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.