Morning. This is the view from our own private jetty this morning. I’ve just, unsuccessfully, tried to swim in this; for those of you with dicky hearts, turn away now, in my birthday suit. Needless to say I wimped out, getting only partially wet. In my defence, by the time the middle half of my anatomy was thinking about getting wet, part of its armoury were losing its gunpowder and were telling me that if I went in, I was on my own.
Yesterday we were heading for Skye, but not quickly. I couldn’t get wifi so C drove along with my iPad open refreshing the wifi until she picked up a BT hotspot. It worked! Bex phoned just before we got to Rannock Moor (her car battery was flat) and whilst talking to her Jen and James drove past, phoning us to let us
know they’d zoomed by. We caught them and James’ parents up at a pull-in burger bar just short of Glen Coe and compared journeys thus far. We had planned to eventually meet with them on Skye on Monday, but it was great to catch them at the start of heir hols.
Here’s a puzzle: I’ve never quite understood why, somewhere in the middle of Scotland, these signs appear with the sentence “Links Farhen” and similar expressions in French. I spotted one of these yesterday. The nearest port that accepts European car ferries is scores of miles away, so isn’t it a bit late to be reminding our fellow continentals that they might be driving on the wrong side of the road; I would have thought the damage would had been done by now. It’s a mystery to me.
We stopped at the Glencoe visitors centre and walked down into the village, over the river and back up the valley towards the glen itself. It was neither a strenuous nor difficult walk, but it was just what we needed. We circumnavigated Signal Rock, where the Campbells signalled to the English troops the position of the Macdonalds so they could be massacred. I think that’s the story.
There’s something’s special about Glencoe. C remembers it from her family holidays; her folk had a caravan on Loch Leven. Me, always as the driveway to Ben Nevis, the starting point for the Three Peaks. I don’t want to swing the lantern and ask you to pull up a stool, but having done the challenge three times (ok, not all three peaks from the base of the first to the base of the last in 24 hours, but door to door from somewhere in the south in forty-eight; it’s still non-stop), the last one with school children, it is a special area and Ben Nevis is a special mountain. And as we drove northwards late morning there where plenty of hired minibuses hurtling south I’m guessing some of whom had just completed the Ben, all tired, hurt but happy. C and I have done Ben Nevis and Snowdon (twice). Sca Fell, the ugliest of all of them (in terms of views), is next for us to complete the trio. Stand by for tears.
Perhaps surprisingly the main road was packed. I would have thought it would have thinned out by now, but there were tons of coaches, caravans and motorhomes making the arterial A82 a moving carpark. It’s time they all went home.
We drove through Fort William and found somewhere to park on the North Bank of Loch Garry. Miserable (weather wise; we were cosy) and midge ridden last night, sunny, sharp and edible this morning. Supper was venison sausage and vegetable curry accompanied by PD James, ‘An unsuitable job for a woman’ on our Aiwa cassette machine. It is a fabulous piece of retro, but plays the tapes slightly slower than intended, so everything happens at a more relaxed place and all the girls sound like Moira Stewart and all the blokes like Barry White.
Finally, after my rant about the upcoming yes/no vote yesterday, am I wrong in thinking that this is my country as well? I am British, which last time I looked included Scotland, so what gives David Cameron the right to allow part of my country the opportunity to break away without asking me if I mind? Shouldn’t I get the vote too?
Just a thought – being here brings it all a bit closer.
Have a good Sunday.