A lot of people will have already seen this. Those people will also notice that It has not seen much progress since last they may have read it. It had all been saved on my old PC. when it died, I thought I had lost all the files. Allan was able to extracate it, amongst other files, from the old hard disk.
Please feel free to post a comment on it. I do worry when I don't get any comments, only knowing people read my blog, when I get asked why I haven't posted in months.
On the subject of comments, I was pleased to see that I have a namesake on the other side of the Atlantic. I didn't have the heart to ask if his surname is equally cursed as mine.
My trip away for the weekend seemed straightforward enough, I knew where I wanted to go, I even knew how long the journey would take, so I had intended to be in Applecross by the early evening of Friday.
Of course, planning and doing are two completely different things, you only have to look at the road building programme for that.
In 1982 the Stonehaven bypass was begun. It was only fifty years previously that it had first been considered an "urgent" project. The government and pen pushers, in their own little way, actually make me feel less self conscious of my ability to pontificate as no matter how long it takes me to follow up say, an unresolved insurance claim, I can rest assured that there’s probably some new disease, fatal in all cases, transmitted by pepperoni pizzas, and the only antidote is the addition of anchovies that they haven’t decided upon telling the public about yet as it may "cause unnecessary alarm".
I had it all worked out. As I was on early shift, finishing at eleven on the Friday morning, I would nip home, pack quickly, check the car over then set off. That was until I awoke on the Friday at three am to find that my mobile phone seemed to have been cut off as I slept. I resolved to call Vodafone later and also my bank to sort things out.
I left work with an air of excitement and determination. First step was Makro who had been advertising cheap tents. I have not had much luck with tents in the past. The only one I actually own is a huge thing kindly gifted to me by my aunt. It boasts two separate bedrooms, a porch and a kitchen extension. Dating from the sixties it’s of very high quality and is a fantastic piece of engineering. Then so is the Millennium Dome and look how long that tent took to put up. The other thing it shares with the Dome is its lack of use! Unfortunately I have only used the tent once, eight years ago, since that time it has lain, moulding and festering, in its five or so different bags at the top of my parents house in a room which unfortunately suffers from a leaking roof. I will one day resurrect this virtual marquee. But then, so will Aberdeen one day get its much needed bypass!
My borrowing of tents has tested a couple of friendships. Last year I mentioned to my friend Sue (friend is the wrong word, she has become more of a second mum to me) that I was to be buying a new tent. She insisted this was not necessary as her husband Dek (thereby my second father) had a good tent which he wouldn’t need for a couple of weeks. So it was agreed that I take Dek’s tent and his camping pans away with me on the proviso that everything was returned before his forthcoming trip. I misheard the dates and, on my journey home, received a voicemail message left some days before from an irate Dek who had believed me lost in the wilderness and had therefore purchased a new set of camping equipment.
I do have another tent lying beside my own tent in the leaky room. This is another borrowed affair from someone else called Derek funnily enough. He had bought one from Makro (they’re a cash and carry warehouse but you’d think by the way I speak that they were the only camping shop in the North) he had never even unwrapped the box. The first time I toured the North and West of Scotland, I had fully intended to use Bed and Breakfast for my accommodation but after Derek’s insistence, I packed his tent in my car "just in case". Upon my arrival in the village of Durness, I spotted the campsite and just couldn’t resist. Maybe it was the good weather at the time or maybe it was the better value (£3.50 per night compared with £30.00 in a B&B).
Probably it was the fact that the Pub was only a thirty second walk, a fractionally longer stagger as paths tend to follow a more diagonal route. In fact, I have often wondered if you make a drunk walk a zig zagged road marking will he be able to walk straight?
So to the erection (something of mine rarely affected by alcohol) Remember that this tent had not even been out of its box so I was breaking the first rule of camping in that I was unprepared. This is very unlike me as I have an annoying habit of packing everything ever possibly needed on a trip including the full first aid kit (buried by everything else in the boot of my car) boiler suit, high visibility jacket, no less than six torches, different sizes for different situations, yes dark is dark and up here in summer it never becomes fully dark but you just never can tell! I even used to carry traffic cones in my car just in case I happened upon a road accident and had to make the area safe!
How difficult can it be to put a tent up anyway? Under my belt there is all manner of camping experience from the erection of six man army tents to full marquees and of course the one that my elderly Aunt ,who suffers from Parkinson’s Disease, so expertly talked me through how to build whilst in her back garden. She had lost none of her school teacher like qualities that the many years of school teaching (funnily enough) had brought to her personality.
This was one of those dome tents, the ones they say you can put up in five minutes in a gale force wind. Appropriately enough, the wind had just begun to pick up. Five minutes later (give or take an hour or so) this miracle of modern fabrics and space age composite poles was up, minus the ends of the poles which I had wrongly plunged into soft ground, the wind howling past my ears, unable to get them out again when the elastic holding them on had snapped. I retreated to the Pub safe in the knowledge that upon my return the seams still wouldn’t run in a straight line and this would make it instantly recognisable amongst the other tents.
A year later when I returned to Durness, this tent decided that, despite having space age poles, the winds of the highlands were more demanding than any conditions NASA designers may have allowed for and I awoke to find the tent, my bicycle (which was propped up just inside the front flaps) and a nights worth of rain were on top of me. In order to extricate myself from this mess of snapped poles and a soggy sleeping bag I had to climb through the A-frame of the bike as it now blocked the entrance to the tent. The next night was spent in the Youth Hostel which was some half a mile from the Pub and the less said about how I got back from the pub that night the better.
Standing in Makro I was disappointed to find that the selection was somewhat depleted from that shown in their latest mail shot. Upon asking I was reminded that with the music festival "T in the park" this weekend there had been a rush on buying up the camping gear, I have personally never found a tent that I imagine would be suitable for a music festival. I only guess that they are fitted with chainmail to prevent their contents being liberated by the swift use of a knife, whilst their occupants lie in a state of near consciousness either stoned or off their faces with other drugs.
There was a choice of tents, a sun tent, more of a windbreak than a tent! A two person and a three person. Ever hopeful of picking up some "company" on my travels I opted for the largest one. Besides, it had the boast of being able to be put up in five minutes in a gale force wind emblazoned on the box! My theory was that it’s better the devil you know, I had always intended to replace the tent I had borrowed from Derek which was back in 1998 so he could have it on my return.
Arriving back at my flat I found that there was a phone bill waiting for me, this was rather strange as I had opted for a monthly Direct Debit plan some months previously.
The priority was to call Vodafone, my bank and now also British telecom before packing up all my stuff and heading away. I duly phoned all three and sorted out to my almost satisfaction, other peoples mistakes regarding my accounts.
I had been lying across my bed as I used the phone and was beginning to become rather sleepy so decided to set the alarm for two pm so that I would awake feeling refreshed for my trip.
Surfacing at eight, I realised that making it to Applecross before nightfall was now impossible. I enjoy driving through the night, the quiet roads, the early morning light, the knowledge upon reaching a blind corner that any oncoming traffic will at least be visible by their headlights. There is, however, one thing that terrifies me, Deer! Oh yes Bambi is very cute but, whilst she was mourning her mother, someone forgot to teach her any road sense. Since the reduction of hunting and culling of deer in Scotland the number of road accidents involving them have risen dramatically and you’re more likely to encounter them at night of course.
My own experience was some six years ago when travelling in a hired car on the A9. Having driven past a sign warning of wild animals I remarked to my passenger that in my years of driving, a deer had never crossed my path, five minutes later, this became something I can no longer say. Travelling at a speed slightly above seventy (honestly it wasn’t that far over the speed limit) I had a split second decision to make. Do I swerve left? No not up an embankment, I might roll the car. Right was out of the question as it offered a feeble crash barrier, the oncoming carriageway and past that, a very steep drop down a cliff. Braking in a straight line I managed to lock the wheels very little and brought the car to a standstill. There was something else which happened before I stopped a thump! After the obligatory "Oh Fuck!" we both emerged from the car to survey the scene. We had to move the carcass off the road and my friend, Derek (another Derek would you believe) looked down at the lifeless body and said "aww poor thing" I replied "what do you mean? Look at the car, I’ve lost my deposit!" Both the indicators had popped out of their fixings, the grille was missing several slats, those which remained had collected fur on them, the bonnet had a dent on it and a pattern of blood not dissimilar to the effect on a windscreen when a bird decants its bowels from a great height. The impact had come within a fraction of an inch of the airbag sensor so luckily the car was still driveable and I had avoided a broken nose.
I am not a heartless person when it comes to nature. I am a realist. I truly believe that some of Mans practices regarding animals are unacceptable but this was a genuine accident and had my decision whether to swerve or not it could have ended up with two dead young men. In fact it’s not unheard of for a deer’s antlers to puncture a windscreen and impale the driver. This was quite a small animal but it still took two of us to move it. Derek took the front legs and I grabbed its hind legs. "Urgh one of its legs is broken" protested Derek "I can feel it clicking" I told him that a broken leg is probably the least of its worries now as we lay it down by the side of the road. The law states that you may take a wild animal you hit as compensation for the damage to your vehicle. Which is all very well, but we didn’t know any butchers that would be open at eight thirty on a Saturday evening and to have taken it with us would’ve involved having to gut it, as the flesh of venison becomes tainted after only twenty minutes if you don’t. Besides which it was a white car and it would’ve shown even worse marks if we had tied it to the roof.
The hire company was very understanding but couldn’t help saying "Oh dear" and laughing. They of course retained my deposit and also asked for my permission to syndicate the accident report form to all their other branches as it was supposedly the most amusing story and accompanying sketches they’d seen in years.
The hours between eight pm Friday and eight on Saturday morning were spent chatting with new friends on the internet (none of whom were called Derek) and packing all that I believed I would need for what was now going to be only one night under canvas. One more torch, a tiny one in case I went to the pub without a jacket, I thought that the one that resembles a coastguard searchlight may attract some funny looks. Once I was sure I was ready for the journey I loaded up the car, checked the oil and water and headed for ASDA to buy some beer, cigarettes and to fill the petrol tank at the best prices. A blast of air in my tyres and I was off. It was now a quarter past nine and I knew I had a five hour drive ahead of me before reaching my final destination.
When I’m on holiday I tend to drive quite slowly but had decided to make up time on the major roads then slow my pace as the roads became less wide. I drove up Aberdeen’s ring road, which was originally intended as a bypass until someone had the bright idea of expanding the city beyond it; there are even houses with driveways directly onto the road. It now boasts seven roundabouts and sixteen or so sets of traffic lights so not a very direct route!
Outside the city, the road climbs past a forest of which I have fond memories. I had the great pleasure of the company of a girl there once. I still miss her and rue my decision not to take her up on her offer of a serious relationship. The road then falls very sharply to join another bypass which, I have to admit, is very well designed except for the roundabout at the bottom of this first hill which should be sponsored by a brake manufacturer. It really doesn’t matter how slowly you approach it, the copious depletion of brake pads is unavoidable. After this stretch of dual carriageway it’s all single as far as Inverness. There is always a hold-up of some kind on this stretch of road. Whether it’s an agricultural machine bouncing along at it’s flat out speed of 25MPH or a flat cap wearer who treats every day of the week as a Sunday drive. I pass a message board, normally used in winter to warn of snow ahead. Today the catchy slogan reads "Frustration Causes Accidents!" I mutter to myself "No, it’s these ignorant fuckers who happily drive at 35MPH in a Nissan Micra, oblivious to the fifty of so cars stuck behind them" Once you hit the highlands there are police signs which tell you to pull over to allow overtaking. I have no problem with this and am glad to let the locals, who have seen the stunning scenery before and now take it for granted to get on their way.
I passed through all the villages and towns that hadn’t yet been granted a bypass although many of these communities now don’t have to suffer the constant thundering of traffic through them that they once did. Ten years ago when I was at college in Inverness the route didn’t benefit from the many "stacker lanes" at junctions and "crawler lanes" up steep hills that are in place now. These allow faster moving traffic to whiz past the Lorries, caravans and flat cap wearers only to find a different collection of slow moving vehicles as the road narrows again. Never mind it’s a different Nissan with a slightly different travel rug on the back shelf so it relieves the boredom ever so slightly I suppose.
As I approached Inverness I passed the road to Culloden village and Culloden Moor, the scene of the last stand by the Jackobytes against the English army in 1745. It is now a visitor attraction but despite the flocks of tourists, when you stand at the edge what was the battlefield, you cant help but be hit by the eeriness of the place and think of the many good men who died here. That is before it strikes you what an utterly stupid place to choose to do battle. It was the Jackobytes Who Chose This flat heath land to make their stand. Anybody knows that Scotland is full of hills and trees and in the days before heavy artillery, the high ground was the best point from which to launch a charge. Before Isaac Newton got concussion from an apple, even a simple Highlander knew you could throw a stone downhill and it could go further than if it were pitched across level ground. Honestly to look of the battlefield into might have been of more benefit to rip up the heather and lay turf for a football game. On second thoughts, That’s Something else as a nation we’re crap at so maybe not.
Why were all these factors not taken into Consideration? Because our army was led by a Frenchman. Now I don't particularly dislike the French. They brought us The Peugeot 306 Diesel Turbo a very good car but I do blame the soft compound of the Michellin tyres for my inability to stop when I hit the deer.
The history books will tell you he was called Bonnie Prince Charlie, Heir To the throne and son of King James this sixth of Scotland (We have never had a King Derek by the way) And James the first of England. His heart just wasn’t in it, He was persuaded to leave his life of luxury In France by being promised the throne here. What they neglected to tell him was that in order to achieve the title of King, there was the little matter of disposing of the entire English Army first. It wasn’t just Charlie who was in charge of the Jackobytes, There were the numerous clan leaders but I imagine that they are communications with each other were about how If such and such ends up dead then we can get his land.
The whole escapade then, was fatally flawed and as vanity boy fled back to France, Scotland was decimated. The lands were taken over by English or southern Scottish lairds and the people were forced from their homes to make way for sheep farming. Even the wearing of tartan and was made a criminal offence. The effects of this, which came to be known as the highland clearances, are still apparent all over the top part of Scotland.
It was just after 11:30 when I arrived in Inverness. I was keen to get a haircut and wanted to top up my petrol tank whilst the price was still relatively low. The price per litre in Aberdeen was 73.9 pence, in 108 miles it had risen to 79.9 and the further North I traveled; I knew it would become even more expensive.
I feel I need to apologise to all the rural retailers of fuel. I appreciate that it is the oil companies who set the prices and then the government takes a massive seventy five percent as tax. I am simply not prepared to pay nearly a pound a litre for petrol.
Whilst I was paying for my fuel (and bemoaning the fact that as an oil producing country we pay the most for fuel) I enquired as to where the nearest barbers shop was which had easy parking and was delighted to be told just to reverse my car to the back of the forecourt and climb over a low wall where there was a shop I could get a hair cut.
I waited less than ten minutes and was greeted by a young girl with pink highlights. We chatted about the usual hairdresser things. She gave me a fair trim, except for scraping the back of my neck a little harshly with the clippers. The price was fair too, at only £5.50. I tipped her £1.50 making seven. Still a pound cheaper than my usual barber back home, they’re one of the cheaper ones.
I returned to my car and set off again.
I drove over the Kessock Bridge, an impressive piece of engineering and no Tolls, into the area known as the Black Isle. It is neither black, nor an island but I’m sure it has some historical significance. It is famous most recently for being the site of genetically modified crop trials and the subsequent influx of green protesters who make a habit of getting themselves arrested for trying to destroy it and probably make the problem worse by both necessitating its constant replanting and spreading the seed heads every time they ceremoniously trample the area. My own experience of the black isle was my involvement in building a deer fence around a primary school. This was not intended to cut the roads deaths to the children, as it was in a tiny town called Avoch (pronounced "Och" Remember to say that with a sound as if you were full of the flu and bringing up phlegm) miles from any major road.
I had studied forestry at college in 1991 and one of the skills we had to learn was fence building. The college grounds were littered with short sections of fences serving no purpose other than to show that the students could batter posts into the ground and string lengths of wire between them. So saturated was the ground that when I was being given tuition driving one of the massive forestry machines (so big That a six feet tall man could stand inside the center of the wheel rim and still have room to move around and this thing had sixteen of these giant tyres) I unfortunately crushed one of these ten foot long sections of fence. But was happy that I hadn’t destroyed the machine shed door and parts of the wall as one of my classmates later managed to do! Fence building is a lot tougher than I may have suggested there’s a lot more to it and after three days work I was very proud of our collective achievement. This was actually where I had headed to show off my work on the day some five years later when I hit the deer. There is definitely some bitter irony in the fact that I had just come from visiting a structure designed to keep deer out of certain places when I should collide with one of these dear (the pun was irresistible) creatures.
Continuing up the road, my goal became ever nearer. The first road sign I had been aiming for was Inverness, The next was Ullapool. This part of the journey was rather uneventful except for the recently resurfaced a stretch of road. Everyone, even myself, disregards the 20mph maximum signs and the warnings of Loose chippings. I drive an old Volvo and to be frank I couldn’t’ care less if the paintwork picks up a few chips, but I do worry about my windscreen getting a crack, So before long I had to adjust my speed accordingly. The other thing that concerns me about this type of road surface is that it never lasts, even if every vehicle drove across it at a steady 20mph, I don’t think it would last two weeks before looking more like a farm track with two ruts up the middle. I remember a friend who used to work in the insurance claims industry. He told me of a road in the Aberdeen area, which was repaired using this tar and chips on top method. Unfortunately, it was the hottest day of the year and several cars got stuck in it, others suffered permanent damage to their tyres or body work and subsequently the road department were hit with a massive repair bill.
I wasn’t going all the way to Ullapool this time and turned off to Auchnasheen.
Once I reached Auchnasheen I had a choice, I could continue on this road and travel to Applecross via Glen Torridon then the coast road, or travel through Glen Carron on to the mountain approach
In the past I had used the Torridon route and on my first tour, had stayed at the youth hostel. It was a Saturday night and I asked the hostel warden where the Pub was. When travelling I do enjoy socializing and meeting local people who can give me a better insight into an area. I was told that the nearest establishment was some half a mile away but that there was a Ceilidh being held at the village hall. It was open till one and was only 100yd. away. That decided that!
I had a fantastic time there together with the youth hostel warden and his wife who also appeared later on. I spoke to them about all sorts and had a few dances and I think made the poor guy a bit sorry he had suggested I come along as his wife seemed to have been rather unnervingly following my natural flirting, But he needn’t have worried as my sights had been fixed for some time on a group of young women gathered at one of the tables. One girl there was dressed too provocatively for a lone man traveling the Highlands to resist and we struck up a conversation. After a while, we stepped outside for some "fresh air" before she was called to rejoin the party as they were boarding a minibus for some little place I have never heard of called Applecross! I drove there on the Sunday and enquired after her but she was busy working in the kitchens of the pub and I haven’t seen her since. On my return
last year, I was told that she had a baby now (no. we didn’t go that far outside the village hall) and may pop into the hotel for a visit but still, she didn’t’ appear. I believe that she doesn’t exist at all and was merely a siren sent by the people of Applecross to bring me in so the spell could work on me and make me never want to leave.
Time was of the essence so I took the Glen Carron road because it is probably the most direct route. The signpost I was aiming for now was Loch Carron. The road quickly narrowed as I passed through the glen. Massive hills towered on either side of the road and the wind had picked up by now. A single track road with passing places meandered it’s way along the valley floor, passing small Lochs and Lochans (a smaller loch). The afternoon sun was glistening off the clean waters, some parts darker than others from the shadows now being cast by the overlooking mountains.
This is real mountain climbing terrain, Torridon being the largest in the range and hence the positioning of a Youth Hostel at it’s foot. I couldn’t see Torridon as one of it’s sisters, no less impressive, separated the stretch I was on from the road I had traveled in previous years. These roads are not for the faint hearted. I marvel at the way some local folk think nothing of traipsing along these highways just to go about their daily business. You have to realise that these single tracks are rated as "A" class major roads but are narrower in places than some people’s private driveways to their homes. It takes a bit of getting used to, diving into a splodge of tarmac barely the size of a large family car and waiting for the approaching vehicle to pass. You are always rewarded with a smile and a wave, regardless of whether you have allowed them to pass or they have pulled over. It can be fun waving to the left hand drive cars as I make an effort to acknowledge the driver and not the half asleep passenger who, at first glance, appears to have nodded off whilst driving. Thank god for foreign plates to make me realise that it is a map in their hands and not a steering wheel. A couple of times, I think I may have been spotted with my route map between the wheel and my concentration as I received a couple of disapproving stares. I chuckled to myself thinking of the many other things I’m known for balancing as I drive such as large bottles of Diet Coke, the occasional sandwich and sometimes even a donut! This forms part of the training for driving the trucks I use every working day. I had now confirmed being on the right road and shortly reached Loch Carron.
Loch Carron is a place I remember for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it has all the services that Applecross doesn’t. a lottery machine (I had forgotten about this and had to phone mum Sue to put on my ticket for me by proxy) a mobile phone signal, the lack of which makes Applecross all the more appealing, and cheaper fuel (although I was told this was an oversight by the elderly owner who hadn’t read the invoices from Shell) The second thing ( which perhaps sounds rather cruel as I have never spent more than half an hour at a time in the place is that it seems to have a certain pomposity not shared by Applecross. The hotel has signs by the waterfront saying "for hotel use only" the locals look up from their daily business as if to say "pah, here’s another clueless tourist driving through" and the golfers take their eyes off their most "noble" of games to give a look to suggest that prior permission were needed to drive across their beloved greens (the main road passes between the two halves of the course) As a final insult the national speed limit sign is posted half way up a steep hill out of town, negating the ability to take a run at the hill to avoid losing momentum.
All this pales into insignificance as I reach the sign I had been longing for which told me it was only twenty one miles to Applecross. Now normally when I imagine a destination being twenty one miles away, I think to myself "great, I’ll be there in around twenty minutes but Applecross, and the road to it, is no normal destination.
The initial climb is not too taxing, of course, I speak as I motorist and not a cyclist or walker, and this lulls you into a false sense of security. The route winds gently towards the village of Kishorn. I have only stopped here once before when traveling in the opposite direction I spied a postbox where I decanted a few postcards. There is a new looking wood built fish restaurant in Kishorn which I’m sure has tempted many a traveler originally intending to trek all the way to Applecross for the famous seafood menu that the hotel there boasts.
As you leave Kishorn you catch the first glimpse of Bealach Na Ba and the road which criss crosses up the mountainside. To some this probably appears a daunting sight (not least for cyclists!) all it did for me was fill me with more excitement that I had nearly arrived. The tarmac trail first had to take me around an inlet then looped back before beginning the ascent of "The Pass of The Bulls" that being the literal translation from the Gaelic Bealach Na Ba.
The road end had a sign indicating that it was twelve miles to Applecross. There were many warnings on this sign, "Road Not Suitable For Large Vehicles", "Road Normally Impassable in Winter" there were the signs that have hinges in the middle too ready to be opened up when the conditions on the mountain deteriorated.
This road is like no other in the country, in fact it holds the record as the highest climb over its distance,over two thousand feet within five miles. Vehicles coming down towards me (including those foolhardy enough to ignore the signs prohibiting motor homes) fill the air with the smell of brake dust. My own car struggles in any gear past second on the ascent. On some parts, where the road seems to just cling on to the side of the mountain, there is only room for one car at a time for hundreds of yards and oncoming traffic must reverse to a suitable space. On these threads of road there are crash barriers which hopefully would prevent any unfortunate soul from plummeting over two hundred feet down a sheer rock face. As I have said, this road is not for the faint hearted! When nearly at the top there are sharp switchbacks needing the tightest of turns and this is where many motor homes simply cannot either turn sharply enough or find a gear low enough to make it through the last push. To turn around is not an option, neither is to reverse all the way back as there will be several cars on their tail in moments, so it is not unusual to hear revving of engines, screaming of clutches and copious swearing, sometimes in other languages. A passenger may get out to give a guide and I wonder if occasionally it goes along the lines of "back, back," Bang "Stop!".
I reached the top and was, as on every other trip here, rewarded with magnificent views for miles all round the landscape. There is a viewing point come parking area here and it allows the traveller a short rest before journeying down the hill again. Some produce cameras to capture the panorama while motorcyclists empty their boots of urine following their meetings with vehicles cutting blind bends.
I continued on the road to begin my descent with the coast around Applecross now clearly visible.
A thought must be given to the history of this pass. Originally a drovers road for cattle it was, until only very recently, the only way to access Applecross by road. It was called a road when work was done in the nineteenth century to upgrade it from just a path. In the fifties the gravel surface was made more permanent when tarmac was laid. Despite this, it still remains a single track and is normally impassable in winter. Those wishing to leave Applecross had to travel some four miles along the coast to meet a boat which left at three in the morning for Kyle of Lochalsh, not being able to return until the same time the next day, in fact, if the weather was harsh they may be stranded away from home for days.
The "new" road, which follows the coast to the North, was only completed in 1975 and it now allows access almost all year round to the population and perhaps more importantly, to caravans, much benefiting tourism.
I came quite quickly down the Western side of the mountain. I suppose if my brakes had failed, my descent would have been all the faster. The tree line approached, my ears popped, again! The sign saying one mile to Applecross came into view and I rumbled over a cattle grid. The road turns sharply to the right then on to the waterfront and the village itself. On this bend is the turning for the campsite and I left the tarmac and drove onto the unsurfaced road and car park. I parked the car on the grass where I wanted to pitch, then walked over to the shop to pay for my night under canvas.
I was greeted by a girl with a non Scots accent who took my money and wished me well on my stay.
The people who live and work here are about as cosmopolitan as you can get considering how remote this place is. The girl who greeted me was Belgian, there was a French Canadian, two gorgeous Dutch girls worked there the year before and the campsite is run by Clive, his wife and daughter. They hail from the north of England as does the owner of the pub, Judy. From memory, her nephew had visited the area for a couple of weeks holiday five years ago and as far as I know he is still there. There are many stories of this where visitors come and never leave such is the appeal of this part of the world.
I set about putting up my tent after opening a beer which was well chilled having been in one of those fridges that plug into the cigarette lighter of a car. It was, in fact, borrowed from Derek who was kind enough to trust me with another piece of his property. I have no doubt he expected to get it back melted beyond recognition due to some freak power surge as is my luck when I borrow things from him. I didn’t mention his six month old Vauxhall Vectra that ended up in a ditch did I?
As I was putting up the tent I was plagued by midgies so the chain smoking began in earnest. That is one thing the little blighters really don’t like. I have been told that they build up an immunity to the various repellents and it is wise to carry two different kinds. A product which worked the year before is unlikely to have much effect the following season.
There is another, and very popular, way of avoiding midgies. It is very unscientific and I admit to having done it several times myself. The midgie dance! This involves moving your head in a jerking motion whilst flailing the arms up around the face then around the back of the head. At the same time as doing this, it is necessary to run from side to side looking like a rugby player trying to out manoeuvre a tackle. You can even add the words any rap artist would be proud of, "Fukoff, Fukoff, Fukoff-fukoff-fukoff you little bastards!" repeated until exhausted or until you reach the safety of a car or tent.
The sun was shining and it was quite warm so, once the tent was up, I took out my seat, a twenty litre jerry can full of petrol. I tend to take this so that I can use the over priced fuel found here as little as possible. The handles on the top could not exactly be described as comfortable but once I rolled up the foam bedroll, my bottom was adequately cushioned. With the backdrop of the sun going down behind the Cuillin Mountains of Skye visible over the water, I soaked in the whole experience while writing in my notebook. Summer in this part of the world may not be as hot as you might expect in countries such as Spain but where they do benefit over southern climes is the light evenings with it never becoming completely dark for most of the season. I have seen the sun still shining brightly after eleven at night although I still have to experience the true "Midnight Sun"
My usual pitch is close to the campsite entrance and this time was no different. From here I can watch the world go by and benefit from being close enough to the restaurant (should I wake up at five to eleven and have to run to order my bacon roll before they stop serving breakfasts) yet far enough away from the trees, reducing any contact with the midgie swarms congregating there. It was six pm and I had migrated from my perch atop the jerry can to a more horizontal; position stretched out on the bedroll. It wasn’t long before I drifted off in the evening sunshine, only waking as the air turned cooler. The long drive and my body clock being in early shift mode had combined to leave me exhausted and I retired to the inside of the tent to dream of my perfect woman who will one day want to share this paradise with me.
Sunday morning and I felt fully refreshed. I ordered my bacon roll and was again served by the Belgian girl. We spoke very litlle as I read the information and adverts posted all around the reception area waiting until my breakfast arrived. I returned to the sunshine where my stove had boiled the kettle allowing me to wash down the bacon roll with a cup of coffee before going for a shower.
The facilities here are excellent. In most campsites, you pay for your pitch, then you need to buy tokens in order to use the showers. Invariably one is rewarded with a cramped enclosure, the water is often only tepid and once it has started to come through warm enough then the flow stops while your hair still has shampoo in it. The cold water still works so you have to endure a pneumonia enducing final rinse. In Applecross, not only is there no need to pay extra to wash, there is a plentiful supply of ht water. The only problem is that both hot and cold taps are marked with a blue dot so it can cause some confusion as to which is which. On subsequent visits I notice this has been rectified by the addition of the words "hot" and "cold" written with marker pen on the walls behind the taps. The other thing s that the shower curtain has a nasty habit of being sucked in and sticks to your body.
I took to reading some more in the heat of the morning then continued making my notes. People were milling about the site going to and from the hop, car park and toilets. The Belgian girl passed a few times, each time waving or shouting a hello. As the day went by, I had been able to write quite a bit without having the constant interruptions which present themselves at home. I would look up between jotting to take in the view of a calm sea framed by the cliffs at the edge of the bay and the islands of Rasaay and Skye with mountains towering in the distance. By mid afternoon curiosity got the better of the Belgian and she came over. She thought by my position and the large writing pad in front of me that I had been drawing. Now, bearing in mind my inability to create anything more than stick figures of deer, landscapes would definitely be beyond me. My involvement in art is, to say the least, limited. I am a very able photographer having captured plenty great views. I can see the image I want in my head but translating that image with my hands and a pencil is something I just cannot do. I once applied to become a still life model with my local art school if it counts for anything. The woman who interviewed me was just as one would expect an art teacher to be. She had a well spoken voice, tousled hair with an all together eccentric manner. I found her very attractive too, despite her being a good deal older than myself. She was very keen to take me on due to the low number of young males willing to shed their clothes. A lot had applied for the position (is that the right word?) who had not been to the liking of this woman on account o their wish to supplement their "giros" by posing in front of young students. I suppose too that the thought of having to remove the obligatory Burberry baseball cap may have proved one step too far for them.
The Belgian girl ad I struck up a conversation. We both enthused about our surroundings. She suggested we go for a walk along the headland in the evening and I agreed, on the proviso I could return in time to order my pizza from the restaurant.
Later on, as arranged, we met in the car park before getting into her car and heading off to the other side of the bay.
Now, probably due to the amount of driving I do, I can be a rather nervous passenger but nothing had prepared me for this experience. As she hurtled along, launching into blind corners I was told that as a spiritual person she knew there would be no traffic coming in the opposite direction. "I just get this feeling" she told me "I can sense if a car is coming" I was also beginning to get a "feeling" a feeling that before long might change the colour of my underwear if she didn’t slow down. It wasn’t helped by the car being a left hand drive. The seat I occupied would, to me, have the added control of pedals and a steering wheel. Luckily, we pulled into a parking area in one piece before beginning our walk.
The path started by running parallel to the road before veering off, climbing higher through the heath of the headland.
Prior to the ‘seventies, when the road was built, this path was Applecross’ communication route to the North. It had now become redundant with some parts taken over by the heather and other bits now where a stream would run along briefly before continuing on it’s journey down towards the sea below. We walked one behind the other whilst trading stories. I had no particular attraction to this girl, although, while she was in front, I was admiring more than the scenery as her bum wiggled while she walked. It was only now I learned her name; Cat. This was not her real name, she told me, it was an unpronounceable one and she explained that everyone simply knew her as Cat. It transpired that she had worked her way up the country. Before coming to Scotland she had been a barmaid in Manchester where her previous partner lived. Cat had been an air hostess, a model and now supplements her income by doing Rieki healing
I must finish this off at some point. I realise that it was started over four years ago and needs to be concluded. All I will say is that it may only need a few lines but you know how my "few lines" can develop exponetially.
