:: Diary - June 2016 ::

:: Friday, June 17, 2016 ::

We have our annual TVR road trip planned for this weekend, so it’s time to get the TVR along to the house for a week of cleaning and polishing and fettling and sorting. Except we leave at 9am tomorrow and it’s currently 10pm on the day before and I haven’t even clapped eyes on the car for over a month.

The Range Rover is in for an MOT repair (it failed yesterday, but not spectacularly) and I have a courtesy car, which I have to swap back this morning as well. So the first step is to take the Porsche along to the farm and bring the TVR back. When I get there, though, I realise that I have forgotten the TVR’s keys so I have to come back to get them, and go back along.

John has parked his van across the front of the garage, and he’s busy up in the yard - but I know where his keys are so I move the van out of the way, drive the TVR out, put the Porsche in, and lock the doors. Just then, he turns up to engage in a bout of high-volume conversation. I am rescued by the garage calling to say that the Range Rover is ready, and they would appreciate it if I could collect it by 11.30 because they need the courtesy car for somebody else.

So I drive the TVR back to the garage, stick it in the garage, don’t even go into the house, jump in the courtesy car and drive away, to return with the Range rover about 45 minutes later. So that’s 5 cars driven today, and it still only 12.30. My neighbours have seen me drive out in a Porsche, come back in a Porsche, go straight back out in a Porsche, come back in a TVR, go straight back out in a Peugeot 2008, and come back in a Range Rover. They’ll be thinking I’m some kind of car enthusiast or something.

After a slight diversion to catch up with some work emails and stuff, I give the car a clean, including the windows and a quick wipe over the interior. Then I check the oil and water levels, and pump up the (very) slow puncture in one of the rear tyres.

Pristine and ready for action! Dave isn’t going this year, so I might get away with it.

:: Saturday, June 18, 2016 ::

The Prologue.

I am not often speechless (who said “more’s the pity”?) but today has been a life-changing experience, not just for me, but for Adrian, Hugh and Jim, my fellow travelling vaqueros. I will never be the same as I was. I have seen the light, like St Paul on the road to Damascus, or Jake Blues in the original Blues Brothers. I can’t do flick-flacks up the aisle though - not with these knees.

Usually, I fit all of my activities for one day into a single post, but today is different. Today has been so eventful that it deserves its own novel. But rest assured, dear readers, I’m not going to subject you to that - but I have to split this into a couple of chapters, which we’ll name after great movies. The first is “The Driver”, and that lasted about 8 hours, then “Cabaret” which only lasted 6 hours but had at least the same entertainment value and far higher prospects of death or serious injury, and finally “The Great Escape” which was a one-hour sprint for the border to neutral territory.

So, to our tale…

Chapter 1. The Driver.

We have arranged to leave at 9am prompt, so I am up early, boot packed, roof off, and off to fill up with fuel before I meet the Fellowship.

Hugh is already there when I arrive, just parking up (although that could mean that he’s been there for 10 minutes right enough). Adrian and Jim arrive just after 9. So much for a prompt start…

But after our usual good-natured introductions, we’re off by 9.15 for a wee drive up the motorway, across the Kincardine Bridge, and on northwards towards Glendevon, where we encounter miles of road that have just been re-surfaced in that stupid “spray on some tar and throw down some stone chips and hope they stick” technique so beloved of councils whose priorities are supporting lesbian single mothers and cultural initiatives such as skateboard parks where even the SAS wouldn’t venture alone.

After a few miles of spitting this shit back onto the verge where it belongs, we come across some roadworks, controlled by “stop-go” boards. The only cars in sight for fucking miles (possibly the only cars they have seen all day) are 4 TVRs in a convoy, of which I am the last. 3 TVRs go through. When I am about half the thickness of a pubic hair from him, he turns the board around and motions to me to stop, and then within half a second fills his trousers as he realises that I am glissading towards him on a sea of marbles. He can see, and I can see, and probably the crew of the International Space Station can see, that there is no other car in sight, so what was that about? As I stop, he spins the board around like the Wheel of Fortune from go to stop to go again, and lets me go.

Anyway, after a couple of miles I calm down and get back “on it”.

So it’s onwards through Creiff, and then west towards Loch Earn, where I run straight over the body of a deer lying on the road. It’s one thing running over small dead animals (I don’t think I’ve ever run over a live one, apart from a traffic warden’s foot about 45 years ago when I was on a bicycle), but I only have 2 or 3 inches ground clearance under the exhaust and a whole deer doesn’t fit. It does come out the back of the car, but I gave it some thump.

We stop on the side of Loch Earn for photos and a pee, and seem to attract the attention of the local duck population, who are obviously attracted to the smell of roast venison coming off my exhaust clamps.

Then we continue through Crianlarich to find that they have built one of those new-fangled roundabout things, which seems to have confused its users no end, probably because it doesn’t appear on their sat-nav and they can’t look out of the window and read the enormous new reflective road signs. We go on north to the famous Green Welly stop at Tyndrum. It has become a victim of its own success, and you can hardly find a parking space big enough for 4 TVRs. One poor girl can’t find a parking space big enough for her Peugeot 206, and spends ages shuffling in and out. Unfortunately, this space is right near the entrance and by the time she’s happy, the queue waiting to get in is back out onto the main road. As we walk back, we survey the space and deduce that it’s wide enough to open both doors to their full extent - in other words, “you could get a bus in there”. Oh well…

We’ve driven along some fantastic roads so far, and it’s still only day 1, lunch time. The weather is nice and sunny, and the car is going well. In fact, we were only 10 minutes from the start when I was thinking “this is good, this”. You’re driving a car that you have maintained and repaired yourself for 13 years, you know it inside and out, and it’s a wonder that it can move at all - but it does, and it moves so well. It’s nimble and agile in corners, it sticks to the road like glue (unless the glue is covered in marbles) and it sounds fantastic!

So we have a quick lunch and a blether, then we’re off again, with a vague plan to stop somewhere for scones or ice cream. Or something. Somewhere. Planned to the minutest detail, see?

We blast along for a bit, but then catch up to a procession of coaches, motorhomes, caravans and cars, all travelling at 40mph. I’m in front this time, and I’m quite happy to follow it - well not exactly happy, but there’s no detour! Adrian flashes his lights from behind, and, thinking there’s some problem, I pull into a viewpoint area. No, there isn’t a problem, but Adrian says it’s hopeless because we aren’t getting anywhere. Well we are, just at 40mph. There’s no other way to go. His idea is to wait for a big gap in the traffic, and then go, blast along until we catch up again. Good plan, except the chances are that the fourth man out won’t get out into the same gap and will be separated even further than we are now.

So we wait for a suitable gap, I go, Adrian goes, Hugh goes, and Jim has to wait until the next procession passes and is caught behind another 3 buses and dozens of cars. Who would have expected that?

We do a quick stop to regroup (this means that we stop and then when Jim finally arrives, he lets us all out in front of him so that we are together again) and then head on through Glencoe itself. Apart from the dawdling traffic, these roads are great, and the scenery, when you have time to look at it, is absolutely breathtaking. There is no more beautiful place than Scotland, you know, and Glencoe is one of the most iconic of all of those places.

We head on past Ballachulish (which means "the Village by the Narrows" in Gaelic, incidentally) and past Onich to Fort William, then out the road towards Mallaig, where I reached 100,000 miles last year. A quick check confirms that I have done 1,700 miles in a year, which isn’t huge, but there are TVRs out there that don’t do that in a decade. We’re enjoying the drive out past Loch Eil and Glenfinnan (where Bonnie Prince Charlie first set his dainty wee Italian tootsies on Scottish soil) to Lochailort, still on the lookout for cakes or ice cream.

We stop for more photos at the side of Loch Ailort, between Roshven and Glenuig,

Soon we’re off again, this time with Jim in the lead. This leg is mainly on single-track roads with passing places, which works fine as long as people use the passing places for passing. What a lot of people do, though, is drive past that spot and squeeze past on the narrowest bit, which might seem unbelievably stupid, but they do.

Never mind that though. Look at this scenery. Absolutely amazing. What a country.

We all have our specific talents to bring to the party. Jim might be geographically challenged, but you know how they say whales can find each other in thousands of miles of empty ocean? Well, Jim can sniff out a cake shop when you think there isn’t a living thing for miles. He’s just what we need right now. Tadaah! In Acharachle, Jim spots a wee cafe at the side of the road. We all pull in, but then notice a sign on the glass in the door that says “closed”. Somebody must have heard us though, because a wee face appears at the window, then a hand turns the sign to “open”. Never miss a chance, our Highland brethren.

We are offered the last of their stock, that was just about to go in the freezer. While we are sitting outside munching away, a group arrive in a Land Rover Discovery, and are really miffed to find that we’ve got the last of the scones. Should have bought a real Range Rover to get you here a couple of minutes earlier, then.

Our peaceful ambience is spoiled only by the incessant buzz of a strimmer at the hotel across the road. At least it’s not talking about trophies, if you look on the bright side.

Then it’s back on the single track road to our hotel for tonight. It’s advertised as a small family-run hotel. This is perfectly accurate. It’s run by a very small family indeed. Little do we realise that we are about to enter the twilight zone.

To be continued…

:: Saturday, June 18, 2016 ::

Chapter 2. Cabaret.

So here we are, we’ve travelled just over 200 miles today, over a space of 8 hours (not counting a lunch stop, a cake stop and a couple of other photo stops). Time to go to our rooms for a nice relaxing shower, then down for a couple of nice relaxing drinks and some banter before a nice dinner. This is the easy bit.

But what good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play. Life is a cabaret, old chum, Come to the cabaret. Come taste the wine, Come hear the band, Come blow your horn, start celebrating - right this way your table's waiting…

Except when we enter the hotel, we can’t find anybody. Reception is deserted. The lounge is deserted except for a wallet and a mobile phone. The dining room is deserted except for a plate with a half-eaten meal on it, surrounded by a sauce bottle and some cutlery. The kitchen is deserted except for some potatoes and a few vegetables on a preparation counter. We go outside - nobody outside either. It’s like the Marie Celeste.

After maybe 20 minutes, the owner (let’s call him Graham to protect his anonymity) appears, to welcome us to his fine hostelry. He looks like he’s been sleeping rough in a skip. He announces that our rooms will be ready in 10 minutes, and we should make ourselves at home in the lounge.

20 mins later he reappears, to announce that the rooms will be ready in 10 minutes. He looks out of the window and admires the cars, and asks if we all know each other. No, we all just arrived together at the same time, in the same model of car, by complete fucking coincidence, eh? I can feel the spider senses starting to tingle… Suddenly the cost of a Premier Inn seems perfectly reasonable.

He gives us some drinks, then disappears for another 30 minutes, and comes back to say that the rooms will be ready in 10 minutes. He looks out of the window and admires the cars, and asks who makes them. We are all sitting in Chesterfield armchairs / sofas, and he sits on the arm of Jim’s chair to talk to the rest of us, with about 4 inches of arse crack above his waistband, about an inch from Jim’s left ear - that’s not even the one he’s deaf in. I can’t remember a word that was said after that, we were 100% focussed on not pissing ourselves laughing. Now the spider senses are really buzzing.

He goes off and comes back another 15 minutes later to say that the rooms will be ready in 2 minutes. He looks out of the window and admires the cars, and asks if we are all pals on a tour together. Maybe he’s been practicing these questions in front of a mirror? We notice that he’s changed his shirt from a tee-shirt to a collared one with a tail that at least covers his arse. While he’s chatting this time, a mangy-looking dog wanders in from next door. It looks like a dingo in a drought, but he introduces it as “Roley”.

At the same time, a young lad appears, who turns out to be a resident, and is introduced as “Shaggy”. Presumably, this refers to his appearance, rather than his favourite pastime, and this is confirmed when he sits down and makes a roll-up and goes outside to light it.

Another 10 minutes stagger by, and then our Graham (as Cilla used to say) comes back in to say that the rooms will be ready in 2 minutes.

After another 5 minutes, he comes back and finally announces that the rooms are ready. We are guided along a corridor that is barely wide enough for a bulimic lab rat, and shows us our rooms, which, surprisingly, are ok. We dump our bags, go back outside to put the roofs on and lock up the cars, and then retire to our rooms to prepare for dinner.

Except nothing - NOTHING - can prepare us for the dining experience that awaits. As a clue (and it’s only a little clue) here’s a well-known comedy sketch that might set the tone:

Two Soups - A famous Victoria Wood sketch

Pretty funny because it’s so ridiculous, don’t you think? You ain’t seen nothing yet…

At 7pm our host, resplendent in his clean shirt, takes our orders. He highly recommends the steaks, we’ll never have tasted anything like this before he says. So we order 4 steaks, all “medium”, served with chips, mushrooms and salad. Lovely. Adrian and I order mushroom soup, while Jim opts for deep fried brie with cranberry sauce. Our host writes it all down shakily and is looking a little unsteady as he returns to the kitchen via a bounce off the door frame.

At 7.15 he’s back to take our orders again, because apparently “Stevie cocked it up”. We never found out who Stevie actually is. He scribbles the same order on the same pad and says he’ll bring us some bread while we’re waiting, and returns to the kitchen via the door frame again.

At 7.30 he brings 4 side plates and mutters something about bringing bread. He seems to have some difficulty in focussing, his shirt has grease and sauce marks down the front, and his walk back to the kitchen has the swagger of one who is reasonably and confidently pished.

At 7.45 he returns with his shirt a bit mankier, and another 3 side plates for the bread.

While we are discussing our progress, or lack of it, over the past hour, a local worthy appears at the end of the table. He’s wearing black jeans, a red t-shirt with a target over his heart, a suit jacket and trainers. Oh, and one of those “See you Jimmy” tartan hats with the red hair around the edge. Nearly didn’t notice that. He looks like a cross between Rab C Nesbitt and Ronald McDonald.

He approaches our table and says ”Hello”. Of course, being the civilised group we are, we reply with a friendly “hello” back.

He nods forwards, “Bar open?”

“Yes he’s around somewhere.”

Jimmy wanders off towards the kitchen in desperate need of liquid refreshment, and returns after a few minutes to stand at the bar.

Graham re-appears and goes over to speak to him for a minute. Jimmy wanders off outside, and Graham returns to our table and says “Shee, I’m not allowed to sherve him, he’sh not right in the head.” And disappears back into the kitchen, almost through the wall.

He returns after a couple of minutes with another 4 side plates, notices that there are 7 on the table already, and puts them down on the next table as if that was his intention all the time. Perhaps it was - his progress across the room is now like a dingy tacking through a typhoon. His shirt is definitely showing signs of excessive splattering - he looks like a two-year old after his first attempt at a chicken vindaloo.

At 8.15 two soups appear, fortunately in plates with straight sides, so that none tips out at the 30-degree angle he’s holding the plates at. After a quick rest against the edge of our table, he tacks back to the kitchen. There’s still no bread, and we have to help ourselves to cutlery from the sideboard behind us. The soup isn’t cold but it’s close enough.

15 minutes later, Jim’s fried brie appears. It looks fucking horrible. The cranberry sauce has congealed into one giant wine gum, and Jim informs us that it tastes even worse than it looks. He throws it in the fire.

Our host appears again at the table to ask if we want more bread, and engages us in conversation, while he hangs onto the end of the table to stop it spinning around. He asks us what time we would like breakfast. We have already decided that we need to leave early, but we say “7.30”. He promises “four cooked breakfasts on the table at 7.30 am”. There is no chance that he will be conscious by that time.

Then with a cheery “Four fish and chips coming right up gents” he disappears back through the ever-narrowing door into the kitchen.

At 8.50, nearly 2 hours after we sat down, a basket of chips arrives. When I say “basket” I mean a little wooden bowl that contains so few chips that any self-respecting kid would throw a complete screaming wobbly on the spot if it was served in a Happy Meal - and that’s between 4 of us. A wee taste confirms that they have been cooked in oil that has been through several cooking cycles, a few engines, a couple of gearboxes, and a sumo wrestler’s scrotum massage. They are fucking rank.

At 9.00 our steaks appear. Our host is bouncing off the walls now, and his shirt is now covered in blood stains, over the top of the rest of the marks that have accumulated over the last 2 hours. The steaks are so undercooked that their claws are still scrabbling to keep them on the near-vertical plates as he carries them through. Jim’s is the worst, so he throws that away as well.

About 20 minutes later, he reappears again from the kitchen, and circumnavigates the dining room which, in his brain at least, seems to be lurching like a trawler in “Deadliest Catch”. He clatters through the door out into the lobby, almost knocking himself (even more) unconscious on the door frame. He’s carrying a plate of fish which doesn’t appear to be exactly fresh - it stinks like a kipper’s gusset. The trail of scent leads into a door marked “Private”.

So that’s it then. We sit chatting until 10pm, by which time the table is still not cleared, and there’s no sign of dessert.

Jim goes outside for a smoke, and points out that the boot of our Graham’s car is packed, to the level of the windows, with empty booze bottles. Given that we have been the only patrons all night apart from Shaggy and Wee Jimmy, it would take him a year to use up that much booze over the bar.

I sneak back through to the kitchen on the off—chance that he’s in there. The food preparation table, which was almost empty earlier, is covered in drink, including a 24-pack of Becks with an 8-bottle hole in it, an industrial-size bottle of vodka with a good few inches out of the top, and an industrial-size bottle of Gordon’s gin with a similar good few inches out of the top. There is also a large and uncovered sirloin of beef, and all of our plates from our starters. And 3 loose baguettes. And the plate from the table this afternoon.

The reason for the unfinished meal on the table when we arrived, is now all too clear… So is the reason for the bootful of bottles…

And so to bed, where I feel itchy - I’m not sure whether to shut the window to keep the midges out, or open the window to let the resident fleas out. I’m strangely not in a mood for sleep so I do a bit of internet browsing before turning in.

To be continued…

:: Sunday, June 19, 2016 ::

Chapter 3. The Great Escape.

It’s Sunday. It’s Fathers Day. We expect that to celebrate, our host will be suffering from the daddy of all hangovers. Although last night he promised breakfast at 7.30 on the dot, we all think it’s unlikely that he’ll surface before that time, or even before Monday. Even if he does, we agreed last night that breakfast is likely to take us at least until lunchtime, while he brings it to us one ingredient at a time - “Here’s your sausage lads, your egg will be here in 10 minutes.”

We agreed to be up and ready at 7am, and if there’s no sign of him, we’re off. We have agreed an elaborate system of taps to synchronise our escape along the narrow corridor aka the escape tunnel “Tom”. Jim is played by Dicky Attenborough, and Hugh by Donald Pleasance. David McCallum is cast as Adrian, and I am played by somebody whose name I can’t remember because I deny having any leading role in this anarchy. We do all put some money on the reception desk (we’re not criminals after all), and bugger off as quietly as we can. As we go out, we notice that all of last night’s dishes are still on the table, the lights are still on, and the phone and wallet are still lying in the lounge.

Because we don’t have Dave with us, nobody has blown our cover by cleaning their cars at 6am, so we appear still to be undetected.

So we set off, but with a bit of a dilemma - do we take the short route, which involves a ferry back to the mainland, but an hour’s wait for the first ferry, and the risk of being “dobbed in” if the ferry crew and Graham are ever coincidentally sober at the same time, or do we take the long route around 2 sea lochs, along mostly deserted single track roads. No contest - we’re running for freedom from the twilight zone here.

We stop near the ferry, a safe distance from the hotel, to remove roofs. I also brief the others on the outcome of my little internet browsing session last night. Apparently, our man Graham was reported to the licensing board last year, for being drunk in charge of licensed premises, then 4 days later, the same again. A week after that, he had a menu re-launch night, and the chef (there was one then) had to call the cops out because Graham was slumped unconscious in a store room. A few days after that, he was caught pished again, speaking to guests. The police recommended withdrawal of his license - how he kept it is anybody’s guess.

We agree the plan for today, which only extends as far as “let’s go to Fort William for breakfast and fuel”. Dave would be apoplectic. So we head off to the local Morrisons, which is about a mile and a half away as the crow flies (do crows fly across lochs?), but 35 miles by road. Fantastic!

When we get there, we order our breakfast and watch a rather attractive lady biker change her clothes outside the window. Our leching has to be disguised as vague disinterest, because the other 15 members of her biking group are 20-stone Meatloaf wannabes. We scoff the first decent food we have seen since lunchtime yesterday, then we see a steam train and then speak to some tourists outside. The excitement is all getting too much - moonlight flitting, seeing a stripper, a cooked breakfast and a steam train - and it’s still not 10 o’clock!

But we’re out, we’re free, we’re fed, and we’re ready to bash on.

To be continued…

:: Sunday, June 19, 2016 ::

Chapter 4. The Cannon and Ball Run.

Ooooh where are we going now Tommy? Ow, you’ve got me skin there…”

Then we’re off again, up to Spean Bridge and through Glen Garry and Glen Shiel, and then over some more wonderful twisty roads with great views, before we stop in a lay-by on the edge of Loch Carron, near Stromeferry. Once again we attract the attention of camera-wielding tourists, who we hope will piss off so that we can let some piss off (isn’t the English language a wonderful thing, where the same words can mean entirely different things, like “last night was a night to remember”?)

Then we head off again. I’ve put my dash cam back on, so I can collect a few pictures of this fantastic scenery as we drive through it.

Along the side of Loch Carron, with the mountains on the other side…

between some more mountains…

past a group of Caterhams coming the other way…

before we find a former railway station at Strathcarron, converted into a bar / cafe catering mainly for the biker fraternity. There are no bikers in, though, but we stop for a wee cake and a coffee. Again, there’s a local worthy at the bar who is looking at us with an expression that says “you’re a funny lot - why have your bikes got 4 wheels?”

Then we are off again down the other side of Loch Carron, and across to the end of Lock Kishorn, where we turn off on to one of the most interesting driving roads in the UK - the “Bealach na Ba”, the Pass of the Cattle. It rises from sea level to over 2000 feet in just over 5 miles, with gradients as steep as 1 in 5 in places.

It’s narrow and twisty…

along the side of a mountain with sheer drops (and spectacular views) on one side…

It gets higher and higher…

before it turns inland between the mountains…

and gets steeper (see the switchbacks going up that hill?)…

and even narrower.

This is a photo from street view looking back down that same hill. In the last photo, the car is just on that last straight coming up towards the camera.

This is looking back down the pass we just came through, to the loch we just drove around.

There’s a viewpoint at the top, where we park up and again we are swamped by tourists. These ones are from Germany.

I can just about see my house from here - and that’s over 100 miles away..

Then it’s down the other side to Applecross, where we have decided to have lunch. It’s a tiny village on the shore and it’s packed. Despite the fact that it’s about as inaccessible as a place can be, and is heavily reliant on tourists using the road we just came over, the residents aren’t half hostile bastards. When we first arrive, we are looking for somewhere to park - the place seems to be full of Porsches. Adrian walks up a bit to check if there are spaces, and if not, to make sure we can turn around. A local who has driven up behind him, can’t be bothered squeezing past, so leans on the horn and launches a diatribe. Where is Dave when you need him?

50 yards up the road, this fuckwit stops to let his passenger out - blocking the road. As we squeeze past in our skinny wee cars, he gives not one gram of fuck. Then we park, and I see him coming. I decide to wander across the road like a dopey tourist, and he leans on the horn again. What’s the difference between this silver Honda 4x4 and a porcupine?

Obvious really - a porcupine’s pricks are on the outside.

Just then I hear a rammy behind me. For feck’s sake, what is it now? It’s a resident complaining that we have parked on the road outside her house. It’s her road. We wouldn’t like it if somebody parked outside our house. It’s hers. She owns it. There are postage-stamp-sized signs in her window. I apologise and decide to move, but that’s not enough - we are stupid insensitive eejits for parking on the public road outside somebody else’s house. I deliberate for a second whether or not to recite chapter and verse of the Roads (Scotland) Act 1984, which says, albeit not in so few words, that she’s talking shite, but can’t be arsed since I’m not being paid to do it, so we move up the road instead.

We go back to the pub/restaurant for lunch, which is busy, but very pleasant. And quick. While we are in there, the rain comes on, and we’ve left the cars roofless. I’ll worry about that later - there’s food and it’s hot!

With lunch polished off, we wander outside to watch the Porsches depart. They are on an official Porsche tour - brand new cars supplied by Porsche apparently, how do I get a gig like that? We also meet another TVR owner who is here on holiday, so we have a wee chat with him while we dry the cars out.

There are 2 ways back from here - either the way we came, which until a few years ago was the only route, and is getting busier at this time of day, or round the deserted single-track coast road to Sheildaig. So we head off for some more great driving, roofs still off despite the rain, along the side of Loch Torridon, and then right across the country to Dingwall, where we have booked our hotel for the night.

This hotel has no idea of proper highland hospitality. The staff are very nice, they get us booked in quickly, and we are directed to our rooms, which are nice, dry, and don’t smell of damp. Lovely.

We didn’t agree a time for dinner, but we all seem to assemble anyway at the right time. They have reserved a table for us without being asked, and the same lovely young lady takes our orders. We are served 3 delicious courses in just over an hour, and they also bring you cutlery and come and serve you drinks and all. They won’t survive long against the traditional surly competition.

This leaves time for some serious blethering, and we engage in a range of topics which I can’t remember now. One thing I do remember is that we all agree that Dave would have been going mental by now, with our hotel last night, our random cross-country meanderings, plus the less than friendly interaction with some of the locals. His penchant for “casual slappery” would be in full swing.

As we sit there, the bar through the back becomes more and more raucous. Our erstwhile waitress is now off-duty and at the centre of a large group of youngsters all having a great time, by the sound of it. When I go to the loo, I am asked by one lad “what team do you support?” This is a question which, if asked in Glasgow, almost inevitably ends up in you getting your head kicked in. This question is the third most dangerous in the Scottish vernacular culture, after “Are you looking at ma pint?” and “are you looking at ma burd?” in descending order of offence taken. There is at least a vague possibility of recovering the situation, though, if you can guess an acceptable answer by recalling which particular genre of sectarian song his group was previously singing.

Fortunately, it turns out that this is just this lad’s way of asking “where are you from?” so we are all pals.

Later, we are approached by a rather older regular called Charlie (I only know this because I heard the barmaid tell him earlier to shut up and stop talking pish). It’s now 2 hours later so the pish has increased from a dribble to a raging torrent. Charlie has been looking out of the window and admiring the cars. I’ve heard this somewhere else recently… He tells us that he likes them, but it comes out as “Seeheroaurghtdacarsonarootsideaniwanasaytheylovelyanatanwhauryegaun?” We engage in a conversation where neither side has a sniff of a clue what the other is talking about. I’m good at this though - I’ve bluffed a 40-year career out of it.

All too soon, it’s midnight and it’s time for bed. The bar area has a flat roof with glass skylights just outside the bedroom window, so the racket is even louder here than it was downstairs. There’s also a smoking area just to the side, so that they can take the racket outside and piss off the neighbours. Nevertheless, after the events of yesterday, I am even prepared to forgive all this. The racket switches off at quarter to 1, when they are all chucked out and continue their debate round the front (where I can’t hear them, but the others can).

Dave would be apoplectic. Again.

This is the best holiday ever!

::Monday, June 20, 2016 ::

Chapter 5. Car Trek V - The Voyage Home.

Again, last night we didn't agree a time for breakfast, but 7.30 seems about right. Everybody else seems to assemble at the same time. I'm up a little bit early so I go for a wee walk up the street and back, and am surprised to see one of the young lads from last night, getting on a bus looking fresh as a daisy.

We have a nice cooked breakfast, all made to order, then it's time to devise the plan for today. The first priority is a trip down the A9 to Inverness for fuel, and then onwards. Somebody points out an interesting little road down the south side of Loch Ness, but you need to go right through Inverness to get to it, and it's critical - I say critical boy - that we all stay together.

30 seconds after we leave the petrol station, Hugh and Jim take off in a completely different junction from me and Adrian. By the time I am sure they aren't there, I have started the drive round Inverness.

We stop, Adrian phones, and to our relief, Hugh is still with Jim (otherwise Hugh will have his phone switched off in his bag, and we'd never find him). We find out where they are (on a lay by further down the A9) so we tell them to wait while we turn around and come and get them. I know where they are. They don't have a clue where they are.

Adrian and I drive down the A9, and there's Jim and Hugh standing beside their cars in a lay by, the middle half of which is occupied by a huge artic lorry. This is a fast uphill dual carriageway bit of the A9 on a bend, so the chances of finding a gap long enough for all 4 of us, when we won't be able to see each other past the lorry, are remote, so we'll all end up getting lost again, but in a different order. I drive past serenely so they can catch up.

And they do. I drive back down the A9 to the junction we meant to take in the first place, while I contemplate how clever collies are, because they know to herd sheep from the back, where they can see what the buggers are doing.

We manage to stay together all the way through Inverness and out the other side, back onto a wee road. We have picked up a police van at the back, and I'm surprised when he turns left and follows us down this road to nowhere. Is this Graham's cousin responding to an APB to look out for 4 escapees in sports cars? Is he on the radio rounding up HIS cousins to block the road ahead so that we have to take off over the fields and leap over barbed wire like Steve McQueen? I’ve got this vision of Graham pocketing the cash, then (much) later wondering “suppose I better make breakfast for the guests - what the - who the - where the hell are they?” and not making any connection with (or indeed, recollection of) the cash he picked up earlier. I’m already practicing my master criminal alibi of "it wisny me it was them as well", when he turns off into 3 houses that are the capital of nowhere.

We have a brief stop in a lay by to agree the salient points of any future official statement, in the event that Boss Hogg is waiting down the road with guns and a helicopter, and we head off again.

Once again we are on single track roads with passing places, except that this time, there's nothing coming the other way to pass - oh except for one sharp bend which I reach at around 10mph in one direction, with a Mercedes of some non-description on full steam ahead in the other. I stop half-off the road, he doesn't but manages to reduce enough speed to be able to squeeze through the Mercedes-plus-one-inch space that I've been able to leave him.

On we go until we pass a new sub-station under construction, where there is a resurfaced and unmarked junction. One bit seems to go into the site and the other bit goes straight on. Obvious really!

This road starts off much the same as the one we just came along…

but then gets narrower.

Then the surface starts to break up…

Then the potholes start… by now we’re down to 10mph or something.

Then we come across what I think is a man herding cows across the road back to the farm, so I hold back.

a little further along, and I am starting to suspect that we have taken a wrong turning back at that sub-station…

Still, 4x4 skills are handy…

and it is quite nice and peaceful here… Well it will be until one of us gets our exhaust scraped off completely. I am now pretty confident that there are no bits of deer left stuck to mine…

We stop for a laugh and a wee chat, then head onwards through the woods, until the road is surfaced again. Then it goes down a series of switchback hairpin bends that require full lock, and a risk of getting beached half-way round. Only Adrian actually manages it though.

Just before we get back on to a real road, we stop again to share another laugh at the sign that says “Unsuitable for HGVs and caravans”. The bottom of the sign, that adds “or anything else that doesn’t travel on hooves or paws” has obviously fallen off. The cars look like participants in the London-Dakar rally via a swamp, but it’s brilliant! Oh Dave, what you have missed! 48 hours of frantic cleaning, that’s what.

We also realise that we have a limited choice of routes home from here, and we’re going to have to go back along the way we came on Saturday, if we are going to get home today. Lack of planning, that’s what that is. We are about 100 miles away from where our map said we were going today, so that’s as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike.

Then we are back to normal single track roads for a bit, before we re-join a real road with white lines and traffic coming the other way and everything. Once again, we are looking for a lunch stop, which we find in Invergarry. Once again, good quick service, and delicious food. This can’t go on…

We do get a shock at one point when one customer arrives and walks past the window, I won’t give a detailed description - one hesitates to cause offence - but suffice to say that the height, the wild hair, the moustache and the shape of the sunglasses all combine to create an uncanny resemblance to an absent friend. Has Dave tracked us down by following the muddy tyre tracks all the way down the A82? No… it’s a doppelgänger, poor guy.

After lunch, we head down through Fort William (our fourth time through there this weekend) only to come to a halt on the way south out of town. There has been an accident, and we are only about a dozen vehicles back. A car has somehow hit a garden wall on the side of the road and overturned, although the woman inside is ok, she can’t get out. There are some bikers helping her, and then an ambulance, two fire engines, and more police cars than I thought existed in the whole of the Highlands. If Graham has contacted the cops, we’re sticking out like sore wossnames - we’re fucked…

It takes about an hour and a half before the road is open again. There are no realistic diversion routes, so we stand in the sun and wait, and eat wine gums and watch the scenery.

When we finally get going again we head back down Glencoe, which again looks lovely in the sun.

At one point we stop behind a couple of bikes turning into a layby at the Rest and Be Thankful (yes that’s a place name…) and I hear a noise like something very big braking really hard in those moments before there’s a loud crunch and everything goes very dark. As I look in the mirror, a fighter jet swoops right over us on full afterburner. They don’t half take speeding seriously up here…

A few miles later we stop again at the Green Welly Stop, but without the entertainment of shit parkers (except my making a comedy attempt at demolishing the plastic bollards). Another wee drink, another wee cake, and we’re off on the last leg of our journey, with Hugh in the lead. Traffic is quite busy, and we are following a queue of 8 cars, including some with foreign registrations, behind a caravan. On the first half-decent straight, Hugh overtakes the car in front of him. Still plenty straight left, so he passes another… and another… all the way up till he passes the caravan and disappears up the road. You can’t usually pass Germans as easily as this - ask Lewis Hamilton, but Hugh’s the man!

We stop at Lochearnhead to say cheerio to Hugh, who is heading back up to Perth. Her was so far ahead of us that he’s even had time to park and get out before we even get there. Then we head back to Stirling and re-entry into Edinburgh, after 3 days, 700 miles, millions of laughs, no car cleaning, a couple of near-death experiences (one through food poisoning, one through the near-demolition of a road worker), no boats, a bit of off-roading, no trophies, a car that’s absolutely manky, and a grin that threatens to burst my face.

What a car.