Strathclyde Country Park Caravan Club Site, Bothwell, Glasgow

After three rather damp days about Fort William, it was time to move on, and we were treated to relatively fine weather for the breaking of our camp and a good part of the trip south. 

The A82 takes one directly from Fort William to Glasgow, although I might advise one to take an alternative route if towing a caravan or carting a wide load. The first part of the route followed that taken three days ago when we had climbed to the top of Glen Coe and today the views were superior to then, the rain mist not yet down over the peaks. We enjoyed less traffic, the hour still relatively early, as we travelled up past the Glen Coe Ski fields and across Rannoch Moor, passing the summit at 348 metres, then coming down through loch peppered country, the greater of these, Lochs Ba and Tulla, then down through the very small settlements Bridge of Orchy, Tyndrum, Crianlarich, arriving at Ardlui situated at the head of Loch Lomond. Here Chris reminded me in song of the ballad which made this so famous, principally to demonstrate the correct pronunciation; the emphasis of Lo-mond rather than Lom-ond.

At Tyndrum we had entered the Loch Lomond & The Trossachs National Park, which probably accounted for the state of the road soon after. Up as far as Crianlarich, the road was a veritable highway, and here the A85 branches off toward Perth offering several alternative routes south. Remaining on the A82, the road narrowed once it reached the loch shore, hugging the narrow rocky edge between the forest and the water, the trees providing a delightful tunnel to drive through, or at least delightful if you are in a Smartcar. I grant that this is a slight exaggeration, however we soon found ourselves following other traffic through at a snail pace, frequently even slower as we inched past other wide vehicles. 

We were keen to pull over for a variety of reasons, not least to delay our arrival in Glasgow, however there was nowhere to accommodate us, and so we continued on. Finally halfway between Inverbeg and Arden, we came upon a layby, already occupied by one other caravan rig and a small van. We pulled in with relief and dealt to our immediate needs. Then as I poured our morning coffee, there was a knock on the door; our fellow traveller had a great tale of woe. He had lost a wheel off his caravan, fortunately his caravan was a tandem wheeler, but this had still made his progress difficult. Chris remembered seeing a wheel on the other side of the road further back however we all agreed that it would probably be in no state to reassemble without machining. The chap had knocked his wheel on a kerb, had the wheel fixed and been told that he should stop after forty miles to tighten the nuts. On such a road there had been nowhere to stop, and so disaster had struck. The van in the layby when we arrived had been a caravan fixit chap; it was quite amazing that there had been any cellphone reception to call for help. But he had not been able to help, the one spare wheel he had was not a match for this. After some time, the caravanner returned to us and told us a towtruck was coming for the caravan and he would be left to make his way home in Yorskshire with just the car. He was travelling alone, perhaps his wife was busy preparing a homecoming dinner for him. The days ahead would not be happy ones for them. We wished him luck, unable to offer anything more practical.

So we came on, soon reaching more open country at the southern end of the loch, passing the dense residential areas of Alexandria and Dumbarton, crossing the Clyde on the Erskine Bridge, then eastwards near Paisley and Rutherglen, now on wide and modern motorway systems and overpasses, until our Tomtom guided us to our camp here at Boswell.

The Strathclyde Country Park covers an area of 1,000 acres of mature woodland, wetlands, wildlife refuges and open parkland around the Strathclyde Loch, all of which we have yet to explore for ourselves. Instead we headed down to Hamilton to shop at the Asda Superstore, stocking up on Chris’s preferred weetbix and dozens of other items, before returning and pouring over the maps and guide books, charting out our nine days of touring about the area. It looks like we might have a few fine days ahead, and even better, we have left the midges up north to feast upon a new batch of tourists.

Bunree Caravan Club Site, Onich, Fort William

29 August 2017: - Today marks twenty years of uninterrupted co-habitation between my husband and I, the greater part in the formal state of marriage, no mean feat when almost seven of those have been within the confines of a caravan or motorhome; I guess we have passed the worst test and will last the distance until death do us part.

However celebrations over another decadent meal were put on the backburner today, perhaps to be revisited in the next fortnight if we require an excuse to indulge in a dining experience outside the norm. We woke to weather no more or less than yesterday and nearly decided to remain indoors and spend the day with our heads in our books, or worse, square-eyed in front of the television. Thank goodness we did bite the bullet and venture out.

A ferry crosses the narrow neck of Loch Linnhe and plies the route every twenty minutes through the busiest part of the day, all for the cost of £8.20 for vehicle and however many you can squeeze inside; a very fair price if you have the whole whanau to transport from one side to the other. But with just the two of us, we thought it rather expensive, always doing the conversion relevant to the date we transferred our funds over when the rate was 2:1,  however it was probably going to be the only cost for the day’s outing and one should always keep things in perspective.

We set off about 9 am, arriving at the camp’s one way traffic controlled system as the light turned green, then overshot the road to the ferry terminal at Onich just metres down the main road, but turning and arriving just as the ferry was loading; luck definitely on our side.

Our destination was initially the most western point of Britain’s mainland, Ardnamurchan Point, immediately to the north of the Isle of Mull. Our route took us along the northern side of Loch Linnhe, then up Glen Tarbert arriving at the head of Loch Sunart, then west along the north side of this loch to Salen, passing firstly through the tiny village of Strontian where we picked up the day’s newspaper. 

This latter is considered the gateway to the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, and its claim to fame came in 1722 when local lead mines yielded the first ever traces of strontium, which was named after the village, with a small variation to the spelling, or perhaps an attempt to Latinise the name. Again without the Encyclopaedia Britannica or our loyal mate Google, we had to draw on our own limited general knowledge; we understand this to be a low grade of radioactive mineral. I shall endeavour to follow this up in a couple of days.

It is at Salen that the A861 heads north, waiting to be regained later in the day, and we continued along the coast on the narrow one way B8007, a particularly picturesque road albeit very slow. Soon after passing the tiny settlement of Glenborrodale, we pulled into the Ardnamurchan Natural History Visitor Centre which offers toilets, souvenir shop and café to the traveller, but far more interesting, an excellent exhibition about all flora, fauna and geology of the Peninsula. It is an excellent little museum, and warrants longer scrutiny than we gave it, but we were detained in the little theatre watching some fascinating films about the wildlife of Scotland’s Highlands and I would have been content to spend many more hours there had not Chris suggested we had other things to do aside from watching movies. He was quite right of course, and as we exited, we checked the spyholes through to the otter and pine marten dens, no more occupied than on first viewing.  

On we went, soon climbing up into the hinterland of the peninsula, moorland and bog populated with the most laxed-out sheep. Here one can pass these wonderful creatures at 30 or 40 mph and they don’t even bother to look up from their grazing space on the side of the road.

And it was here that I saw a small herd of red deer, and unfenced, surely wild and venturing into farmland. On whether they are welcome interlopers or not, I cannot comment. But for me, it was a little moment of excitement.

The 118 foot lighthouse on the Point is a most unattractive construction, surrounded in the remnants of equally unattractive activity. Tucked below the furthest point, a little out of the blustery gales, a café in what was most likely the lighthouse keeper’s residence offers sustenance to the travellers who come without their own lunch. Needless to say, we were organised enough to have our eski packed in the normal way and sat in the car out of the wind and intermittent rain marvelling at the wild sea. We examined our maps and could see that here we were north of Ireland but there were still islands out to the west to give some respite from the Atlantic Ocean. 

We did have a brief wander about, but did not checkout the exhibition; another rain squall came through and we decided to head on again. We retraced our route to Salen, meeting the head to head challenges of heavy traffic on the road with a little excitement, but no one died and no damage was done to them or us.

At Salen we headed north, firstly crossing up and over to the south west end of Loch Shiel at Acheracle, then up, over and down to the eastern end of Loch Moidart, then up, over and across to a picturesque inlet on the Sound of Arisaig, which we followed up until we intersected the A830, the main road through to the ferry port of Mallaig, the destination for those sailing across from the Isle of Skye’s Armadale.

Now on an excellent two way road, we travelled through to Glenfinnan, following along the north shore of Loch Eilt, then across through steep and impressive peaks. Glenfinnan lies at the northern point of Loch Shiel, and while a very small otherwise sleepy village, is a much visited spot by tourists.

There is an excellent National Trust of Scotland visitor centre here, explaining yet again the story of the Jacobites, which does become a little repetitive if you travel all the places we have in the past few weeks. It was here that the not so Bonny Prince Charlie and his supporters first raised his battle standard on 19 August 1745, which started the warfare that rolled through to the bitter end at Culloden. There is an impressive monument on the lakeshore, a sixty foor column crowned with a Highland clansman in full battle dress, erected in 1815 as a tribute by Alexander MacDonald of Glenaladade.  By the time we were finished with our further education in the museum, rain had set in yet again and we decided that the view through the big glass windows would have to do.

It was here that I read a concise summary of the fiasco that is celebrated as the Jacobite rising, sentiments I had already arrived at. This stated:

The Jacobite cause was a spent force. Charlie’s legacy to the Highlands was half a century of military occupation, the wearing of Highland dress and the carrying of arms were banned. Gaelic was discouraged as the language of rebellion, many Highlanders joined British regiments overseas or emigrated. The ’45 and its aftermath hastened the end of a traditional way of life as the clan system started to break down. 

However this was all after we had been distracted by the Jacobite Steam Train’s daily crossing of the Glenfinnan Viaduct, that made even more famous for its role in the Harry Potter films. We had been sorting our membership entry to the centre, when the girl at the till kindly informed us that the train would be crossing the viaduct in a few more minutes should we wish to see this rather special sight. I rushed out across the car park with a reluctant husband in tow, mumbling and grumbling about rushing about for a disgustingly dirty smelly steam train. I quickly told him he could sit in the car if he wished, especially now since the rain had started again. He just mumbled again and loyally remained. My whole desire to stop here at Glenfinnan was to photograph the viaduct, and here was a bonus; the smelly belching locomotive. I was delighted with the sight, but alas my attempts to capture it on film were abysmal.

From here it was a simple matter of continuing on along the main road to Fort William, then turning south along Loch Linnhe until we reached our camp at Onich. Alas it was not quite that easy; we were held up for some time waiting for two large lorries carting through massive excavation machines up along the lake at the south end of Fort William. Police on motorbikes, with lights flashing herded us all to the far side of the road and we all waited wondering why. I stood outside on the roadside and had a financial-free wager with a couple of chaps about the likely cargo: an excavator, a wind turbine or a portable building, the latter offered by yours truly. Neither the motorcyclist nor I were right, it was the houseowner whose garden wall we leaned upon who won.

Bunree Caravan Club Site, Onich, Fort William

28 August 2017: - Truly lousy weather kept us hunkered down inside the caravan all morning; there seemed no point to go out sightseeing when there was little hope of seeing anything through the murk and mist. You would have thought the strong gusty squalls blowing up the Loch would have moved the bad weather on, but all it did was whip up the white horses on the loch surface.

After an early lunch we headed off hopeful of a few breaks, our first destination the Morrison’s superstore in Fort William where we bought a few provisions and emerged in even worse weather. We decided to head up to the Glen Nevis Visitor Centre which, if at all like that in Glen Coe, would keep us under cover and amused for a while. We soon found this short of two miles out of town, situated beside the River Nevis, the lower slopes of the famous mountain just visible below the heavy cloud; we parked and fed the machine with the required £1. We then found the centre was closed for renovations, albeit it scraps of stock for sale out of a temporary donga; we were unimpressed.

We crossed the river, rushing and raging with rain flood, and walked a short distance along toward the trail that takes the determined walker to the summit. Had the weather been fine and the hour been earlier, we might have been encouraged to set off ourselves, but it was not and we were not. There were some heading off all the same, not as flexible as us but perhaps they had come to Port William with the sole purpose of conquering the mountain no matter what the conditions.

Ben Nevis at 1,343 metres ASL is Britain’s highest mountain, the highest of Scotland’s Munros, but is a relatively accessible peak to conquer. These days there are thousands who reach the top, albeit by the gentler routes.

The first recorded ascent was in 1771 when the botanist James Robertson headed up the Ben to collect plant specimens for the College Museum of Edinburgh. He was followed some three years later by a man called John Williams who was sent to determine whether the rocks on the mountain held any commercial value. Fortunately for posterity, they did not.

Believe it or not, since 2006, there has been an annual Ben Nevis Race, and the record held is eighty five minutes and thirty four seconds, achieved in 1984. Surely they were on steroids! Generally a fit walker will take six to eight hours for the round trip, and if we should decide to try it tomorrow, a whole lot longer.

We returned to the car disappointed on many fronts, not least the fact that there had been no notice on the parking machine that the Centre was currently closed. Instead we headed to Neptune’s Staircase, the rather imaginative name for the series of eight locks that carry boats from sea level at Fort William up on to the Caledonian Canal, that viewed and walked along at three places further north east; at Fort Augustus, Dochgarroch and the Muirtown Locks at Inverness.

The season is now that little further on, and today we found far fewer using this marvellous waterway. We fell into conversation with a woman who was walking the tow rope for the yacht she and her husband, and a female hanger-on, were sailing back to Glasgow. They had sailed up the west coast and across to the Orkneys, then down the east to Inverness and were now on the home run. She was absolutely delightful and we could have chatted for hours, however every now and again, her husband would shout out for her to do something with the rope.

It turned out that the two of them had sailed out to Asia and New Zealand in the past, and circumnavigated our own homeland, as did my own father some years back. She expressed her concern about settling back into life once age slowed them down, although some years older than us, it looked like any retirement from adventure was still some time away. We wished her safe journeys, and to continue to have fun, as she echoed the greetings to us, before we continued on along the tow path heading toward Loch Lochy. A few rain spots drew our attention to the blanket of bad weather creeping up from the west, so we turned and headed for the shelter of the car, heading home.

We did learn that the locks on the Caledonian Canal are all twelve metres wide and all but one are between fifty two and fifty five metres long. However if your boat is longer than 47.1 metres or wider than 10.7 metres, you will not be allowed into the locks.

Despite the late start and the inclement weather, we had touched on all the aims of the day, although not succeeded giving anything our full attention. Hopefully tomorrow will bring better weather; I do hope so as my plans rely very much on good visibility, and none of these include an ascent of the Ben.