Time to retrace our steps southwards down the A9 alongside the beautiful, sunny east coastline and across Black Isle, through Inverness and on to Culloden Moor. We are the second of four vans who arrive on site at the same time. It is then a race to see who can get set up first, a race that we win hands down. Today we have passed the 1000 mile mark on this trip

As we have arrived in good time, we are able to visit the site of the Battle of Culloden or Cùil Lodair this afternoon. This battle marked the end of the Jacobite cause and we have just missed the 270th anniversary on 16 April. I am please to see that signage is in Gaelic first, with English underneath. We have free entry courtesy of the reciprocal arrangement between the English and Scottish National Trusts but we need a car sticker to confirm our membership status and thus avoid having to pay for parking. We do not have a current car sticker in this car. We enquire at the pay desk and put Chris’ National Trust ‘I am a volunteer therefore very important’ card in the window instead as suggested. We later realise that this expired at the end of March and he hasn’t yet collected a replacement but it seemed to do the trick.

Typically of Scotland, this is a very high quality attraction with plenty of interactive aspects and interpretation boards. I take a look at a book describing families who were involved at Culloden but none of the names I am interested in feature. I did have some knowledge of Culloden and the Jacobites but I hadn’t really appreciated the extent to which this was part of a wider European conflict. Scots who fought for the Jacobite cause did so out of loyalty to the Stuart line but also because they wanted a return of the Episcopalian Church. We enjoy looking at the weaponry, which is similar to what we are used to in the seventeenth century. An historical interpreter is on duty to exchange ideas.

It is interesting to fully appreciate that Cumberland’s government red-coat army of 10,000 men would need 10,000lb meat and 10,000lb bread each day to sustain them. The lack of supplies for the Jacobite forces was a significant feature at Culloden, along with the boggy terrain which led to the failure of their previously successful charging technique. The battle lasted less than an hour and nearly half the 1500 Jacobite casualties fell in the few minutes of this failed charge. The government troops lost only 50 men, although some of the 250 wounded died later. The Irish and French, who were fighting for the Jacobites, shielded Bonnie Prince Charlie’s retreating army, who headed for Inverness after the battle. These Irish and French were subsequently treated as prisoners of war not rebels. The Jacobites did regroup at Ruthven and were prepared to fight on but Bonnie Prince Charlie sent orders to disperse and the cause was lost, leaving Charlie to escape ‘over the sea to Skye’ with the aid of Flora MacDonald.

We move outside for a battle field walk, complete with slightly temperamental audio guides. The sun is shining and we are in lovely surroundings but we are mindful of looming black clouds. The Jacobite casualties were buried in mass graves and in 1881 the land owner had a memorial cairn built, along with markers for each clan that participated and another marker for the fallen government troops. Wounded Jacobites were bayoneted and the high ranking officers were taken prisoner. The wounded government troops were probably cared for in farm buildings that were commandeered as a field hospital. All in all another excellent day.

There is lovely sunshine to enhance the beautiful views as we enter Inverness for a fuel and food shop stop. Being Scotland, this is soon replaced by black clouds and showers. A first at the Morrison’s garage, we are there as a drive off takes place and CCTV is being examined to track down the miscreant who has left without paying. Do people really think they are going to get away with this? We are now in Ross and Cromarty and will be on the A9 all the way north. We cross Black Isle and Cromarty Firth. The golden gorse is on fire over acres of hillside and the lemon yellow oil seed rape in full flower acts as a counterpoint. The signs of the oil industry remind us of the boost that this gave to the Scottish economy in the 1980s. As we enter Sutherland we are overtaken by a series of racing cars. As the Lotuses and Aston Martins stream past we wonder if there is a rally nearby or if this is to be part of an episode of what whatever Clarkson, May and Hammond’s new programme is called.

We turn right for the last twenty miles and the countryside is notably bleaker with deserted crofts. There are unusual walls made up of tombstone-like slabs overlapping each other. Thurso’s sign tells us that it is the birthplace of William Smith, founder of the Boys’ Brigade. I am sure he was a jolly good chap and all that but if that’s the most significant thing you can think of to say about your town then it is probably not worth saying anything.

Our site at Dunnet Bay is exposed but right by the sea and we have a pitch that has what might be classed as ‘sea glimpses’. After setting up the van we depart for John O’Groats, well you have to don’t you? It isn’t quite as commercialised as Land’s End or Gretna Green and it seemed important to visit what claims to be the most north-easterly settlement in Britain. There are some weird multi-coloured wooden buildings, which are apparently extensions to a hotel. If they were trying to look like Balamorey they’ve failed. A little like Land’s End it isn’t actually the extremity that people would have you believe. Dunnet Head is the most northerly point and we plan to visit there before we leave. We are primarily in John O’Groats to pick up our tickets for tomorrow’s trip to Orkney and to see where we need to be first thing in the morning. That accomplished, we move on to Duncansby Head. We arrive in a fierce hail storm and decide to sit it out, hoping for a gap in the precipitation so we can visit the fulmar colonies that nest on the cliffs here. Yes, Scotland’s weather does it again and within ten minutes it is dry and we decide to risk it. The ground however is anything but dry and is best described as spongy. Chris has his walking boots; mine are in the van so I paddle along in trainers as far as Duncansby Stacks.

It does start to rain a little and Chris generously allows me to wear the one plastic poncho that we have between us. We do have another one but that is keeping my walking boots company in the van. This is apparently an ‘arctic’ poncho, which means I can give up any hope of blending in to the landscape as I look like an abominable snowman. The cliffs are full of nesting seabirds, primarily fulmars. I am secretly hoping for puffins but no such luck. Today’s ornithological haul includes: fulmars, razorbills, oyster-catchers and an as yet unidentified owl – possibly an unusually coloured short-eared owl.

The sky is looking threatening again so we set off for home, or as it turns out not. One bit of bleak Scottish landscape does look very much like another. I am just thinking that the turning for Dunnet Head seems rather a long time coming, when we realise that we are bowling down the east coast and are rapidly approaching Wick. This is not quite what we had intended, we should be heading in a westerly direction towards Thurso. Not to worry, we do get to see another bit of the countryside. It is raining again by this time so we decide to leave Dunnet Head for another day.

This evening’s entertainment consists of the Manchester street games on television, which we have lacked for four days and watching our on-site neighbours attempting to erect their camper van awning.

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.

Another wet and windy day in the van waiting for the garage to not mend our car. We have an amended plan here on in but it depends on our car being available the day after tomorrow and there are no guarantees. Ah well, I do manage to make progress with the Braund Society Journal whilst stuck in the van.

The next day we decide we really should do something. First, in to Kyle of Lochalsh to find a cash point and get some food. There is a very tiny general store and meat comes from the butcher’s next door. We show ourselves up by being unsure of the weight of the mince that we require. I hate to admit that we normally grab pre-packaged mince in a plastic box that looks the right sort of amount, without being aware of its weight. In this area there are plenty of road signs exhorting us to drive on the left. This of course is for roads that have space for two vehicles to pass and given the number of European tourists, may well be necessary.

We head north across the breathtaking countryside that is Wester Ross. We have chosen a destination somewhat at random and are aiming for Torridon Countryside Centre. The weather is what we have come to expect of Scotland, raining one minute and sunny the next. Along the Wester Ross Coastal Route we encounter a sign to Stromferry. Helpfully, the sign warns that there isn’t actually a ferry at all at this location. We have seen many abandoned and ruined crofts, either a relict of the ‘clearances’ or signs of where a more recent crofter has found themselves unequal to the demands of life in the remote highlands.

On arrival at the Countryside Centre, we are able to watch a short film about the flora and fauna of the area. Accompanied by an evocative smell of pine, we walk down to the small deer museum and park, where we can see captive Red Deer. There are meadow pipets and curlew and as ever, rowan trees (Mountain Ash) full of berries. As the year progresses and we get further north, the Rosebay Willow Herb that has been prolific since the Lake District is finishing and the heather is becoming more noticeable.

We take a slightly longer way home to avoid retracing the whole of our route. Firstly, along Glen Torridon, alongside the towering Beinn Eighe range, then through Glen Docherty and Glen Carron. Here we re-encounter the convoy of Italian camper vans that we first met at Killin. Here also our first close up view of a wild, full grown, male red deer, unfortunately not in a position where we could take a photograph.

Our car is still being described as ‘a work in progress’, which is less than helpful and may mean that the revised plans require further revisions.

After our exploits on Uist we spend a day recovering in the van; the stormy weather making this an attractive option. The following day we are still marooned in Kintail and the weather is no better. Although we would rather not have had our plans diverted, there is some comfort in realising that this is the day we should have been on a boat going to Orkney. The weather is reputedly worse further north. It remains to be seen if we will get there but if we do the conditions can only be better.

We decide that we will take our courtesy car eastwards to seek out monsters in Loch Ness; maybe our form for wildlife spotting will improve. In rain and mist we pass the site of the battle of Glen Shiel, which took place in 1719 when the Jacobites and their Spanish mercenary allies fought the British troops. This was the last time that the British army faced foreign troops on British soil. We view Loch Ness through wind and rain. We drive further up the loch to Drumnadrochit, planning to utilise the car park of Castle Urquhart, which we can enter free, in order to photograph the loch. Here we encounter numerous foreign tourists on their ‘every possible castle in Scotland and then some’ coach trips and the car park is full. Fortunately someone is just departing and we slot in to their space.

Although it wasn’t on the itinerary, Castle Urquhart (bizarrely pronounced Uff-irt) is an interesting location and yet another example of serious investment in Scottish tourism, with an impressive visitors’ complex. Apparently, this met with local opposition when it was proposed in the 1990s and it is set partly underground to minimise the impact. Like everywhere else, the staff are very friendly and we are greeted by two members of Clan Grant in ceremonial dress. We are asked where we hail from and they decide that Devon just about qualifies us for entry. We are probably more local than 90% of today’s visitors; rain is doubtless keeping the less intrepid British holidaymakers indoors.

We are herded in to watch a well put together video presentation about the history of the castle. In the sixth century, Saint Columba visited the Pictish chieftain Emchath, who owned the fortress on this site, and converted him to Christianity. Sir Alan Durward built the stone Urquhart Castle in 1230. Edward I captured Urquhart in 1296, during the wars of Scottish Independence but it was soon regained. In 1395 it was seized by Donald, Lord of the Isles, seeking to increase his power. In 1509, James IV stripped the MacDonalds of their land and titles and gave Urquhart to the Grants. Raids by the MacDonalds continued. In 1545, they captured 2,000 cattle and many other animals, as well has taking furniture, cannon and the castle gates.

In 1689, the Grants supported William and Mary and there was an unsuccessful Jacobite raid on the castle. Nonetheless the Grants abandoned the castle, firing the gatehouse so that it could not be taken over by their enemies. Grant was compensated by Parliament but although they retained ownership until 1912, the castle remained in ruins. Much of the interpretation for this castle, one of the largest in Scotland, are of the ‘this may have been’ nature. Amongst the remains is what’s left of a ‘Doocot’, or dove-cot, which John Grant was obliged to build as a condition of his being granted the castle in 1509. There is a full size trebuchet in the grounds, accompanied by the proviso that there is no proof that one was ever used at Urquhart. What next, a nuclear war head complete with a similar caption?

Having done enough to feel that we haven’t wasted the day, we retire to the van to watch the European athletics championships.

I wake up early as usual. This is just as well as we need to leave the van at 7.00am and something weird has happened to my alarm clock, which thinks it is still 1.00am, so it would have been no good relying on that. What more can go wrong? We drive across Skye to Uig. Chris is convinced that this is pronounce ‘You-eee’ and he has been here before so who am I to gainsay him. I would like to place on record that we were not first in the ferry queue, nor indeed, second or third. The ‘Hebrides’ ferry arrives with a distinctly worrying tilt to starboard. We can only hope that this does not have a detrimental effect on our voyage.

We are bound for North Uist and by the judicious use of bridges, will be able to visit five islands for the price of one. Okay, so it was quite a substantial price but there are only two return ferries and one of those leaves five minutes after we arrive. The other is later than we might have chosen but it does mean that we will have plenty of time to explore. On the journey across, we see, ranged across the skyline, the myriad of rocks that make up the tiny islands of the Outer Hebrides. From a distance, they resemble the humps of the fabled Loch Ness monster.

I have brought my laptop with the intention of finishing the Buckland Brewer History Group newsletter whilst on board and make good progress. As the ferry draws in to Lochmaddy we see notices that instruct us to ‘wait for instruction to move before starting engine’. How difficult can this be? Very difficult it turns out, as most of our neighbours are turning their ignitions before the ferry’s ramp is lowered. North Uist, where we land, is distinctive, much flatter than Skye, with many inlets and stretches of water. At last heather is in abundance. I opted to visit this chain of five Outer Hebridian islands, rather than Harris and Lewis, primarily because I liked the sound of Benbecula. First stop is the island of Berneray, so we head north. Like much of Skye, this is single track road with passing places, involving much slowing down and changing of gear. The road is blocked by a van pulling a trailer containing a digger. We wonder why they are hunting around in the ditch instead of moving out of the way. Ah, they are searching for one of their trailer wheels, that explains a lot.

The mobile bank arrives as we draw up at the only shop on Berneray. Chris attempts to get them to part with money but they can only cope with Royal Bank of Scotland customers. We call in at the Berneray Heritage Museum in the old nurse’s house, given to them by the council for a peppercorn rent when the district nurse was discontinued. Worryingly, there were not only problems with the paperwork relating to the original purchase of the building but also with the lease, so they may be on borrowed time. We learn that kelp gathering and horse breeding were the staple industries here. Of a 1911 population of between 500 and 600, 86% were Gaelic speakers, although schooling was in English. Each child took a piece of peat to school every day for the fire. In the 2011 census one Berneray resident from the 1911 census was still on the island. The museum even has a photo of a yacht that Chris’ Devonian grandfather crewed, along with men from the Western Isles. We learn of Angus MacAskill, born on Berneray in 1825, who is accepted as being the world’s tallest man ever at seven foot nine inches. We ask about some of the traditional ‘black houses’, which here have a roof that slopes down inside the line of the front and back walls, leaving a shelf like projection at the top of the wall. We are told that this is to deflect the rain so that it doesn’t drip on those leaving the dwelling. This doesn’t seem very logical to us as surely this makes the walls more vulnerable. The island location means that there is rarely snow here so roofs do not have to cope with that.

Back on North Uist we somehow miss the RSPB reserve but nonetheless see lapwing, hear curlew and manage to take a photo out of the car window of a short-eared owl sat on a rock. Our progress is hampered by playing dodge the sheep on the narrow road. We stop at the ruined Trinity Temple, allegedly Scotland’s oldest university. It was a medieval monastery and college founded by Beathag, daughter of Somerland. After an extension in the sixteenth century, it was dissolved during the Reformation, although there were later repairs.

Benbecula may have a cool name but it contains the least of note of today’s islands. As we traverse it, along the slightly longer coastal route, the car begins to make a strange noise. The driver seems unperturbed (or is a very good actor) and we continue to weave our way in and out of the passing places in order to venture on to South Uist. Flora MacDonald was born here, near Kildonan. It was she who helped Bonnie Prince Charlie to escape after his defeat at Culloden in 1746. Peat cutting and kelp gathering are still carried out here. South Uist is hillier than the three more northerly islands in the chain. The car is still not well and there are mutterings about a lack of clutch fluid. We stop at Kildonan Museum, hoping that letting the car cool down will help it recover from the excesses of gear changing over the last couple of days. Kildonan Museum is another example of a Scottish community valuing its heritage in a way that is not seen in England, with archives and research opportunities available on site. South Uist is the heartland of Gaelic culture, home of oral tradition and Fair Isle knitting. There are several telling quotations round the museum’s walls. ‘There is always a danger that history comes to mean the past, as opposed to an interpretation of it.’ and ‘However we interpret it, there is nothing surer than that history has as much to do with the present as the past.’

On leaving the museum, we find that we no longer have to worry about the clutch being overheated; there is no functioning clutch. We have to abandon plans to reach Eriskay, the southernmost island of the chain, noted for its wild ponies and the wreck of S.S. Politician in 1941. The vessel was laden with 260,000 bottles of whisky and its story became the basis for the book and later film, ‘Whisky Galore’. We limp back towards Lochmaddy, attempting to do so without stopping or changing gear, next to impossible on a single track road. In the middle of absolutely nowhere we find a lorry servicing garage. The mechanic confirms the demise of our clutch. The good news is that he can fix it on Tuesday. It is Friday. If that is the good news I don’t want the bad. We are four islands away from our caravan and several miles from anywhere where we could potentially sleep or obtain food. I have only had a lemon muffin since 6.00am and even Chris’ full English breakfast on the ferry is a distant memory. Now comes the very long wait while the recovery service try to work out if they can indeed recover us. Chris is patiently spelling out our current location, once we confirm where that is, where we have to get to, via where and most importantly by when. We really need to get that ferry back to Uig.

I’ll admit it, I am hopeless at doing nothing. I could read my Kindle but the battery is low. I could use the laptop – ditto. What about good old pen and paper. I can manage the former but the car is lacking in anything to write on. Finally I locate a single A4 printed receipt that I took to exchange for our ferry tickets. If I write very very small I can occupy myself for a while using that. I need something to stem the rising tide of panic, made worse by the fact that we have very little cash, thanks to not being RBS customers and that Chris’ phone battery, like every other battery in our possession, is getting very low. I know, I know, this is a time when I need my ‘emergency phone’; inevitably it is back at the caravan.

After what seems forever, recovery truck one arrives. The car is loaded and the driver ferrets around in the back for something resembling a seat to put in the middle of the cab for me. This ‘seat’ doesn’t rate a seat belt but this seems not to matter. I am sandwiched between a broad Devon accent and a broad Gaelic accent, acting as interpreter but truth be told, I could only follow half of what our rescuer was saying. I did catch the bit when he said he though his clutch was going but I ignored that. In the process of getting the car on the truck it was apparent that no way was our car going anywhere, like on a ferry, unaided. Understandably, our driver would rather not have to tow us on and become marooned on Skye overnight. Not to worry, this is the Outer Hebrides, everyone knows everyone. In the queue there is a random van, with someone known to our driver at the wheel. He is approached to tow us on and off the ferry and our driver even donates a tow rope as a souvenir. I look pathetically at the dispatchers, not difficult as I am both sleep and food deprived and they agree to load us as a towed vehicle, by no means a foregone conclusion. Despite our lack of automotive capacity we are on the ferry.

The ferry is half an hour late arriving and all we want to do is get home but finally we are aboard. After consuming the welcome curry from the café, there was the issue of getting off the ferry. Our helper accelerates away at a great rate and the tow rope snaps. We tie it together but it was short to begin with and now Chris is very close to the almost new van in front. He manages to avoid running in to it and we are handed over to recovery truck two. We are on Skye, this driver drives at Skye speeds. I do have a seat belt this time but as he hurtles round the many twists and turns our knuckles are whitening rapidly. We arrive at the garage, deposit the car and collect a courtesy car that has been left out for us. We are still an hour and a half from ou destination. Arriving back just before 1.00am, I don’t think we have ever been so pleased to see the van. Now we have to work out how to cope when we are fifteen miles from a shop or a phone signal and fifty miles from our car. Thank goodness for the internet connection. Working out what needs cancelling or rearranging in order to get our trip back on track can wait until morning.

We travel over the bridge to Skye without any bonnie boats, or indeed birds on wings, in sight. Skye, once voted one of top five island in the world by National Geographic magazine, is living up to its Gaelic name, Eilean a’ Cheo – Misty Isle – so the tops of the Cullins aren’t visible. We head to a hide at Kylerhea, supposedly the place to see otters, unless of course you are us. Any potential otters are a good way away out to sea. We think they are otters but I am still not totally convinced that they aren’t seals. We do definitely see a number of those. Using binoculars is always tricky when one wears glasses and today is no exception. I end up with a squint and round rubber marks on my glasses.

Historically cattle from Skye were swum across the 550 metre channel to Glenelg in groups of six or eight. They would be roped in a line behind a boat and rowed to the other side before being walked to market. There don’t see to be many cattle left; there are more sheep. Of course tourists are now the bedrock of Skye’s economic activity and there are plenty of those, the bridge making it easy for coaches to travel across in great numbers. They and many other vehicles, seem obliged to go at ridiculous speeds, hurtling past us at the most inappropriate points.

We travel north to Colbost, spotting a stranded campervan on the way. The driver has parked on a soft verge and the nearside is now significantly lower than the offside. Having no method of offering assistance we leave the owners telephoning the recovery services. At Colbost we can see a traditional Skye ‘black hut’, a stone built, two roomed dwelling, with no windows or chimney. There is a central fire and a typical boxed in bed. Animals would have been kept in one end and humans would inhabit the other. The roof would be rush or bracken. Today the rushes are held down with chicken wire and this is weighted by large stones being tied round the edge, rather like the corks on the stereotypical Australian hat. I guess, in the era pre-chicken wire, a net may have served the same purpose. The croft even has the remains of an illicit whisky still behind it.

We travel on to Portree, grabbing the last space in the car park. I narrowly avoid being mown down by a bus. It appears that the whole of Skye is in the throes of a power cut. We had seen so little habitation so far that we hadn’t noticed. A swift walk round Portree and we return to the mainland across the barren hillsides of Skye. It is beautiful and rugged here and somehow different from the mainland in an indefinable sort of way. We shall be back tomorrow en-route for the Outer Hebrides.