Kim was to drop Stuart off at his geological field trip at Helmsdale and head to Plockton and I was to swim up. With ‘Wild Swimming’ book beside me I tore up to the Real Food Cafe at Tyndrum for fish and chips then into Glen Etive for a wild swim in a brown water pool under a creamy waterfall. Bubbles rose from the opaque water like some sea monster waiting for me, air pushed by waterfall through porous rock I rationally told myself, as I dropped into the brown freezing water for a naked swim and to rescue my sandal which fell in earlier. Check out where this pool is and make sure there are no distilleries down stream.

Invigorated and tingling the next wild swim was after the lengthy traffic jam at Fort William, past the commando monument and up single track roads with ancient forests and moss covered dykes to a waterfall. The Witches Cauldron has great rocks and a scramble down steep banks, whilst hand holds are rotting tree branches and a short drop into the freezing water at the top of a waterfall. Not a place to fall asleep otherwise you end up down the waterfall and displaying a shrunken, frigid and flaccid member to the tourists milling around at the bottom of the falls. Swam around for a while and then had to ask the witch to let me out as wet hands up that bank did not make for a graceful exit.

And so to Plockton in poor visibility – none of the flying club flew up (although 2 managed to trailer their planes up). Dinner discussing divorce with a lawyer and eating our way through the Plockton Shores superb fare before retiring with the locals to the Plockton Inn until asked to leave.

The weather was still bad so I headed off to catch the Armadale to Mallaig ferry with the aim of making Ardamurchan Point and back in the day. Driving down the small roads missing a car with the registration plate MOR4R between Morar and Arisaig.

I had read about the Singing Sands and parked at the gate and started to walk with towel under arm. There were no signs of sands, singing or otherwise, so I started to turn back. A trail bike passed and we chatted and I mentioned I was trying to find the Singing Sands and he said ‘only 15 minutes on we are camped there’. An hour later after trudging through a wood I reached them and they were camped there – it was 15 minutes by trail bike. I swam and heard the sands singing as I treaded along – it is a beuatiful beach with gorgeous views and well worth the tramp. I aske the guys if I could get a ‘backie’ back tot he car as I was worried about the ferry and the kind chaps lent me a helmet and I jumped on the back and we recreated the scene from Star Wars with the jet bikes in the forest. With nothing to cling onto but the leather clad guy and with my feet alternatively hitting the chain, the ground on turns or the exhaust we made it through a forest obstacle course. He said ‘woah, that was scary’ and I realised that wasn’t a question. Last time I saw him he was burning oil heading back to the beach… excellent fun.

I had a tough time schedule to meet now and drove down the single track road to Ardnamurchan Point (the most westerly spot on the mainland) and look upon the sea I had sailed past last year. Mariella, the sat nav, now todl me that I would get to the 6pm ferry at 6:15pm and it being the final Mallaig to Armaale ferry I was on a mission. After what I can only describe as a non fuel efficient ride I got there at 5:45pm in perfect time to roll on the last ferry and back to consume much alcohol.

The barman seemed to take a dislike to us, and in particular me, although going up to bar and being ignored I idly asked if he was playing tetris – and got a bark back – no I am not playing tetris as he continued texting. I loudly speculated that it he certainly wasn’t surfing ‘www.howtobeagoodbarman.com’ but fortunately another barman served me before thugee expended his rage on my face. It also didn;t help that when I was asked what was wrong with the barman – I replied that he is a ‘daft c*nt’ then seeing the look on the face of the interviewer said ‘he is behind me isn’t he’. Of course he was and so we didn’t get served anything on the residents licence….

Kim was going to tackle Blaven on Skye with Gordon and Jill and I decided to tour Skye. I took the wee ferry at Glenelg which is a roundtable 6 car ferry where the boat runs parallel to the slipway and the girl and skipper swing the car table round to let the drivers drive on. Half a dozen dogs were waiting by the ferry being kept in perfect control by a Yorkshire chap gritting a pebble under his boot – they were all in hunting mode. The ferry does not take long but it is truely ‘Over the sea to Skye’ and is a community ferry and everyone should travel on it at least once in their life.

I tried to get to the Three Chimneys for lunch buit it was closed when I got there so ended up with a passable fare at the Dunvegan Hotel before heading to Uig and the Fairy Glen. The Glen is not signposted but is opposite the folly tower and down a one way street then opens out into a fairyland of rock pillars and ribed hills. Quite magical even in the pouring rain.

The Plockton Inn had a great wheeze of dinner, although I am convinced on the health and safety issues. You cook your own food on 400 degree slabs which you get warned will burn you badly if you touch them – and you throw scallops on the slabs and guess when they are cooked. Fortunately this mix is also combined with alcohol so it was a miracle we got to bed in one piece.

In the Plockton hanger and fuelled by Gordon’s birthday cake I decided to mount an assualt on Dun Caan on Raasay, the highest spot on the island and a notable plateau. The postman was waiting for the ferry as we rolled on and rolled off at the pier on Raasay. There is a single road through Rassay and I stopped for lunch at the Isle of Rassay hotel which was doing a passable imitation of the Marie Celeste. Completely empty everywhere I managed to read the maps and thought I would find a shop for food later on.
I reached the end of Calum’s Road (he built it over 10 years when the council refused to build him a road to his croft, now immortalised in a book and a great piece of music by Capercaille) with nowhere to buy provisions for the walk. I still had some sweets rolling around on the floor of the car and a piece of Gordon’s birthday cake left. I took an empty Lucazade bottle to fill up in a lochan and marched on up the path which was now a wee stream.

It is a very pleasant walk but the surprise, apart from finding that when you reach the top there is a bloody valley you have to traverse down to a reservoir to climb up again to the summit of Dun Caan, is the view from the top. Magnificent – Skye of course to the south and west, Rona to the north and the mainland to the east. Wonderfully clear and great cliffs too. Kim flew over in Gordon’s microlight before heading southward. Finally a flying day! I romped down and drove down in time for the 5pm ferry over to the mainland so I could book into my hotel on Isleoransay in the south of Skye ready for my sea kayaking course the next day. Exhausted form the day I retired early after some superb seafood chowder and Skye ales and slept soundly in room 56 (which turned out to be room 5 and 6 joined together!)

Went down to swimming thinking it was Sunday and asked Jim why
Gutbusting was on today and he told me to shift my arse in as it was
Saturday – so got in missing the 5 minute warmup – but at the same
time in the water as some laggards!

So with groin and underarms freshly chlorinated I set off with the intention of getting my specs repaired again this time at another Vision Express – this time in Glasgow. I looked it up it was in Buchanan Galleries which I reckoned was near one of our clients.

Steamed up the road in the TT (I do like driving it and it goes extremely well on the super unleaded petrol I accidentally put in at 123 per litre – the handbook says you can use normal unleaded in emergencies…) and suddenly noticed a fast approaching police car with sirens blaring and
lights flashing – oh fudge I thought what a great start and pulled over
but no it raced past me so I followed him. It was interesting to see
that some people don’t pull over at all and he had to undertake them!
Hopefully taking their numbers to deal with them later!

I reached Glasgow in good time and then hit the labyrinth that is
trying to find a parking place. Thinking that Buchanan Galleries would
have one I had a wee difficulty actually finding them and the plane
GPS was still in plane mode so that was a fat lot of good. I ended up after several circuits finding the Waterloo NCP.

On foot I found Buchanan Galleries easier and it had a bit of a festival
atmpsophere with some religious nut with a megaphone and various
buskers and the sun was out and it was all marvellous. Vision Express
fixed my glasses so I was all set with perfect vision.

Except the Erskine Bridge is closed or having work done so there is a
tailback – but you are not heading to the Erskine bridge I hear you
say – yes but the tailback is so bad that it spills onto the road to
Gourock so there is a 30 minute delay! I reach the Dunoon ferry to see
it leaving – parked and asked for a ticket with the guy shaking his
head saying it has just left, yes but the next one, oh that is in an
hour. So waited for an hour in the sun which was fun with a bunch of
muslims in the cars behind with their engines on (for the hour) so
their air conditioning would work… I even asked if there was a
ferry from Campbeltown to Stranraer (planning my return route) but he
could only mysteriously say ‘CalMac don’t do one’. Scottish tourism hospitality rears its head again.

On saying that I love ferries – they are just brilliant. They arrive
on time, unload with absolutely no problems, load and set off and
collect tickets on board now. The journeys are short enough to enjoy
the outdoors and then you arrive – or for longer ones you have a bar
(for passengers) and cafe (if driving). It also helps that the weather
was stunningly good and the sea was perfectly calm.

So arrived at Dunoon, a pretty Victorian seaside town, with one
thought in my mind – Strone. I don’t know why Strone is in my mind all
I know is that I need to see it. It was pretty but I still don’t know
where it came from or why I was driven to it! I had a chance to
program the GPS and look at the map and it was all bad news – the Mull
of Kintyre was a fuck of a long drive. It was like up to Inverary and
back down the loch again. But there was the chance of another ferry
across to Tarbert at the top of Kintyre. Tarbert means isthmus and
when a King of Scotland granted land to the Vikings he said that they
could have islands they could circumnavigate in a long boat – they
went around Kintyre and then carried the boat across the short land
bridge to Tarbert.

I drove like a madman along a single track road through the centre of
the bit of the map that has Dunoon at one end and Tighnabruch at the
other. Tighnabruch is a lovely wee town well worth spending a night
in. But I was a man on a mission – and drove to the ferry terminal.
Not knowing if there was a ferry of course, but luckily I was in time to get the last one and I was hoping that with 8 cars in front of me it wasn’t an 8 car
ferry. It wasn’t it took us all.

I don’t know what it is about CalMac
and male toilets but I noticed this on the ferry back too – that you
are standing there peeing and the door opens leaving everyone outside
a lovely side view of your penis and its urinal fountain. I now look
upon people outside the male toilet on ferries with a different eye.
This one had the joy of when you shut the door and started peeing that
the door was would slowly open wide with the ladies toilet on the
other side.

Gorgeous views of Arran on the way over and the weather is still
stunning and warm. Reach Tarbert which is a lovely harbour and
picturesque buildings and read where to stay. Recommended is the West
Loch Hotel as it has good seafood. So I head down the Campbeltown road
in search of it. Views of Jura are stunning and also Gigha and also
the Dancing Ladies come into view. The combination of the road trips
and flying trips is just magical. My zero planning is all coming
together.

Well it would have but the West Loch Hotel restaurant was full of
grizzly old farts and the foreign girl said there was no room at the
inn. I was obviously not old enough. So I headed the 35 miles south to
Campbeltown arriving after 8pm in search of hotel and food.

First impressions are not good – as you are hit with the bleak impression
of a council estate. I was ready to head back to see if Tarbert was
any better (although it had mouthy drunks on the harbour so it wasn’t
too promising either). I parked outside the Salvation Army (always a
bed there) and wandered around – hotels looked awful and time was
running out. One had a splendid white stag outside so I tried the
White Hart Hotel. It also had a sign it was for tired and thirsty
sailors. I was both tired and thirsty and had done a bit of sailing…

Pressed reception button and flustered reception girl with attractive
smile comes rushing through from the bar. She was also the barmaid and
is planning to take her kids to Alton Parks and one of them fell ill
so she had to rush off leaving an inept crew of waitresses for dinner
- but I digress. Do you have a room – yes we have one. Is it a nice
one. She laughs. She has a double bed in a room and it is normally 45
but because it is late she will give me the room for 35. A large sign
welcomes you to the news that EVERYTHING has to be paid for in advance
and NOTHING can be charged to the room. She also discloses that there
is a songwriting festival going on and she hopes I don’t need to
sleep. Whilst all this is going on there is a veritable flood of
crying girls in sparkly party dresses with whatever boob they have
either on show or strapped in firmly. Yes I shall take the room I say
quickly.

Dinner is organised beside 40 girls in party dresses mostly wailing -
not because I was there but because Jenny was leaving. I spoke to
Jenny in passing and she is off to Airdrie. I said ah you are
emigrating. She smiled then laughed and then got back to the business
of crying – it is pitiful to see so much mascara running down. Dinner
was lamb which was salty but came with an abundance of vegetables (all
overcooked) but fabby roast tatties. They had a wine list with jam on
it, the glasses were filthy I had to clean it before pouring the wine
(which they didn’t know how to open) and yes they had the stress of
crying girls and all their meals but this was like the Highlands
before the English took over the restaurants – no wonder they wanted
the money up front. I didn’t get a picture of the bizarre girls party
because my camera was securely locked in the car – since the bedroom
door could be opened by pushing it – it had obviously been kicked in
before by some rufty tufty sailors and was repaired using sellotape.
It was ensuite and I had to battle through the songwriters to get to
the room as they assumed I was a gatecrasher to their Pink Floyd song
collection. Nor a Mull of Kintyre rip off for them.

I decided to go for a walk around town as it was still light. The town
was dismal and reminded me of Hawick, but the people were full of
character. There was some anniversary party on in one of the pubs as
there were pictures of the happy couple on the cashline machine and in
the windows of lots of shops. Eight girls dressed in trippy 60’s
dresses passed and posed for a photo – one looked like Joanne and
acted like her too (has she got a sister). I spoke to them in the bar
later and their dresses came from a design they bought on ebay – their
Karaoke was as trippy as their dresses.

I decided for some reason known only to Springbank malt, the local
distillery, to tell people “I am Polish Sailor in Scotland to look for
wife’ in my highland/russian accent obviously. I even got into a
complex conversation about negative equity with some woman who may
have been vying for my pad in Poland and was impressed by my English.
I met a diver from South Africa who had severe reservations about
moving to Kintyre (I told him about Scapa Flow). There was an amazing
mix of nationalities and ages and to be honest friendliness with
everyone. It reminded me a bit of the Kendal night – except they weren’t all
hairdressers and they didn’t move enmasse from pub to pub.

Staggering back to the hotel the entire town appeared to be well drunk,
with police vans shovelling in people by the vanload. So back to the
hotel with the songwriters still wailing away but the wailing girls
gone. The residents lounge had a wee bit effeminate barman and local (non resident) Campbeltown folk who started off telling about the unemployment and
interesting local history like that but ended up hitting each other with pool
cues. The ensuing melee resulted in 7 policeman and a nice policewoman rushing in and
separating the offenders whilst I was dealing with the wife of one who
was in shock. For some reason like the Polish plumber thread I had
told her I was a doctor to calm her down and got her some sugary
drinks so when the police arrived they delivered a blood splattered
guy to me as she had told them I was a doctor. It is amazing I didn’t
get touched at all since I was inches away from the initial violence
and fortunately they ran out of pool cues so reverted to chairs in the
next room so the fighting resumed there. The police only had the effeminate
barman as a witness as I had absolutely no intention of returning to
serve as a witness in Campbeltown Court for the pittance of expenses
you get. The injured were not pressing charges anyway as they were
apparently related. The pool cue wielding savage was carted away
especially when he started calling the barman all sort of names mainly to do with homosexuality and the PC’s (political correctnesses) decided that this had crossed
the line (the pool cue exchange just being a bit too much to drink
obviously). I think it was Elton John that sung ‘Saturday Night is
Alright for Fighting, get a bit of action in’. So here it all was – a
song writers festival, effeminate barman and a fight on a Saturday night.
Life imitates art.

I returned to my room – pushing the door open – such a good hotel no
inconvenience of fumbling for the keys. The songwriters had finished I
fell asleep.

Thus ended Saturday and I was now as far away from home as I could get
on a tank of fuel and a packet of Polo fruits.

The consequence of waking up after a Saturday night in Campbeltown is that

1. you have a hangover
2. you have been told that breakfast is strictly served between 8am and 9:30am
3. It is 9:20am

Quick dress and down for brekkies. The disadvantage of coming late to a meal at the White Hart is that the clean cutlery and plates have all been taken. Fawlty Towers was run better. One of the breakfasters asked for a pint of Tennants to go with his breakfast. Yes it is that classy a place. The Scottish breakfast was darned good though – tattie scone, beans, sausage and egg with black pudding – I passed on the bacon as I was wearing my Israeli Air Force T shirt. Tea and some orange juice (had to ask for a glass – I will see if we have one – what is it with glass and campbeltown do they not buy enough of them or are they all destroyed in the nightly violence?).

I went back to pick up my stuff and looked out of the window to see what I took to be a local mountain biker heading down the road – gosh I thought perhaps things are not as bad as they seem – someone out exercising. Then he went straight over a junction without looking and I realised he was on a bike because he was probably too drunk to drive or had lost his licence. Yes Campbeltown was the pits and I had wasted my time coming here… after all that travelling…

However…

Having spent a night in Campbeltown the fairy magic works and you suddenly start seeing everything as fantastic. Blame it on the hangover but Campbeltown is like an architectural demonstrator. There is a fabby library, there is an art deco cinema to die for, even new houses have arches to courtyards or quite nifty windows, 1902 sandstone tenements in perfect condition, there is a fantastic swimming pool (sorry it is an aqua something or other fancy name), great harbour, huge number of ornate churches, modern housing that makes you look twice and old houses that are covetable and look like they have been transported from the nice parts of Edinburgh.

I intended wandering down to the cinema and then heading off for a swim but I spent a good couple of hours just wandering around taking photographs of things I really liked. The sun was out and Campbeltown looked great – there were still some particularly dodgy characters lying around on park benches.

You don’t need to be Doctor Who to time travel – look through the windows of the Campbeltown shops and it is jaw dropping. I was in Buchanan Galleries on Saturday with its mix of same and samer and I am now looking at clothes that my mother bought when I was 2. There is obviously a complete lack of contraception which is not good with the abundance of alcohol as one shop seems to sell nothing but baby romper suits (from the 60’s obviously). Time warps are not all bad and on reflection Campbeltown was a characterful place that deserves more than it got (it even got bombed during the war by one of its ex pupils who joined the Luftwaffe and then strafed the place) – it stands geographically and touristically in the shadow of Arran.

It is a long way to go to visit but to be honest the journey is the reward too – but the joy of finding interesting architecture and a town that is not trying to be a version of Buchanan Galleries is a town that we should be building on today. It would be great to see marketing resources and professionals work on Campbeltown to transform it (but then perhaps pool cue fights make it more memorable after all)

So alive with the joys of Summer I drove towards Macrihanish and its famed beach. On the way was a fabulous cemetery (’Scotland the Best’ graveyards section highlighted it) with fabulous views across to Jura and to a ghastly wind farm. Macrihanish is famed for its beach, its golf course which borders the beach (large bunker), and its MOD airbase where NATO ploughed tens of millions of pounds to have secret prototype aircraft land on its 3 kilometre runway. Oh and there was the little matter of a Chinook helicopter which crashed in poor weather over the Mull of Kintyre to the south in the hills – where the MOD blamed the pilots, everyone sensible blamed the software which had known problems and everyone insensible blamed UFO’s as Macrihanish is the UK’s Area 51. The MOD has gone but thankfully the beach is still there so it was clothes off and into the surf to find surfers there all protected from the icy waters with wet suits. The sea was glorious and the views across to Islay and Jura stunning.

No the issue was how to get home – it was either going to be the long long drive up Kintyre and onward to Inverary or do a jump to Arran. It was all going to be in the hands of the Sunday ferry so I raced up admiring the views of the islands and strange rocks at Mausdale to the Arran Ferry. There were a few people waiting and in the distance I could see the ferry coming over. There were no cars so there was the risk that this was just a passenger ferry but the weather was still fine and a microlight flew over us. Fortunately another car turned up so either she didn’t know any better either and we would play tag on the way to Inverary – or it was, as it turned out, to be a huge car ferry.

Landing at Arran the first ting you see is the castle from Tintin and the Black Island – Herge wrote/drew the story after visiting Arran. The next ting is the Isle of Arran distillery so it was a quick visit to the shop for a bnottle of the good stuff and Isle of Arran icecream. Arran is heavily branded – there is Arran Whisky, Arran Cheese, Arran Beer (which sadly had just gone into administration), Arran Ice-cream from the Arran Creamery and Arran Aromatics. A tiny island with marketing nounce, or perhaps they need to let people know after a bottle of Isle of Arran malt where they are.

The mountains are amazing – like the highlands but smaller – and there is mist too lying in the glens. It is described as Scotland in miniature (another marketing plug) although it must have most of Scotlands alien Rhododenrons which colour Brodick (and it needs colour) and its castle.

Holy Island looks another interesting clamber – and with its Buddhist monastery there is no alcohol to be taken on the island.

Romped around the standing stones and over the challenging stoney road (just as well I had a 4 wheel drive TT) to reach the fish and chip shop at the ferry station, although it said there was no fish due to demand – although I demanded and they gave me fish and chips.

The ferry was mobbed mainly with people ordering large quantities of drink and i sat in the sober corner with anyone else who was driving reading the Observer and taking a shot of drunken soldiers when they handed their camera phone over and demanded some photographs – which was challenging when all the soldiers and the ferry were swaying.

A long drive back fuelled with more expensive premium unleaded which makes the TT sound really good – and it was back home for a rest.