This post nearly started like one of those spam emails – we are marooned in somewhere many miles from anywhere, please send shed loads of cash. Well do feel free to send cash if you like but – everything crossed – we may not be marooned. After overnight rain, today we moved north eastwards from Killin, retracing our route from yesterday, past a mist-shrouded Loch Tay, looking beautiful in the morning sunshine. The clouds grow increasingly darker as we approach Aviemore on the A9 but we have arrived in the Cairngorms and the smell of resin from the pine forests is noticeable. Our destination is Grantown-on-Spey. This is the point at which our plans were abandoned in 2014, following the grinding almost to a halt of our car. The gory details are preserved online. This time however we reach the site without mishap. Here we do not get to choose our own pitch and are directed to ‘red1’. Red1 it seems lacks the advertised television signal and wi-fi. It isn’t that I mind being without these things (some would dispute that when they see my wi-fi withdrawal symptoms) but when you pay extra for a site because they advertise these amenities, it is a little galling. Tackling one at a time we try retuning our television, more than once, quite a lot more than once, to no avail. Our neighbour comes to help. It seems he can’t bear the thought that we might have to miss Coronation Street. He fiddles with our aerial, tries his aerial on our television, proving that it is our aerial that is at fault. To be honest we aren’t much bothered about the television and were about to head out but we wait whilst he fiddles with our aerial again and we do have television of a highly pixilated, frequently freezing sort.

Leaving the lack of internet for a while, we leap in the car for an afternoon excursion, pleased that we were allowed on site early and thus have gained an extra half an hour; although most of that has been lost with the endeavours of our helpful television not-quite-fixing neighbour. Chris turns the ignition, the car revs alarmingly and an ominous red light appears on the dashboard. What have we ever done to Grantown-on-Spey that it should be the scene of our holiday dilemmas? We set off slowly in search of a garage. At least this time we are not four islands and nearly a hundred miles from the van and we are within walking distance of a shop. The man at the garage seems bemused but says he can ‘run it through the computer’ in two hours time. We return to the van with heavy hearts. If I am going to be marooned I need internet and after a certain amount of tweaking, the site warden manages to connect me to the outside world. Two hours later Chris returns to the garage and to my surprise is back again very quickly. It is a something or other and we may need diesel cleaner but we can carry on driving. I am not sure the mechanic realises quite how far we intend to carry on driving before we reach the civilisation that is a Landrover garage but we decide not to waste the day.

By this time it is gone 3.00pm but we go back past Aviemore to Ruthven Barracks, designated as a ‘must see’ attraction. The nearby town of Kingussie is a centre for shinty, a Gaelic form of hockey. We park alongside the two other people that have read the same guidebook that I have and ascend the hill in a decidedly bracing wind to the ruined barracks. It was built on the site of a castle after the 1715 Jacobite Rebellion. In 1745, Sergeant Molloy and twelve redcoats held out against Bonnie Prince Charlie, with a force of 200, with only one casualty. They surrendered the following year when the barracks were burnt. Even allowing for the theory that people were shorter in times gone by, some of the doorways seem more suited to hobbits but I guess the floor levels have risen with accumulated mud. The barracks are quite impressive but I am not sure I would rate them quite so highly as the guidebook suggests.

As we have come quite a distance to spend not very long looking at the barracks we decide to stop off at Loch an Eilean on the Rothiemurchus Estate on the way back. The original plan was to walk four miles or so round the loch. By this time it is not only 5.00pm but very cold and drizzling so, despite having made a financial investment for car parking, we just take a very short walk along the loch side to see the castle in the middle of loch. We try and fail to find the monument to Major General Brook Rice who drowned in the loch whilst skating. This is allegedly the number one picnic place in the UK. I debate whether this is a self-styled title. I am sure it would be very lovely if the temperature were fifteen degrees higher. Having satisfied ourselves that we have actually done something today, we head for home. The weather forecast for our booked trip on the funicular railway tomorrow is not encouraging, ah well, this is Scotland and rain it must.

Time to move on – we are mostly only spending two nights in any one place. First, to raise the caravan legs. These are ‘automatic’ and I use the word advisedly. There is no manual override. Regular readers may recall that these do not always do as they are told and this was one of those occasions. Set to rise, they lower, set to lower, three of the four rise. Not only does this make driving off impossible but it takes several minutes for each attempt. Finally we have four legs that are no longer on the ground and we begin our drive to central Scotland. Fortunately we only meet a cyclist coming the other way during the four miles of single track road out of the site, though the sat-nav is throwing a hissy fit thinking that this road is far too wide and we should be going by the alternative (narrower) route. A slight panic whilst my traveling companion wonders if he left his keys in the front door at home three days ago. Don’t bother potential burglars – he didn’t.

More spectacular scenery as we drive to Killin in the Trossachs. This is the only site on the itinerary that we have visited before. There are actually two sites in very close proximity and this time we are on the lower of the two, rather than the more wooded alternative up the road. The lower site has wifi – nuff said. Two years ago we skulked in the lower site’s car park to maintain contact with home. We park at the bottom of the site by the river. I volunteer to walk back and tell the warden where we have pitched. I trudge along the 400 yards or so to the site office. ‘Number 35’, I say – epic fail. It turns out we are actually on pitch 39 so we have to go back and admit our incompetence. Next mishap is that the cupboard door is stuck so I open the adjacent door and attempt to push out the recalcitrant neighbouring door from the inside. I attempt  this with some vigour. The door flies open. That would rate as success had my head not been rather close to the door at the time.

It is a lovely sunny day, contrary to the predictions of weather forecasters, although there is still snow on the nearby peaks. We take a walk a mile or so into Killin and follow some of the heritage trail. Here we are in what is described as ‘The Heart of Breadalbane’, or the high country of ‘Alba’, which was an ancient Scottish kingdom. Killin is a natural place for a settlement as it is at the confluence of the Dochart and the Lochay rivers. Our walk takes us as far as Dochart Falls, which are beautiful.

We follow the signs to Fingal’s Stone. I had visions of Fingal’s fingers in World’s Strongest Man, so something about three foot high was a little less than impressive. It commemorates Fionn mac Cumhaill (that’s Finn Macool to me and you) leader of the Fianna, a warrior band who roamed Scotland and Northern Ireland. Some believe this to be his burial place. He was nicknamed Fingal by eighteenth century poet James Macpherson. Nope, I’d not heard of him either, though I was aware of Finn. We see the Manse, erected by the 1st Marquis of Breadalbane, for a Free Church minister, who was one of those who rebelled and left the Church of Scotland after a row in the 1840s over how ministers should be appointed. By the time we get back up the hill to the van we are beginning to be aware that we are doing more walking than usual. Today’s great overheard comment: Scot 1: ‘How are ye?’ Scot 2: ‘Och, I’m still above the grass.’

Once back at the van my companion disappears to the shower block. I know he likes to get his money’s worth but he is an exceedingly long time. It turns out that he has been standing on one leg, with his arm in the air, trying to get a phone signal and talking politics with our neighbours.

It is a lovely day so we say good-bye to Hazel and Martin and decide to try the anti-clockwise lakeside path, up the eastern side of the lake. This is stunningly beautiful, with trees just coming into leaf and accompanying bird-song. This lake is slightly less of a tourist honey-pot than some but the peace is somewhat shattered by a canoeing party who are accompanied by a howling dog, complete with life-jacket.

We are out of practice with walking and have done no more than gentle strolls since our accident last year, so we are unsure how we will hold up. We decide to walk for two hours and then turn round. As two hours approach, we enquire of one of the many people heading in a clockwise direction, how far it is all the way round the lake. We are told it is eight miles. It is a little rough in places but flat so we change our plan, as it seems it would only be a little further to complete a circumnavigation and it it always preferable to have a circular route. There are plenty of wildflowers to observe and we see many tadpoles in a large puddle. None of the ramblers’ group coming in the opposite direction seem to have been observant enough to spot these, so we point them out.

We head to Keswick, which is over touristy and currently hosting a jazz festival. There is however a distinct lack of toilets, with one set closed and another being unavailable due to refurbishment. We therefore have to go in to the town and after a brief ice-cream stop, head on round the lake past Isthmus Cottage, ten minutes later the lake, which should be on our left, is confusingly on our right. We haven’t brought a map with us but I am sure there isn’t another lake immediately to the north of Derwent Water. I am correct, there isn’t and we pass Isthmus Cottage again. We  appear to be caught in an impenetrable vortex as we encounter Isthmus Cottage for the third time. At this point we seek advice and are told we need to go back to Keswick and take what sounds like a very long way round. This may be more than we are up for so we opt for hopping on the hop on hop off ferry that stops at various points round the lake. There are two of these an hour. As we reach a point about 500 yards from the jetty we see a sign saying that the next ferry is at 1.00pm. It is 12.58pm. It turns out that even after walking six miles and sporting some burgeoning blisters, I can still break into what passes for a run. The jetty nearest to the campsite is closed so we alight at High Brandlehow, after a pleasant voyage along the lake. Derwent Water is home to St Herbert’s Island, which was used as Wildcat Island in two film versions of Swallows and Amazons. We walk back along to the campsite, retracing our route from yesterday evening. We encounter the ramblers’ group again who enquire if we have walked all the way round, obviously thinking that we must have been pretty speedy. Tempting though it is to lie, we do admit to having made a boat-assisted circuit. All in all a great start to the holiday.

The run up to going away, as ever, was hectic, trying to cram five weeks’ work into one. Two media events to report. Firstly, my Hangout on Air for the Society for One-Place Studies, on involving young people in historical research. As this is a worldwide society, we vary the times of these hangouts to try to oblige as many people as possible. Turns out that, at 9.30am BST, that’s not many people but others have tuned in afterwards on YouTube. Then came my second radio exposure of the season, allegedly to advertise a very small Buckland Brewer History exhibition next weekend. I am waiting to listen to the presenter, humming along to Maggie May, when I am asked (off air), ‘I don’t suppose you have ever had to wear anything unusual to work?’ Err, well yes, all the time. This was apparently the topic of the current phone-in, so my spot turned into a discussion of bum rolls, coifs and swording and spindling. I promise I did try to get back on track and talk about the history group instead but what a publicity gift!

On Friday it is off to our stop-over site at Tewkesbury, which knocks 150 miles off the following day’s journey. Either the chimes of Tewkesbury Cathedral have got quieter or we are further away, or more hard of hearing, than on previous visits, as they seem less intrusive.

Next day and it is off to a supermarket near us to stock up. Pizza seems like a good idea, just a shame that the one we chose was larger than the fridge. I have a way of solving that but not one that is commensurate with watching what I eat. We run the gauntlet that is the stop start, roadwork-ridden M5 and M6. Then a comfort stop at a services near Preston. There are ten long spaces especially allocated for caravans. They contain three caravans, one of which is us and seven things that are patently not, by any stretch of the imagination, caravans. It isn’t as though there aren’t very large signs explaining the situation and ample empty car spaces very close by. I am tempted to remark, ‘what a strange caravan’ in a loud voice but I just manage to restrain myself. The next caravan owner that arrives and finds nowhere to park will be serious p****d off. We know this is the frozen north and folk are hardy up here but I am not sure that, despite the sun, this is really sitting outside in tee-shirt weather however many people are braving the still chilly wind as if this is summer.

I have picked Borrowdale as our destination, partly for its more northerly location and also because it is a Lake District site that we have not visited before. We are mindful that the instructions require us to ignore our sat-nav so we do, much to its consternation. I am diligently reading out the route and the road is getting narrower and twistier by the second. The countryside is stunning but Chris is required to use all his many decades of caravan towing experience. If this is the advised route (and it is) what on earth must the other route be like? We are far from being the largest caravan on the block. How do large vans and more cautious towers manage? We obediently ‘turn right over the bridge’. Chris is apprehensive because it says there’s a six foot six width restriction and the van is seven foot six wide. I point out that it does say ‘except for access’ and we soldier on, wing mirrors and caravan sides intact. I am a little concerned because we have arranged to meet Martha’s in-laws on this site and they may well be cursing me as they negotiate every bend. Incidentally there so should be a word to describe one’s relationship to the in-laws of one’s offspring. Suggestions on a postcard please.

I have to say the ‘interesting’ access was worth it. This is a truly beautiful, wooded setting, only yards from the footpath round Derwent Water. We have just got set up and the kettle on as Hazel and Martin arrive. Sadly we can’t offer them a drink as we only have two cups. We chat then head off to Mary Mount to eat – not the most inspiring name but great hunter’s chicken and stupendous views of the lake. Weirdly though, when we tried to book, we were told it was full but we could sit in the bar. In the event we sat outside but the restaurant seemed far from full. We finish the evening with a quick walk round part of the lakeside, heading in a clockwise direction.

We are back in time to see some of the annual cringeworthy, yet strangely compelling event that is the Eurovision ‘Song’ Contest. Inevitably, UK came near the bottom. The winner is Ukraine with an angst-ridden dirge. Second come Australia, I know, I know, since when was Australia in Europe? No idea, I didn’t invite them.