There’s so little traffic in Shetland that the powers that be must have decided it’s a waste to build a road wide enough to accommodate a vehicle going in each direction. Behold the one-lane road with passing places.
The rules are logical and easy and within a few days we had it down pat. The main rule, as in most driving schemes anywhere, is to stay on your own side and don’t cross over if the passing place is on the other side but rather stop on your side and allow the oncoming vehicle to drive around you on the passing place.
The other day we were on a single-lane road when we saw a hire car coming the other way. We had a passing place just ahead but the oncoming car panicked and kept coming, then crossed to their right and pulled into our passing place. It wasn’t kosher but we kept driving and waved as we went by.
“They’re not from around here,” Jack said. I thought he was commenting on the break in protocol.
“How can you tell?” I asked facetiously.
“Earrings.”
I turned to him, confused.
“I’m wearing earrings.”
“You’re not from around here.”
Q.E.D.
For a quickie intro to the eccentricities of Shetland, check this out including this caveat:
We’re not the Shetlands; we are just Shetland. Period. Call us the Shetland Isles, or an island archipelago, or da auld rock, or da rock – whatever, just don’t call us ‘the Shetlands’. This is a sure-fire way of getting off on the wrong foot, or most usually, corrected.
Before coming to Shetland we quizzed every Scotsman we spoke with on the mainland (none had been here) and Googled for potential itineraries (and came up empty.) Now that we’re here, we’re exploring with no plan, no destinations in mind, no route. Each day we wake up, make coffee, check the weather (a pointless pursuit; it changes) and decide what to do on the day. So far we’ve been lucky and often have blue skies. Some days we wake up to rain and wind. It may clear up, it may not.
On those cold and rainy days we’re just as happy to sit tight, read, catch up on writing, and wait for a break in the weather.
Sometimes we wake up to fog and mist, but within minutes a patch of blue appears and we’re off.
Just driving over the rolling meadows gives us pleasure. Then we learned about cake fridges. Some are actually marked on Google Maps, our go-to for what to do and where to go. Cake fridges, or honesty boxes, hold home baked treats and often fresh eggs. You choose what you want, put the money in a cashbox and away you go. This one, the Sand Cake Fridge, is down a long one-lane road with barely a house in sight. We learned that most honesty boxes are adjacent to bus stops so you can pick up a pudding (dessert) on your way home.
Shetland is sadly devoid of French bakeries and we’re missing our usual café life so we stocked up on brownies, blondies, and a berry crumble, all for £10. We’ll make our own coffee.
We get our eggs from the honesty boxes too. Fresh and delicious.
Not far from the cake box is Da Gairdins, a 60-acre tract of woodland and gardens created and maintained by Alan and Ruby Inkster for public enjoyment. It’s a registered charity and they accept donations to help with the upkeep. It was beautiful to walk through the quiet wooded paths. The ruby red rhododendron is a new one on me.
We’d been in Shetland a few days before we noticed the blocks of peat drying along the roadside. Once we realized what we were looking at, we were as excited as we were when we first saw copra drying sheds in the Pacific. It’s something you read about that’s unique to a place and, you assume, a time long past, yet both peat and copra are still very much part of life in their respective places.
Yes, there are Shetland ponies.
We find stunning parkups nearly every night, both through crowd-sourced apps and on our own. This one gave us the long-distance view that feeds my soul.
Six years ago in Australia we went on a picnic hike with our friends Bruce and Di to Barrenjoey Lighthouse. When we got to the lighthouse Bruce informed us with great confidence that the sandy isthmus connecting Barrenjoey to the mainland is called a tombolo.
“What’chu talkin’ about?” we laughed, knowing Bruce’s penchant for pulling our legs, but he was adamant and the new fact was tucked away for future reference. So far it hasn’t won us any free beer at the pub.
Flash forward to 2022 and we parked up overlooking another tombolo, this one connecting St. Ninian’s Isle to mainland Shetland.
We still can’t believe how easy it is to find free parkups in amazing locations and we’re glad our camper is self-contained and able to take advantage of these places.
We stayed overnight just where the camera icon is on the mainland side.
Under an unexpectedly clear blue sky we walked across the tombolo to the island.
We soon learned an important Shetland skill: dancing around sheep poo in the meadows. This will soon be followed by another skill: finding a stick in nearly treeless Shetland to dig the sheep poo out of our shoe treads.
Sheep poo aside, it was a beautiful walk and it felt good to stretch our legs and start regaining the fitness we’ve lost over the last six months of low activity.
Our parkup put us in the exact right place to enjoy our first clear horizon sunset in recent memory. And with the long twilight this far north it lasted for nearly an hour. Life is good.
My very first ocean passage was a four day journey from Annapolis, Maryland, to the island of Martha’s Vineyard off the coast of Massachusetts on a friend’s beautiful 34’ Tartan. Only part of it was out of sight of land, but that, for me, was the best part. I fell in love with being able to see the horizon all around me, the boat a tiny survival pod in limitless space.
Since then we made many passages on our own boat, from a few days to a week or two to our longest, at six weeks. But it’s been a while. Now, if only for a few hours on a car ferry, I’ll get to experience that 360° horizon again.
We checked in at the dock early and were loaded almost immediately, right behind another Adria campervan. We turned off the propane, deployed the frozen blue picnic ice throughout the fridge and freezer, packed an overnight bag and locked up. The car deck will be inaccessible during the journey. Up on the cabin deck an agent pointed us toward our home for the night.
Our cabin — the only one available when we booked — has no window and sleeps four but we have it all to ourselves. It has a reasonably spacious bathroom and shower, especially if you’re already accustomed to boats and campers.
I read online that these inside cabins can be noisy because they’re above the engines so we brought our noise-canceling headphones in case the thrumming keeps us awake. And because it’s been a while since I’ve been at sea, and I suffer from mal de mer, I dug through my stash to find seasickness tablets. I checked the date. What are the chances they still work?
We cast off on time, waved goodbye to Aberdeen, sailed past a beautiful offshore wind farm and headed out into the North Sea.
We brought sandwiches with us because we thought maybe the food onboard would be expensive and bad. As it turns out, it looked pretty good, but the ferry fare with the van and the cabin was enough to spend, and besides, we have a camper full of food as long as the picnic ice does its job.
As we cleared the harbor I could sense the ocean swell and waited for the familiar queasiness. Instead, I was suddenly sleepy and I knew the Dramamine was working. That’s when I remembered I only ever take half a tablet because I’m particularly susceptible to drugs. All drugs. Oops. I’d taken a whole one and now I was very sleepy.
I wanted to stay up long enough to be out of sight of land and at 9pm I went back out on deck but we still hadn’t cleared the top little bit of mainland Scotland. I couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer so I set an alarm for early morning and surrendered to the Dramamine. Our cabin was quiet, by the way, with no noise from the engines and I slept the sleep of the sailor off watch.
Bright and early I popped out of bed and raced up to the open deck. Land Ho! We’ve already made Shetland.
The landscape we glimpsed through the early fog gave us a taste of what’s to come: steep ocean cliffs, gently undulating hills, and impossibly green meadows.
About an hour later we docked at Lerwick and within minutes we were off the ferry and parked in town. We took a quick turn around Lerwick to get oriented and visited the tourist office where they loaded us up with maps, brochures and ferry schedules.
Then it was on the road to a free parkup for the rest of the day so we can get recombobulated and make a plan.
We drove toward Inverness, a place with an evocative name and probably worth more time than we are going to give it. We only stopped long enough to top up our food supply for the next few days. We also learned we must turn off our propane while on the ferry, and that’s what runs the fridge and freezer, so I snagged a handful of blue picnic ice things to freeze ahead. That should keep our food cold during the 12+ hours on the ferry.
I saw on the map that we’re close to Culloden, the site of the last pitched battle on British soil. Yeah, I had to look it up too.
The Battle of Culloden in 1746 marked the final defeat of the Jacobite rising, but if, like me, you don’t have the necessary background in Scottish history, it’s a confusing story. Jack and I hoped the visitors center would clear things up for us but sadly, it did not. Perhaps in an effort to appeal to international visitors, or to give a wider context to the conflict, the beginning aisles of the museum — I hesitate to call it that, because it was just placard after placard to read, with some music background — was all about the other various conflicts happening concurrently overseas. By the time we got to the actual battle in Scotland, we were bleary-eyed and confused. This part of the visitors center was a complete fail.
The better part was an “immersion theatre” that was terrifying, where you stand in the middle of a room surrounded by four screens and experience the battle, turning this way and that, seeing men charging at you, women watching from a distance, the government army standing ground and barely suffering any casualties. Well done on that, National Trust.
Out on the site we caught up with the end of a tour. As with any battlefield monument, it’s hard to imagine the terror and bloodshed, and the ghosts that may still be wandering around. It’s all quiet and peaceful now.
We’re using various apps for crowd-sourced information on legal parkups. During this first couple of weeks of vanlife, we learned we much prefer to spend the night with a water view, so that’s what we’re looking for tonight. There’s a car park at a marina just east of Culloden but the app that lists it leaves us unsure whether overnight parking is permitted.
We find the car park and it’s the usual “pay and display” scheme, where you pay at a kiosk then display the receipt on the dash. At the kiosk is a large sign detailing what’s prohibited, and on the list is overnight parking of vehicles “adapted or manufactured for sleeping,” or words to that effect. A smaller sign, just above the pay station, indicates that campervans and small motorhomes are welcome to overnight for £10. I chose to believe that sign and pulled out my wallet.
I spent a good five minutes navigating this particular pay station, trying to get to the overnight camping option. No matter what I did, the maximum amount I could pay was £3. Other drivers came and went and tried to assist, but in the end they couldn’t figure it out either. Wanting to be on the safe side, I called the number on the machine.
“Parking authority,” came the voice on the other end. I explained we were at the marina car park in a campervan and would like to spend the night but the machine gave me no £10 overnight option.
There was a long pause. Finally he said, “It’s an invitation.”
I didn’t understand.
“You’re invited to pay.” I read the sign more carefully. Sure enough, the sign said, “You’re invited to pay . . . “ then listed the various categories.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“We invite you to pay. Any money collected goes to the Council.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s an invitation.”
This was not making any sense to me.
“I’m keen to pay. It’s a beautiful place,” I countered. We circled around a few more times before he finally suggested I pay the maximum the machine would allow, which was £3. I did that and we spent a beautiful night on the waterfront. In the morning I paid another £3. Just because.
Out in the river there were two of these barges with derricks on them. Through the binoculars we couldn’t see any drilling or digging activity and couldn’t figure out what they were. Sometime in the morning a roadwork truck pulled in beside us and I knocked on the window.
“What are those things?” I asked. They told us it was part of a wind farm project, but my further questions didn’t really clear it up. Later we asked a shopkeeper who told us it was oil drilling. We still don’t know. If you’ve got an idea what’s going on here, drop us a comment.
We’ve still got a couple of days until the ferry, and Jack is itching for another castle. That shouldn’t be too hard.
We fell in love with the Scottish Highlands. Driving more or less along the Caledonia canal has us gasping at the vistas and forcing ourselves not to stop every couple of hundred meters to take yet another photo that our son will probably look at when we’re dead and delete. We decide to resist the temptation to record everything for posterity and just revel in the joy of the moment. It’s hard.
We stopped at Fort Augustus to sit at a café and watch the action at the locks. There are six locks here, connecting the canal to Loch Ness.
Sometime during our canal-side lunch, we came to a decision. We’ll take the Northlink Ferry from Aberdeen directly to Shetland in time for Midsummer. It’ll be the farthest north either of us has ever been, and we’ll be there for the longest day of the year.
I’m happy we have a plan. My job now is to book the ferry, which of course we must do as we’re taking a campervan. The trip is just over 12 hours, and others recommend booking a cabin instead of the (free) chairs or (cheap) “sleeping pods.” Cabin it is.
We found a beautiful parkup on Loch Ness and I got to work. Unfortunately all the cabins were booked for the coming week, so getting there before Midsummer is out. The first available cabin is on June 20th, which puts us there on the 21st, and it’s an inside cabin with no porthole. We booked it.
So now we need to figure out what to do for the next week while we wait for the ferry.
We said farewell to Etive and Nial and, in a last minute move, pointed the van toward the Caledonian Canal. This may sound like a decision, but really we just put off deciding. At Inverness we’ll have some options. We’ll figure it out later.
The drive was beautiful as we made our way along the shore of Loch Linnhe and into the Highlands.
We are headed for Glencoe, one of the most frequently mentioned places to go in Scotland. Glencoe is a nature reserve, an area of rugged beauty, and the site of the Glencoe Massacre.
It’s a vast park, mostly wild, and best appreciated by hiking, mountaineering and other sports beyond our current energy level, but we’re keen to appreciate what we can at our age-adjusted pace. The visitor’s center has a good orientation, with a topo map, a film about the massacre, and displays about the founders of the Mountaineering Club.
After seeing this photo, Jack decided he needs to trade in his baseball cap for a traditional tweed flat cap. He’s on a mission now.
It’s another rainy day and Etive thinks a drive around her environs is a good idea. We agree, as a tour with a local is always rewarding. Taynuilt is a tiny village, with all the shops you need and everyone knows everyone. It’s the sort of place we’d choose to live if we ever settle down.
The sky brightened a bit and we made a beeline to Dunstaffnage Castle and Chapel. The castle was built sometime in the 13th century and appears to have emerged right out of the rocks.
This castle is actually open but we didn’t take the time to go in, rather walked around the grounds and admired the architecture, particularly of the chapel.
Back home again we found the midges swarming and we quickly retreated to our homes. Jack and I thought we’d warm up with a cup of coffee, only to find our propane tank had ran out while we were gone. On Escape Velocity Jack elevated Tank Swap to an Olympic event. He could get us back up and running within about four minutes, and that included disconnecting the empty, carrying it up to the foredeck, pulling the fresh tank out of the deck locker, dropping the empty in its place, carrying the full (and heavy) tank back to the cockpit, persuading it into the vented locker, hooking it up and testing for leaks with dish soap. The kettle barely came off the boil before the flame was lit.
The campervan is more of a challenge, even without the “carrying the tank 40 feet along the side deck and back” part of the event. For one thing, these are 13kg tall bottles, as opposed to the 9kg we were used to. But the real bug-a-boo is that the spare tank is stored behind the operating tank, so both tanks have to be removed and places swapped before the fresh tank can be connected. And — let’s think ahead now — when we go to swap the empty at the gas depot, the operating tank has to be disconnected and removed so we can extract the empty behind it, then secure the new full bottle in the back of the locker before the working tank gets reinstalled, hooked up and tested again. Not a quick maneuver.
But back to today. The propane locker is inside the back door, so the whole time Jack is swapping the tanks, midges are swarming his head, flying in his nose and ears, and into the van. I’m fanning the midges back out of the van, mixing up the dish soap with water for testing, and spraying our tea tree/vinegar/water mixture all over in the hope that the midges will take a hike. There may have been swearing involved.
Jack announced “no leaks!” and slammed the back door, then ran to the side and back into the van. We were pleased to see that all the fanning and spritzing of tea tree oil did the job, and there were no midges inside, although Jack’s head had taken a toll.
Later, when we related the story, we were advised to get Smidge. “It works!”
Ugh. We do have Smidge, we just forgot to use it BEFORE going out in the midges. Lesson learned. The coffee was worth it.
One of the least mentioned but long-lasting benefits of ocean cruising is that you make friends from all over the world. When our friends Seathan and Audrie on the yacht Rehua, currently in the Seychelles, saw where we are Audrie introduced us via email to Seathan’s mother Etive who lives outside Oban. Etive invited us to visit, and even offered up her driveway as a parkup. We relished the idea of local knowledge to helps us formulate a travel plan.
Etive met us at the bottom of her lane and guided us to a perfect level spot beside her house, with the kind of long-distance view we’ve grown to love about Scotland.
We spent a couple of delightful hours enjoying the company and the garden views and good conversation before Jack and I retreated to the van for a good night’s sleep. Wind and rain rolled in overnight and by morning we stayed home as it poured, lingering over our morning coffee and catching up on writing.
Finally, we dashed between the raindrops to the conservatory and found Etive trying to summon a tennis tournament on the uncooperative TV. I was happy to discover a fellow tennis fan and we had more to talk about for awhile until another brief break in the rain urged us back to the van for the afternoon.
Seathan’s brother Nial arrived later and we were treated to a sumptuous buffet dinner complete with bubbly and more fine conversation.
We peppered them with questions about where to go and when to go there, which direction of travel is optimal, and what to skip. They offered up suggestions we hadn’t yet considered, and we noted the relative level of enthusiasm for places we thought we’d like to see.
We were disappointed to learn neither has been to Shetland, a place that has called to me since I was a child. I don’t know why, especially since I love trees and Shetland doesn’t have any. We want to visit the Hebrides, too, and the Highlands and Edinburgh. There’re so many places to go in this small country, and talking to Etive and Nial hasn’t helped us formulate an itinerary at all. The list just keeps getting longer. So much for local knowledge.
With our fresh water supply dwindling and no way to fill the tank, it’s clear we have to leave Loch Lomond and The Trussocks National Park and find a shop that might stock a water hose. It’s time to go west.
I booked us into a campground for the first time since moving aboard near a shop that supposedly caters to the backpacking and motorhome set. The shop failed us. They had midge nets, midge spray, and a folding water carrier, all of which we did buy, but no hoses. We resigned ourselves to filling the tank with the folding water carrier. Jack was not amused.
The campground was exactly as you might picture an RV park in America, and why we prefer to wild camp. It was admittedly a very nice campground, but you give up privacy and pay handsomely for the convenience and services. We’ve agreed to a campground stay once every week or ten days so we can do laundry, have long hot showers, give our batteries a good charge, especially in rainy weather, dump the gray water and toilet cassette, and fill up with fresh water.
Jack checked us in at the office and came out grinning and carrying a brand new hose with a variety of fittings. Eureka! We’re in business. While Jack sorted the electrical connection and filled the water tank, I started gathering the laundry.
I took my bag of loose change to the office to see if they could give me the proper coins I needed for the machines. When I presented my collection the two hosts jumped into action with glee.
“You’ve got quite the collection of shrapnel there,” said the man, and he and the woman dumped the coins onto the counter and set to work. As a former bank teller, I’d have happily counted it out for them, but they seemed to enjoy sorting and making stacks. I walked out with enough one-pound coins to do what amounted to three loads of wash.
The next day, charged up, fully watered, dumped, laundered and freshly scrubbed, we set off toward Oban, the gateway to the Hebrides.
Oban is the first sizable town we’ve come to so far in the camper, and we’re learning that parking is a challenge in any vehicle bigger than a car, even though we are a smallish van and allowed in regular parking lots. We know now to look for municipal lots, or car parks adjacent to supermarkets or big box stores. We got parked and walked a few blocks into town for lunch.
We didn’t have much of a plan for Oban, and drove back out of town and into the woods. Trees are my happy place, and a walk in this quiet mossy forest soothed my soul.
We aren’t sure where we’re going from here. We can go west to the Hebrides, we can go east to Edinburgh, we can go north. We need a plan. We need some advice. And we know just who to consult.
