Ardtoe

As forecast, the heavy rain came during the night, pummelling Marge and causing a disturbed nights sleep. This morning we discovered Marge had succumbed to once again being a leaky old thing, so we had to take care when packing up our bedding. Honestly Marge, we thought we’d got passed this problem. We hadn’t experienced rainfall like last night since before we went to the Isle of Skye. Obviously there was no rush to pack up and leave, so we took our time. There were public toilets just across the way from us, so we took the opportunity of using the tap next to the wash hand basin to fill our water containers and top Marge up with twelve litres. We are trying to keep the water tank only about half full because of the weight it incurs. The hills are pretty challenging around these parts, so the less weight the better. 

Yesterday evening we talked to a couple as they waited to board the ferry to the island of Mull. They had been away less than a week, travelled the north coast 500 and were on their way back home. We have met a lot of people whilst we’ve been away who have chosen Scotland as an alternative to Spain. Strange isn’t it, weather wise the two places couldn’t be so different. But everyone has vowed they will return to Scotland, having been entranced by its beauty, and the fact there is just so much to see. That will please Nicola Sturgeon. She made it clear that Scotland welcomed visitors. Any business associated with tourism were obviously very happy about this, operating to the strict guidlines regarding numbers, face coverings and hand sanitising. Sadly we have found that the ‘visitors’ and quite a few local people do not feel the need to adopt the rule of social distancing, and when we’re somewhere busy we spend all our time crossing to the other side of the road to avoid them. 

Midday we bit the bullet and set off wishing the rain would abait soon. The mountains had come alive since yesterday, waterfalls gushed, and torrents of water fell off them into rivers busy with the movement of water that flooded the gravelly ground. Our destination was the lighthouse at Ardnamurchan point, the most westerly point accessible by vehicle in the U.K. It was a long drive, taking us through some remote areas and along some very difficult narrow roads, pushing Marge a little too much sometimes.

Approaching the lighthouse we saw lamas in a field, as inquisitive about us as we were of them.

Then two highland cows, (or coo’s as they say up here). Their expression made us laugh, and we wondered what caption should be put with the photograph John took of them. By the time we’d reached the lighthouse, the rain had stopped and we were able to able to see across to the islands of Coll, Muck and Eigg. It will be nice to say we have visited this spot, but what a bleak and miserable place.

Our reward for the journey, hot drinks and cakes outside the cafe, for Marge a much needed rest, because what she didn’t know was, she’d be motoring for another hour and a half after leaving here. Retracing our steps over many miles of remote landscape, much of, which were remains of an ancient extinct volcano, four hundred million years old, we spotted stags up on the hills.

Their fine antlers easily visible in the fading light. It was just after five o’ clock and we commented on how the long days have all of a sudden grown shorter.

With much relief we arrived at  Ardtoe, a charming tiny bay with a white sandy beach and scattered rocks. As the sun went down the sky was striped with pink.  In the distance we could see the dark shapes of the Cuillin mountains on the Isle of Skye. We looked forward to seeing the view again in tomorrows sunshine. 

Lochaline

 

Another morning, another beautiful view, if you ignored the owner of van in front of us emptying his grey water tank all over the car park.

The vans were already a bone of contention for one of the locals, he had made a sign saying they could not park, probably because sometimes his view was blocked, and probably because of the disrespect our neighbour displayed. 

The small village was busy from the get go. A carpet fitter arrived from Oban, whereupon rolls of carpet and underlay were loaded onto the small ferry to be transported over to Easdale, complete with the fitter. High above, a peregrine falcon buzzed the crows hiding in the fissures of the rock. We didn't leave Ellanbeich until twelve thirty, having spent some time talking to some fellow travellers. They asked if we'd been to Ardnamurchan on our way down. No, we hadn't. They painted such a pretty picture of the area we felt we mustn't go on without giving it a visit. Right Marge, 'make a u turn', as the annoying sat nav lady says. We drove all the way back into Oban and out passed Cuil where we stayed a couple of nights ago.

For the first time on this trip Marge left dry land. We took the ferry from Corran to Ardgour. It tooks just a couple of minutes and cost £8.80.

We found ourselves driving through a remote, isolated landscape, not dissimilar to the top of Scotland. Marge a bit of a pro now wasn't fazed as we met four large logging lorries on the single-track road. The scaring caused by the felling of the trees was a real eyesore. 

Eventually we arrived at civilisation.

Once again Marge is mixing with the sailors, this time by the ferry that runs from Lochaline to Fishnish on the island of Mull. As she sits happily looking over Loch Aline, the car ferry tied to its berth, the green starboard light is winking at her, she's such a charmer. Whilst Angela cooked the evening meal, John fished the loch, alongside a family of four from Yorkshire who boiled water for tea on their camping gaz stove and ate snacks from a box in the boot of the car. John caught three fish which he gave to them for their evening meal. Much better than a box of pringles. Meanwhile in Marge the sausages and onions were sizzling .

We haven't done much today, but some days that's just how it is. What's the rush says Marge, we've two weeks yet before we return home. Just chill. 

Ellanabeich

 

A mist accompanied by a dreary drizzle greeted us this morning. Despite the greyness Loch Linnhe still looked beautiful. We knew the forecast was rain first thing, so we were in no rush to get up and push off. Neither were our Northern Irish neighbours. When we drew back the blinds the wife was swimming in the Loch. We admired her toughness. Not wanting to appear like soft southerners, we opened Marge's side door a little to let in some air, salty, with a hint of sweet seaweed. As we prepared to leave, the sun found its way through some scratches of blue sky, lighting the wet pebbles on the beach so they looked like speckled birds' eggs. 

We had only travelled a few hundred metres when Marge was halted so we could photograph a small stone bridge hidden amongst the trees.

Its patina of moss almost camouflaging it. Little gems like this were unmissable.

Then a few miles along the road a stop at the viewpoint for Castle Stalker, which is set on a tidal islet on Loch Laich. Then on to Oban, our planned lunch stop. Upon arrival we thought Oban looked a little down at heel under the threatening rain clouds, but whilst we ate our lunch the cloud shifted away and an autumn sun transformed the town, so we decided to take a look around.

The harbour and town areas were busy, so we walked up the many, many steps to McCaig's Tower where we were rewarded with sweeping views of the bay.

The sun so warm now, we wondered why we had put our coats on earlier. 

As we left Oban, we soon found ourselves in a countryside of lush green hills and lumpy and bumpy fields, and 'here we go again Marge', single track roads.

As we crossed the Clachan Bridge, also known as The Bridge over the Atlantic, we could hear Marge squeal with delight as she summited the steep stone structure. 

After all that excitement, Marge is now nestled in the corner of the seafront car park in the village of Ellanabeich, overlooking the small island of Easdale and the much larger island of Mull. She has the company of a few other vans which we know she likes.

Walking out to discover the small village, we admired the whitewashed single storey cottages that used to house the miners who worked in the nearby slate mines. The mines of Easdale, Siel, Belnahua and Luing were called 'the slate mines that roofed the world'. At the turn of the twentieth century they were turning out eight million slates a year. Most of the cottages now appeared to be second homes. Down at the tiny harbour, woodsmoke from the open fire at the pub filled the air. A boat was unloading a good catch of hand dived scallops into a waiting van. The currents of The Firth of Lorne buffeted the diver's boat so strongly they were worried it would become damaged by the stone quayside.

A small passenger ferry boat was running to and from the island of Easdale, barely a stone's throw away. We walked out beyond the harbour; the ground covered with small pieces of slate. We could see the rear of some of the miner's cottages, they displayed an interesting plumbing system for their waste, as did the public toilet, straight into the sea. Nice! 

 

Tonight, we were expecting to witness a stunning sunset. 

But no, we were robbed of it by drifting clouds as day turned to night.

Instead we were awed by the moon, lighting the clouds in the sky above the pub.   

Cuil

A cold start to this morning. But for the Scottish it was tropical. If the sun's out, the shorts are on. 

As we left our 5-star campsite heading for Fort William, we were lured into stopping only a few miles down the road at The Bridge of Oich. 

Across the river towards the weir, three herons danced around each other in the thin mist that hung just above the water. The scene was so beautiful, it was Scotland at its best.

Just pass Spean Bridge, we stopped at the Commando Memorial. It overlooks the training areas of the Commando Training Depot of the second world war, and towards Ben Nevis. After viewing the monument, we took time to read all the tributes in the remembrance area. It was very poignant.

Then on to the Steps of Neptune at Banavie, a flight of eight locks. We watched for a while as a small sailing boat made the descent. In the car park there was some dubious activity going on in a motorhome in the corner. Is it appropriate to be wearing a pink dressing gown with sheer black nylons at twenty to two on a Sunday afternoon in a public car park? More concerning, was the pair of discarded men's cycling shorts nearby!  As we passed through Fort William, we thought it to be a rather drab town. It's only saving grace being Ben Nevis which presides over it. From Fort William the drive was pretty, and before we knew it, we had arrived at a little place recommended on the internet. Cuil beach on the edge of Loch Linnhe.

As soon as Marge was settled with a 'postcard of a view', we walked out on the recommendation of some locals, who admired Marge, (here we go again), around to the next two small bays. Then back to starstruck Marge, and down to the other end of the pebbled beach, stopping to take a look at the abandoned boats, anchors and driftwood. 

Because there was so much driftwood, the beach was a popular place for open fires, which was fine on the pebbles, but not on the grass.

A local person had placed large stones written with a message, asking people not to light fires on the grass on each of the black scars amongst the green. 

Early evening, as the light began to fade, the gentle waves tickled the shore and the sun dipped, casting a light of pastel blue, pink and purple across the sky, the reflection catching the greying mountains.

Before the light of the sun disappeared altogether, there was one last blaze of glory as a pool of gold lit a cleft between two mountains. This really is a magical place.