Tents, trains and the great outdoors

Introduction 

I don’t holiday in the UK. When I was young we would use London as our window on the world and spend our holidays enjoying the interests that often pass resident Londoners by. When we did travel, we went to see family abroad. As I packed my backpack on a Friday evening I looked forward to the next ten days. I had overlooked the experiences on my doorstep long enough.

 Part 1: London to Edinburgh 

“It’s practically commutable” 

The train from London to Edinburgh was a novel way for me to travel. I had never been further north than Newcastle before, and on that occasion we travelled by coach – a journey gruelling upon recollection. 

Rather simply, I had been looking to this part of my journey the most. I anticipated the scenery, the people watching, a good book and friendly company would keep me occupied for the 4 hours it takes the train to rocket its way to Waverly station. 

There is something romantic and dramatic about train journeys. The mode tastes of Graeme Greene novels and summons A Brief Encounter from my memory. Train journeys have a richness flying and driving do no have, long-established by films and literature where trains are often the setting for spectacle and intrigue. Expecting far too much from the experience, I board the train with my pals. 

The train was full to capacity but still comfortable. There were three of us and we had a booth for four to ourselves. We spread our possessions on the table that divided us accordingly. We ordered hot tea from the trolley, spat out the cold grey tea we received, then got an explanation and refunds (“The boiler isn’t working”). 

We passed through epic, Victorian, iron-clad stations and endured screaming babies who refused to enjoy the still seas, un-British blue skies and watercolour landscapes. We deciphered the very heavy Glaswegian accent in the seat behind that bellowed at some volume down the phone. It momentarily fooled us into thinking that we, as English people, did not have a remarkable accent of our own. In the blink, or perhaps several blinks, of an eye, we arrived. It felt practically commutable. I said this to my friends who predict more ludicrous observations from me as the week draws on. 

A taxi driver-cum-tour-guide takes us to our hostel bombarding us with finer details about the roads and streets that we were never going to remember. We have to get used to this; the people we meet in Scotland are super friendly to us and we encounter so many sincere yet brief recommendations along the way. It’s refreshing and makes London feel like an extremely cold climate. As it happens, in Edinburgh that weekend, it is ultra hot. We couldn’t  wait to dump our things, wash our faces and run amok in the city.

 A neo-classical sunset in a neo-classical city 

“I can’t understand a word she’s saying” 

We spent two days in Edinburgh. We were tourists, so we went on a bus tour. Ian Rankin’s local is pointed out to us, as is the former home of Robert Louis Stevenson. We were introduced to men (mostly English) immortalised on Corinthian pillars that are scattered throughout the city. Further reading tells me that Edinburgh was one known as the ‘Athens of the North.’ Having been expanded exponentially in the 18^th century the tastes of the time are evident everywhere. African iconography celebrated by the Greeks and then copied by the Georgians is dotted on the roofs of many impressive looking buildings.   

The tour continues. The commentary from the tour guide is pointless for an American man behind me because he “can’t understand a word she’s saying.” I roll my eyes. We can understand everything. We enjoy the history on the bus trip. We get off at Edinburgh Castle to enjoy some more. 

After we’ve satisfactorily respected our duty to familiarise ourselves with cold, hard facts of our host metropolis, we have tea and shortbread in a posh place. It is authentically but somehow crudely art-deco in style. The shortbread is the most Scottish delicacy we had eaten so far. We had been dining on Italian cuisine and drinking ginger beer (a wondrous discovery that we later realise had been available in our local boozer all along). 

With all our learning rooted in the token highlights of the past, and our inevitable bias towards the cosmopolitan treats of the present, I don’t feel like we’re having a faintly Scottish experience at all. 

To remedy this we take a pleasant walk to Calton Hill, the origins of which we never managed to find out. Calton Hill props up the observatory and has more evidence of Edinburgh’s neo-classical obsession. Random ‘Greek’ monuments that people climb to and sit and drink on are arranged on the summit. We travel with cheap hip flasks filled with spirits because when in Rome you have to act Roman. The sunset is unsurprisingly lovely and coats us and the city in a metallic orange glow. It makes for good digital photographs.  We swig mouthfuls of Jamaican rum and Disarano. Suddenly, the experience, surround by locals doing the same, feels very Scottish indeed.  

Highland bound

“A bad day on the hill is better than a bad day in the office” 

Edinburgh was really just a stop for us to get our bearings and acclimatise to being absent from work. Our real trip is just beginning. After two days we head for the Highlands, specifically, the Isle of Skye. The mammoth distance, winding roads and questionable clutch control in the rented car reminds me I suffer from motion sickness. I feel terrible all the way there. When we arrive, the car stops but my head still travels. I am cheered up by the fact that on the Isle of Skye there are sheep everywhere. I am not embarrassed to say this greatly entertains me. It feels like the land is lawless. Nothing roams freely in London. 

The Isle of Sky is larger than I expected but its rocky, hilly terrain means it is sparsely populated. We are due to spend some time in Portree, the capital of the Isle. It’s a tiny, pretty place that offers visitors one of three pubs, maybe a few more restaurants and miles of walking. 

We have fish and chips for dinner on the first night and eat it on a raised wall by a shore. This becomes a bad idea because the seagulls watch us with intent. Still, we demolish our greasy dinner to sit in a pub. We meet a friendly German couple who have driven up from Germany with their two teenage children. We are startled at the length of their drive. They really like walking, they inform us. They must like driving too.

I have never really done any hill walking. I went on a flat walking route in Suffolk once, where I saw some pigs, and used pre-written walking guides to navigate Bruges on a previous trip. I have never comprehended hill walking as a legitimate and demanding pastime enjoyed by people everywhere. I use this ignorance as an excuse for coming poorly prepared. I travelled with a flimsy shower proof jacket and Nike Air Stabs. I’m told this is not proper mountain apparel. Unfortunately, it will have to do. 

The next day we go on our first walk. It’s a popular route entitled ‘The Old Man of Storr.’ It’s an ascent of around 700ft to a large rock which is the said Old Man. The path is well trodden so for a first time walker it’s thankfully safe and unchallenging. We have our first close encounter with the sheep that roam without restriction. The lambs are adorable; bounding and 'baa-ing' in complete and utter ignorance that they will one day be leaping all the way to the abattoir.  When we get to the top, we realise just how big the Old Man is. We also realise how popular it is because we meet the German couple there again too. It’s a good place to sit and think. When we have sat and thought enough, we descend. 

We follow the surprisingly quick walk to the Old Man with one to a stony beach, down a horrendously steep hill that gives us sweaty climb back up to look forward to. The beach is fantastic with rock pools where one can find fossil remains. We don’t bother looking for these. Besides, I can only recognise fossils if they are displayed in glass cases with a sign that says ‘this is a fossil’. The beach is full of pebbles and we build towers, challenging each other to knock them down with smaller stones whilst sitting a distance away. My friend often holidays in areas of similar remoteness and assures me this is what you do when you go to ‘shit places’. I quite enjoy it. 

Our final walk of the day takes up to see some caves and a loch, over a pathless field full of sheep and their excrement. I find this horrifying in my shiny, fabulous trainers. I can’t believe my friends happily walk in the stuff. I try to navigate the terrain on my toes. The wind has risen in speed and it becomes cold, especially as we are by the water. When we finish this walk, I’ve seen some staggering terrain, but I’m glad when we get to the car. I feel we have done enough to earn our dinner.

In the evening we have the most fantastic seafood. Langoustines and mussels make a fitting meal to our last evening in the Isle of Sky. We are in a fishing town I hope we dined on local produce that evening. In any case it was delicious.

 Glencoe 

Another long winding drive. There are two things I have failed to enjoy about Scotland so far:  the driving and the radio stations. Bon Jovi and Cliff Richard are not a fitting accompaniment for the lochs and valleys we navigate en route to Gencoe.  I can’t work out if it’s the winding B-roads or Wired for Sound that is making me feel nauseus. Still, after an hour or so, we arrive. 

We do our most challenging walk in Glencoe. It’s called the ‘Pap of Glencoe’. The Pap is a stony cap on the mountain. The path is treacherous enough and unlike the hospitable courses on the Isle of Skye. At some points, we have to clamber to the top. It’s a tiring climb of almost 800m. I recall noticing a quote on one of the walls in our hostel: ‘A bad day on the hill is better than a bad day in the office’. I'm a civil servant so couldn’t agree more. We continue, with determination. We complete the course, proud of our endeavour. Almost immediately we are met by a group of around 15 mature ladies who don’t look like they had any trouble at all. They inform us they walked for hours the day before but couldn’t resist the Pap. I can understand why, it’s magnificent. The views are astonishing and the journey had a gripping tinge of danger that made me feel like I had gone on a proper outdoors expedition. 

Events of the day also gift us with an engaging script; it starts to snow when we get to the top, and when we do so, we realise we don’t know how to get back down. In the ensuing panic I contemplate calling mountain rescue, only to realise I don’t know their number. A Dutch couple with handy GPS gadgetry comes to our rescue. 

Incidentally, so far, my kit of trendy trainers and sports jackets has served me well. But I feel a bit silly because my attire emanates style over substance and I stand out a mile. One lady we meet at the Pap calls me a ‘movie star’.  I’m buying walking boots for next time. 

Oban 

Oban is the largest town, apart from Edinburgh, we have seen for a few days and feels momentous. It’s calming to drive into a place we can actually get lost in. 

It’s biggest tourist attraction is a seal colony. We really wanted to go to see the seals. When we go to the pier, no one is there. We call one captain who has pinned his mobile number to a notice board. He informs us the seals aren’t there today; it’s too cold and they prefer the temperature of the water on cold days. Disconsolate, we spend the rest of the day drinking.  

I like Oban because it has a whiskey distillery where we learn about the character of Oban whiskey, and a man with a lobster tattoo who sells us juicy lobster tails. A man with a tattoo of a lobster on his arm knows his seafood so we don’t hesitate to dine on his offerings. We eat outside and the food is warm and tasty. 

This is our last night in Scotland. Sunshine, mountains, snow, lochs, valleys, mussels, hospitality, whisky…I could list the things I like about this country for a long time.  

Part 2:  Hay-on-Wye 

My holiday continues with a flight back to London (the return train fare was extortion) and a drive to the Welsh border. The second half of my great British holiday is a night in a tent whilst I enjoy the Guardian Hay Festival. 

I have never been camping before and the campsite supplied the tent. I’m accompanied by a fellow camp-virgin. The boot of my car is filled with a lot of rubbish we could not possibly need. My friend has brought, amongst other things, an all-in-one penknife cutlery set, a lantern, foil blankets, an inflatable pillow, tarpaulin and a lot of junk food. 

When we arrive we already view the English countryside with contempt. There are no road signs or landmarks, the roads are barely the width of the car and it is impossible to navigate. Bemoaning our disorientation, we decide never to entertain any complaint about car travel in developing countries from our well-travelled friends. I find the infinite mystery of the roads here appalling. 

When we arrive we park the car and make our way to ‘check-in’. We’re told about the facilities (shower, toilets, drinking water) and escorted to our tent. I ask the man what the field is used for when tents aren’t erected. “Sheep” was his reply. He wasn’t lying; sheep poo, yet again, was everywhere and we were going to be sleeping amongst it. I had to acquire yet more indifference to another circumstance that involved animal faeces.  I had only just got used to walking in the matter. 

The tent came with an inflatable double bed but it needed more air. The helpful concierge dragged it out across the field to take it to the pump. I was very unhappy our mattress was being dragged through a field full of sheep shit and this was one of many things what would prevent me from getting any sleep at all. 

Night time

“I can’t find my hair net” 

I decide to finish my evening at the Guardian Hay festival with a pint of beer in the hope that a warm fuzzy feeling will help me sleep. We walk back to the campsite and I make a point of using the toilets at the festival because the campsite facilities were horrific. My friend and I get into the tent (which is obscenely tiny for two unromantically involved people) and attempt to get changed. There is a lot of rummaging before we remember to turn the lantern off and protect our modesty. “I can’t find my hair net!” my friend says. Tying my hair back is the last thing on my mind. It’s getting colder. 

I put on thermals because I am already chilly. The air is icy. I can’t understand why people enjoy sleeping outside. I hope to understand by the morning. 

My trip to the facilities in the festival was fruitless; after 30 minutes of tossing and turning I desperately need to use the loo again. I am filled with dread. I was witness to their nasty condition earlier in the day and didn’t have any sanitary gel hand wash. I am not super-human and have to eventually heed nature’s call. I go to the toilets, about 30 meters away, in my thermals and Wellington boots. I find one that is barely acceptable but there is no toilet paper. I run into the men’s (having decided that anything goes on a campsite) and liberate some from there. 

I exit the cubicle, drench my hands in soap and turn on the tap. Nothing happens. So I have to wash my hands in the basin outside where people normally brush their teeth. There were, of course, no hand towels. 

It is pitch black and when I get back to the tent I can’t deal with the zips. The porch zip catches on an outside flap and gets jammed. I can’t get it unstuck. I eventually give up and return to my sleeping bag with the tent not fully closed. I am convinced a grass snake will crawl in and kill me. I am sorry to say I am not fabricating this fear.

When I bought the sleeping bag it was sold as a ‘two season’ bag. I was told this meant it was adequate for spring and summer. It was a summer’s night. So why was it so painfully cold? I understand chilly climates. I spend a week every winter charging down snow capped mountains. I am British. But I have never known cold like this. 

I can’t lie still because I become obsessed with preventing any contact with the mattress dragged along the sheep poo earlier. I can hear somebody snoring in the tent next door. In another tent I can hear constant whispering. It’s so loud, I think it’s my friend talking in her sleep. People are inconsiderate on campsites, I decide. When I did manage to sleep, I think I was awoken by the sound of wolves. 

As if someone flicked a light switch, it was day. The sun shone brightly through the tent. I couldn’t believe it, after the punishing low temperatures of the night, I was roasting in the tent. Uncomfortable is not the word. It felt unbearable. It’s an oppressive heat, it’s Floridian heat – it’s ridiculous. Luckily, lack of sleep made consciousness quite difficult and eventually my eyes closed. My ordeal ended with at least an hour of shut-eye. 

Upon waking for the morning, the shower was an even more interesting experience. Queuing up with strangers in their pyjamas or towels, or like me in my thermal and Wellington boot combination was a formality I could have done without. The shower was a trickle and the cubicle covered in mud and grass. Were people wrestling in the field last night? The outside was all over the inside. I have nothing positive to say about this experience. 

I leave the campsite having showered, dressed and brushed my teeth in the car park. I am so grateful I only booked the single night.

On reflection 

On holidays like this you do not escape from the city, you denounce it. I found myself shedding my skin and adopting a new sensibility in Scotland. Marching up and down hills and mountains for week is a commanding experience that exfoliates city drudgery from your brain. Complaining about sheep poo was ridiculous when I think about the dirty, cramped and unfriendly conditions that go unnoticed the city. I no longer mind stepping in sheep poo. I will undertake more trips like this for certain. Nevertheless, I will never, ever go camping again.

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Tagged as: Edinburgh, Glencoe, Guardian Hay Festival, July/Aug 2010, Oban, Travel