Mallaig, United Kingdom

Oban is quaint and touristy. We walk around the shops for a while and then head to the Caledonian Hotel on the harbour to wait for the ferry, and of course have a snack. Victor is brave to tackle a small bucketfull of White Bait. I settle for the safest option – a sandwich with some local cheese. And that is what I get – two slices of thick, white, Government loaf white bread with grated cheese. At least they have the decency to butter the bread! The ferry across the Firth of Lorn is uneventful. As we sail into Craignure we see a campsite right on the shore. We make a beeline for the site and find the most beautiful spot, right on the water’s edge. Literally a stone’s throw from the gently lapping water. We take a gentle stroll along the shore the minute the rain lets up for a few minutes – a rather wet and soggy path (after endless rain – what else?) along a corridor of wild roses. Our evening meal is a feast of Mull cheddar, Stilton, French pate and of course red wine from Chile, what else? To make up for the light supper our breakfast is a feast of bacon, scrambled eggs and more cheese on fresh white rolls. Mull is achingly beautiful. So much so that eventually I say to Victor I cannot say the word “mooi” one more time…. Lakes and lochs, ferns, moss, massive ancient trees, packed stone walls. And more soft, gently rain. The wonderful thing about driving the campervan is that it is high enough to allow a view over the hedges. Driving in a normal car most of the countryside is always hidden behind the high hedges. Most of the roads are single tracks with places to pass, which makes for some heart stopping moments around some of the sharp bends and blind rises. We turn off to the Ardalanish weavers along the way from Fionnphort (which is near Fingal’s cave). Apparently some of the best tweeds are woven on this farm, sold to many high street shops. I can understand why – it is the most beautiful tweeds imaginable. The finest patterns intricately woven in soft browns and greys. Blankets, shawls, hats and scarves and yards of fabric. The machinery look from a different era, covered in grease which I do not know how they keep off the fabric. It is a magic world where wool is transformed into art. Sadly it is also magnificently expensive and we have to leave empty handed. Next time… Tobermory is our next ferry crossing – we arrive just at the last ferry of the day departs. The little seaside town is charming – they save otters and have a collection point for stray dogs. After a beer in the hotel we trek to the campsite, a dreary place with the view onto a building site. We set up camp and decide to have our braai. We bought a disposable braai at Tesco’s with Scottish lamb loin chops – thick cut chops that was ridiculously cheap. (Seven pounds for six large chops!). The braai is a dainty little tinfoil pan with charcoal. The piece of paper on top is lit and sets the coals on fire. With enough encouragement we get the chops braaied, and it is worth every bit of the effort. With coleslaw, of course Branston pickle and some buttery new potatoes, we are in heaven. More wine. Lots more… The minute the rain stopped, the midges arrive. Their Afrikaans name should be “fokkertjies”. Midges are small muggies with the most lethal bite you can imagine. Apparently the little fokkertjies have two sets of jaws, and trust me, they make use of these. We spray and rub every possible antidote, put on little armbands that I bought in SA, but no, the little fokkertjies are resistant. They are so tiny that they can actually climb up your nose or into your ears without you noticing. They are quiet and everywhere. People resort to nets used to get honey from beehives. And once they bite (with two rows of injury) the itch is relentless. I remember from my previous visit to Scotland that I ended up looking like a leper. Of course once you think that they are biting you, you actually start itching all over, swatting yourself senseless at fokkertjies everywhere. It does end up looking as if you are having an epileptic fit or doing some weird Highland jig to the tune of some phantom bagpiper. Thank goodness for the rain – the little fokkertjies disappear. I am totally convinced now that the rain is a blessing – it drapes the landscape in veils of grey mist, darkest of clouds reflecting on the lochs makes the dramatic landscape even more dramatic and poetic. And no fokkertjies.