It’s starting to look like Scotland.

Just as we were about to retire for the evening, a van pulls alongside and the driver beckons to me. “Which way is the Aberdeen road from here?” asks the middle aged Irishman. “Just down there, turn right then right again” says I, “just passed a village called m mm” could I remember what it was called, not on my life. “Where are you from?” says the Irishman. “Devon” I replied. “Ah, you don’t want to be sleeping up here all on your own, you know, if I was you I would want to be closer to civilisation”. “ I think we’ll be alright” I said nervously bidding him goodnight, “before you go” he slurs “Jesus loves you”.

We sleep soundly and awake to a cloudy but dry Sunday morning so decide on a route which will take us into the Cairngorm National Park via Glen Clova.

Here we encounter dramatic scenery, deer and two grouse, (are two grouse called grice??). A haggis was also spotted ducking through the purple heather, see if you can spot it in the photo below.

Travelling north through the national park on the A93 we find ourselves at the highest road pass in Britain, an altitude of 670m, quite modest by our old Pyrenean standards, if you remember our French house was at 650m.

Further on we reach Braemar which is officially the coldest place in Britain, a picturesque town at the head of a Glen. We stop off for coffee before continuing on towards Balmoral.

On the road we notice there’s an awful smell coming from the side of the van, mmmm we haven’t yet emptied our chemical toilet cassette. Best not to stop off at the Queens highland residence in case we’re thrown into the tower following some ancient law that prohibits the smell of effluence in the royal borough. We stop in the town of Lumsden some miles up the road to empty said vessel, sorted !!.

We travel onwards to Banff which is a strange coastal town with obvious faded grandeur but not offensive. It has a quaint harbour.

. Driving round we come to the conclusion that none of the inhabitants can in any way be Scottish, as not one of them has wild orange hair and wears a tartan cap. We even visit the neighbouring town of Macduff where we feel this is the place we should see a true Scot. But no, they must all be on holiday then, after all it is August.

We arrive with two fish and chip suppers at our wildcamp for the night at Findlater Castle carpark and viewpoint.

 

its a really calm clear evening here with not even a wisp of breeze, good luck to everyone in the south of England we hear you're in for a stormy night.

Good night.