Italy 2017

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Witsand, South Africa

A slight change of plan. As I have a afternoon appointment in Stirling, we decide to book a night train to London on the Caledonian Sleeper. After the nightmare experience on bloody Ryanair, it is a small price to pay in comparison. From the platform we are ushered to a VIP lounge on the station, where drinks and snacks await. We have no idea what awaits us on the train… The compartment is the size of a glove compartment in a Toyota Tazz. The bunk beds are neatly made (with very decent linen and pillows), a small basin is hidden under a fliptop table. Two of suitcases just fit under the bottom bunk. We are both dog tired and decide to call it a day. As the train pulls out of the station, I fall asleep. For three minutes. For some reason it seems that the driver of the train likes hitting the brakes at ten minute intervals. This results in the coach jolting, just enought to make me fear that I might fall off the top bunk. The stretches in between him playing with the brakes are wonderfully comforting, lulling me into a much needed sleep. Ten minutes later, jolted as he brakes again. So through the night until we arrive at Euston station just before 07h00. We did get the coffee that we were offered the night before – undrinkable. We make a beeline for the apartment, desperate now for a shower and lying down in an unmoving bed. The sun is out – it looks tyttlike a beautiful day in London. Strange how the body changes with age – a few years ago I would have been out on the street exploring, not giving tiredness a moment’s thought. Now, I feel as if the train had actually draged me behind it. After a decent nap, we take to the streets to enjoy some sunshine and find a much deserved breakfast. I google a few places and see Partridge recommended as a foodie lover’s heaven, in Chelsea. In our summer’s best, we venture forth to indulgence. Partridge is indeed a paradise for food lovers, and those adventurous enough to try things like grashopper flour biscuits, dried mealworms and sun-dried baby crickets. Beautifully packaged. To take advantage of high summer in London, we sit outside facing the Saatchi Gallery. (It is Chelsea you know). The service fiasco starts. A waitress from an unknown destination (what in the old days one would call a “foreign country”) is our service ambassador. Or rather our service embaressment. She manages to get it all wrong – not just our simple order, but all the orders around us. People eventually simply get up and walk away in a huff. Her fellow waitron and her are now having a tiff – neither very fluent in English which makes the tiff more sign language than verbal confrontation. Getting yourself in a huff and pulling your tail feathers in a curl seem to be universal, foreign origins or not. It is now actually entertaining to watch, although very embarressing at the same time. Just as I think the situation is actually going to explode, the heavens open in a torrential downpour. Now the dualling duo are trying to put up massive umbrellas, whilst hitting patrons behind the head and turning over glasses. At this point we decide to go inside, like most of the rest of the people sitting outside. It is ******* down. Of course inside is packed, and when asking a red faced, puffy cheeked gentleman if we may join his table (he is sitting alone at a table for four) I am greeted with a snarl to indicate “hell yes, if you bloody well have to”. He voted for Brexit – I am convinced. Would have none of this European sharing of tables, bloody Continentals! I ignore him, sit down (drenched from three paces in the rain). Of course we had neither warm clothes nor umbrella as it was summer when we left the flat. I cannot help but think of my clients complaining about “bad service” in our dining rooms. God knows, I do wish I could treat them to a few very expensive restaurants across the globe to show them what “bad service” looks like. By now I am tempted to call the manager of the very pretentious, up-market, Tripadvisor recommended bloody canteen to give her a piece of my mind. Instead, we pay the bill and leave, to the absolute delight of Mr. Grumpy. (Who has a slice of bread with hard boiled eggs and smoked salmon, washed down with a glass of Rose). Slightly traumatised, we decide to go back to the apartment for a nap, walking back along the Thames.

London, United Kingdom

After a long day trekking back to Stirling to discuss my PhD, we decide to treat ourselves to a meal at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant in Edinburgh. Why not? The place is packed, we have to wait at the bar for about half an hour before we can get a table. The (double) gin and tonic is just what the doctor ordered for a tired body and a spinning mind. The thought of embarking on this crazy journing of doing a PhD is keeping me awake at night. The Jamie restaurant is impressive in size, feeling like a royal banquet hall with massive chandeliers and wood panelling, waiters neatly trimmed and tucked into white shirts and black trousers with short little black aprons. The type of place that always makes me feel underdressed and “van die plaas af”. The fact that we have a collection of bags, umbrella, camera bag, shopping bags and the by now hugely irritating bloody top hat with us make us in fact look like two bag ladies. It takes me all of five minutes to compose myself (actually one sip of the gin) and not give a toss. We are shown to our table, or should I say to our little tablet the size of an ipad. In spite of the opulant granduer of the place, it is clear that they keep the tables as small as possible to squeeze in as many paying guests. There is an outomatic assumption that these guests will be tiny, have midget like short legs and that they do not need to put anything down on the table – no wallet, sunglasses, cellphone, keys. Nothing. Because there is hardly place for the crockery and salt and pepper on this little tablet. To add to the granduer, the lights are just enough to assure you that you are not blind. Untill you try to read the very artful menu printed on percament with the smallest possible handwriting. The little candle on the table is clearly only there to add to the ambience – it serves no purpose what so ever other than taking up what little space could have been used for a water glass. With or without glasses, I cannot for the life of me see what is written on the menu. A further expansion on the ambience effort is the “music” – now not only am I as blind as a bat in this dark banking hall of a restaurant, the racket coming from the ceiling assures me that I am deaf as well. And while this internal dialogue is raging, I have a hard time trying to convince myself that I should just calm down, soak up the wonderful atmosphere and get over myself. Our order is a meatplatter for me and bruschette for Victor to start, two prawn pastas and a tiramisu for me and panacotta for V. Botlle of red (the price of which would buy us a case of 6 at home). The next thing (we have now added two wine glasses and a bottle of red wine, a caraffe of water and two water glasses to the tablet) the waiter plonks down two tins of tomatoes on the table – to hold the meat board which duly arrives with great aplomb. One slice of cheese (see through it is so thinly cut) on a paperthin piece of left-over pizza crust, a slice of polony (they would call it ham) and a slice of prosciutto. On which is draped a gherkin. And a thimble with carrot sticks. To close my mouth which had dropped onto the table, I duly stuff the gherkin in. Only the find that it ain’t no gherkin, it is a chilly. Now I am NOT a chilly person – my personality is hot enough and needs no help from chillies. Within seconds I have heart palputations and start hiccuping as my diaphragm goes into a state of complete shock. Thank God for the darkness that no one can witness this little drama playing out at our table. Meanwhile, the table next to us (or rather the table sitting on our laps next to us) consist of a mother (totally exasperated by two teenage girls and a witless husband), two teenage girls and a father (witless). The teenagers are drawing interior designs of their desired bedrooms on their napkins whilst talking over each other, explaining where they want which piece of designer furniture to be placed. A cat fight duly ensues when the one apparently had stolen the other’s idea. The younger one (sitting on Victor’s lap) decided it is now time to jump up and down on the shared bench. Repeatedly. Jumping higher and higher. Just when I am ready to take the wine caraffe and beat her head to a pulp she stops. And then all the lights go out in the restaurant. Chaos ensues – I maliciously start talking loudly of terrorist attackes hoping that the (American) family next to us might leave. No such luck – for about five minutes the restaurant is dark (in fact just a tad darker that what we started off with), a wonderful reprieve from the horrible music and stunned silence from the eaters. Of course – the gas grills are grilling, only now there is no extraction fans, so within seconds the place fills up with smoke of chicken, beef and what ever else was being cremated on the salamander. At this point I decide to go for a walk outside. Within minutes of the lights coming on again, our main course arrives – a thin tagliatelle with prawns swimming in a watery soup interspersed with acidic baby tomatoes. I have been to Italy a few times Jamie. Pasta in Italy never, ever swims in a sauce. In fact, you have to really really dig to find a sauce – it is usually a refined, gently smearing of taste that infuses a plate of pasta with the most mysteriously gentle flavours. You are forced to eat more and more of the pasta in a quest to discover more and more flavour. When the last scraping are smeared off the plate with bread you still wonder what it was that transported you temporarily to a magic planet of subtle taste – was it really olive oil and garlic only? Truffle? White or black? The mystery lingers – you find it hard to hand the plate back without actually licking it out with your tongue like a cat grooming in the late afternoon sun. It never swims. Never…

Stirling, United Kingdom

Just below our apartment in the Grassmarket (I wonder if they sold grass at the Grassmarket) there is a therapeutic cat cafe. Looking through the window (it costs 7 pounds to enter) it is clear that this is place is cat’s heaven – for those who love cats and for the cats themselves. Soft carpets, scratch poles, hanging baskets, even a laptop computer left open so that the cats can sit on the keyboard (as cats do). Humans may visit, with no guarantee that any cat will acknowledge the visitor. A voluptuous, white, regal looking long haired, fluffed collar blue eyed long whiskered inhabitant lies spread out in the window, ignoring the crazy world going past the window. A young, stripey, very ordinary looking kitten runs through the playground in and out of hiding places entertaining itself. A sphinx like, tiny, hairless sickly looking (which I am sure it is not) rare breed curls up in front of a heater. The poor thing looks desperately naked. The cat cafe is but one of the quirky Edinburgh traits that make it such a wonderful city. Others include lots of tours around witchcraft and ghosts and dead people. The city is beautifully preserved with an eclectic mix of architectural styles – least of which is the parliament buildings designed by a Spanish architect who was obviously influenced by Gaudi (or under the influence of some hallucinogenic substance). I find it interesting that they choose something so quirky for such a serious place, and cannot help wonder if that is part of the reason why the English do not take the Scots seriously. On that note, spending time in Edinburgh and meeting more Scottish people we are struck by their friendliness time and time again. On Saturday we decide to go down to Leith (just outside the city) to a local food and craft beer market. Like the Biscuit Mill in Cape Town, it is in a semi industrial area in the backyard of what once was a biscuit mill! Much smaller than the one in Cape Town, it has a very unpretentious atmosphere (unlike the one in CT), quirky live band playing country music, and jam packed with locals enjoying some great grub. We are chatted up by Mike and Pauline, couple who live outside of Edinburgh and also came to the market for the day. Very soon we are sharing laughs and an electronic cigarette with – wait for it – FRUIT LOOPS AND MILK flavoured vaporizer oil in it! (The electronic cigarette market is booming in the UK). Several beers and some lamb chops and crab salad later, we head off to another pub along the waterfront in Leith. Once the hangout place for prostitutes, Leith is now the new yuppie place to be seen with expensive apartments and pretentious shops. Our new friends are extremely friendly and funny (even though we only understand every third or fourth sentence of the wonderful Scottish accent). Of course the copious gallons of beer that is consumed does not help the articulation (or the walking along cobblestones for that matter). Not quite knowing how we got ourselves into this situation, or how we are going to get out of it again, we make a dash for it when other friends of Mike and Pauline arrive, knowing that if we did not do it at that point the night would have ended in the early hours of the morning. On Sunday we visit the Scottish Portrait Gallery in Queen Street, a magnificent building with strong Moorish influences. Most of the paintings are old masters – pale anemic looking individuals with very bad hair in poses that look as if they might be double jointed. Hunting scenes and landscapes reminiscent of the dullness of the summer weather in the UK, obesely overweight babies with marble white skin and rosy cheeks. All much of a muchness, and what would have made for a deadly boring afternoon if it was not for the photographic exhibition. Winners of some national competition, some striking portrait photographs that cuts to the chase of the full spectrum of human emotions. Again South Africa is also part of the world stage with two striking photographs of children by photographer Pieter Hugo. Born in 1976, living in Cape Town he works primarily in portraiture focussing on African communities. (Worth a google – his photographs are very touching!) Sunday afternoon is spent in the company of Kerry Donaldson, a friend from my UCT days, who now lives in Scotland with her husband Steve and two kids Harry and Alex. Steve spoils us with a braai (can’t believe how we miss braaing…), lots of Prosecco and red wine and really great company! We spend half an hour (the sum total of summer) outside in the garden before it starts raining again. Clearly people here are not put out by the rain, as the braai continues with great success. The party is joined by Wendy, like Kerry in the legal profession, and we have more of the true Scottish humour and hospitality. And get a sense of how different – and the same – lives are in Scotland and South Africa. Poor Harry and Alex wish for a country with less rain and more sunshine. We wish for a country with less violence and corruption. Everything comes at a price. Our last evening is spent recovering from too much food and wine lazing on the couches, reading and listening to Radio 4 (the reception on the television is too bad for Radio 3). Both channels have wonderful classical music and educational programs on music. Today we leave Edinburgh for our last three days in London. Packing is bloody nerve wrecking – in spite of all our good intentions we end up accumulating more and more stuff. The by now already irritating top hat, Stirling the bear, about ten new books, two great tea towels, our pillows and sheets that had to come along, a bottle of Scottish liqueur and a box of very special chocolates (thanks Kerry and Steve) and just as well we bought two new suitcases yesterday. We order an Uber to take us to the station, as I have to go back to Stirling University to talk about a PhD. (Bloody insane, I know). The uber parks across the road from us (it is pouring with rain). I run across the road in my top hat, wave madly at him and he pulls away to what I would assume is making a u-turn to pick us up. He then turns around and drive past us. When he comes back again, I run (in the pouring rain with my top hat) to knock on his window and show him where we are. He gets the fright of his life (must be the beard and the befokte expression on my face), I tell him we are waiting right behind him, and he pulls off again, to what I would assume would be another U-turn to now come and pick us up. And that was the last time we saw him. Needless to say uber charged me for the ride that WE missed. But thankfully they reversed the charges immediately after I sent a complaint. Stirling has a “virtual dementia centre” showing the best in design and technology for people living with dementia, something that perhaps 0.5% of the world population of people living with dementia would ever be able to access (or afford). The conversation with Drs. Jane Robertson and Louise McCabe confirms that I have a good topic, and that it fits well with the universities’ philosophy of exploring less convential discourses in research. So now for a last food meal in Edinburgh and then the overnight train to London…

Edinburgh, United Kingdom

Our stay in the fancy campsite of Silverknowe is uneventful, except for wonderful heavy rains during the night. We parked under a massive old oak tree, which made the sound of the rain on the campervan even more spectacular. It is clear that there are classes of campsites – this being one of the more posh ones. All in all though, it has been a very pleasant experience so far. Well, now we have to pack, clean up and return the van to Uphall, just outside of Edinburgh. Fortunately (and rather unusual for the two of us) we kept the van quite clean, which was not easy with all the rain, mud and the weird habit of campsite owners to insist on mowing the lawns while the rain is ******* down. So with a mixture of mud and freshly mowed lawn on hiking boots, I became the nagging mother – “wipe your feet please”. So now we have to get everything we bought (whiskey, books, writing paper, top hat, Stirling bear etc) into our suitcases. Not to mention all the food. We do a good job of most of the cleaning, until I want to sweep the floor and find that we have lost our little broom and dustpan. Pain in the butt, but thanks to friendly neighbours we borrow one to do a good job of it. I cannot figure out how we could have lost the bloody little brush and pan, but it is gone. Totally gone. Pain! We empty the grey water and toilet tank, and now have to make a beeline to Edinburgh, where we are going to take a chance of dropping off our cargo at the apartment, which is only available from 16h00. That means venturing right into the middle of the city, find the apartment, and pray that we can leave all our stuff there. We also have to fill the van with diesel. Easier said than done! The city is chaos, we have to make two u-turns before we spot the apartment on the opposite side of the road, with not a parking space in sight. The spot that we should use is occupied by a cleaning company hosing down the outside of the block of apartment. Eventually the friendly hosing man sees our distress and pulls his van away to make space for the camper. Now, for the first time, it feels as if we are driving a pantechnicon. I manage to squeeze into the small space with the help of Victor and the hose man. We get into the block, but cannot figure out how to open the apartment door, in spite of emailed instructions. Eventually someone opens the door from the inside – a nice young man called Paul, from Cape Town! He lets us in, we drop our bags and realise that we are now late. (There is a 56 pound for returning the vehicle after 11h00). And we still have to find a bloody little brush and broom!! Heading out of town to Uphall of course every traffic light will be red. In Uphall itself we find a Hardware store where Victor jumps out and finds a brush and pan. Saved! It is now 11h20, and I am irked by the fact that we will have to pay a fine! And we can’t find the depot. The GPS has taken us into the village, we have no idea how to get to the Industrial Park where we are supposed to drop off the van. By some fluke – we happen to drive past it. U-turn and voila, we are there. No one says a word about the fact that we are late, everyone is checked and we are ready to go. I do a last check to see that we have not forgotten anything – only to find THE BLOODY BRUSH AND DUSTPAN. And we both looked everywhere. Yea right we did. A short walk to the station in Uphall and we take the train into Edinburgh. We decide to take a walk up the Royal Mile, with thousands of tourists from all over the world who had the same idea. It is a beautiful sunny day, and at 13h30 we have breakfast in a little sidewalk cafe. The sun is now quite warm and suddenly one can actually consider calling this season summer. We stroll up to the Edinburgh Castle where preparations are under way for the annual Military Tattoo. (I attended this in the late 80’s – an unforgettable parade of 1000 pipers with the most incredible firework display. It is also the official opening of the Edinburgh Festival, where I saw a performance of “Curl up and dye”, a wonderful South African production with Christine Basson in the lead). We do a walking tour with a guide with the most charming drawl of a Scottish accent and a very, very dry sense of humour. Touching (more that the blood and murder of royalty and clans) is a tiny little graveyard for the dogs of the soldiers and officers – prime position in the castle for man’s best friend. Now while the whole motorhome expedition might sound very strange to the average person, we decide that it is a fantastic way of travelling. Car and house in one tortoise style, it is great to stop en route, make a cup of tea and have a little lie down (or a wee). The campsites are very clean and comfortable, usually in great spots that have spectacular views. There is no rushing into cities, having to find accommodation when you arrive late, getting lost on the way to hotels or apartments. The privacy of your own little boudoir is wonderful, no need to pack and unpack suitcases all the time or stress with checking in or out times. So – this will be our new way of travelling in future!

Edinburgh, United Kingdom

Our journey takes us out of Ullapool towards Inverness. How strange to be back in a place where you spent so much time and have so little memory of… I remember the place well, and two or three people who worked with me at the hotel. And Banoffee Pie. For the rest it is a blur. Also strange where life has lead me too – I do think that having lived and travelled in so many places when one is so young you tend to forget. By the time I was thirty I had worked in Salzburg, Oxford, London, Ullapool, Gordon’s Bay, Cape Town, Stellenbosch, Franschhoek, Pretoria. And the Wimpy in Heidelberg and the winkel in Jongensfontein. And Rondebosch. The drive along Loch Ness brings us to a stop at Blair Atholl Watermill, a per chance pulling off the road discovery of the a real old watermill that is still operational milling wheat to produce a range of different types of flour. The tea shop serves the most delicious Tiffin, a type of Millionaire’s Shortbread, only the shortbread bit contains raisins and honey. A pot of wonderful tea, Tiffins and we are ready for the road again. A nearby garden attracts people by virtue of the fact that the owner collects money for the RSPCA. Good enough for us to empty our wallets of lose change. Our road trip is nearing its end. We drive into Edinburgh to spend our last night on the Forth of Firth. An amazing new bridge is being built – a massive construction alongside the already impressive iron bridge and a road bridge. Our campsite is Silverknowes on the banks of the Firth of Forth, directly under the landing path of the airport. A very well kept place for serious campers, we bring the average age (and weight) down considerably! The instructions of how and where to park are very precise… We find what we think would be a quiet spot. The local pub is recommended as a place to find good food. Toby’s. A fifteen minute walk across the magnificent golf course, by the time we get there I have a hay fever of note. Toby’s is a carvery franchise. (That was not mentioned). There is a choice of beef, gammon and a massive turkey, vegetables that have been cooked to death, a selection of glossy gravies, Yorkshire pudding that looks like little mushroomed pastry cups. For the record, I hate carveries. Yet there is very little else on the meny to choose from other than sandwiches made of the carvery roasts. The place is packed with what seems to be very happy overweight locals, bringing Granny for a little feast, kids running riot. On our way back to wonder about life here compared to life back in SA. The stark contrasts – our constant fear of crime, the harsh socio/political/economic realities of our staff and millions of people in SA, the threat of running out of water or electricity. (At least now almost every country has a totally dysfunctional government we don’t have to feel too bad…) And yet, we decide, we would not be able to live here, ydillic as it may seem. We are fuelled by the edge, that energy that drives us and for me perhaps the most important thing being the fact that we can make a difference in so many ways. The next three days we spend in Edinburgh, then back to old London town…

Edinburgh, United Kingdom

Portree is the capital of the Isle of Skye, another beautiful little harbour town with quaint upright houses all along the shore. The campsite is just outside of town in lush green fields littered with sheep. The sheep really are beautiful, the lambs all white and round with perky ears and stick legs. The run after their mothers with wild gallops and seem to love cuddling next them for warmth and protection. I would love to take one home with me! Our day’s drive is simply too exquisite to even try and describe. Mountain passes and lakes, forrests and glens, vistas that take your breath away. There is something so wholesome about the Scottish landscape – the green, fresh, new life in every tree and shrub, brooks that babble, clouds and pouring rain. The first part of the day is bathed in sunshine which only lasts for about two hours. The rest of day is bathed in soft, gently rain that feeds the streams that gently flow to lochs and lakes. In Plockton we stop for coffee that comes highly recommended by the guide book. My history with guide books turns out to repeat itself. Very mediocre coffee, only redeemed by the beautiful setting of yet another quaint little seaside village. A few miles outside the village we stop for breakfast. My turn – French toast made from the now four day old raisin and sultana bread, with strong Scottish cheddar and oak smoked bacon drowned in Scottish honey. Orange juice (with pieces) in an epic setting overlooking the village. I see people staring at our breakfast. Eat your hearts out! The drive takes us up the steepest incline in the UK – with a vista at the top that is from another world. What is it about Scotland – is the lakes or the mountains or the forrests? I think it is a particular combination of contrasts. It seems that mountains and lakes have been thrown together in a haphazard style, all the best of the creation taken, shaken, stirred, tossed up in the air to land in their own special way to create a tapestry of colours and textures. Our destination is Ullapool, another ferry crossing harbour town where as I young traveller I worked in the 80’s. I have been back once, long ago. And now – another life, another time – I am back again. The hotel still belongs to Jean Urquahart. I remember so well walking into the hotel after I saw an ad at the local youth hostel (which I dreamt I would see on my way to Ullapool in the bus, listening to Elton John singing “Candle in the wind”). Jean Urquahart told me in no uncertain terms “I do not employ South Africans and I do not buy South African wine or grapes”. There we go for Apartheid. I (in no uncertain terms) told her “well a pity that is, missing out on the best wine, grapes and employees”. I was told to phone her back the next day – when she told me that I had the job and could start on the Monday. I stayed in a crofters cottage outside Achilitbuie for a few days before I started working as a waiter in the Ceilidh Place, staying in the bunkhouse with other working travellers. I remember one morning arriving for work about 30 minutes early. Jean called me in and said “your shift starts at 08h00. Please arrive at 08h00, there is no need to be here 30 minutes before the time”. I wanted to say that that is the reason we are good, but decided to keep my good manners to myself. I enjoyed the time as best I could in between serious youthful angst and depression. I took long walks and enjoyed the Celtic music. I remember eating Banoffee Pie for the first time and battling with the broad Scottish accent.The rest is very muc a blur…. And now I am back, almost thirty years later. Nothing has changed – it is still raining. Jean Urquahart is now a member of the Scottish parliament fighting for the rights of prostitutes and Scottish independence. Her daughter and son in law run the hotel. The wonderful bookshop is still there and the food is still good. And I am no longer depressed. The Ullapool campsite (just as I remember it) is on the foreshore of Loch Broom. Water gently lapping against the pebble beach, seagulls screeching as they did all those years ago. Life is good. Our evening meal at the hotel, now as a guest and not a waiter, is Scottish Salmon for Victor and Venison Pie for me. With good red wine form Argentina. Life is very good. Walking back at 21h39 it is still broad daylight. Sadly our time in the Highlands is coming to and end. This has been so good for the soul….

Portree, United Kingdom

Glenbrittle Campsite, Isle of Skye Green hills tumbling into the loch of still stillness water gently lapsing against its feet These islands in their rocky starkness stand testimony to Scottish boldness Woolly sheep on stick thin legs gently grazing the greenest green The landscape on Skye inspires the poet and artist in me, neither of which I am very good at. A resolution – I need to learn to sketch. The photographs are beautiful, but I have an indescribable to engage with the landscape in more than just the click of the a button. I also realise that I tend to forget detail – I have been here before, albeit many years ago, and can hardly remember any of the detail. Hence the blog – but it is such a one dimensional account of events. I want to sketch it and write poetry about it for one day when I sit on the stoep of the Old Age Home. Apart from having to dodge the Fokkertjies, we cannot wish for a more peaceful and beautiful campsite. Another braai, more new potatoes and coleslaw (the gift that keeps on giving), red wine. During the night it rains non stop – music on our roof that lulls us to sleep. We wake up to clear skies and decide to take a hike up the hill to a land locked lake. No sooner had we ventured out (fokkertjie nets and all) and it starts POURING down again. We have to make a runner to our campervan and arrive soaking wet. Change of clothes and we decide to pack it up and venture further north. Not before we have a coffee from the little campsite store – the real deal with strong, hand pulled coffee that makes up for the bad weather in an instant. Our first stop is at Carbost, a tiny village that only exists thanks to the Talisker distillery. Now I am not a whiskey person, never have, never will be. I have tried it over the years and yet it never fell softly on my palate. Nevertheless, we decide (well V did) that we should explore. I am always keen to learn how things are made, so we sign up for the tour of the distillery. Laura, our guide with the broadest of Scottish accents (and the longest of noses) is informative and interesting in her tour. Fascinating to see oak casks and original copper distilling kettles. I dread having to taste the end product… Well, you can teach an old dog new tricks. The whiskey produced is quite incredible – thanks to the peat smoked barley (malted) the whiskey has a definite smack of smokiness with sweet undertones that apparently is unique to Tallisker. Considering the price per bottle, Tallisker will not replace my gin habit. But I will treat myself to a “wee dram” from now on on the odd occassion. Our route takes us north to Dunvegan Castle, seat of the clan MacLeod for over 700 years. To this day the castle is inhabited by the chief of the clan, one High MacLeod of MacLeod. He is chief no. 30, and the man has a passion for gardening. The small garden of the castle is a feast – we get totally carried away by the sheer luxury of so many species of flowers and shrubs and glorious trees. Very informal in its lay-out (except for the one central piece), the gardens are just so voluptuous and overflowing with beauty. I was not aware of the bloody feuds between the clans, nor of the many Crofters who were set off their land in order for the rich to farm with sheep. A fascinating history that is so reminiscent of our own in South Africa. Our stroll through the garden is manna for the soul. I realise how I love having a garden… After Dunvegan we head for the Red Roof Gallery, recommended by the guide book for their food. It is clear that Skye is the Knysna of the islands. Rich Yuppies with their little arty ***** shoppies and airy fairy galleries. (Unkind, I know). The Red Roof Gallery has stopped serving lunch, so we are stuck with two choices – a fish soup or a cheese scone. I settle for the latter with a soft local sheep’s milk cheese and pickles. (My longing for Mrs. Ball’s). Not their best item on the menu I am sure, but they make up for it with a moist date and walnut slice and their superior coffee (for which God will strike you dead if you add sugar, according to very pretentious write up in the menu). Well thank God that the cake is so sweet I don’t need sugar in the coffee. (I am not ready to be struck down yet, thank you.) Thanks to the starch overload I can’t keep my eyes open, and Victor takes the wheel to get us to Portree, capital of Skye, where we will spend the last night on the Isle of Skye.

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.

Oban, United Kingdom

Our campsite in Glencoe is in the most perfect setting on Loch Linnhe. The weather is playing games with us – from torrential storms to brilliant sunshine all in the matter of an hour. Then rain, then sunshine. We actually had to buy an umbrella in Luss, a real little touristy town on Loch Lomond. Of course two large men under a normal sized umbrella trying to keep dry could be tricky…. Last night we celebrated my graduation which, a bit like my 50th, is like an Indian wedding celebration – it doesn’t stop! Any excuse to have good food. The very friendly man at the campsite recommends Laroche, a pub close by. We are bowled over – a real pub in every sense of the word: television screens everywhere, jam packed with a crowd wanting to see the Wales/Belgium football game, noisy, with the most extensive menu! We settle for a bottle of Chilean Merlot (having found that these are really good) with Victor choosing Haggis as a starter and skate wings as a main course, both dishes which he has never eaten before. I play it safe with a duck salad and Scottish salmon with glass noodles, ginger and soy sauce. A five star meal – delicious mixture of tastes and textures and beautifully presented. For dessert Victor orders a banana bavarois and I order the cheese platter. Again both choices are superbly executed – a varied selection of cheeses at room temperature, from a hard, sharp to gooey, oozy, smelly. With crumbly oatmeal biscuits and sweet grapes and soury dried apricots. Of course by this time we had our second bottle of red. Well, that degree needed a lot of celebrating! This morning we wake up to driving rain. The sound of the rain on the roof of the campervan is magic, reminding me of my childhood days of rain on a tin roof in my Grandmother’s home in Knysna. We have now figured out the heating (which works with gas) and a way to keep the light out, so we sleep until just after six. Victor is on breakfast duty – natural, unsmoked bacon (which means the disgusting smokey chemical was not added), free range eggs and raisin bread lightly fried in the bacon pan. Strong cheddar melting on perfectly poached eggs (Victor not only makes the best tea in the world, he also does the most beautiful poached eggs). And fresh orange juice with bits. (It must have bits). As the waistlines expand, we are ready for another day of exploring. Our first port of call is Fort William, with the hope of getting tickets for the Jacobite steamtrain to Malaig. The lady at the tourist information tells us in a very put out tone with matching facial disapproval that “they have decided not to let us sell the tickets for them”. So go stand in the queue and hope for the best. We also cannot book online and decide to try on our way back again. Fort William seems to be hub for the sporty types – spandex, bicycles, walkers, more bicycles and lots more spandex. It is still pouring with rain. Our next stop is at Apprin near the remains of the Castle Stalker. Freshly baked scones (mine with dried fruit), thick cream and apricot jam makes for a nice little teatime snack preparing us for the road to Oban. I was in Oban in the late 80’s and had forgotten how attractive the village is, and how overrun by tourists. We book our trip on the ferry to Mull and across to Skye – the first available space is at 18h20. A gentle day in Oban. We decide to buy food for the evening, which ends up being another few bags of delicacies. Amongst others six thick Scottish lamb loin chops. We buy a little disposable braai just for fun. If the rain stops long enough we might have a braai on Skye. Or Mull. And a whole bag of the bright yellow, buttery baby potatoes (or new potatoes as they are called here). And some coleslaw. And a few other little titbits. I am loving this holiday. A real childhood fantasy having a campervan and being able to have your house for the night right there when you need it. Want a little nap? Just jump in the back. Need a pee? It is right there. And snacks – just reach to the back and open the fridge. So now we are sitting in the hotel overlooking the harbour, having a beer and waiting for our ferry. Tonight is Mull.