Escape Velocity

First order of the day was a food run so we’re looking for a market with a US size parking lot. As luck would have it there’s a Tesco in Lerwick where we can stash the van, shop and then walk to a fairly complete restored broch and that, dear Escapees, is a trifecta of the first order in vanlife.

With our little treasures sorted in the van we headed out on foot toward the broch, located on a tiny island at the end of a straight but windy stone causeway, reaching out into Clickimin Loch. It’s kind of a ready made moat.

Quite fascinating, this Bronze Age construction. Almost every detail is defensive in nature. It suggests that maybe some people didn’t care for these folks.

The feature event for the day was not far away, but then nothing is very far. It’s a small island, so small that to get to the British Isles’ most important archaeological site one has to carefully cross over their airport runway, after looking both ways of course.

Prehistoric Jarlshof has Neolithic remains over 4,700 years old and was first visited 6000 years ago. It was successively occupied during the Bronze Age and Iron Age, and by the Picts, the Norse, and finally a 16th century Scottish Laird.

So much of ancient daily life can be imagined from wandering through these dwellings. Iron age built right on top of Bronze, the Picts and the Norse in the same space. The audio tour guided us through the site and described the features of each era. Except the Picts. “We don’t talk about the Picts in this tour,” said the voice in our ears. Why? What did the Picts do to get erased?

The extensive Norse settlements have typical rectangular long buildings as if chosen out of an IKEA catalog and while not nearly as old as the earliest settlements you really have to work to get any history out of the notoriously stoic Norse, with the possible exception perhaps of certain long winded poems.

The Laird’s fortified manor house, built in the 16th century, stands guard over all the millennia of history.

Back at the visitors center we asked about the line in the audio tour of not talking about the Picts. We said it sounded like they were outcasts. The young lady rolled her eyes and said, “I know! But really it’s only because the Pict layers are underneath other layers they don’t want to disturb, so they haven’t actually investigated that part.”

I guess that makes sense. But Marce has been singing, “We don’t talk about Picts, nix, nix” to the tune of “We don’t talk about Bruno, no, no.”

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.

How’s that for a first day’s view?

I will admit to circumnavigating this tired block in Fraserburgh a few times. The GPS says “you’ve arrived” but other than a tiny marina jammed with huge shiny fishing boats there was hardly a soul around and no obvious place to park. Trust me, this neighborhood was never featured on a Fraserburgh brochure. It’s strange to arrive at a stop sign with a one way sign on your left pointed to the right and a one way sign on your right pointed to the left, and yet here we are. Which law should we break? I looked up and saw a rather impressive lighthouse high above us on a prominent point of land. Our parkup must be over there.

Turns out to be a less than level gravel leftover lot, with poor quality graffiti sprayed about but featuring a beautiful view of the waves crashing onto the rocks. I pulled up rather close so we could all enjoy the power and majesty of the sea, failing to appreciate that, in some people, the level of appreciation diminishes with proximity.

I guess we’re still drawn to the sea. We often end up in a similar place with a similar view, except for the graffiti.

We settled back and I noticed a line of red flags close to shore and we knew that had to be a fishing net. A plume of spray caught my attention just at the edge of my peripheral vision. I hadn’t seen what caused it, but I already knew what it was. Suddenly energized I yelled, “Thar she blows!” Marce hurriedly joined me and the binoculars came out of the drawer as we both scanned our little bay. We knew that it’ll be surfacing in a few minutes due to the shallowness of the bay. There it is right in front of us. The whale had all the characteristics of a humpback when diving but was probably a minke. It seemed to be working a parallel line next to the fishing net right in front of us. I’m not sure how long we watched this whale but it took us back to magical times in Australia with so many close encounters with humpbacks zooming under Escape Velocity, mama whales tending their babies and heavy breathing 20ft away from us while we were waking up to coffee, Escape Velocity’s hull reverberating with a symphony of whale song. Yes, whales are special to us.

Later that day the wind picked up as the tide rolled in. For the first time we could feel the van get buffeted in the gusts. Our semi private rocky ocean view was getting rather boisterous. I’d done a lot of driving so I said I’m turning in but Marce pestered me with, “How can you sleep in this wind!?” and “It’s dark and I have no idea how bad the waves are getting!” I assured her there wouldn’t be a problem.

Someone periodically kept me up to date on the wind direction and velocity which by 5:00 am had gotten much worse and shook the van like a space shuttle lift off. It was suggested that a change in relative wind angle might do the trick and as I can’t control the wind I opted to change the angle of the van. A 35° realignment toward the north and we were facing directly into the teeth of it. Peace and harmony was restored in our happy home.

Reluctant to do a few more laps around Fraserburgh’s contradictory one way snafu, we slept in. Later, when we did leave, we crept down a one-way alley the wrong way, and around the corner from where we slept we saw a 20ft sea wall that said “Caution: waves can breach this wall.”

Good to know.

You can always tell you’re in for it when traveling in Scotland if every time you make a turn the road gets narrower. This was one of those times. It didn’t help that we were heading towards a place called “Sandend” to find a castle called “Findlater.” Always a joke with the Scots.

After a while they didn’t even bother with occasional passing spots on the one-lane road, but with our nearly unblemished record intact we pulled up into a small gravel car park behind someone’s house. There were several vehicles in evidence, but no people. Where’d they go? We were on top of a high plateau with acres of nothing but waving fields of grain.

Has to be barley right? After all, this is whiskey territory. There is no castle. No sign. Just a path leading through the field toward the ocean.

The only interruption in this ocean of barley was a cone shaped thing sticking up out of the grain. We couldn’t tell how big it is, or how far away.

After about ten minutes of walking the path bifurcates. With no sign to guide us we chose straight ahead and walked directly toward the cliff overlooking the sea. Still, we saw nothing.

We reached the precipice and down over the rocky edge was a sight so mind blowing that we gasped and had that knee wobbly, will-I-jump or will-I-not moment. There was the ruin of Findlater Castle, clinging to the rocks far below.

The castle started as a stronghold in the 13th century, then grew and changed hands in bitter feuds, something of a Scottish specialty, until it was abandoned in the mid 1600s.

There’s a map showing two paths down the castle cliff, one suicidal and one death defying; most of the reviews on Google Maps suggested you don’t try, but if you must, have at it.

I had the internal talk, listened to my better angels, stayed mostly on top and took photos.

On the way back we took the right bifurcation toward the beehive thing. It’s called a doocot, at least in Scotland, where pigeons were raised in 700 nesting boxes inside. This one pulled double duty in WW2 for plane spotters.

We’re not sure what castle can top this. Now it’s back through the barley field and back on the road in search of a parkup.

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.

Really any regular Scottish bloke, if asked what is not to be missed while visiting his country, will get that far away look in his eyes and softly say “Glencoe.” It’s quintessentially Scotland, not Bronze Age Crofts or stoney castles. Turns out that it’s not far away. Really nothing is truly far away in a country as small as Scotland. It might take you awhile, what with roundabouts every half a mile and share and share alike one lane roads, but it’s not far. So this story is about pictures. Pictures of the Scottish soul.

A Scotsman would smile and say this is normal Scottish weather, but I call it a rising damp.

No one really knows how to build a Glencoe turf house. There are no carefully preserved examples and if you examine the materials mostly found on site you’d know why. Stone, turf cut in a fetching herringbone pattern, and as little wood as possible. The stone ends up in a pile of rubble, the wood rots away, and the turf, well the turf ends up as mud. So while my guess is not as good as theirs, after due diligence and research they’re still guessing. This is a recreation using over 2,000 wooden rods woven into a basket-like structure. They took the wooden rods with the when they moved because trees were scarce. The researchers reckon they’ve got it pretty close. They examined current construction techniques in the area and researched tendencies used during the times they figure it probably looked something like this. It’s still pretty cool.

It was difficult to tear ourselves away after such stunning beauty but we knew we had a rainy drive to what is now known as the £15 lady’s parkup on Loch Linnhe. Even the parkups are beautiful around here.

I think there’s something to this Scottish soul thing.

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.

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.