August is probably the best month to visit Scotland, because you have the best chance of getting temperatures that are consistently about 12 degrees. Sure, that doesn't mean it won't rain - it is Scotland, after all. There's a superstition in the UK that, if it rains on St Swithun's day, 15 July, it will rain for 40 days - not Noah's Ark-style, but at some time on each of the next 40 days. Sure enough, it rained on 15 July and the saying came true.
Nevertheless, G's parents braved the weather and stayed with us for four weeks in August. Pretty much from the moment we decided to move over here for a few years, D&I indicated their intention to visit us. Having never been overseas before, this was a pretty major decision for them. But, in what felt like no time, we were greeting them at the airport in Edinburgh after their three day journey from Bundaberg to Scotland. They wisely chose to stay overnight in Singapore to combat the jetlag, and again in London before flying up to Edinburgh. It seemed to be a smart move, as they weren't as affected by jetlag as we were when we first arrived in Edinburgh.
D&I arrived on Thursday, and on Saturday we picked up a rental car and headed off on a journey north to the Highlands. We had booked accommodation for the first three nights of the trip, which was smart given the crowds of tourists in Scotland during August. During our first day, we drove northwest to Glencoe. G and I had been through there in April with my parents, and it was still as beautiful as we remembered, and a bit busier. At one point, we stopped at a carpark to admire the view, and a piper, obviously to capitalise on the tourists, started playing. D, excited by a genuine bagpiper, threw a few coins into his busking box and crept sidewards towards him for a photograph.
That night we stayed in Fort William at a quaint B&B, and had dinner at a local pub. [G takes over writing] That was Dad's first experience of haggis (he quite liked it) and even Mum tried a mouthful. Only one though. On a side note, I went for a jog before dinner, tackling in advance it's size, ingredients and liquid accompaniment. Going for a run at the foot of Ben Nevis was awesome. I felt like I was in one of those motivational posters (mind you, they normally have someone a lot fitter than me who doesn't look like they are having trouble breathing).
The next day was mostly wet. Good coffee drinking weather. It wasn't cold by Scottish standards, but not particularly warm. We drove up the Great Glen, stopping in at Fort Augustus to show Mum and Dad the locks in action. We didn't linger over Loch Ness and decided it was a bit too miserable to visit castle Urquhart. Dad and I did get out at the carpark and attempted to peer over the hedge to have a look at it (you have to pay to get in, and they do a pretty good job of making it difficult to see it unless you do so). Mum declined the excursion. It was pretty wet and she's not silly.
We headed further north and turned off to the west before Inverness. Lunch was at a little place called Beauly, in the car, in the carpark of the local firestation, overlooking a field with a cow in it. Yep.
Ullapool was pretty, with most buildings painted white, but quite busy. After settling in to our B&B and resting up, we tramped around for quite a while looking for a place to eat that wasn't a) massively busy, b) ridiculously expensive or c) both. Ullapool, for heaven's sake!
The drive the next day around the northwest coast was amazing. Around every bend a new vista would open up. Craggy peaks, green valleys and countless lochs with islands rising out of them. The photos can't do it justice. It was hard to concentrate on the driving, particularly with being single lane nearly all of the way. Whenever another vehicle was coming towards us, one of us would have to pull over in a designated passing place to let the other go by. This sometimes involve reversing for a distance, and once reversing up hill while a tourist bus bore down upon us, right on the edge of a cliff.
We did a detour along the way to a place called Achiltibuie, as we (that is, me... I mean, I) wanted to visit the Achiltibuie Smokehouse. Before finding the place, we erroneously detoured up a couple of very narrow lanes in a nearby village, slowly chasing bunch of raggedy, panic stricken sheep to great comic effect. We stayed that night in Thurso. The lady who owned the B&B was inspiringly unwelcoming, but it was a nice place.
The next day we stopped in at Dunnet Head, the actual northern most point on the UK mainland, not John O'Groats as widely thought. We also stopped at John O'Groats: a truly cheesy, soul-less little spot, where you can pay 20 pounds for the privilege of having your photo taken next to a signpost indicating your location (i.e. the (supposed) northern most point in the UK). The signpost is roped off and, according to numerous warning signs, taking a photo of the signpost from outwith the roped of area and not paying 20 pounds is liable to engage the wrath of the official signpost photographer.
We pootled down to Inverness, the west coast not particularly exciting us. It was only after visiting the tourist office that we fully realised the folly of not pre-booking accommodation in Scotland during summer. As it turned out, the nearest accommodation was Aberdeen. So at 3pm, after having been looking forward to a 5-10min drive to a B&B, we were off for another 3 hour trip. Not happy. On the plus side, our accommodation in Aberdeen was a very well priced hotel with a great little bar downstairs, which was a kind of mini-nirvana for this tired and grumpy driver. For some reason, the Guinness they had on tap was exceptionally good, although I had to have second one to be sure it wasn't a fluke. We didn't bother venturing any further afield for dinner.
We headed west the next day and, at the advice of a jovial tourist info employee at Banchory, we investigated the falls of Feugh, where Dad got some great video of salmon jumping up the falls. It was an amazing sight, and we were all impressed at these mighty fish trying to jump up the very fast-flowing water. It was rare that we saw one of them actually make it any distance up the falls, and not get knocked down again. They were all so valiant, and it was hard not to admire their bravery to just keep hurling themselves up the river again and again.
A short drive later we went to Balmoral Castle, the Queen's official residence in Scotland. It was not open to the public at that time of year so we contented ourselves with a slow drive by, snapping off a couple of furtive photos of the front gates and a flock of suspicious, stony faced police officers. We also saw there our only red squirrel of the trip. Of course, no trip to Balmoral Castle would be complete without a trip to Queen Victoria's local, the Royal Lochnagar distillery. Just popped in to buy a bottle.
From there, we drove home.
Nothing much more to say about that. It was good to get home, but I think we all had taken back with us images of the north-west highlands, and would love to get back up there again.
Blogger is being extremely slow to upload photos, so here are a few to keep you going.
G with some wonderful flat rocks, perfect for skipping across the water at Ullapool.
In front of the misty mountains north of Ullapool.
