrocan ferries.
There has not been much investment in ferries to the Scottish Islands for many decades and it is coming to a head with many a breakdown.
Oh well, we were on our way. We started on the deck to say goodbye to the mainland and watch Mull and the small isles pass by but poor Winnie was not enjoying it and was doing a lot of shaking so we soon ended up in the inside seating area for doggies.
We were then cornered by someone with another Collie that wanted to talk about themselves for 4 hours. It was a bit grim.
It got to teatime and I really did have to go and get something to eat in the cafeteria which was on the good side of grim, but a £10 hot dog with a £5 bottle of beer didn’t really lift my spirits. I rushed back to find Julie had been given a reprieve and another dog to look after, but all seemed quite happy with the arrangement.
We were soon joined by Mrs Talk-a-Lot who went on to tell us about some snake oil dog food supplement she gives her dog at £30 a pop. I told her we feed Winnie on Lidl dog food, and she seemed to think we were awful people. I liked that.
She followed up off the ferry in here hug campervan but fortunately took another road from us. It was almost 8 at might and although very light, you could tell it was late.
The ferries are the life blood of the islands and everything dances to the timing of them. We were met at the campsite by the owner who send us down to the most sheltered spot by the beach. Parking up,w e lifted the tail gate and looked over onto a beach of white sand, rocks, chirping oyster catchers and a rather relaxed feeling.
Finally landed
A few cups of tea later we were ready to get our heads down.
Thursday 4th May
Opening up the windows of the van we were greeted by the sea not 20 metres away and a strong but fairly warm wind.
After breakfast we headed to the south of the island on tiny single track roads with occasional passing places. It took a bit of time to get used to how it worked and perhaps only offended a few locals.
At a parking space we pulled in and headed towards a monument for a ship full of immigrants to Canada which ran aground with the majority of people being drowned. Everywhere you looked there were long abandoned houses and ruins. This place used to be much more populated.
We ended up on a beach, beautiful white sand, just a few people about, it was quite stunning and very peaceful.
There was another beach on the other side of the island, just half a kilometre away so we set off for that. The fields were alive with primoroses. Wherever a coo could not walk, there would be a mass of primroses, it was quite beautiful.
The other beech was equally beautiful, perhaps a bit packed out with at least 6 people on it, so we headed back to the van and set off for the north of the island.
We were catching an afternoon ferry to Eriskay, so wanted to be close to the port before we really needed to be there. You would only have to be stuck behind a chugging campervan who never looked in its mirrors to get into a sticky position. To be fair, most would pull over in a passing place and let you pass if you were going much faster than them.
We parked up next to Barra airport, the only commercial airport who’s runway is a beach. Sandcastles were not allowed.
As the tide was out and the flags were up the airport was open so we parked up in a good vantage point and cooked up some lunch waiting for a plane to come in.
After a while a few taxis came by as did a few people looking like passengers and then a vehicle drove up and down the runway to make a check for seaweed, sticks and seals. Before you knew it a tiny little plane, probably with about 20 seats came around the corner and landed taking about 150m from landing to come to a standstill. That was most impressive!
With the spectacle over we headed off to the ferry. Instructions were fairly light on the ground even though we had booked but we soon worked out that we needed to sit in the BK lane not the CV lane. We spent a long time trying to work out what CV meant but eventually gave up. This was only a 30 minute crossing and the ferry was a fair few steps below the one from Oban to Barra. However it stayed afloat and got us to where we wanted to go and only cost about £21 so it gets 5 stars from me.
After finding Winnie did not like standing on the deck of the boat, we left her in the car and she seemed quite happy there, so there is a lesson learnt. It was somewhat brisk on deck but we got great views of Rhum and the Cullin Mountains on Skye from an angle one would never usually see.
Off the ferry we soon traversed Eriskay, the place where a ship full of whiskey ran aground and the locals stashed it all away. They ought to make a movie about that some day.
Off that island on a causeway, we got onto South Uist and soon found our way to the Kilbride campsite we wanted to go to. We hadn’t booked this but were fairly sure we would get on and there was lots of space. The owner was waiting for the ferry traffic to arrive and we soon set up camp and I got my family favourite chicken and noodle soup on.
The wind was still pretty harsh and we needed to precisely park the van to get some cover behind it but we were soon warm enough once we got everything closed up. A welcome warm shower and bog house was of great welcome.
Friday 5th May
Well, that was a bleeding awful night. Some sort of squeaky creature spent most of the night squeaking outside. At first we though it was something to do with the van and we were pulling up the bed to check the fridge, and then the topbox, worried that we were waking up the whole campsite.
However, it soon became apparent it was something outside and we eventually decided that it was some sort of amphibian, If I caught it I would give it a good kick (I did regret saying that a bit later).
Bleary eyed we packed away and headed up the coast to a spot next to one of the large expansive beaches on the west coast of south Uist. Parking at a church we walked down a track and took an evasive manoeuvre through the sand dunes to avoid lots of coos.
The beach stretched for miles inhabited only by birds as far as we could see, the most prominent being oystercatchers who were a joy to watch. I was enjoying watching them through my binoculars as they skurried around the beach.
We walked further down the beach and onto a headland with a queer inland fresh water lake. Next to it some farmers were planning potatoes in a little patch they had worked over. The soil seemed to be 99% sand with very little grass or anything apart from primroses and daisies. As we walked past the farmers we could hear them speaking Gaelic. The Outer Hebrides are the strongest area in Scotland for speaking the native language as first tongue and it was interesting to hear.
On the headland was the remains of an old dun, a small fortress, which had been protected from the waves by a new wall. The map showed lots of local ancient sites, one was a Norse long house which would have looked like an upturned boat. All we saw was a mound in a field but the interpretation board showed a busy scene of trading, eating, making and farming. These were once far more busy isles.
Back to the van, we found the wind was biting, so parked to make best use of the cover of it to allow us to cook. A great load of soup later we were ready to start heading north.
The main A road up South Uist was fairly quick moving, often a double carriageway and we passed over a causeway and onto the Island of Benbecula. Road warning signs a fairly rare in this part of the world but a sign saying ‘Caution otters crossing’ was one of note. How fantastic!
The was not a lot of useful land on Benbecula, it was all bits of heathery tufts with thousands of little pools amongst them with the road winding its way over them.
Before we knew it we were over a causeway and onto North Uist. If we didn’t slow down we would soon run out of islands!
We had made plans to get the canoe out and paddle over a sea lock to find a most remote dun, but given it was very windy and cold, it didn’t seem too good an ideas, so instead we went to see Hercules the bear.
Hercules and his owner seemed to be on the TV all the time when I was younger, but his moment of international fame came in 1980. He was a tame grizzly bear, and was on Benbecula filming an advert for bog paper when he swam off from his owner.
He was sighted a few times and people began to get a bit worried as a hungry griz will happily rip you apart to get to the really tasty bits. 24 days later and creating a story that went around the world he was found, half of his weight on North Uist after swimming 6 miles. He was reunited with is family and went on to star in a James Bond film, many adverts and finally died of old age at 25.
His statue was a lifesize representation of the friendly bear and it was really good to see. It was sat in some experimental woodland that had been planted many years ago to see how trees would grow. It was nice to walk amongst the trees as they stopped the wind which was a supprice because this was the first time it was still from entering the island chain.
Apart from the occasional forestry plantation, which are protected from grazing by red deer utilising 2m high fences, there are very, very few trees on the Outer Hebrides which give it a very wild and open feeling. So immense was the scenery, I really wasn’t missing the trees!
On the way to the campsite at Balranard we came across a Co-op store (shops are a rare thing) and went in to stock up. Mot things were there, some maybe a little more expensive, but it is clear that those who live on North Uist are not subjected to emergency ration or to eating grass or each other.
We put our shopping on the conveyor and a cockney lady soon appeared behind us clutching a bottle of white wine, quite clearly in urgent need of a 4pm top up. We let her go in front and then she started chatting us, amazed someone would come here on holiday and constantly saying how she hated the place and can’t wait to retire and leave for good.
It turns out she worked for the tourist board. No, she didn’t, she was a nurse, but it made me laugh. As we left the Co-op, she invited us to go back to her’s for a few drinks and a chat. We politely declined as we didn’t want any more ‘tourist leafletting’.
Balranard campsite was very nice, quite busy, but lovely warm toilets and showers and an advert for ice cream which a certain person was said was a missing factor on holiday.
It was right next to an RSPB reserve and they had lots of information about local birds. If you remember I was going to get really violent with the frog or toad that was making the squeaking noise next to the van, it turned out to be a Corn Crake, a now very rare bird in the UK.
Good Job I’d kept my size 12s to myself.
We did catch the occasional Corn Crake squeak overnight but they were a good distance from us. Perhaps someone had warned them!
Saturday 6th May 2023
There was something going on somewhere else so today we thought we would get right out of the way and walk over a tidal crossing to an island that once had a fantastic hunting lodge on it.
The 2.5km crossing was open for about 4 hours and with low tide at 13:55 we had it timed nicely. Setting off a little before 12 we made out way onto the sand flats and headed to the first waypoint change. We were a little pleased to see a chap about 15 minutes in front of us which is always helpful to know we weren’t the only fools making the crossing.
We soon had to take boots and socks off to cross a few areas of deeper water and being a bit of a fairy when it come to my feet being exposed, I did not enjoy this, especially when I trod on a shell. However, as time went by I managed to man up a bit and take in the view, which was fantastic.
There is nothing quite like being in the total open to peel away the less important things in life, and although I could get a bit philosophical here, what was of most importance was getting to the island of Vallay and back before the tide came back in.
We trudged over wet sand happy as lords as the island came closer along with the imposing wreak of Vallay House.
Eventually after 45 minutes we reached the island so knew we had just a short time to have a look around. Finding our way to the other side of the island we sat on a sand dune with our own whole ivory white beach in front of us and ate egg mayonnaise sandwiches.
It would be hard to top this. On your own remote abandoned island, with an unspoilt and abandoned beach to enjoy. Egg sandwiches and bacon crisps were a force multiplier!
We then headed off the memorial for the son of the owner of the island who died trying to row back over the bay after a night on the lash, or something like that. It kind of reminded us to not be late.
Walking up to the house it appeared to be still upright but much of its innards had collapsed. A bit of a scary place indeed but with a decaying beauty.
We got back to the start off point with a few minutes before our cut off point and started to walk in our boots because so far it didn’t seem we needed to do any deep channel crossing.
By this time the sun had really come out and the wind had dropped leaving us in a lonely beautiful place. It really was bliss.
We got back with plenty of time on our hands and set off back to the campsite. On the way we past an impossibly lonely post box at least a mile away from any house, sat by itself, probably wondering what the hell it was doing there. Behind it a Dun sat on a small island in an inland loch. Probably thinking something similar.
Back to the campsite it was ice cream all around, and after dinner we went to the beach to watch the sun go down.
Some other meaningless shit happened today where people got very excited. It wasn’t anything nearly likely as exciting as what we had done today.
Sunday 7th May
Today was another ferry day where we had to be careful to be at the right place in the right time. i.e. we needed to catch a ferry. This time moving from North Uist to Harris, the ferry was late morning so we had time to get ourselves straight and take Winnie for a short walk on the lovely beach at Balranard.
Driving past Vallay at a different time, there was only water between us and the island. How doubly remote it now seemed!
Through a landscape of small lochs and moorland heather we travelled on single track roads ,mostly given A road designation, but as Einstein famously put in his rock song, ‘Everything is relative’.
Reaching the ferry we joined the booked queue, wondering who in their right mind might join the chancers queue. I’d not seen any ferry leave at almost full capacity, once or twice having to leave a death star sized camper behind because the bloke who booked it as a Toyota Yaris reconned once a registration was registered for travel, then on the ferry it would go. No mate.
We were loaded onto the ferry swiftly. Sticking to the lanes for normal cars like normal car drivers would. Then they loaded on the Death Star campers who had to use two lanes. Taking up the area of a small bus and inside were 2 people and one rat like dog.
This was an hours crossing and we were graced with a rather comfortable inside seating area, with warm bogs, and a coffee machine with a rather Las Vegas demeanour.
I always like to be on deck when a ship sets sail, I was on the Herald of Free Enterprise six days before it set sail with the bow doors open, sinking and killing 90 odd people. Watching the rear doors folding up I was set at ease and off we set, but then saw a couple of cyclists whizzing down to the ramps.
‘Shame’ I thougth for them, but the pure wonder of the human spirit was conveyed unto me by the ferry slamming into reverse, heading back to the terminal and dropping ramps for the two waving and exceptionally happy cyclists to board. A few passengers, were cheering too.
This ferry had a very nice cabin with a coffee machine and we settled down to watch where we were going. The route to Harris had to navigate its way through many small isles and outcrops, the route liberally marked with green and red buoys. The ferry was pulling handbrake turns around some of them and it soon became difficult to know which island we were going to land on.
Eventually we arrived a Leverburgh and followed a line of vehicles off the ferry. We weren’t going far though because I had spotted a big beach where we could go for a walk. Parking up, we walked to Scarasta beach past an old coach which looked like it had been there for a good 20 years and part of the set of a zombie apocalypse film.
The beach was quite fantastic very deep with a very windswept feeling. We walked to the end where a small stream existed it, but I soon found that Winnie and I were sinking rather rapidly in sinking sand so we exited that part of the beach quite rapidly.
on our way back we noticed birds diving into the water and realised that they were Gannets. I had seen a few massive Gannet colonies in my life but had never known or seen them hunting so close to shore. We spent a long time watching their manouviering and arrow like dives into the sea. once in a while they would come up with a silvery prize. It was an honour to watch such a display
Walking past the coach, I found out that it was a Shearings Coach holiday that had gone wrong, they had got lost, crashed and ended up eating each other in desperate cannibalism. I know this is true because I just made it up.
We drove on to the campsite at Horgabost which was quite reasonable and nicely spaced out. We were soon surrounded by mainly German campers and got talking to Bern (Bernard) who was visiting the island for the first time. He was heading south so we gave him some good recommendations for places to stay and things to see.
The wind picked up after we had cooked and we shut up the van and sat in it with all the doors closed which is something we’ve not done before. It was wonderful and warm which finished off the night quite nicely.
Monday 8 May
We didn’t need to be rushing today so got up leisurely and took Winnie for a walk on the nearby beach.
Heading across Harris we soon reached Tarbert where we would be sailing from in a couple of days time. The only thing of interest that we could glean was a very expensive shop selling Harris Tweed items. I was not in the market to look like something from Peaky Blinders so we decided to give that a miss.
Harris was certainly much more mountainous than the other Hebridean Islands. We started to rise into the mountains and were fairly quickly assaulted by heavy rain and mist, perhaps more usual Hebridean weather. Then without warning we were on the Ilse of Lewis, the northernmost large island but the border between the two was not exactly distinct. One would expect the Isle of Harris and the Ilse of Lewis to have some water between them which is the standard island way of doing things but not here. O wasn’t going to get pedantic. However, its been annoying me ever since.
It was still quite rough weather but as we descended to the largest town on the Hebrides, Stornoway, the rain stopped and it became quite reasonable again. The weather had just had a hissy fit.
Stornoway was quite a revelation. The name evoked a battered Viking ship shattered on the rocks with miserable peasants taking whatever shelter they could gain from the stormy sea and inhospitable land. It wasn’t like that at all. There was lots of trees, parks, a Chinese take-away shops, pubs and to our delight, a supermarket.
We restocked with lots of goodies and got ourselves a load of deli items to eat for lunch. Driving past the airport we sat in the front seats watching the wind blowing in from the sea eating olives, chorizo and all sorts of Mediterranean things that were certainly a touch out of character.
We were quickly become domesticated so decided to head back out into the wilds as quickly as possible before we parked outside of the Chinese take-away and waited the 4 hours for it to open.
Not far from Stornoway were some very impressive standing stones at Callanish. We arrived to find it quite busy and noted a large group of German tourists all dressed in red jackets who had probably been deposited there from a cruise ship we saw at Stornaway. Go on holiday and be told what to dress in? I feel someone has violated their human rights.
Up to the standing stones it was very impressive, sat high up it was quite different to Stonehenge but the uprights were less massive. By jumping from side to side, I used the many stones to block views of the many tourists and make it look like we were there alone. The camera never lies… meeeh.
We were wanting head off the beaten track to the west of Lewis tonight and had spotted a beach near Ardroil with a campsite which seemed to fit the bill. The road to it was a newly improved B road which was smooth and well cambered. The old road took a tortured path around large ponds and over rocky outcrops. To have done any more than 20mph on that roads would have been quite risky.
We whizzed along barely having to stop in passing places as there was so little traffic. This is what we were after.
Turning into the road to the campsite we were immediately accosted by a very familiar but equally unusual sight. There in front of us was a 3 metre high wooden chess piece. We knew it was a king and from the 11th century because we had a replica chess set at home that we had bought 10 years ago.
Stopping to have a look we found it was close to here, 150 years ago a local found a box hidden in the sand dunes with an almost complete chess set dating from the 11th Century. Made from Walrus ivory the distinctly Norman look to the pieces are a fascinating look into the pass.
Perhaps my favourite was the queen who had a rather exasperated look on her face.
On to the campsite which was run by the local community, with very nice toilets, showers, water and waste. You paid via an honesty box and it all seemed very agreeable. We parked on hardstanding just behind some dunes which sadly separated us from the beach and made the first of many cups of tea.
Going for a walk on the beach which was truly massive we kept Winnie running for her ball and soon had a sufficiently tiered dog. Back at the van, a young couple parked their great big huge, motorhome uncomfortably close to behind us and then proceeded to smash it up on the inside. Literally, it sounded like someone was taking a sledge hammer to all the work surfaces, but we imagined that the young lad had borrowed it from his parents and he was trying to impress his girlfriend on how hard he could slam the draws.
We closed up for the evening early.
Tuesday 9th May
I woke with plans to remove the valve core from two tyres of the adjacent campervan and throw them into the sand dunes. But I didn’t.
However, we were more interested in getting off early and Julie’s advice about the above saved me gaining some ankle jewellery.
We had plans to visit what we heard was a fantastic beach on our way back to Harris and we wanted to be there as early as possible as it didn’t look like there was a lot of parking.
Off the improved B-road and onto an unimproved affair which was a lot of fun to dive down but it needed to be done slowly. Plenty of drop offs and blind bends with long sections of no passing places.
Fuel was becoming a bit low and as we came through a little village with nothing but a small playground and a community hall, there was a tiny self-service petrol station. Well, it was asking for it.
A bit more expensive than the filling stations in Stornoway but a good 20 miles and 40 minutes drive closer.
As we got closer to Bosta beach, the road began to go up and down to quite hilarious degrees but with a sigh of relief we managed to make it to the limited car park and find a space.
The map had indicated an Iron age village somewhere close to the car park and true to form, there was a sunken Iron age house made as a replica of the ruins further up the valley. It was quite amazing with a very clever swirling door down into the ground to lessen winds into the house.
Walking down to the beach we found our now favourite beach, so quiet and sheltered with marvellous little islands out to sea. One of them quite a way out was very rocky and tall with a strange white dome to it. We surmised that this might well be a Gannet colony.
To make matters more interesting we found a big planter pot about 20 metres out into the sea. Worth a photo but surmising about it, I could not be arsed.
We were back to the van to have lunch, mainly of bits and bobs that were taking up space, some supermarket scallops, olives and salami in the fridge, some biscuits and a cup-a-soup in the food box, and the canoe which hadn’t been touched although transported over 700 miles on the roof.
Again, I made that up about the canoe, but it did seem a shame not to use the inflatable canoe, but it was just too windy and cold and none of us wanted to end up in Tromso, Rekyavik, Nova Scotia or Rio de Janeiro. On second thoughts that last one….
With lots of fuel and in and really good weather conditions we headed back to cross over the mountains from Lewis to Harris. As soon as we began to climb into the mountains it began to rain with biblical rage and we were soon down to a very slow pace as the edge to the road lead to lots of long drop offs. We were hoping this would not last because the weather forecast had really not suggested that this might possibly happen.
Back onto Harris and to the bottom of the mountains we found the rain eased a bit and took the 12-mile wee road to Hushinish. This has to be one of the most spectacular roads we had been on, single track all the way with fantastic views over the bay below. It really felt like we were heading towards the edge of the world. Every now and again the road would be blocked by sheep, lambs or somewhat stubborn cattle but eventually we found our way.
It took 35 minutes to get to the end of the road but the rewards were well worth it. Arriving at the Huushinish peninsula we found a little car park for campers, a few showers, toilets and running water in a little outhouse with a few information boards about its history and wildlife. Almost glowing in front of us was a parking space which backed onto the marvellous beach.
There had been a bit of beach one-upmanship going on throughout this trip but we now had a clear winner including an additional award for the best campervan back door ever attained.
99% viewSimilar to a previous campsite the local community had managed to create a good balance of allowing campers but in limited numbers by charging a very reasonable £10 for a night stay with water, showers, toilets and waste disposal. I was much happier to pay my way than parking in a lay-by for free.
We walked down the peninsula and found a little bay to stop at, throw bits of seaweed for the dog (she is so easily pleased) and soak up the sun and views. It was truly idyllic.
Getting back to the van it was a matter of cup of tea after cup of tea and a good stare from mid to long range.
People came and went but I was surprised to see a little camper arrive from Norway. Out of it jumped a chap, his partner and a few children. After a few minutes I said to Julie, “that Norwegian man has shed his keks and is going for a skinny dip”. True to life, the said north European was running down the beach, bare as the moment he was born, and dived into the waves.
“David, fetch me the binoculars!”
“What for”?
“I want to be sure he has a G-Sting on”.
The Norse man emerged from the waves, butt naked, his twinkie walnut whipped from the cold and began to walk around the beach like he was some sort of public service. A poor old couple with little dog on a lead spend the next 15 minutes stood still and radar locked him with the back of their heads so they were not forced to see a bit of Norse cold steel.
It was fucking hilarious, but a bit much really for Great British eyes. He probably didn’t know that British people, don’t usually go skinny dipping. Especially when the water was that temperature.
Anyway, he finally got dressed and his less than impressed wife then unloaded children from the camper and they then got on with very normal family activities.
Julie later forgave his knob exposure because he was very lovely with his children.
After that trauma we sat back with another cup of tea and enjoyed the views. It was most relaxing and edifying.
And then two young ladies who had been sunbathing down on the beach, not sure how that was possible given the cold wind, but they were killing it, began to play bag-pipes and it turned into the most Scottish perfect beach you could ever come across.
99% musical welcomeWe were on the early 07:10 ferry out of Tarbert, some 40 minutes away, although only 14 miles, so including a 45 minute check in time we needed to be away early and an early night was needed. It was somewhat hastened and massaged into us by the breaking of waves on the beach.
This has been a truly 99% fantastic beach camp, only let down by a rather inevitable cold wind and a bit or Norse cock. Trip advisor refused my comment.
Wednesday 10th May
We had set ourselves what we considered to be a reasonable amount of time to be bludgeoned from our sleep by and alarm, and get ready to go, but there is never enough time to get ready at something like 05:30am.
We left a little late but slowly made our way down the lane meeting no traffic but the occasional coo who needed to be encouraged to move with a little nudge of the car and an old chap we had seen working on a house yesterday in the middle of nowhere, just walking.
There must have been something to walk to.
We made reasonable time and booked in just before closing time. The ferry, Clansman, was there waiting for us but the car park was not very full. We were on the early ferry so perhaps this was to be expected.
Loading up, all the cars filled about 1/8 of the vehicle deck and we left Winnie in the car as it was where she would be happiest. It was cold and miserable on deck so as soon as the ship set sail we went to the café and had a Scottish breakfast. It was kind of English breakfast without the black pudding(hurrah) but with the usual suspects, crockets and what appears to be a half-baked pizza base. Not sure what that was but it went down well.
The American Lady in front of me in the queue was having problems with the touch screen coffee machine. She was pressing everything, smacking its top and front and still coffee was not emerging. In the name of international good relations I worked out what was needed and got the machine to dispense the correct coffee for the grateful lady. Her comment was “Jesus, you need a coffee to work out how to work the coffee machine”.
I wanted to ask the existential question, “Has coffee developed a self-awareness”? but as per usual, I put this aside and was just charming.
The crossing was uneventful and the ship pulled into Uig on the Ilse of Skye and we all departed heading in different directions. We were going to head over the north road of the island to its eastern side to see a few things we wanted to see.
After a few miles of travel, and having spent a week on the Outer Hebrides, things really hit home. Skye was like Birmingham City Centre in comparison. Houses everywhere.
In every layby was a group of massive campervans. Little satellite dishes poking up to receive their mind mush.
I had a real dark and foreboding feeling about this place and it was nothing to do with its inhabitants, rather what its visitors were turning it into.
I am told it has been happening all over Scotland, especially in the north west where the popularity of the North Coast 500 route has brought much misery to the local inhabitants the minimal infrastructure and fragile landscape.
The roads on Skye were a bit of a laugh too. Not so many single-track affairs but the pot holes were like getting hit by a rocket propelled grenade. You needed a rope to get out of the other side of them. The reason for all the pot holes was hard to work out. Fair enough the roads were a lot busier than where we had been but were likely not to have been significantly affected by hard frosts. I wondered if there was a local policy not to repair them quickly to catch out tourists. We certainly passed a few people changing wheels 100 meters after a Sarlac pit of a road defect.
We went to the fossil museum but that was closed. Then we could not get on the car park to see the waterfall and finally turning up at the car park for the Old Man of Storr, the mist had dropped and it was raining. We weren’t going to bother with that.
Although the views were lovely, when out of the mist, I think we had been spoilt on the Outer Hebrides and everything was a bit, meeh.
However, the mountains and cliff faces were certainly much more impressive, although often covered in cloud.
We decided to cut short our stay on Skye to one night and headed over to Glenbrittle to stop at its famous campsite sat below the Cullin Mountains. Just before we turned onto the treacherous single track road that lead to it, we found a slow moving hire camper in front of us breaking erratically and weaving around potholes to the extreme danger of other road users.
Usually, we had found that people pulled over in passing places to allow overtaking, but not this twat. 6.5 miles of sudden braking, swerving and anywhere between 5mph to 25mph saw at least 15 vehicles following the camper that got called so many really, really offensive names. In the end I was told off and had to say them all to myself. My head grew noticeably bigger.
I remember back to a bit of driving advice given to me by a neighbours dad. “If someone is acting like a prat in a car in front of you on the road, see if you can nudge him off”. The long drop offs and steep slopes really did have this going though my mind, but of course, I didn’t.
Half way down Glenbrittle is the Fairy Pools, a group of pools in a glen below the Cullin Mountains, and are the main reason why people come to the valley. Stupidly we parked up on the car park for such pools and paid the £6 for parking without really thinking why. All around there were many a tourist probably thinking exactly the same thing.
We did make use of the toilets, so it was not totally in vain.
As we set off down the path to the pools, the mountains totally shrouded in mist it really did begin to rain. With a strong wind I quickly found half of my legs dry and the other wet. It was not pleasant. We ended up at the bottom of the first pool and both Julie and the dog looked at me with exactly the same expression. This is ‘shite’.
I was inclined to agree.
Back up to the car we got in and cranked up the heaters to max. driving to the end of Glenbrittle we found fewer vehicles and generally more outdoor enthusiasts who I find to be much more reasonable tourists.
We booked a spot for the night on the campsite by the beach which was quite nice and settled down to lots of tea and a hope of looking up to the Cullin Mountains but never seeing much over 300m in height.
It appeared that the new tredy thing was roof tents. Have a tent on your roof so no bug might bite you buy you break both ankles when you want a piss in the night.
Honestly it is the SUV of camping. ‘ohh look at me’!
I have come across them many times and always found increasibly unhappy owners.
In Morocco I came across a chap who never used his and had bought a normal tent because when he set it up all the locals came to see what was going on because it was like a massive beacon saying ‘rich dude here, he may give something away’.
Bern at Horgabost had one and was not impressed because wind had blown rain into it. In anything but still conditions they must be a horror to sleep in as they must catch the wind more than the national gird.
And as for getting out for a piss in the night, I’m sure most of them come with a set of huggees so you can piss yourself in without the exceptional danger of walking down a ladder to go water the daisies.
Some had gone to really silly lengths. Mate get a grip.
The weather was pretty rainy, windy and cloudy so we settled in to eat, drink and be moderately merry.
The end
We had decided that Skye was not so much fun and we were going to vacate and put the majority of miles in to return home the next day.
Although not fully out we were treated to a nice view of the Cullins and given we were leaving early the majority of tourist traffic had not started. This changed as we got closer to the bridge connecting us to the mainland. It was slow going and the sat nav told us we had still a good 300 miles to go to reach the Lake District.
We chugged on, stopping for breaks every now and again. Glasgow was busy but we manage to get around it and we were hit with horrible rainstorms coming down the M74. Out of Scotland we soon found ourselves in the Lake District and at one of our favourite campsite at Brotherswater.
We had been here so many times with the boys but, now in fairly early spring with much of the campground still wet and we could not drive on the grass. The memories were not properly lived out.
A quick trip up to the pub to use the new-fangled wifi thing and find out work was really piling up at home was a slight help.
Next morning, we were away early, giving Winnie a good walk up a fell and then back to home on only moderately irritating motorways.
Drawing it to a close.
1284 miles travelled at 39.7mpg on petrol which isn’t bad in my mind.
0 miles paddled in a canoe transported 1284 miles and a bit more to get it from the garage to the car.
4 ferries taken, so so food and drink, but only 194 quid. Fantastic view. One ferry owes me a quid.
Four islands visited (you could count it as 9 if you had varying scales of island). Three were fantastic one was meeeh, but only because of the campervans.
I don’t like big campervans. They are wank.
I do like small campervans.
I like wee roads and people on wee isles.
I need to have more patience.
Being away from the usual is better than a million pounds.
The north-west of Scotland needs protecting from too much tourism.
I need to get myself ready form my next trip!
I will shut up now
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