SCOTLAND TOUR - July 2026 - Part 3

South of Oban  Tues 28th July

 This time I knew exactly where I was going. Ultimately I wanted to explore Kintyre, but first I headed for the Ardfern peninsula and, rather pleasingly, exactly the same spot where I'd camped the previous May. The view across towards Jura was just as good, although the weather was considerably less cooperative. Sitting in the van looking across the water inevitably led to ferry research, and another future trip was quickly added to the list: Islay and Jura, with a climb over the famous Paps of Jura. There are worse problems than continually discovering places that require another visit.

 The following morning marked the start of what became a thoroughly wet 48 hours. Heading south, I decided there wasn't much point battling the weather and stopped at Kilmartin Museum instead. Its Neolithic archaeology was genuinely fascinating and rather thought-provoking — thousands of years of people living, dying and leaving their marks on this landscape, making our own existence seem little more than a speck of dust on the timeline of humanity. Suitably humbled by my own insignificance, I carried on to the lovely harbour at Tarbert, where the immediate problem was rather more mundane: the forecast was basically a washout for the next 24 hours. There seemed little point driving down Kintyre's west coast when the principal attraction — actually being able to see it — had been removed.

 Park4Night therefore sent me back northwest onto the Knapdale Peninsula, where I found a good overnight spot shared with a few lads travelling with kayaks and tents. The rain absolutely hammered down and, from the warm, dry interior of the van, I didn't envy them in the slightest. They kindly invited me over for a campfire and a bit of a social, but for various reasons my head wasn't really in the right place that evening, so I stayed put. Ironically, despite everything, the evening actually produced a half-decent sunset before the rain returned during the night with renewed determination.

And then it rained. And rained. All night and virtually the entire following day. Meanwhile, much of the rest of Britain was apparently enduring heat warnings and water shortages, which seemed increasingly difficult to believe from my small corner of western Scotland. The weather radar became compulsive viewing and was remarkably specific: the front should finally clear at about 4pm. With several hours to kill, I found somewhere in Tarbert for a full Scottish breakfast, settled down with my book, then donned the waterproofs for a wander up to the castle and around the harbour. More reading followed. More checking the time. More staring hopefully at the radar.

 

At about 3.30 I drove down to Kennacraig ferry terminal to fill up with water (thanks to the Location app) and then, almost bang on cue, at four o'clock the seemingly endless frontal rain began to reach its trailing edge. You could actually see the change approaching — the great grey curtain finally disappearing away and clearer weather following behind it. After almost 24 hours effectively sitting out the storm, suddenly the trip could start again.

 Right then. Kintyre.

With the rain finally behind me, I steadily worked my way down the west coast of Kintyre, hoping that the improving visibility might finally reveal the Paps of Jura across the water. It was certainly clearer, but the Paps stubbornly refused to appear. I persevered south and eventually decided that, having come this far, I might as well go right to the end and visit the lighthouse at the Mull of Kintyre. This turned out to require rather more commitment than anticipated: eight miles of the tiniest single-track road, twisting and turning between high hedges, much of it spent hoping desperately that nobody had simultaneously decided to drive the other way. Eventually I emerged high above the lighthouse expecting to find at least a handful of other visitors. Instead, initially, I had the whole place to myself.

 Across the water was what I first assumed must be another Scottish island, looking remarkably close. A quick geographical recalibration established that it was actually Northern Ireland — which suddenly made the Mull of Kintyre feel considerably more remote and interesting. I walked down the steep, winding lane towards the lighthouse and cottages, disturbing a few roe deer along the way, and by now the transformation in the weather was extraordinary. After the previous 24 hours of relentless rain, the skies had cleared and the evening became glorious, culminating in a stunning sunset over the sea.

 

There was, admittedly, a sign threatening a £100 fine for overnight camping, but the prospect of immediately repeating those eight miles of single track was considerably less attractive. More to the point, standing on an almost deserted clifftop at the end of Kintyre, the obvious question was: who the hell is going to come out here and check? Shortly afterwards a van appeared from the lighthouse cottages below. After a friendly chat, the woman driving it effectively confirmed my assessment: “Stay there. Nobody will check out here.” Good enough for me. So I did.

Predictably, the road that had seemed terrifyingly narrow the previous evening felt considerably easier in reverse the following morning. I passed through Southend — with a useful intervention from the location app directing me to the public loos — and continued north with Ailsa Craig clearly visible offshore. The day's main objective was Beinn an Tuirc, the highest hill on Kintyre, near Carradale. With the skies continuing to clear, I headed there via Campbeltown expecting a decent finale to my exploration of the peninsula. It wasn't. The walk began with rather too much forest road before progressing to the now-familiar combination of tussock, moss and heather, while much of the wider landscape was dominated by wind turbines. After some of the mountains I'd climbed earlier in the trip, it was distinctly underwhelming. Its saving grace was the view across to the proper mountains of the Isle of Arran, conveniently reminding me where I was going next.

 So it was back to the van and on to Claonaig, where I caught the ferry across to Lochranza. Kintyre had certainly had its moments — particularly that extraordinary evening alone above the lighthouse — but I wouldn't rush back. It felt noticeably removed from the classic mountain-and-sea scenery of Argyll that I'd enjoyed farther north. Perhaps next time Kintyre will be less a destination than a means to an end: somewhere to pass through on the way to the ferries, and that future trip to Islay and Jura. The Paps had managed to hide from me this time; sooner or later I'll have to go and climb them instead.

Isle of Arran

From Lochranza I turned south down Arran's west coast, while seemingly everybody else turned left towards the more touristy east side. It is regarded as one of the better coastal drives in Scotland and I could see why, with wonderful views across the Kilbrannan Sound towards the rather less inspiring landscape of Kintyre. I could even pick out the wind turbines surrounding the ground I'd trudged across earlier that day, which didn't do much to improve my opinion of it. I made several stops to explore the shoreline before eventually finding somewhere to spend the night near Pirnmill, watching seals basking on the rocks and looking at a coastline where the island's extraordinary geology is constantly exposed, with clear ancient sea cliffs and beaches elevated above the road (when glaciation weight pushed the land down, and higher sea levels from the melt). Arran is often described as a geological microcosm of the whole of Scotland, something I should perhaps have remembered from my first visit — a sixth-form geology field trip 50 years earlier. My memories of that trip, however, involve rather more carnage than geology.

There was one overriding reason for returning: Goatfell. I'd climbed it on that school trip half a century ago and wanted another go. The following morning I headed for my starting point at Cladach, just north of Brodick, only to discover that the shortcut from Blackwaterfoot was closed. Instead I had to drive almost all the way around the island, nearly doubling the distance. For once it didn't really matter because the forecast suggested the weather would improve during the afternoon, so there was no rush. The contrast with the west side was immediately obvious, though — more people, busier little resorts and, inevitably, plenty going on around Brodick.

I finally set off around midday. OutdoorActive reckoned roughly five hours; my ferry to Ardrossan was at seven. Plenty of time, provided I resisted my usual tendency to stop and talk to everybody I met. This mattered because campervan spaces on the ferry were limited and missing it wasn't really an option. Rather than repeat the straightforward out-and-back route we'd done 50 years earlier, I chose a far more interesting circuit, heading up Glen Rosa to The Saddle, then climbing steeply and scrambling onto North Goatfell before crossing to Goatfell itself.

 

It turned into one of the best hikes of the whole trip. As forecast, the cloud gradually lifted as I climbed Glen Rosa, but nothing really prepared me for the view that suddenly opened up at The Saddle. It was genuinely breathtaking — a dramatic wall of rock, ridges and mountains that felt almost Alpine, or Pyrenean as a French girl I met described it. From there I was alone for much of the scramble towards North Goatfell, occasionally staring at a rocky step or small cliff and wondering whether I'd actually chosen the correct line. Apparently I had, or at least one that worked, because I survived and eventually emerged onto the first summit, where two young lads were enjoying the views.

 

Then it was across to Goatfell itself — 50 years after I'd first stood there. There was something rather satisfying about that. Back in the 1970s we'd simply slogged up and down the direct route; this time I'd approached it through Glen Rosa, crossed The Saddle and scrambled over North Goatfell, which seemed a considerably better way of marking the anniversary.

I started down with the ferry clock now ticking and passed a steady stream of people still making their way upwards. On the descent I caught up with a woman from Northern California who, somewhat surprisingly, had an excellent knowledge of British hiking. She told me she'd largely stopped walking in the Lake District because it had become too busy. Apparently even from California we've developed an international reputation for overcrowding the Lakes. Conscious of the ferry, I reluctantly kept the conversation shorter than usual and pressed on.

 I needn't have worried. I arrived back at the van with 90 minutes to spare, so apparently I could have talked considerably more!

 It had been an epic final hike: some of the most dramatic mountain scenery of the entire trip, with the cloud lifting almost perfectly as the day progressed. It never quite became one of those flawless blue-sky days, but perhaps that's just an excuse to return again. Hopefully I won't leave it another 50 years.

 

I caught the evening ferry and arrived in Ardrossan after 10pm. From there, rather than finding somewhere sensible to sleep, I pointed the van south and drove the five hours back to Sheffield, eventually arriving home at about 3am.

After Loch Creran, Ben Cruachan, Morvern, Ardnamurchan, an accidental return to Mull, 24 hours of Kintyre rain, the Mull of Kintyre lighthouse and finally Arran and Goatfell, that was enough wandering for one trip.

Until the next time...

 

 

 

SCOTLAND TOUR - July 2026 - Part 2

 

 Ardnamurchan Peninsula 26th July 2026

Then it was on towards the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, one of the main objectives of this trip. Unlike my journey the previous May, at Salen I turned left and immediately discovered that distances are fairly meaningless around here: mile after mile of twisting single-track road where absolutely nothing happens quickly — made slightly more sobering by the knowledge that, presumably, I'd eventually have to drive the whole thing back again.

Drive-tired rather earlier than planned, I found a lovely place to stop just before Glenborrodale and wandered down to the loch. Looking across the water I realised that the opposite shore, seemingly a stone's throw away, was exactly where I'd been on the bike earlier. It had taken about 75 minutes to drive there. Welcome to Ardnamurchan. That evening also brought my first proper encounter of the trip with Scottish midges, which emerged in force and with apparently considerable enthusiasm for fresh English blood. Fortunately this wasn't one of my backpacking trips: I retreated smugly into the van, shut the doors and left them outside contemplating their disappointment.

Morning produced the worst weather of the trip so far. The plan had been Ben Hiant, the highest point on Ardnamurchan at only around 1,700ft and normally a straightforward proposition, but when I reached the start the entire mountain had disappeared into cloud. There seemed little point climbing it purely to confirm that the inside of a cloud is grey, so instead I took a short walk down towards the beach and read about the extraordinary geology of Ardnamurchan — the remains of a huge ancient volcanic complex — before continuing west. As had become almost routine, the weather gradually improved during the afternoon, and I eventually reached Ardnamurchan Point, the most westerly point of mainland Britain. 

 Isle of Mull 

 Somewhere along the way I also discovered a tiny ferry across to Mull which I hadn't even known existed. I was already feeling unusually indecisive about what to do next and wasn't particularly enthusiastic about retracing that long, slow road all the way back to Salen. So, with very little planning, I did what seemed perfectly logical at the time and drove onto the ferry. There were just three vehicles aboard, and a short while later I arrived in Tobermory. After all that effort getting deep into Ardnamurchan, I had somehow managed to end up back on Mull — the island I'd visited only the previous year. Not remotely the plan, but increasingly that seems to be how these trips work.

Of course, almost as soon as the ferry pulled away from Ardnamurchan, I looked back to discover Ben Hiant now completely clear of cloud, with increasingly blue skies behind it. I'd given it every opportunity! Still, the decision was made and before long I was back in Tobermory, where the first priority was a quick pit stop at the Co-op. After the indecision, the weather and another ferry diversion, I decided I'd earned a beer or two. Supplies secured, I headed for Loch na Keal, one of my favourite spots from the previous May, and positioned the van with some care to get the best possible grandstand view of the evening. For once the weather delivered magnificently: a wonderful sunset across the loch, made even better by two eagles, probably Golden Eagles, circling above the mist hanging around Ben More. At times like that the forgotten camera and binoculars back in Sheffield felt particularly irritating, but it was still a pretty special way to end the day.

Predictably, I woke to another rather sombre morning and decided to head north towards Calgary Bay, stopping on the way at the impressive Eas Fors waterfalls. By the time I reached Calgary the rain had evolved into that particularly Scottish variety — the fine misty stuff that doesn't look sufficiently serious to bother putting waterproofs on for, but somehow manages to soak you anyway — which accompanied my walk across the bay. From there I essentially retraced, in reverse and this time in the van, a bike ride I'd done the previous May, continuing across to Salen for lunch beside the jetty. Then it was south to Craignure, timing things nicely for the ferry back to Oban. So my spontaneous second visit to Mull had lasted barely a day, but had given me a glorious sunset, eagles, waterfalls, another soaking and a reminder of just how much I like the island. I'm sure I'll be back again one day.

 

SCOTLAND TOUR - July 2026 - Part 1

 

Pete's Gaff - Loch Creran - Sunday 19th July to Wednesday 22nd July

   

The first few days with Pete at Loch Creran were a pretty good reminder of why I'd driven all this way north. Ben Cruachan was easily the highlight. As a kid I'd stayed three times with Mum and Dad in a caravan on the shores of Loch Awe, with the lounge window looking straight across at the distinctive pinnacle of the Ben, but somehow I'd never actually climbed it. More than 55 years later I finally put that right, and, unusually for a Scottish mountain, the weather even cooperated enough to give me proper views from the top. The following day I swapped boots for the gravel bike and headed around Loch Awe, largely on forest tracks which confirmed yet again that mile after mile of forestry road isn't really my idea of cycling nirvana, although an excellent café beside the loch provided some compensation.

 

Pete then took me out on his 32-foot sailing boat, motoring initially until we found enough wind to put the sails up. Almost immediately Pete disappeared below deck to sort out some food while the boat promptly keeled over to what, to a complete sailing novice, appeared to be about 45 degrees and halfway to sinking. I shouted down, with perhaps more urgency than intended, “Pete, is this normal?”, which was met by laughter from somewhere below. Apparently it was. Another evening Pete, Hazel and I took the gravel bikes out to the pub — a gorgeous ride on a stunning evening, finished off with fresh scallops and a spectacular west-coast sunset. The tranquillity was only slightly compromised by a collection of middle-aged blokes on jet skis tearing around the bay. Initially quite entertaining; after another twenty minutes of revving, circling and demonstrating that their throttles still worked, the novelty had rather worn off. All in all, though, not a bad opening few days in Argyll.

 

Morvern Peninsula - Weds 22nd July to Sat 25th July 

 

After three nights with Pete I reluctantly moved on, crossing to the Morvern Peninsula on the Corran Ferry, thereby avoiding the considerably less appealing prospect of driving all the way round via Fort William. I headed for a tiny community (Gairloch) and a tiny road along the shore, close to where we'd tried to anchor Pete's boat a few days earlier. Then the sea had been rather less cooperative; this time it was almost completely still. It felt wonderfully remote — just me and the van along the entire stretch of coastline — and exactly the sort of place where having my proper camera and binoculars would have been perfect. Unfortunately, in a particularly impressive bit of planning for someone supposedly interested in nature and birdlife, I'd left both of them in Sheffield.

 

 

The following morning I picked a route from OutdoorActive which looked like a straightforward three-to-four-hour outing and, reassuringly, was actually described as a mountain-bike route. Perfect, I thought: it must therefore follow something reasonably well defined. It didn't. Quite how anyone was supposed to cycle parts of it remains a mystery, particularly the steep descent involving negotiations with small rocky cliffs. The route climbed to well over 2,000 feet, disappearing into fairly thick cloud for a considerable time, while the promised trail frequently disappeared altogether, replaced by boggy moss, tussocky grass and the occasional vague suggestion that another human being might once have passed this way. What had started as a pleasant exploratory walk gradually became a bit of a chore. In fairness I couldn't blame OutdoorActive entirely — I'd seen “MTB” and rather lazily assumed that meant straightforward and obvious, instead of actually studying the route properly. Two small groups of red deer provided a welcome lift to the spirits before I eventually squelched my way back to the van. As I arrived, a message came through from Pete: he was back out on the boat and, with the weather closing in, was heading for shelter in Loch Aline — which, rather conveniently, was exactly where I was going next. 

I arrived in Loch Aline without immediately realising that I'd been there before — I'd come off the Mull ferry at exactly the same spot in May the previous year on my way north to Skye. Clearly it had made a lasting impression. I had a wander around the small community and, sure enough, before long Pete appeared across the loch, arriving ashore in his dinghy from the yacht. We headed to the community centre for beer and pizza, where it soon became apparent that we'd inadvertently arrived during Gala Week and that a significant proportion of the local male population was already absolutely intoxicated. Curious as to what the week's festivities actually involved, I asked a couple of them. “Drinking,”came the fairly unequivocal reply. At least nobody could accuse them of overcomplicating the programme. They kindly said I could park the van there for the night, although judging by their condition I was reasonably confident none of them would remember granting permission by morning. I did, however, survive the night without being evicted and wandered down to the local café for breakfast for a full Scottish!

By then the weather had become decidedly unsettled: dramatic and atmospheric rather than completely miserable, with the higher mountains disappearing into cloud, although a pattern was developing of things gradually improving through the day and producing some surprisingly decent evenings. I followed the coast and stopped to investigate the Wishing Stone, where apparently your wish comes true provided you can negotiate the hole without touching the sides. I managed it, so we'll see — although I'm not yet revealing the wish in case there's some obscure clause in the rules. Nearby I got chatting to a Geordie chap fishing from the shore for rays, another of those random conversations that seem to happen rather more frequently when you're travelling en solo and slowly with nowhere in particular you need to be.

 

 Before finally leaving Morvern, Pete suggested a relatively short out-and-back gravel ride from Loch Arienas, taking in three lochs and only about 25km. It was pleasant enough rather than spectacular, but at least I got the bike out again after the previous day's bog-trotting masquerading as a mountain-bike route.