Scotland

The Scottish Highlands (or Heelans as the Scots pronounce it) are famous for lots of things, including but not limited to:
1. Whisky
2. Lots of old castles
3. The rugged beauty
4. Haggis
5. Heelan Coos (or Highland Cows)
6. Braveheart (although I think this is only to outsiders and it’s best not to mention Mel Gibson to any self-respecting Scotsman - uncool)

I am happy to say that we sampled, or at least viewed all these things, bar, obviously, blue-faced Braveheart who is long gone, I mean filming must have wrapped, what, ten years ago?
There are whisky distilleries everywhere, so if you like your tipple to take the hair off your chest, this is the place for you. (Unfortunately am too weak for this most fierce of bevvies and discovered am more a ‘Cardonnaaaay’ type gal).
The castles are breathtaking, and often in various stages of disrepair from, “needs the guttering done”, to “What? No roof is totally the new black”. So gorgeous.
Next, the rugged beauty of the place cannot be surpassed. The hills, the heather, the thistles, the open plains, the immense lochs must be seen to be believed. We pulled in for a picnic at Loch Ness for obvious reasons. It was, obviously, raining so we squatted under a tree and looked out for Nessie. No sign unfortunately, and the only monsters I encountered were huge swarms of Scottish midgies (apparently a hazard of travelling there in July) with only one wish: to bite as much of my exposed skin as humanly, or I suppose midgily, possible. Luckily, as it was typical Scottish summer weather – cold, rainy and a little bit miserable, the only bits of me sticking out were my face and my hands, keeping bites to a minimum. We even over-nighted in a super-cute B&B called Caledonian House in the Ness-side town of Fort Augustus in the hope that Nessie would appear in the wee hours, but to no avail. However, Mike did utilise this stop to sample “haggis, neeps and tatties” in a local Scottish restaurant. Which basically translates to sheep stomach, sweedes and potatoes served with oatcakes. Hmmm. I had local mussels instead – my stomach couldn’t stomach a stomach.
Then it was off to Kingussie, “Home of TV’s Monarch of the Glen”, to search out some Heelan Coos. You know, those, huge, hairy, golden-haired cows with big horns and kind face. We stayed in a fab B&B called Ruthven House, that was conveniently located next to a whole field full of Heelans. Aside from communing with the local wildlife, we went hiking, although our trek to the summit of Cairngorm Mountain was cut short when the weather closed in and the temperature dropped to around zero degrees. Unfun at the best of times, but especially without gloves and a beanie, so we quickly scarpered back down again to the base where it was a toasty 13.
I should also point out that I am, through my Mum’s family, a McPherson. Mum was one, my grandma is one and so on. So it was only right that I went in search of the “seat of the clan”, which is in Newtonmore, just five minutes away. There was even a McPherson museum there, dedicated to all the famous McPhersons. And yes, a picture and a letter from Elle were proudly displayed. Bizarrely, the man in charge of the museum knew my Australian-based family, and had been matey with my great, great uncle, a soldier in India. The world is just too small, right? The motto of our clan is “Touch not the cat without a glove”. Brilliant. I’d gone around all these years touching cats barehanded, unknowingly. Or was that touching cats that weren’t wearing paw-accessories? Well, whichever, I shall try to adhere to the motto.
After a week in the Highlands, we wound our way South, to the bright lights and big city of Edinburgh. We did all the predictably touristy things. Walked the Royal Mile, clambered about the castle, went to the pub, bought a tartan scarf, listened to a bagpipe player wearing a kilt, dashed in and out of the rain. And although we had a great time in Scotland’s capital and the pretty little border towns of Jedburgh, Kelso and Melrose we visited before driving back across the border, our hearts had been captured by the wild highlands. We would happily paint our faces blue and gallop across those plains any old time.

Entering Scotland from England via road is somewhat of an anticlimax. There’s no sign, no marker, although perhaps the weather got slightly worse, which was saying something. Snuggled up in my new ski jacket (yep, it may have been summer in the Northern Hemisphere but I had to run to an outdoor shop in Cumbria to stock up on woolly socks and a heavy-duty, wind- and rain-proof padded coat) I watched as grey, rain-soaked fields gave way to the industrial outskirts of Glasgow. After managing to negotiate peak-hour traffic in the rain and still stay married, our next task was to make it across the Firth of Clyde, a large inlet that separates Glasgow from the highlands. Unhelpfully, the big bridge was closed, with nothing but a small sign saying ‘Ferry this way’, plus an arrow pointing in the direction of the boats. About, ooh, and hour’s drive later, we made it to the car ferry landing, which was basically a small barge on a chain that putted back and forth across the water. Finally, we were in luck. The boat was about to leave and wasn’t quite full. Although safely on board we were more than a little shocked when this 10-minute trip cost us almost 20 pounds, which is more than 50 Aussie dollars. Still, we were on our way. Ach laddies.
Driving in Scotland is truly an experience to savour. The roads, even the minor ones, are well-sealed and safe. The scenery is breathtaking and you really do see so much from your car. A hugely different experience from whipping along the Autoroutes in France or Italy at 130 kilometres per hour, staring at a grey wall. Scottish driving is actually part of the fun, unbelievably.
After a quick night-stop in a charming and tiny town called Inverary, it was over the sea to Skye for us (thankfully that bridge was open and it was free!). Next challenge. The sun came out. It was warm. People were actually wearing T-shirts – I could hardly remember last time I saw a t-shirt all on its own. And it felt like the whole of Scotland and beyond had descended on Skye to rejoice in the “finally a little bit of summer” weather. Which would have been awesome if we’d pre-booked accommodation. As we were however homeless, we spent an increasingly frustrating day trying to find a bed. When, some time very late in the afternoon, we ran out of an old lady’s B&B who’d totally seen us coming and told us slyly we could have her spare room (literally, it was her spare room – 2 single beds, sharing HER bathroom with 6 other poor souls) for a mere 65 pounds (or over 160 bucks – “ I could stay at the Sydney Hilton for that” I cried in anguish) I lost my ladylike faculties and screeched at Mike, “Drive back to the mainland, we’re leaving, damn it” (although I might have said it a little more unprintably).
Thankfully, the Holiday Gods put their foot down at this, and miraculously we spotted a sweet little motel in the island’s suburb of Broadford, home of Drambuie. “Excellent”, we thought, “A bed, and hard liquor, just the thing”. Two nights later, we were in love with Skye. It’s a beautiful, windswept place with fierce-looking mountains, mysterious lochs, rolling green fields, ruined castles and isolated, white-washed cottages dotting the landscape. Our highlight was stumbling across a sheepdog trial competition down a little back lane. Now, this may have been simply a country-Skye trial, but anyone would have believed it the Dog Olympics, such was the atmosphere, the concentration of the competitors, the excitement of the dogs, the size of the trophy. We were enraptured with these clever, clever animals, their patient owners, and the crazy sheep that were driven mercilessly through gates, around fences and into pens. Some fellow travellers, a carload of Americans, also found the festivities, but unluckily for them, got their people-carrier bogged in the field poor things. After the locals couldn’t budge the car, the driver had some kind of stress-induced tantrum even I would have been proud of and strode off into the middle of the competition ground screaming into his mobile phone that he “didn’t want to be stuck out in the middle of ‘Goddam’ nowhere for the rest of the day”, and to “make it a priority to send a guy out immediately”. Unfortunately, he scared the competing dog and spooked the sheep, got shouted at in thick Scottish accents by the locals, and had to end up standing stock still in the middle of the field pretending to be a tree, looking, umm, sheepish, for the next 10 minutes until the trial had finished. I’m not joking, he really took up the stance of a tree. Naturally, we didn’t laugh at his misfortune. We’d had too many travel-disasters of our own to feel superior by that late stage.