Day 1

I’m still woeful at driving a manual. I’ve somehow avoided learning this basic skill in my 28 years on this planet, but now that we own a Campervan, Carlie has been slowly but surely teaching me how, but I’m proving to be a most disappointing pupil. However, the surrounding vistas as I stall and bunnyhop along are some of the loveliest I’ve ever seen. We’ve decided to complete the Northern 500 – one of the ‘big ticket’ item destinations that travellers are constantly going on about nowadays. Given that we are recent owners of ‘Ziggy Stardust,’ the 2002 Renault Master Campervan, but have to wait two weeks for an upgrade to be completed in Bristol, we figured that the natural thing to do would be to drive the completely opposite end of this windswept and soggy isle and put the van through it’s paces, and thus far, it’s doing admirably. More than admirable actually. We approached the Scottish Highlands from the South (what choice did we have, unless coming by steamship?) We decided to spend the first night in the illustriously titled, Dingwall, a small township just North of the much grander sounding, Inverness. Nevertheless, Dingwall proved to be a warm companion for the night – we spent our time there drinking Guinness after Guinness in the tiny sports bar by the train station – The Mallard. Here, we learned about the local soccer team, The Staggies, and ate our first Haggis in Scotland. As far as local delicacies go, Haggis gets a bad reputation, sort of like Genghis Khan in his time. It went down an absolute treat, and we retreated to our Campervan swollen on highland ale and sheep’s entrails.

Day 2

My skill behind the wheel has improved marginally, and I’ve never felt less likely to be the cause of a multi vehicle pile up than right now. Thankfully, however Carlie is driving today, affording me the opportunity to gaze out at the stunning vista just outside the window. Bloody hell, Scotland is beautiful. If you’re ever here, get away from the cities and head north – there’s nothing like it. As we traipsed north on the eastward leg of the journey we passed by dizzyingly pretty fishing villages, crumbling churches, and a series of stunning look outs. We’re cutting right through the centre of the Northern 500, skipping the winding journey from Dingwall to John O’Groats and heading straight for Tongue. To my left as we drove I could see the majestic and somehow monastic snow-capped peak. It dominates the central hinterland of the Highland region and is truly a sight to behold. Endless deforested areas stretched out alongside the highway as we sped north, but that barely detracted from the beauty of the place, each time I turned my head I was met with another unforgettable valley, another desolate stretch of coastline, or a distant mountain. Sheep dotted the fields as we passed, seemingly left to their own devices in this seemingly unpopulated place. Every now and then I turned to Carlie and muttered,

‘Man, I wish you could see all of this,’ – which was generally met with a shake of the head. Yes, I am an ungrateful traveller.

We spent the afternoon in the village of Tongue. After having a pint at Ben Loyal Hotel in town, we spent an hour or so clambering along a short trail to Castle Varraich – a crumbling ruin in all honesty, but one that afforded the most breath snatching panorama I’m yet to have come across. Absolutely stunning.

We camped the night just across from the beach at Durness. The breakers continued to roll in as we both read, rain beating a consistent tattoo on the roof of the van. Domestic bliss prevails, and this is surely as good as life can get.

DAY 3

It turns out ‘bliss’ in travel terms, can be too much of a good thing. That light tattoo of rain that I so gleefully wrote about last night turned into shockingly intense gale force winds overnight. I was awoken at 4 am to the gentle, and then suddenly not-so-gentle rocking of the van and the omnipresent screaming of the wind. I wondered dimly how much force the wind would require to knock us full off the headland. After fretting over this for half-an-hour, I woke Carlie, whom promptly told me;

‘The van weighs three tonne, we’ll be right,’ and then put earplugs in and blissfully returned to sleep. Fair enough.

After such an illustrious start, we spent the driving to Ullapool, now traversing down the North western coastline of the Highland region. The morning was piercingly cold, the type of freeze that could sweep the last vestiges of a mild-mannered Antipodeans strength. However, we prevailed, and carried on down the road. Here, the views became truly wondrous. I had thought that day before was worth remarking upon. I’m now considering striking all that I’ve written till now and just focussing on this. Surely no fjord in Norway, no glacial hamlet in New Zealand, no river in Patagonia could match up to this? Surely not. A drive of utter wonder, majesty and beauty. Huge cliffsides dangled precipitously over tiny hamlets with ponderous names such as Kinlochbevie, and Oldshoremore - mere scatterings of houses before the grey swelling of the sea. Remark upon this - the west coast of the Northern 500 is a sight to behold. As we continued south, the views became even more noteworthy, as we passed between a series of snow-dusted mountain ranges, cresting into valleys, and delving slowly southwards, back towards civilization. All of this was made only slightly distressing due to the fact that I’ve not showered in two days. Van life is surely something that I’ll habituate to in time?

DAY 4

Day 4 proved to be one of some considerable progress. Checking our itinerary in the morning, Carlie and I both agreed that we had ample time to make a quick detour from the Northern 500 to the Isle of Skye, the tiny landmass tangentially connected to the United Kingdom by a thin bridge, and the region from whence my family came, Clan Mackinnon (for some reason, my brach of the family did away with the ‘a’ in MacKinnon)

After making the above decision, we continued south from the tiny town of Ullapool, bearing through a series of pine forests and shallow gulleys towards Invernesse. As we passed a brief lay-over culvert by the side of the road, a man dressed in camouflage gear signaled us down, making unusual prong motions behind his head. As we pulled up beside him and Carlie asked him what all the fuss was about, he gestured to a close by ridgeline,

‘Stags,’ he said, pointing upwards.

Eyes searching amongst the granite crag and brown grass, we eventually spotted them. Three glorious highland Stags, each with a full set of antlers, and one with a mane worthy of a Lion King re-make. It was a genuinely sublime moment. They stared back at us for a time before we moved off, each wondering whether we were making a mistake leaving the Northern 500 so quickly.

However, the latter stages of the journey south from the highlands to Skye proved to be ubiquitously beautiful, so much so that i nearly habituated to each new view of breathtaking beauty and grew bored. Fortunately I didn’t, and each valley, each mountain peak, and distant rolling hill took my by surprise anew.

We cross the Skye Bridge at dusk, cruising across the curiously arcing filament connecting to mainland Scotland.

‘Pub?’ Carlie asked.

I nodded in agreement and we made a beeline for the nearest watering hole, Saucy Mary’s in Kyleakin. Admittedly, it did feel eird to be suddenly thrust into the ancient and terrifying stunning land that had provided my last name. As we sat amongst the old boys drinking I wondered whetehr any were distant, distant cousins. Whether anyone here had a ‘Mck” prefix to their name? Should I ask? You better believe I didn’t, and spent my first night in Skye still wondering.