The day had arrived, Francine’s niece’s wedding day, the day that led us into this Scottish voyage of discovery. Staggeringly, after the day’s opening couple of showers – 100% record of wet days in Scotland maintained – something peculiar and, by me, completely unexpected happened: some blue appeared in the sky and the sun shone. The happy couple must be truly blessed.

The wedding ceremony, in South Queensferry registrar’s office, overlooked the old and instantly recognisable Firth of Forth rail bridge. In the brightest weather since crossing Hadrian’s wall, the view was appropriately inspirational. Less inspirational, was the fact the script and signing of official documents took place in a bay window overlooking the view and the bright light of the window made well-balanced photography all but impossible. Everyone was having a good time, though, and smiles were broad so who cares? 🙂

We wandered outside for some more photo opportunities overlooking that bridge but this time leaning against some frankly unattractive grey railings. (There’s a lot of grey in Scotland; there seems to be an obsession with grey.) Now the awkward items to deal with were other guests’ small digital cameras, held aloft across your field of view while said guest peered upwards at the rear screen. I began to envy professional photographers formally posing endless group shots; it might seem dull but it does give them unfettered access and directional control. A photographic free-for-all makes life extremely difficult.

The clan of assembled revellers enjoyed a tasty meal including various Scottish specialities such as black pudding, haggis and rib eye steak. The dining room suffered from the same issue as the registry office – the happy couple were sitting in a bay window with their backs to that bridge, once again strongly backlit by the still bright daylight. We did what we could.

I took a particular liking to the groom  because of his approach: he dislikes formality and official protocols so the whole affair was delightfully relaxed and easy-going, without any of the normal stuffiness, nor the torture of having to endure seemingly endless speeches. Bravo!

Once my day’s driving duties were over, I could enjoy my wedding favour, a wee dram, back in the comfort of Guillaume.

Our thanks to the bride and groom and best wishes to them for their future.

The most important point to make about today is that the sky was a very strange colour this morning. I have a distant memory, from before we crossed the border into Scotland, that this colour may be referred to as blue; don’t quote me though, ‘cos I haven’t seen it this side of Hadrian’s wall. I really wasn’t expecting to awake to this colour because the rain had been on and off most of the night. It was, of course, a delightful surprise.

We are here for Francine’s niece’s wedding. Since Guillaume has some carrying capacity, we had brought with us Francine’s mother’s wedding outfit (she flew up courtesy of easyJet) to save her luggage travails and we needed to delivery it in time for tomorrow’s festivities. We will, of course, have to return with it after said festivities. We’ve also won the addition of her suitcase to go with it. Good ol’ Guillaume!

Duty performed, we trotted off into South Queensferry, where tomorrow’s wedding will be, to get the lie of the land. South Queensferry lies on the south side of the Firth of Forth where the two Forth bridges cross; one road, one rail. South Queensferry is so-named because, in the 11th century, the queen was ferried across the firth here. Unsurprisingly, there is a North Queensferry on t’other side. As is customary for tourists, Francine used snappy to snap the bridges. The much more interesting design to my mind is that of the rail bridge whose colour resembles the Golden Gate bridge in San Francisco, being a dull orange-red. The road bridge, on the other hand, clearly more modern, may physically resemble the Golden Gate bridge but is a rather uninspiring shade of light grey. Maybe this was done precisely to make it look different from the GG? Personally, I’d like to see them colour coordinated – and I don’t mean dull grey.

Our eye was taken by a restaurant, with good views of the firth and the more interesting rail bridge, advertising “fresh mussels every day”. As some form of recompense for the weather we’ve had to endure, we decided to treat ourselves to another Scottish version of moules marinières washed down by a large glass of viognier. They were not quite as stunning as those in Oban but were still so good that we ate them too fast for the camera to capture them.  Scottish rope-grown mussels rule, OK?

Now to the tale of Tailend Moss. We learned of this nature reserve, a short distance west of Edinburgh, from the BDS website. About 90 minutes after arriving in Edinburgh yesterday, we set off to find it and hunt dragons. About five minutes after we’d set off, the rain began, and continued, so we abandoned our quest. Today, after our splendid lunch in South Queensferry, we set off for Tailend Moss once again. Once again, after a mere five minutes of driving, the rain began. Tailend Moss must be fated. I began to think of it as Arse End Moss. Today, however, we drove through the rain and arrived with a little more of the exceptionally rare blue – is that the word? – sky. At a paltry 11°C, though, we were still pleasantly surprised to find some dragons:

1. Common Emerald Damselfly (Lestes sponsa)
2. Common Hawker (Aeshna juncea)
3. Black Darter (Sympetrum danae)
4. Common Darter (Sympetrum striolatum)

Francine even found a female #2 dining on a male #3. #3 was still moving. Gruesomely delightful critters, aren’t they? “Nature, red in tooth and claw.”

The rain began again so we headed for some shops in search of tonight’s dinner. We didn’t need much after those excellent mussels. Some simply grilled tuna with a spinach, watercress and rocket salad would suffice.

Note: that’s 10 days in Scotland and 10 days with rain – a 100% record so far. 😉

I had difficulty sleeping last night. I was overexcited. It was just like one of those halcyon Christmas eve nights spent as a child being unable to sleep waiting for Santa Claus to make his unlikely entry down the chimney, bursting with anticipation of what wondrous treats Christmas morning might bring. Last night, the morning treat I was anticipating was perfectly well known, however – we’d be leaving Bunree. How I have been looking forward to this moment.

During our eight days at Bunree I’ve forgotten what blue looks like. Many years ago, on a work assignment to Edinburgh, I was met at the airport by one of our consultants who, on our journey back into town and referring to the colours of the buildings, remarked, “they’ve got 68 shades of drab here”. I’ve never forgotten it. In similar fashion, Bunree seems to have a sky made of 68 shades of grey. Blue does not exist. The clouds have consistently contained some of the blackest and certainly the lowest I have ever experienced. They are oppressive; they weigh down on upon one’s psyche. The greens normally expected of a naturally verdant countryside are missing, too, or at least very subdued due to the lack of light. Though the taunting noise of the wind is almost constant, it doesn’t clear the clouds away; the cloud bank pushing in from the northern Atlantic is quite simply endless. The clouds have produced rain at some point every single day – and that is after we were told that the same had happened for the two weeks preceding our arrival – and when it isn’t raining it frequently feels darker and more threatening than Mordor. We’ve woken up to the same interminable dark grey scene every morning. A week is all I could have stood without going (even more) insane, and that was a close run thing. The received wisdom is that Scotland is a breathtakingly attractive country but picturesque scenery is of little use if it cannot be seen through the opaque mantle of low-hanging, black cloud. We haven’t seen the tops of the mountains, which are only between 3000 and 4000 feet (in round numbers); they are hardly massive. This has not been living, this has been existing. If I had to exist here for any length of time, I would surely slit my wrists. I simply do not understand how anyone can endure this willingly on a permanent basis.

While almost everywhere in England has been enjoying an Indian summer heat wave with blue skies and temperatures around 25°C, as friends and relatives have been at pains to impress upon us, the best we’ve managed under our suffocatingly grey blanket is 16°C.

Mercifully and at long last, I am now leaving and my heavy heart is beginning to lighten already. It cost me £65 to top up our car’s tank with diesel at the local filling station yesterday (that was from ¼ full) and it’s the best £65 I’ve ever spent.

However, there is a sadistic twist. Just as a child’s fantasy is destroyed when it finally learns that Santa isn’t real, so my hopes were dashed. Having dragged Guillaume for three hours up through Glen Coe, across Rannoch Moor, passed the Trossachs and beneath Stirling, we arrived at Edinburgh by 12:00 PM. The rain began at 2:00 PM.

At least during our time at Bunree we were in pole position with a view of the loch, even with occasional glimpses of the opposite shore. Here at the Caravan Club’s Edinburgh site, all we can look at as we sit in Guillaume taking shelter is the two motorhomes opposite and the laurel hedge that edges one side of our pitch. The site is within spitting distance of the Firth of Forth but we can’t see it. Merde alors!

I’m thinking of having some bumper stickers made up taking a liberty with the old, worn out “Scotland the brave” phrase; Mine sticker would read:

I braved Scotland

As Guillaume’s very pleasant Scottish neighbours, the ones from Perth who added to the weight of opinion that Fort Dump was a William [:)], were packing to leave for home today, there was a glimmer of hope; I spotted a weak shadow. Sure enough, though the sun was not at all clear, it was just about showing through a thin shroud of cloud. We bade farewell to them and, in the hope of some brighter weather in Glen Coe and Rannoch Moor, set off to give Francine the chance to play with her filters again and, perhaps, have a more pleasant walk.

The faint glimmer of hope remained as we drove up through Glen Coe to reach Francine’s chosen subject on Rannoch Moor. She began studying shooting angles and setting up her tripod. As she was doing so, the glimmer of hope became fainter, occasionally disappearing. Although there had been a few brief hints of sun, the air seemed even murkier than usual, the slightly distant hills all looking as they had been covered in a thin veil of grey. Having gone to the effort of setting up, Francine tried gamely to make something of nothing; she was only wasting reusable pixels, after all. A panoramic crop seems to work best.

With all glimmers having disappeared, we went in search of another location looking for views to convey the bleakness of the moor and climbed a small hill to get a higher angle. Shortly, ein Reisebus pulled into the same layby and discharged a large abteilung of heavily armed Sturmbanntouristen which immediately began a determined assault on our position. Greatly outnumbered, we made a tactical withdrawal and grabbed what, for me, was the best shot of the day. A passing Scottish gentleman play-acted machine-gunning them with his walking stick. They did make a good target against the skyline. 😀

The light now being a complete waste of time, we descended back into Glen Coe and paused for a short walk to Signal Rock, from which the massacre of Glen Coe was initiated.  For once this was Scots killing Scots and the English weren’t involved. The rain began at about 1:30 PM on our way back to the car.

It’s now raining heavily and the opposite side of Loch Linnhe has once again vanished in the rain-sodden atmosphere. So much for our glimmer of hope.

‘T was a reasonable morning in our adjusted reality – it wasn’t actually raining, though it looked as if it might at any moment. We needed a shopping visit so we could make a paella for Francine’s old college friend visiting us in the evening. There being no great choices in the near vicinity, our most likely venue that might sell chorizo sausage was likely to be Morrisons supermarket in Fort Dump/William. Mr. Scottish-Neighbour had been eulogising about a walk up Glen Nevis which heads south-east from Fort Dump so we made a plan to do the walk, hit Morrisons and then get a McWiFi fix.

The drive to the start of the walk was along another single track road with passing places. This time, though, there were no lunatic motorcyclists barging their way through. Without them and being old hands at such roads now, it was a doddle. We were not, however, prepared for the sizeable parking area to be all but full. We squeezed in, donned our hiking boots and set off, in my case with camera and monopod slung over my shoulder in case any wildlife should appear. With all the parked cars, the track was unsurprisingly something of a tourist motorway; yet another single track with passing places. Maybe I could use the monopod as a sort of cattle prod? 😉

The day’s rain began as we approached the top where the climb levels off into a high plateau with the main tourist attraction being an impressive waterfall tumbling down onto the plain. with the amount of water being delivered on a daily basis to this part of the world, I suppose it couldn’t fail to be impressive. The wildlife had more sense than to make an appearance so the camera was just so much baggage. Fortunately, Francine had a plastic bag with which I could cover my redundant camera and lens.

The only other intriguing sight was a precarious-looking rope bridge across the river resulting from the tumbling, impressive waterfall. Having only my long wildlife lens with me, I had trouble catching a snap of the lesser spotted tourist sporting what I can only describe as a crew-cut Mohican hair do. Very inventive! Incidentally, anyone who has seen Daniel Day Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans will know only too well that it was the Hurons with the wacky cock’s comb hair-do, not the Mohicans; the Mohicans had long, flowing locks that would make any dark-haired woman envious. Why, then, do we insist on calling those modern cock’s comb hairstyles a Mohican, pray tell?

On our return to Fort Dump, we did have a little wildlife excitement. There’s a dividing line that separates the dominions of Carrion Crows (Corvus corone corone) and Hooded Crows (Corvus corone cornix). The latter being restricted to Ireland, the Isle of Man and west Scotland, we aren’t used to seeing them. They are as common as muck here but we found spotting one quite exciting. Sad, really. 🙂

In my parlance, a good day is one with clear blue skies and, assuming summer, a warm temperature in the mid-20s centigrade. A quite nice day would be a dry day with scattered cloud and sunny intervals with a consequently slightly lower temperature in, say, the low-20s centigrade.

In western Scotland it is necessary to adjust one’s yard stick when it comes to describing the quality of the day. Here, a good day is one with total cloud cover that remains dry all day long and may hit the dizzying heights of 16°C. An exceptional day will include the occasional tiny glimpse of blue which is swallowed by the clouds almost the instant it appears. A quite nice day is one with ten tenths cloud cover and rain for part but not all of the day.

After yesterday with close to 24 hours of rain, Francine peered out of Guillaume this morning and, having adjusted her levels of expectation muttered, “it’s quite nice out there now”.  Today dawned with solid cloud cover but without rain … as yet. There were even a few fleeting beams of light hitting the opposite side of Loch Linnhe. Yes, we could actually see the opposite side of the loch. We decided to investigate those occasional light patches on the Ardnamurchan peninsular, the opposite side of the lock. Our mental end goal was yet another RSPB reserve at Glenborrodale where, supposedly, we might be lucky enough to glimpse our first Highland Darter, Sympetrum (striolatum) nigrescens.

Getting to the other side of Loch Linnhe looked like fun since it involved the Corran ferry, the port being less than a mile from our campsite. The ferry saves a 50-mile or so drive around the end of the loch so we didn’t mind putting the £7.00 fare into local hands rather than the hands of the money-grabbing oil companies. The journey, including loading, crossing and unloading, takes up to 20 minutes. The ferry is a strange looking affair and is clearly purpose built with its loading ramps sticking out at about 45° at either end. This design makes the boat looked curved. We drove on and of at the required wacky angle and were on our way.

The next stage of our route took us along Glen Tabert and beside another sea loch, Loch Sunart, which, given a little subdued light, even if no sun, looked satisfyingly picturesque with small white buildings nestling in the shores and boats resting at anchor.

At Strontian, which gave its name to the element Strontium when it was first discovered there, the road became a single track with passing places. Most folks were good about driving cautiously and using the passing places intelligently. Progress is naturally slow on such a road but we eventually covered the distance to Glenborrodale and, having forgotten to bring the RSPB book [brilliant!], even managed to find the RSPB reserve.

Given the persistent rain in this neck of the woods, conditions were v. muddy underfoot. We climbed up and saw hardly any wee beasties moving at all, far less any dragonflies. Having reached the high point, I’d all but given up when, on a short section of boardwalk, I was definitely flown at. We needed some serious flushing and stalking techniques but a lone dragonfly eventually settled in an accessible position; a female and here she is. I initially thought she was a Black Darter (Sympetrum danae) but it lacks the diagnostic black triangle atop the thorax and I’m now pretty sure this is my sought after Highland Darter, though I’ll need to get that confirmed.

The day’s rain began as we arrived back at the car so we abandoned our original itinerary and returned the way we’d come. Swarms of motorcycles – we must have seen 50+ – were outbound while we were inbound. Although a motorcycle with panniers is over half the width of a car – I know ‘cos I used to ride them – for some reason these numbskulls generally didn’t think it necessary to pause in the passing places, they just forced their way through and, at one point, forced my near side wheels off the road taking avoiding action. Curiously foolhardy, considering their vulnerability, I thought.

There were two other dipsticks on the road in the shape of two white van men – builders in a rush. Whilst the road had a 60 limit, I thought 55 was sufficient given the frequent bends but Messrs Dickhead and Plonker chose to overtake approaching some of the blind bends and blast on ahead. Fortunately, they didn’t meet any more of the swarming motorcyclists – that would have created an interesting game of chicken. We met them waiting in the queue for the Corran ferry where they had to wait for another five minutes. Interesting mentality.

We invested another £7.00 in a pleasantly unrushed return ferry crossing.

Our bad weather pattern changed today – it got worse. The wind was piling the waters of Loch Linnhe into cresting waves which broke onto the pebbled shore of the loch. These pictures were taken in the early morning but could have been shot at any time of the day, there being little variation throughout. The first picture, taken outside Guillaume, doesn’t quite convey the complete picture in that the near horizontal rain cannot be seen, hence the second picture. As you can see, the far shore of the loch has, once again, completely disappeared from view.

With the strong winds and today’s forecast claiming a 70% chance of rain all day long – it rains here whenever there is any percentage chance of rain – and for want of something better to do while the rain lashes across and occasionally up Guillaume’s bows, I was inspired to define a Caravan Club Bunree equivalent to the old Beaufort wind scale.

It rained for almost 24 hours.

We drove across Rannoch Moor and down through Glen Coe to get here. The rain that began as we drove up beside Loch Lomond had actually stopped but the clouds were what we now know to be their usually solid and relatively low self. We don’t stop and gawp with Guillaume in tow so, with a lack of rain this morning, we thought we’d pop back solo and have a touristy look.

There’s a Glen Coe visitor centre so we made that our first port of call. There are ticket machines in the car park. “This is a visitor centre; surely they don’t charge people to park at the visitor centre?”, I thought. When you read the notice on the ticket machines, it mentions that “the suggested donation is £2”. I wonder how many think it’s a compulsory fee? The centre being run by the National Trust for Scotland and Francine being a member of the National Trust, we figured we were OK. Oh look, more touristy stuff on sale – well, well.

We continued up the glen and paused for Francine to play with her camera and new set of fancy Lee Filters, and for me to check out some habitat (no one around). With dull grey skies, if you are going to take pictures at all, it seems to be best to try and frame the offending sky out of the shot.

We continued to the high point and starting driving past some of Rannoch Moor. We’ve read that Rannoch Moor “is large enough easily to swallow the English Lake District”, which I found surprising. I know where I’d rather be, too. It’d probably look impressive with the mountain – sorry, hill – peaks backed by blue sky but, as usual the sky was dull grey. We popped back to a photographically famous white house on the moor, just below the Glen Coe ski station, but that was swamped with cars and a film crew so snapping it was pointless.

The rain began so we took shelter in the ski station cafe to be entertained by mountain bikers riding up in the chair lift, their bikes slung on a purpose made hook on the side of the chairs, and then screaming back down on their bikes. Other than the fact that it was being done in the rain under grey skies, this seemed reasonably sensible: save the effort of riding uphill by using a chairlift, then coast downhill with the aid of good ol’ gravity. Bravo!

The rain eventually passed and the mountains could be seen once again, though the skies remained very largely grey, so we went to let Francine play with her filters again. We’d spotted a hawker zooming about (I assume a Common/Moorland Hawker) as we arrived so, while she was shooting, I went hunting but failed to find anything. I decided to take a picture (left) of Francine taking her picture (right). Obviously the line up and focal length used are very different – Francine has a nice moorland stream for foreground interest – but it also shows the difference a Lee ND6 (2 stop) hard grad filter makes to the mountain in the shot. Nice one, Francine!

We returned calling in at Glen Coe lochen for a short (2-mile) wander, where we spotted what I suspect was a Southern Hawker (Aeshna cyanea) -it didn’t settle – in one of the most northerly outposts of its range, and at Ballachulish to get a few provisions in the local Co-op, where there was little in the way of choice. We did find a decent bit of rump steak which made some enjoyable steak fajitas for dinner. 🙂

Guillaume’s neighbours to his right on the side of Loch Linnhe are Scots who live in Perth. During a natter with Francine, who at least speaks a little Scottish, occasioned by a shared interest in photographing the conditions on and (just) above Loch Linnhe, Mr. Neighbour expressed the opinion that Fort William was a dump. That’s the third independent consistent assessment that we’ve had. This morning, there being a lull in the rain if not in the wind, we decided to dawdle the 15kms/9mls up the road to see for ourselves.

In our opinion, all three third party assessments were correct; Fort William is, in fact, a dump. Actually, Francine thought that dump was too kind a word for it. Many of the buildings are the soulless concrete slab buildings favoured in the 1960s. Much of the paint is flaking off the door and window frames of some of the shops and their signs/names tend to be missing odd letters. Several of the shop units in the main street are closed and empty. Those that are still trading seem to be selling the same Scottish tourist tat: tartan mugs, highland map tea towels, etc. There is an unavoidable air of decay and neglect about the place. It’s an ugly town that’s being allowed to fall apart. This is curious because it seems to think of itself as the outdoor activity centre of Scotland which should want to attract tourists. The tourists still spill out of coaches, for some reason, and are faced with the unwelcoming sight of a dilapidated Fort Dump. There was one piece of development going on; Weatherspoons pub was being developed, presumably to provide a ready supply of reality correction fluid to those unfortunate enough to be here.

We escaped Fort Dump to drive a short circuit up to Spean Bridge. At the beginning of the circuit, just outside Fort Dump, is the southern end of the Caledonian Canal, the last feature of which is a flight of eight locks known as Neptune’s Staircase. We parked and wandered a while to watch a couple of sailing yachts and, somewhat curiously, a life boat, begin they’re long journey up the locks.

Towards the top end of our circuit we came across this second world war memorial to the commandos. The countryside around here was used as their training ground. Beside this statue is a small memorial garden containing many recent tributes to those lost in conflicts more recent that WW II, particularly Afghanistan.

A final disappointing observation. From Neptune’s Staircase you can see Ben Nevis when the cloud permits. Ben Nevis may be Britain’s highest lump of rock at 1343m/4406ft but visually impressive it isn’t. That’s it in the centre distance of this (bad) picture under the traditionally disturbed sky – no craggy, pointed peak, just a rather dull, rounded, almost flat-looking top. Had I studied any geography, I might have understood why the Scottish mountains are soft and rounded like this – I’m guessing glacial erosion from the ice age, or some such. Suffice to say that I prefer the cragginess of the Pyrenees and the Alps.

Incidentally, we’ve been told that mountain is an English word, the Scots call them hills. Well, they are 3000m/10000ft lower than the Alps/Pyrenees, I suppose.

As you can see from this Monday morning picture, the texture from yesterday evening’s moody grey skies had completely disappeared to be replaced by oppressive, featureless low cloud. This is the view from the right front quarter of Guillaume across to the opposite shore of Loch Linnhe, just visible between the low grey clouds and the grey water. It was breezy but at least it wasn’t raining.

We went to visit an old friend of Francine who, for some inexplicable reason, has chosen to live in Scotland. Apparently, he wanted to “do all the Munroes” – a Munroe is a mountain above 3000 feet – but, as can so often be the case, health issues intervened. We had arranged to meet for a walk upwards but, as you can see from the first picture, heading upwards was a decidedly bad idea so we opted for a trip to visit Oban instead. Oban was, to quote friend’s wife, “a bonny wee town”. Like our once removed contact at Englethwaite Hall, she also expressed the opinion that Fort William was a dump. A consensus was beginning to form.

We wandered along the harbour and called into an Oban cafe and chocolate shop to sample both the coffee (very good) and chocolates (also very good). Outside, a constantly changing line of cruise ship tourists were being ferried back to said cruise ship, moored out in deeper water, by two tenders shuttling back and forth.

Our friends spotted a fish restaurant, the Waypoint Bar & Grill, across Oban harbour on Kerrera island. There was also a ferry service to and from it which, it transpired, was free. Fish and Chips appear to be regarded as Scottish haute cuisine, along with black pudding which they were at pains to point out was best from a master butcher in Oban. With trepidation – Franco doesn’t do well on small boats – we took the ferry for lunch. Whilst our pals tucked into Scottish gourmet haddock and chips, Francine enjoyed some wonderfully caramelized scallops with bacon and salad (declared delicious) and I chose mussels with garlic, white wine, cream and parsley, or moules marinières, as I prefer to call it. I must say, I think the mussels were the best I have ever tasted.

After a brief interlude of relative brightness, the grey had returned and the rain, which had begun as we approached the island, gradually intensified. The clouds hit the deck and, as we were driving back to Guillaume after our return ferry trip, the rain was downright awful. The opposite side of the loch had become all but invisible.

This could get tedious.