We pop in to their site to say goodbye to Martha, Rob and Ed. The latter is looking very cute in his wet suit and I am allowed to accompany him to the site pool. Then it is time to leave. Despite a slight issue when the automatic caravan leg winder only seems to want to lower the legs not raise them, we set off for the Kintyre peninsula. The sat nav tells us is seventy miles to our new site but that seems to involve two ferries so we opt for the land route, which is more than twice as far.

 We cross the Clyde via Erskine Bridge and are in beautiful countryside by the loch in the Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park. There are many single story, white washed cottages. Then we are travelling alongside Loch Fyne and arrive on Kintyre – as in Mull of, although Mull is one Scottish island we won’t be visiting. Despite having read the Caravan Club’s instructions to ‘only approach the site this way’ several times, my eye has missed out a vital word. This means that I navigate us the wrong way, which involves twenty miles of single track road. Fortunately there are frequent passing places, marked by black and white poles. When Chris finally accomplishes the feat of getting us to the site entrance there are more problems. First we negotiate a long bumpy track to reception, then we take a wrong turning on the site. We find ourselves in a field full of tents on soft ground with no way out expect the way we have come and very little space to turn a car and caravan. Despite some wheel spin Chris accomplishes this and drives our unit between two cars with the proverbial cigarette paper space on either side. All I can say is that it is a good job our wing mirrors were higher than those on the cars. If caravan manoeuvring were a Commonwealth sport Chris would be in with a chance of a gold medal.

The next day we leave the van at 5.50am, yes 5.50am, to get the ferry from Kennacraig to Islay. It is cloudy but serene across the bay with many baby rabbits. We are trying not to mention our destination as we don’t know how to pronounce it. Is it ‘Iz-lay’ or is the ‘s’ silent (as in ‘island’) making is ‘I-lay’? Turns out it is ‘I-lah’, well, who knew. A shower means that the outside seats on The Hebridean Isles are wet so we sit in the reclining lounge. It is the seats and passengers that recline, rather than the lounge itself you understand. Reclining is all very well but in order to see out of the windows of the reclining lounge you have to adopt a meerkat like pose as the windows are very high. We complete a customer service questionnaire. Actually, I complete two, one each on behalf of my travelling companion and myself (still no reading glasses). Now, what to do for the next two hours and ten minutes of our journey? One of our party is already asleep, so conversation is limited. Mind you after three short nights who can blame him?

We land at Port Ellen and our pre-ordered hire car is ready and waiting. Then begins a roughly clockwise tour of the island, starting at the Mull of Oa, just as the sun comes out to greet us. We have noticed that cemeteries here seem to be seriously in the middle of nowhere and Islay is no exception. There are some impressive highland cattle roaming the beach and I also spot some hooded crows that are new to me. We fail to make the sands sing; that would be because we weren’t quite in the right place. A tractor passes with a huge trailer full of clam shells; the aroma lingers for a long way. We notice evidence of peat cutting and arrive at Bowmore Round Church. It was built in 1767 by Donald Campbell. The idea behind it being round is to prevent the devil hiding in the corners. A coach is disgorging its passengers as we arrive at the Round Church and we seem to have gate-crashed some filming; we suspect it is a new series of An Island Parish. The graveyard has numerous second world war graves to unknown sailors. Incredible scenery is interspersed with unsightly but no doubt necessary, signs of industry. This is of course the land of whisky distilleries and we see several.

At Port Charlotte we stop at the Museum of Islay Life, which has been set up in a disused Free Church. There is an eclectic mix of exhibits and one can imagine their hearts sinking when a well meaning local donates yet another bit of tat that has to be lovingly displayed. There are pictures of a D & N MacKenize bus of the 1930s; this is the firm that we have hired our car from. We chat to the friendly staff member. It seems there are variations on witchcraft prevention in Scotland – red string round the door, rowan trees instead of bays and quartz stones on the gateposts. I ask if there is a toilet. There is a staff one that I can use but health and safety requires the custodian to tell me that this is at my own risk. I fail to see what risks could be attached to this activity but maybe I am not thinking hard enough. In any case I emerge unscathed.

We drive down to the westernmost point of Islay, a fishing village called Porthnahaven; now we are further north than Ireland, next stop to the west is America. We get the very small ferry from Port Askaig to Feolin on Jura. I am already panicking in case there isn’t room for us on the return trip; perhaps we should join the queue now. Jura was granted to the Campbells in the early seventeenth century and the last Campbell left in 1938. A famous resident was George Orwell, who wrote 1984 on Jura; I guess there weren’t many distractions!

Jura appears deserted with no sign of habitation for several miles as we travel north on the only road. There is a complete lack of livestock and no sign of farming activity. Apparently there are cattle and 6000 red deer on Jura but we don’t see a single one. The human population is about 200, virtually all of whom are concentrated in the one settlement of Craighouse. Chris enjoys looking at the boats and we set off back to Feolin in good time for the ferry. Suddenly a warning light appears on the dashboard and the car loses all power, this is seriously worrying, are we going to be stranded on Jura? We have no idea how we are going to resolve this, it seems unlikely that Chris’ AA membership will extend to rescuing us from Jura any time soon. Chris turns the engine off and on again and all seems to be well. Inevitably we arrive in time to be first in the queue for the ferry but this is just as well as one car does get left behind.

Back on Islay, as instructed, we go to fill the car with petrol. We don’t seem to be able to open the petrol cap. The vehicle handbook is in the glove compartment and it seems to explain everything possible that one might need to know. I can use the cigarette lighter and CD player, I know all about the air bag but have no clue how to fill up with petrol. Fortunately the garage owner can cope; brute force is required. The ferry for our return to Kintyre is the Finlaggan. The gangway for passenger access is set at a slope of 1:2. Chris is manfully helping the ferry staff carry a child and bag-laden buggy up the gantry. Once on board we are once again in a media spotlight as photography is taking place, presumably for a new ferry brochure. We offer to move out of the way but are told this isn’t necessary; maybe we will be photo-shopped out. Finally a chance to watch Tom Daly and his new diving partner win silver in the synchronised diving on the ferry TV before returning, shattered, to the van.

A slightly later start today but only slightly, as the Claonig to Lochranza ferry operates on a first come first served basis and we spotted a camper van heading for the queue last night. Presumably they were planning to fly camp (legal in Scotland) to ensure their place on the ferry. Having seen none of Jura’s 6000 deer yesterday we do see two on the way to the ferry. We are second in the queue. Now I can stop worrying about whether or not we will fit on the ferry (surely it has room for two vehicles) I worry instead about whether or not we can pay our fare by credit card. Even with all the ‘emergency change’, of which there is quite a bit, we are £1.10 short. All is well, card payments are accepted and we are headed for Arran. It is raining, that would be raining quite a lot. We have worked out how to cover most of the island’s main roads, which form a figure of ‘eight’, assuming the eight has three circles instead of two. It takes a few goes to work out how to do this with as little repetition as possible (I can name at least two friends who now have paper and pencil out trying it! If that’s you, the cross pieces between the circles are roads from one side to the other and not just cross roads, so you can’t avoid some repetition).

We start off going clockwise from Lochranza and halt at Brodick Castle. This has the advantage of being under cover but the disadvantage of being shut. In the end it turns out not to be shut at all. In common with all those we have encountered so far the staff are really friendly. They explain that they have opened early and will be providing a single guided tour any minute now before shutting for a wedding. Hurrah! The guidedness of the tour is a bonus as normally it is show yourself around and ask questions of the room guides. Arran is of strategic importance as it guards the entrance to the Clyde and Brodick is one of three ancient fortifications on the island, the other two being at Lochranza, which we saw through the rain on our way to Brodick and Kildonan, which we didn’t. Brodick has been used as a defensive site since Viking times. The earliest parts of what now stands are sixteenth century but most is nineteenth century. The Castle was owned by the Dukes of Hamilton, whose main residence was in Hamilton and it was used as a hunting lodge. Cromwell was responsible for the death of the then Duke and Brodick was used as a Parliamentarian garrison before being returned to the family after the Restoration.

The entrance hall contains 87 stags heads. No one could be more opposed to hunting for sport than I but it certainly makes a statement. I score seven out of eight on the ‘what are these unusual historic objects?’ quiz in the kitchen, missing out on the pudding mould. There was a decidedly eerie feeling in the basement and that was before the guide regaled us with tales of bodies in tunnels. We decide it is not the weather for looking at the gardens and paddle back to the car. Some die-hards are still playing golf but we are trying to remain vaguely dry. Walking up tracks from the road to view standing stones are also off the itinerary. We head from east to west across ‘The String’. The roller coaster road and the surface water mean that this is a little like a water ride in a theme park. By this time we are in thick fog and even the most intrepid of cyclists, of which there have been many, usually on the narrowest parts of the road, have given up. Then there was the bus meets car (not ours fortunately, we were behind the bus) incident, when the car driver was another incapable of reversing. The bus driver solved this by making it clear he was in no position to reverse, which he wasn’t but it took some time for progress to be made.

After a brief detour to the southernmost point of the island at Kildonan, we headed north again. Whiting Bay seems to be the affluent side of the island, with large houses, probably designed for the golfing set. All this being in the middle of nowhere has meant we are a little low on fuel. We manage, with the help of the sat nav, to find a petrol station at the second attempt – the first was no longer open. This is at a combined petrol station and DIY shop, which makes sense. It was also the local off licence, which was a less likely combination. Although Arran provided our first view of Scottish heather there was no sign of the knitting to which the island has given its name. I don’t know why Scottish cars have reverse gears as no one knows how to use them. We encounter yet another example on a single track road. We are 200 metres from a passing place, the car coming in the other direction is about 5 metres past theirs. Their attempt at reaching the pull in results in their getting stuck in a ditch. The passenger has to get out of the car and push them out. As the rain is still torrential, Chris was a little slower than usual in offering assistance. So slow in fact that they were gone before he had the opportunity of getting wet.

We slightly revise our planned route, miss out Lamlash to Brodick and head west again, this time across ‘The Ross’, a higher road than The String and lined with pine forests, at least that’s the bits we could see through the rain. Deciding to call it a day, we return for a earlier ferry than the one we had intended. On a quick trip to the facilities I get caught in a downpour and find myself in the car in my underwear, having removed soaked clothing, for the second time this holiday. There is some delay with the ferry but eventually we are vanward bound. Considering Arran is sheltered on both sides the crossing is pretty jolly choppy and I am regretting consuming a packet of stale chilli rice crackers that I found lurking in the bottom of my bag. I wonder if I may be going to see them again. Fortunately I do not have to dwell on the logistics of being unwell on a boat when in a state of undress as we reach Claonig without mishap.

The five of us head for Glasgow on the train from Ayr. Even though I am not in general a fan of cities, Glasgow is looking good. We spend some time on the green but pass up the opportunity of queuing for an hour to have our pictures taken by the Games’ logo. We compromise by queuing not at all and being portrayed by its reverse image. With a bit of judicious photo-shopping I even make it look like we are standing on the right side! Every busker in Scotland is clearly taking the opportunity to benefit from Glasgow’s time in the spotlight. Quality varies; my favourite was the elderly lady in a headscarf with her accordion. We pass various athletes we can’t identify in the streets of Glasgow. Walking through the jewellery quarter our men folk like the look of the £29.50 price tags until they realise it is £2950. There is also a clothes shop with virtually no stock but a window display containing over 1000 old sewing machines. I bet they don’t change their display very often. Unfortunately the reflections from the glass make it difficult to photograph. There are a number of impressive murals on the walls and everyone is very friendly. We follow a ‘Clyde Trail’, seeing how many Games’ mascots we can spot without walking ourselves into the ground, bearing in mind that Martha has Edward to carry.

With Martha and I involved in the planning it is inevitable that those of our party heading for the Games do so in good time. We have decided that a teething Edward probably won’t cope with an evening session so Martha loses out, Chris has passed on participation so Rob and I board a vomit filled train for Mount Florida station and Hampden Park. We are of course far too early and have to wait for security to open but the journey has been hassle free and lacking in delays. I wonder why the huge queues on the other side of the road are not getting on the numerous empty buses that pass but it turns out that they too are waiting for security. The security staff do their best to entertain the queue and we are soon through to the stadium. We have excellent seats with a good view of the decathlon javelin, which is one of the first events. There are plenty of finals on the programme this evening. The women’s triple jump is on the far side of the stadium and England’s Laura Samuels wins silver. The woman’s 10,000 metres ends in a clean sweep for Kenya but is particularly interesting for the three laps in the middle when the field was led by Beth Potter of Scotland.

The semi finals of the men’s 400 metres feature Martin Rooney who is head and shoulders taller than the other competitors. Medal ceremonies come thick and fast and we are destined to hear the Jamaican anthem often enough to know it by heart. The ceremonies for yesterday’s 100 metres finals have been held over to today so more chance for us to practice the Jamaican anthem and we see Adam Gemili awarded his silver medal. Alongside the cool radio controlled vans that retrieve the missiles in throwing events, the synchronised hurdle arranging, involving many of the workforce, appeals. Will Sharman gets the silver medal for England in the 110 metre hurdles. Then there is an inevitable Jamaican one, two, three in the women’s 400 metres.

I am very excited to see that one of the Scottish hammer competitors is Andy Frost, who went to school with Rebecca and who I remember being born when his family lived across the road. Sadly tonight is not his night and he just misses out on a chance for an additional three throws but England get the silver. The final decathlon event, the 1500 metres, is exciting with two English competitors in medal contention. In the end Ashley Bryant improves his standings to come home with the silver and somewhat of a pattern seems to be emerging.

Rob and I have our exit strategy planned like a military operation. We watch the final event from the top of the stadium. It is the women’s 1500 metres and guess what, England get the silver medal, thanks to Laura Weightman. As the athletes cross the line we are gone and by the dint of swift walking, we reach Mount Florida station just as the platform is filled to capacity and a train is drawing in. I cannot see how all these people are going to fit on one train but it turns out that many of them are not heading for Glasgow. We are on the train and there isn’t even anyone standing. Once in Glasgow we make the Ayr train with five minutes to spare so are running an hour and a half earlier than our expected scenario. Chris kindly meets us at the station, just a shame that he is at one entrance and we come out of the other. We are back in our respective vans by midnight, which is probably just as well as Rob is due to be on the 6.50 train in the morning in order to go back to the Games.

The next day, after a morning catching up, I take the train to Glasgow where I meet Martha, Rob and Edward. We call in at the Museum of Modern Art and although Edward likes the mirrors and stained glass, we decide we don’t quite ‘get’ most of the exhibits. Today we time our journey to Hampden Park better and there is no queue for security. There is a debate as to whether my kindle requires scanning but the verdict is that it does not. Quite how I might secrete contraband in a kindle I have no idea.

A stereotypical Glasgow mizzle has set in at the start of the evening; particularly trying for those competing in the field events. We are at the other end of the stadium tonight and higher up. This makes it hard for us to see the sixth event of the heptathlon, which is the javelin; two English competitors are in with a chance of a medal. We have a much better view of the men’s high jump final in which England come fourth. There is a stupendous reception for Greg Rutherford as the long jump final gets underway; the weather has improved by this time. Meanwhile the Hampden crowd goes mad for Eilish McColgan, daughter of Liz, who manages a season’s best in the steeplechase, behind a predictable Kenyan one, two, three. We see the medal ceremony for the 1500 metres from last night. Then the final heptathlon event, the 800 metres, where England’s Jessica Taylor hangs on to the bronze medal in a race against the Jamaican athlete.

Valerie Adams begins her defence of the shot put at our end of the stadium. The people sitting in front of us seem to know one of the athletes, clearly this gives them the right to stand up and block our view at random moments. Martin Rooney just misses out on a medal in the men’s 400 metres, which is won by Kirani James in a new games’ record. Meanwhile another games’ record is slaughtered by Australia’s Kim Mickle when she throws the javelin more than three metres further than the previous record. The men’s 800 metre semi-finals feature David Rudisha and England’s Michael Rimmer also scrapes into the final.

Edward, Earl of Wessex is the token royal in residence and he presents Kirani James with his medal. The Grenadan national anthem is very jolly and makes a change from those of Jamaica and Kenya. Next comes death by women’s 200 metres heats, of which there are eight. The stadium begins haemorrhaging spectators. Not only does this seem rude to the athletes, it is also unfair on all those who applied for tickets and were unsuccessful. We agree to remain for these heats, in which we see all three English competitors safely make the final. We also form part of a dramatically reduced audience who wait to view the three final medal ceremonies, including that of Greg Rutherford. Our theory is that, as people have steadily been leaving the stadium for best part of an hour, they will be on their way making it easier for us to secure transport. This was fine as a theory but sadly they are not quite far enough on their way and we have to queue to be allowed on the railway platform. The station staff are doing their best to keep the passengers in a good mood with ‘Glaswegian waves’ (pretty indistinguishable from the Mexican sort) and singing. We get a seat on the train but are later leaving this time and also just miss our connection at Glasgow, so we arrive in Ayr an hour later than yesterday but it has been worth it to be part of another great sporting occasion.

Site availability necessitates a short distance move to the nearby site at Ayr. Earliest arrivals are 12.00 so we are on site at 11.59. We then go to visit the Robert Burns’ birthplace museum in Alloway. I was surprised to find that Alloway was a small settlement, centred round its Burns connections. I have to confess that Burns is not high on my list of favourite poets and I was expecting something low key. The weather is glorious again as we arrive at another impressive museum; Scotland have certainly bitten the tourism bullet in a way that England have not. We viewed Burns’ actual birthplace, walked through pleasant gardens and looked at various actual and interactive exhibits. These included designing our own Burns shortbread tins and participating in a Burns Night celebration. I did well at haggis killing but less so at the dancing!

We take a look at the ruined kirk, with, thanks to Burns, its associations with witches. Then we take in the views from the Burns’ monument. Like Burns, the designers of this monument were Freemasons and their symbols are evident. Finally we cross Brig a Doon. I have memories of a production of Brigadoon from when I was at college but I hadn’t realised that there really was a Brig (bridge) a(cross) the River Doon. I vaguely remember that Brigadoon only existed at certain times but there it is and we don’t get lost in the mists of time.

 In the evening we go to greet Martha, Rob and Edward who have arrived at a nearby holiday park. Martha is less than impressed with the so-called travel cot that has been provided for Edward but which resembles a cross between a prison cell and a dog pen. Next stop Commonwealth Games.

Today it is raining again, as well as being ten degrees cooler than it was last week but we are here to see what has to be seen so we travel north into Lanarkshire to see the Scottish Museum of Rural Life. We witness some more strange driving (yes another woman) who seems to end up on the central grass of the roundabout facing the wrong way. Fortunately no ill effects and we continue on our way. Although the landscape is still bleak, as we get nearer to the outskirts of Glasgow, the settlements seem more prosperous. We encounter a cycle race on our way. It seems this is not the Commonwealth Games’ road race but lycra clad wanna bees.

We arrive at the museum and yet again we can utilise our National Trust memberships in order to gain entry. The state of the art museum has plenty of interesting exhibits and we also get Raymond the tractor driver to take us up the hill to the farmstead. The Reid family held land as lairds of Wester Kittochside from 1567 and later built a farmhouse on the land. The current farmhouse dates from 1783 and is substantial, suggesting that the Reids prospered on their 110 acres. After ten generations, the last of the line donated the land to the Scottish National Trust in the 1990s, allowing the museum to be built. Amongst the farm animals, I am most excited to see the soon to fledge baby swallows in the barn.

On the way home we call in at a rather different sort of farm, Whitelee Wind Farm, the largest of its kind in the UK. There is an impressive visitors’ centre, designed as part of the green energy PR machine and therefore free to enter. There are plenty of activities and it is great to see that sadly now rare sight, families doing things together. The land on which the 215 turbines are built is also designed for walking, cycling and as a wildlife habitat but the weather wasn’t suitable for us to explore on foot. We were very close to some of the turbines, which were 110-140 metres high and in action. One of the downsides of wind energy is held out to be the noise from the turbines but these were completely silent. What ever we might feel about wind energy, if we want to carry on consuming electricity as we have in recent years, we need to do something. Whilst agreeing that some locations are not necessarily suitable for turbines, I would rather see this than power stations and pylons.

After our quick foray into Scotland yesterday we retreated back to England. Now we are crossing the border intending to stay. It seems very strange being away knowing half my family are at home staying in my house but I will see the other half very soon. There is something strange up with the sat nav. Set it up for our destination town and road and it is twenty miles nearer than if I set it for the campsite itself. Fortunately I discover where I have gone wrong in plenty of time. I am sure I can’t be the first person to confuse Culzean Road, Maybole with Maybole Road, Culzean. We travel along the M6 and M74 before turning off on to the A70. Here the landscape is barren and desolate with evidence of open cast coal mining. The villages seem run down and depressed. Annoyingly the road we need is closed but we manage to negotiate the diversion and only one U turn is required before we arrive at Culzean. It seems we have not booked this site. We so have booked. My itinerary says we have so it must be so. They insist we haven’t. Fortunately cancellations mean there is room for us. This site has a swimming pool but it is £9 a day for a family. This is good value if you have a family with you but it seems rather a lot just for me so I invest in 24 hours’ internet connection instead and begin to catch up.

In the afternoon we visit Culzean Castle and Country Park. Apparantly Culzean is pronounced Culeen and this is the largest estate in Ayrshire. Our English National Trust cards mean we do not even have to part with money to see this Adam designed stately home on the Firth of Clyde, once home to the Kennedy family. There is a list inside of some of the many servants who have worked at the castle at various dates. Many of these are clearly taken from the census returns but one, from the 1740s, is Scipio Kennedy who, with that first name and sharing has he does the family name, must surely have been a slave.

Today is decidedly cooler and by mid afternoon it has begin to rain but undaunted we look at the walled garden. This is huge and more a garden with a wall than a walled garden in the traditional sense, although the head gardener insists that the walls do have warming properties. Talking of warming properties, it seems every shop on the premises has its heating on full blast. I know it is not as hot as earlier in the week but this does seem unnecessary. We look at the deer in the deer park then investigate swan lake. This is not a balletic performance but a lake with swans and terns on. By this time the rain has set in and we are getting as wet by the lake as we would in it so we head back to the van.