Gathering again in Glencoe.

Here at Snail Towers we have mixed feelings about Glencoe.

It is, as anyone who has hiked, cycled or driven through it (or seen Skyfall) will know, breathtakingly, jaw droppingly, heart breakingly beautiful. It doesn't matter what time of year you go there, there is always something to delight the eye and thrill the senses. It's a magical location - indeed I've gone on about how brilliant it is at some length in the past.

So why the mixed feelings?

Well, Glencoe is a few miles south of the Caravan Club site at Bunree, and Bunree is our usual stop-over spot on the way south after a visit to Strathnaver. On our way north we tend not to hang around, which means that leisurely visits to Glencoe almost always mean we're on our way home and they can sometimes be tinged with a touch of "end of holiday blues".

So it was on this occasion. We were heading hoime from our blissful break at Grummore in the far north, and had paused for two nights at Bunree, figuring a day off from driving might make us less zombified on our return, as well as giving us a chance to spend some time taking in the aforementioned magnificence of Glencoe.

So, our one full day at Bunree began with a lazy start, a full "caravan breakfast" of bacon, eggs, fried bread and coffee, before we set out to take in the beauty of the glen. The cloud was low on this late spring day, and there was more than a hint of drizzle in the air. It didn't matter.

The heads of the hills on either side of the glen were visible, and they towered over us as we made our way from the sea level northern end of the glen, along the A82, climbing up towards the southern exit of the glen on Rannoch Moor.

If you're coming from the north, the first thing you see as you enter the glen is Loch Achtriochtan. As lochs go it's pretty tiny - you'd lose it a thousand times over in Loch Naver or Loch Shin, but as I've been insisting for most of my life, size isn't everything. This roundish sheet of water often acts as a perfect mirror, and it offers any number of perfect photo opportunities on a bright clear day as the hills and the sky are reflected in its surface. It can be heartbreakingly lovely.

This day, however, was not such a day.

The sky was grey. The clouds were low, the sky was grey and the loch was rippled by a steady breeze, so reflections were out of the question. Glencoe, like so many other stunning locations in Scotland is in no way dependent on the weather for its beauty. We drove on, up the glen, the mountains on either side of us brooding beneath leaden skies, the grey asphalt ribbon of the A82 led us up and on to the northern edge of Rannoch Moor.

Where we promptly turned around and headed back down through the glen.

You see, Glencoe is always a spectacle, but it's far more spectacular when approached from the south. Approaching from the heights of Rannoch Moor, suddenly deep grey craggy rocks rise up on either side of you as the road sweeps you around to the right, over a gorge cut by one of the branches of the rive coe with a huge waterfall on your left.

In the heat of the summer this waterfall, which drops the river coe about forty feet into the gorge, is little more than a plucky trickle. But in the spring, when the rain that Scotland is so famous for joins forces with the snow melting on the peaks of the mountains it transforms into an angry, roaring, frothing cascade. It can be truly breathtaking. The road then carries you on, through a gap cut through a towering wall of (I think) granite to form a door like entrance into the glen itself. 

And then, there you are. Coming from the south the road snakes you to the right and along the right hand side of the glen. But now, instead of climbing up a hill, you're starting high and the whole glen (one of the best exposed examples of what my geologist friends refer to as "cauldron subsidence" - I have no idea what that means, but it sure sounds impressive) is laid out before you, and it's astounding.

This view is widely acknowledged to be one of the most spectacular in Scotland, which to our way of thinking makes it one of the most spectacular in the world. There are two main parking areasto the left of the A82 where you can stop and soak it all in, or start any kind of walk from a gentle amble along the valley floor to a more ambitious attempt on the peaks.

Whatever you do though, DON'T stop in either of the main parking spots if you want to sit in your car and gaze at the view in peace, because the chances are you won't get any. It's inevitable that a place of such beauty will attract people who want to enjoy that beauty - we can hardly complain, we're tourists too! However, if you stay with your car you will be permenantly surrounded by scores of people who have been given five minutes to get off their tour coach, get a picture and get back back on the bus. Let's just say they don't add to the air of tranquility and leave it at that.

And then there's the piper. There's almost always a bloody piper.

Now. I love the pipes. I've always loved them. As a kid my Grandma brought me back a "scottish piper" doll from a trip to Edinburgh, and for a very long time I was determined to learn to play the bagpipes like the kilted military men I saw on the White Heather Club at New Years*. Looking bakcm this was a desire my family paid keen lipservice to, but somehow they never managed to find me a set of pipes to play.**

I have to be honest, I can't say I blame them.

But I do love the pipes. Both the traditional styles of the Massed Pipes and Drums and folk hero stalwarts such as Norman MacLean, and the more modern high octane "BagRock" offerings of the likes of the excellent Red Hot Chilli Pipers. There is something ethereal about a well played set of pipes, and you'd imagine that to hear the strains of traditional bagpipes in the heart of Glencoe would be a truly soulful experience.

Sorry. You'd be wrong.

I should be clear. At no point have we ever stopped in Glencoe and been afflicted by the sound of a bad piper. (Which is a mercy, because bad pipe playing is even more offensive to the ear than the wail of a badly played violin.) It's just that there, in the heart of the most spectacular landscape feature Lochaber has to offer***, I want to listen to the wind, to the rain, to the birdsong. Not to another rendition of "Scotland the Brave" or "Highland Cathedral".

It's really intrusive too. You can escape the crowds by getting out of the car and walking for a bit. The drone of the pipes can be heard from one end of the glen to the other if the wind is right.

Anyway.

The grey snake of the A82 drags you northwards around the side of the glen, back past Loch Achtriochtan, out of the glen and on to the village of Glencoe, a couple of miles to the north, nestling on the shores of Loch Leven.

Glencoe isn't a big place, but it's the biggest place within an hour's drive that isn't Fort William and it boasts all the amenities that you might need. There's a garage, a couple of gorcery stores - including a new and rather well appointed Co-op - a couple of hotels, the local Mountain Rescue Station and a fair number of BnBs. And attached to one of the hotels by the side of the A82 is the duck egg blue brilliance of The Glencoe Gathering.

We've eaten here a few times, but I've only written about it once before, on our first visit when the place was pretty new. On that visit we had an unfortunate incident with a garlicky chicken skewer. The fact that on one occasion we were served under-done chicken and yet we still went back tells you how good this place is.

And it really is that good. And I should stress that the bad chicken skewer incident was a true one off that was dealt with at the time and we've never ever had a problem like that since.

We pulled into the gravelled car park and made our way around the side of the wooden building to the front "Muddy Boots" entrance which leads you into the bar area. The rear door, labeled "fancy shoes" takes you into the restairant area - but both parts of the establishment serve the same menu and the view from the bar is better.

We took our seats, ordered drinks, and settled down to admire the view with menus in hand. Mrs Snail immediately went for the garlicky chicken skewers, while I eschewed the regular menu and ordered the Montreal Steak from the specials board. Then we sat back and took in our surroundings.

The bar area is a relaxed and informal space with wooden floors and either white painted or bare brick walls which are decorated with photographs of people climbing in the ice and snow of the winter Nevis Range. There's an acoustic guitar on a guitar stand in one corner bearing many signatures I didn't recognise, and the bar itself in another little niche.

The waitress who served us was clearly new to the job, and monumentally nervous (she eventually confided that it was her first day), but she was charming and, given it was her first day, rather good at it. The softly spoken bearded gentleman behind the bar who was clearly in charge provided her with gentle and relaxed instruction and all was well.

All was ever weller**** when the food arrived.

Those garlic skewers.. ooooooooh

Mrs Snail opted to give the Garlicky Chicken Skewers another try, and they were very, very good indeed. I mean, obviously if you don't like garlic you'd want to steer clear, but everyone else? Oh, you are just going to want to dig in. The garlic isn't overpowering, but it's strong enough that you're getting that hard alium hit. Married up with the onions and peppers with the slightly bitter earthy background from the chargrill the whole thing balances to create perfect harmony in your mouth.

Not the biggest steak in the world, but oh myyyyyyy, the FLAVOUR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'd raided the specials board and plumped for the Montreal Steak. Now, I claim to be a foodie, and I love a good steak, but I'd never heard of a Montreal Steak until I visited the Gathering. Wikipedia however tells me that this is, in face, a thing. Whatever, it was a taste explosion on my tongue with the heat of Cayenne, the flavours of garlic and pepper and I know not what else. Even better, beneath the seasoning was the flavour of really good meaty char-grilled beef. It was juicy. It was tender. It was sublime.

Both meals came with fairly chunky chips (and they were listed as chips on the menu - none of your "fries" nonsense here) that were pale gold, crispy on the outside nad fluffy on the inside, and packed full of potato flavour and the speciality of the house - the salt and pepper salad.

This was something that impressed us on our first visit to The Gathering, and it continues to do so. It's one of those things - now I know about it? It seems like the most obvious thing in the world, but I'd never have thought of it in a million years.

Rocket is a famously peppery salad leaf. Samphire is a famously salty coastal vegetable. Salt and pepper is perhaps the most basic of flavour combinations, so Rocket and Samphire salad is a no-brainer - but have you ever seen it before? Because I haven't.

In short, lunch was amazing!

Everyone should visit Glencoe at least once in thier lives. That means you should visit Glencoe, if you haven't already had that privillage. While you're there, you're going to need to eat. You should eat at the Glencoe Gathering. To do anything else would be a wasted opportunity!





*And yes. I am aware that this dates me.

**Although I noticed with some amusement recently that they were selling them in Lidl, of all places. I was sorely tempted, but resisited becasue I like being married...

***No small claim for a district that also boasts Ben Nevis.

****What? It's a word. I just wrote it!

Our Deer friends, and other animals.

I'm probably going to talk about birds again this week, but not just birds.

You see, one of the many, many things about the northern highlands is the sheer amount of wildlife you can see without making any real effort. A Grummore story I think I've told before on the blog is the time a fellow caravanner we christened "Pink Trousers" because that was all he seemed to wear enquired "Do you ever see Red Deer here?" At the moment he asked the question there were about a dozen of the beasts grazing on the hill behind him.

Like these ladies, looking down on the site from above.

As a kid growing up in the Doncaster of the nineteen seventies and eighties I never really believed I'd ever get to see wild red deer, or birds of prey, or any large wild animal up close. Driving around Sutherland they are, frankly, pretty difficult to avoid. Take these chaps, for example:

Do we have two heads, or are you really bad at photographic composition?

These two were part of a large-ish group of young stags on the road between Syre and Kinbrace. We had to stop the car because several of them were standing inthe middle of the road, while others were perfectly happy just to stand and pose. Like this handsome chap:

You lookin' at me?

Now, I grant you that the road between Syre (which is about half way up Strathnaver, and therefore somewhat off the beaten track) and Kinbrace (which is a tiny rail station in pretty much the middle of nowhere) is not exactly on the high street - you do have to make a bit of an effort to get there. You can get very close to these magnificent creatures without going very far off the main road at all.

Take this guy:

Do you mind? I'm on my lunch break!

 This mature stag (he was massive) was calmly mowing the lawn in one of the gardens in Kylesku the first time we were there. The very nice gentlemen working on the rennovations of the Kylesku Hotel
told us that he was a regular visitor, and that earlier he'd been strutting his stuff up and down the pavement in front of the houses.

Red Deer are the largest wild land animals we have on these islands. An adult stag can weigh the better part of forty stones and stand more than two metres tall. They are very, very impressive creatures to look at and exude a sense of superior disdain that any prey species with no surviving predators might well adopt. Once red deer in the highlands were predated by Lynx and Wolves. These days maybe a hungry fox might have a go at a fawn, but beyond that the only threat they face is humans with rifles - although they are now so numerous in the highlands that there are movements afoot to re-introduce both the Wolf and the Lynx.

Personally, given the dependence of the highland economy on sheep, I think any such reintroduction is unlikely - were I a wolf or a lynx and I had the choice between taking down a sheep or a stag with it's very, very pointy hat, I'd go for the sheep every time, and I really can't see the shepherds being OK with that.

We talked about birds of prey last week, so I won't go into them again. But there is any amount of other birdlife to see in the highlands.

We're the national bird of Finland. Did you know that?

Heading back to Grummore from the east coast we passed a lochan just above Syre and came across this pair of Whooper Swans and their three cygnets.

We'll be the national bird of Finland when we grow up.

They weren't particularly keen on hanging around to say "hello", and cruised off towards the opposite bank as soon as we saw them - in that "we were going over here anyway, it's got nothing to do with you" way that swans have.

Far less shy were the Mute Swans who hang around the Bunree Caravan Club site just south of Fort William. bunree has long been our staging point on the way to the far north, and there's been a family of mute swans there for as long as we've been visiting.

Hello, I'm a mute swan. You will never be this awesome.

Obviously it's easiest to spot the wildlife that just comes to you - like the red deer at Grummore and the mute swans at Bunree. The fact that the wildlife is there though - well that doesn't guarantee it'll actually show itself.

The warden's office at Grummore proudly displays a picture of an Osprey catching a huge trout from the loch just opposite the site - we've never seen ospreys there. The office also displays a picture of a Pine Marten sitting on the bird table that is positioned next to our favourite pitch on the site. We occupoed that pitch for two weeks on our last visit to Strathnacer. We baited the bird table with peanut butter (a pine marten favourite, apparently) every single night. did we see a pine marten?

No. We did not.

That, of course, is the nature of wildlife. It's wild. You can't make it turn up when you want it to.

Which is why we were so thrilled on a trip to Dornoch on the east coast when we pulled into what we think of as the "seal spotting laybay" on the single track road that leads you into Dornoch along the edge of Loch Fleet. There were seals - so-called "Common Seals" or, in my preferred nomenchlature "Harbour Seals", because I refuse to call these glorious amphibious mammals "common".

There's a lot of us, but we're actually very sophisticated.

I've talked about this seal colony before - and they are endlessly entertaining. At low tide you can sit and watch them basking on sandbanks, like decadant Romans lounging on chaise longe.

At high tide you can watch them swimming around, sticking their heads playfully above the water, and generally being happy seals.

I confess, I have a very soft spot for seals. I've spent hours watching them over the years, in the harbour at Lochinver, or the harbour at Stornoway. From a boat off Northumbeerland's Farne Islands to Poole Harbour inDorset.

People make a big thing about swimming with Dolphins, and I acknowledge that  communing with such creatures in their element must be an amazing experience. But frankly, I'd rather swim with seals. They really are engaging creatures with obvious personalities. But on this particular trip it wasn't the seals that impressed us - it was this guy:

You thought that swan was impressive? Well, look at ME!

We pulled into one of the laybys created for wildlife spotting hoping to see seals, and we did - but far more inpressive was this stately heron who was stalking the shoreline looking for food. He strutted and preened, and we watched in fascination.

A lifetime ago, my eight or nine year old self went on a school trip to Doncaster Museum. There I saw a heron that was pickled in a display case. I have no idea why it made such an impact on me, but I remember it to this day.

I never expected to see a real live heron.

The world has changed since I was a kid. These days you can see a heron flap lazily over your head in Doncaster's town centre, and in Harrogate, where I now live. But this heron, on the shores of Loch Fleet was so close I could almost have reached out and touched it.

And THIS is what makes this part of Scotland so special. Wherever you look there are creatures to see that you might never glimpse elsewhere - and if you could see them elsewhere, yu'd never see them so close.

But don't take my word for it. Go and see.

Bird Brained.

One of the things that peiople ask us when we tell them we're intending to spend two weeks by the side of a loch three and a half miles from the nearest street lamp and twenty miles from the nearest shop with no internet and no TV signal is "What on Earth are you going to do?"

For the most part, I have to say that the honest answer is "We'll spend a lot of time looking at the view." Because, seriously, LOOK AT IT!!!!!!!!

We woke up to this every day for a fortnight. What more do you need?

I'll acknowledge that even we don't spend all day everyday gazing at the horizon though. As you already know if you've been reading this blog for any time at all, you'll know that we go out and eat a lot of lunch, and we visit a fair few museums and castles and such.

But not when we're at Grummore. Grummore is a place for taking it easy. For sitting around. So, what do we do?

Well, a lot of people spend time fishing. I'm not a fisherman myself, but I've seen enough fish caught there to understand that there's some good fishing to be had on Loch Naver. To fish away from the site you need to get a permit from the Strathnaver Fisheries, but you can fish from the shore of the site as much as you like.

But as I said, we don't do that.

What we do is watch the birds.

Strathnaver is a magnet for our avian friends. As I've mentioned before, all you have to do is put a bit of seed out to attract every chaffich for miles around.

And they just kept getting fatter...

The loch is also home to rarer species. We've been privillaged to see pairs of Black Throated Divers cruising along the water in early spring. These sleek aquatic birds are summer visitors, migrating in

Yes, I know. It's a terrible photo. What can I say? The little bugger wouldn't stay still!

from wintering grounds around the Mediterranian. You're unlikely to see them on land - they're perfectly adapted to swimming, but their legs are so far back on their bodies they really struggle to walk.

They can be difficult to spot on the water too. They sit very low on the surface, so if there's any swell at all they just disappear behind the waves. Combine that with the fact that they also spend a lot of their time below the waves (they're not called "divers" for nothing!) spotting them can be a bit of a "blink and you'll miss it" experience.

Of course, the Black Throated Diver wasn't the least cooperative photographic subject...

The same is true of their red throated cousins (sort of pictured above). They're not as rare as the black throats, but they're still not common and we've seen a pair at Grummore every year we've been - except this year when the solitary chap pictured above spent a couple of days mooching around on his own before moving on.

We chose to believe that he'd simply arrived earlier than his mate - or perhaps if he really was male, slightly later because he refused to stop for directions and ended up coming the long way 'round - rather than accepting the more probable scenario of his companion not having survived the trip. I would like to pretend that this is because we're inherently optimistic but I suspect the truth is that we're just painfully sentimental.

Russ, the ever helpful site warden, tells us that a pair of Great Northern Divers can also be seen on Loch Naver, but we've never been lucky enough to catch a glimpse. We've similarly struck out catching sight of the White Tailed Sea Eagle which we are assured often makes it's way down the strath from the coast.

We were luckier with the Golden Eagle which is also resident in Strathnaver. We've been keen to see it for as long as we've been visiting but until this latest trip we'd been unsuccessful.

Eagle spotting in the Highlands can get frustrating. Everywhere you go they seem to have seen one "last week" or "yesterday" or even "just this morning", but never "oh yes, it's behind you!". Add to that the fact that buzzards, which are superficially similar in outline, although about half the size, are almost literally ten a penny and you have a recipe for spending whole days staring at the sky, occasionally getting excited before realising "nah, it's just a buzzard".

And I thought Red Throated Divers were elusive...

To be honest, eagle spotting is a lot like watching golf - hours and hours of staring at empty sky looking in vain for a little black dot that always turns out to be where you're not actually looking at the time.

In the end, we were actually standing lochside with a couple of fellow caravanners bemoaning the fact that we had never managed to see so much as an eagle feather, let alone the whole bird, when one soared lazily over our heads, and then on down the loch and over the horizon.


It's funny. Often when you build something up into a real quest when you finally achieve your goal it can feel a little anti climactic.

Not this.

This was every bit as magnificent as I'd imagined. The wingspan of an adult golden eagle can be over seven feet - more than two feet wider than I am tall* and I'd be prepared to bet that from splayed wingtip to splayed wingtip this example was at the larger end of the spectrum. It was like watching a house door glide effortlessly above us, silent as a trappist grave. One this is certain - having seen the real thing there is no way we'll ever look at a buzzard and wonder if it's an eagle.

Sadly, however stately its flight appeared to be, actually getting it into the field of view of the camera proved impossible - the picture above is the best shot we got, and as you can see, the eagle is not in it so you'll have to take our word that it was there. Don't be too hard on our photographic failure though - when they're not in a rush golden eagles soar at about thirty miles per hour, which made this a rapidly moving target against an almost featureless sky.

We'll do better next time I promise.

The golden eagle was pretty much the ornathological highlight of the trip. In the warden's office there is a fabulous photograph of an osprey catching a trout in the loch opposite the site which was taken last year, but we were a bit early of ospreys when we were there - maybe next time...

We don't just  watch birds, but they don't half make the view more interesting. And we're still holding out for the White Tailed Sea Eagle. Come back next week for more info on things to do in the highlands without electronic gadgets!







*Yes, I'm five foot six. Yes, I'm a shortarse.

A Kylesku surprise

Well, this is a bit of a long one. What can I tell you? There's a lot to say!

The Kylesku Hotel is a place we know well. I've talked about it before and it has the happy distinction of being the only eaterie I can think of that gets just that little bit more awesome every time we visit. We've developed a fairly comfortable relationship with the place - after visiting a couple of times a year for the past decade and a half we recognise some of the staff (they don't recognise us - but that's hardly surprising, they see hundreds of different customers a week and besides, we're not that remarkable...) and even have a favourite table.

Well, we had a favourite table.

As indicated at the end of last week's edition, after discovering that Lochinver was mostly closed we headed north in the sure and certain knowledge that there would be no surprises at the The Kylesku Hotel. We were wrong.

As I've mentioned before the hotel sits just off the main road north, next to what used to be the slipway for the Kylesku Ferry before that service was replaced by the elegant arc of concrete which now carries the road across the narrows and onward to the north coast. Turning down what is now the dead end spur that leads to the hotel we were met with a building site. Essentially the whole building looked like it was being rebuilt.

This gave us a moment's pause - after all, it was lunch o'clock and for us that's the most important time of the day. We'd already discovered that all the places we'd been looking forward to eating at in Lochinver were closed - was Kylesku going to let us down too? With some trepidation we made our way quickly (it was chucking it down) along the front of the building to the steps that lead up to the bar praying silently that we weren't going to have to make an empty stomached trip back to Grummore.

We should have known better. The Kylesku Hotel has never let us down - why would it start now?

It was still a surprise though.

The carpet had gone, replaced by sleek hardwood floors. The rustic stripped pine tables which always looked as though they'd been salvaged from a farmhouse kitchen where they'd been loved by generations were gone too, replaced by crisper, paler, slightly more Terrance Conran style furniture, although some of the chairs were still the old green upholstered dark wood. I suspect they'll all be white in due course. The colour scheme lived in my memory as sort of cream and green. Now it's various shades of pebble grey with the odd brightly coloured "accent" wall.

Visually it's one hell of a change, but I rather liked it. It's perhaps a little less cosy, but it's lighter, brighter and very pleasant indeed. Well, take a look:

They also kept the old ship's wheel on the bar...

Oh, and we have a new favourite table:

Look at that view. Just LOOK at it!

The windows are now much bigger, which also goes a long way to making the place seem brighter, and I should be clear that the picture to the left doesn't even begin to do justice to the view down Loch Dubh.

We could have sat there for hours. In fact, we did. Twice, because we went back later in the holiday. To avoid confusion and repetition I'll talk about both visits at once.

On both occasions we were greeted by the very genial Mark, who I think in a previous blog I believe I described as looking as though he "could have stepped straight off Bondai Beach". He still does, and his cheerful friendliness always makes the room light up a little bit.

He brought the menus and explained which of the dishes listed on the specials menu were no longer available. We both elected to start with the potted lamb. I was expecting a sort of cold pate affair, along the lines of the potted beef we're so fond of in Yorkshire, but what we got was this:

It was delicious.

The lamb was served warm, and had clearly been cooked down over a very long time indeed. It was served with griddled bread and, on the first occasion, a celeriac and grain mustard coleslaw. On the second occasion, pictured above (because you're damn right we had it the second time we went too) a celeriac and caper coleslaw.

Personally I preferred the mustardy coleslaw, but since both were excellent, that's by the by.

It was warm, rich, perfectly seasoned and had a flavour so deep there was practically an echo. On a cold, wet, slate grey day it was the perfect comfort food - sort of distilled stew. We loved it so much on our second visit we asked our server if she'd ask the chef for the recipe. She told us with a smile and a twinkle that the chef "never reveals her secrets". I can't say I blame her. If I knew how to make something that perfect I wouldn't tell anybody either.

We'd arrived fairly early on that first visit and had been the first customers. We were in the middle of this unbelievable festival of flavour when the next customer arrived. It didn't occur to me to ask his permission to write about him, so I won't mention the name of this excellent old gentleman, although any regular of the Kylesku Hotel will doubtless know who I'm talking about, because he's something of a fixture.

We'd met him once before, on a previous visit when he'd regaled us with tales of his childhood around Loch Dubh during the war when his father had almost shot one of the top secret midget submarines that trained there after mistaking it for a seal. He sat down to his lunch of Loch Dubh spineys (think small languostines) just as our main courses were arriving, after dispatching Mark to collect a terracotta bust (actually he said "I've got a head in the boot of my car - could you go and get it for me?") which I believe is now displayed in a position of honour in the hotel.

Convivial as he was, when his spineys arrived he directed his full attention to his meal - as is only right. We did too. On that first visit I'd opted for the "Burger of the Day" (yes, I know, no shocks there) and Mrs Snail had gone for an old favourite, the Beetroot and Goat's Cheese Salad.

I won.

On our first visit of the trip the "Burger of the day" was a "Moroccan Lamb Burger" and it was utterly magnificent. I'm wishing I'd taken a picture because it was unutterably beautiful to look at. It was even better to eat. The Lamb patty was juicy, moist and wonderfully seasoned with spices that frankly I didn't recognise but really wanted to get to know better. The chips were, as in the past, about as close to perfect at it is possible for a chip to be - fat, golden and crispy on the outside, white, fluffy and steaming on the inside. There may have been salad. We don't speak of such things here.

Mrs Snail's Beetroot and goat's cheese salad looked amazing - there was more than one colour of beetroot on display which made the plate look exuberant rather than a charnel house - but it was also clear that the cheese did very much belong to the goat, and the goat was less than keen on sharing. There was not a lot of goat's cheese, is what we're saying. Indeed, the shortage was so severe that I didn't get to taste any, which means I only have Mrs Snail's word for the fact that in combination with the beets the effect of the breaded deep fried (we're still in Scotland, food lovers...)* nuggets of goat's cheese was exploseively good.

She wouldn't lie to me though - and if your only criticism of a meal is that you didn't get enough of it, that speaks pretty well of the food...

Our second foray to Kylesku was about a week later. As you already know, we both went for the insanely wonderful potted lamb as our starter, but we like to experiment, so our main choices were different.

Well, alright, I toyed with going for the burger of the day again, but the jovial and omnipresent Mark begged to make a recommendation. "Try the haunch of Venison," he suggested, "they serve it just pink, which is the only way to have it!" Well, you can't move in thois part of the Highlands for red deer, and they look not only magnificent, but also tasty, so how could I resist? Mrs Snail, who lacks my appetite for dead things, opted to try the cheese platter - normally a dessert - as her main. We ordered and settled back to watch the oyster catchers mince their way up and down the slipway, while a pair of herring gulls harrased the prawns that were swimming near the shore.

After a surprisingly short while our server - whose name I never quite got, I think it may have been "Elle" or "Ellie", whatever she was called, she was wonderful - brought our meals out to us. Just take a second and look at this:

I mean, where do I start?!

Haunch of Venison, some kind of braised greens (the menu told me what they were but all I can remember is that they were nice), mashed neeps, straw chips and dots of different vegetable purees, with a potato an haggis dauphinouse.

It really shouldn't have worked. Cheesy potatoes with haggis in them? With Venison? Really?

YES!

I guess many readers have not eaten venison. Let me explain. Imagine the finest beef fillet you have ever eaten.  Times that experience by three. That's bog standard venison. This though. Take your bog standard venison, multiply it by pi, add on your birthday than stick on a few more noughts. It was astounding. The bitterness of the braised greens and the sweetness of the neeps counterpointed each other, and the haggis dauphinouse was, well, interesting.

I know what's in haggis. Essentially, it's all the bits of a sheep you really wouldn't eat, minced up with oatmeal and shoved into a sheeps guts. In spite of that, I rather like it - so long as it's made to be crispy, something that the traditional steaming cannot do, and something that is never going to happen if you put it in a dauphinouse. Essentially, on paper, it's a bloody stupid idea.

And yet it worked.

Brilliantly.

The whole plate just came together to become the best meal I have had in some time. It was thge kind of meal you hated to finish. The kind of meal you wanted to be hungry enough to eat again. The kind of meal that makes you wish you were an Michelin inspector so that you could give the place a couple of stars. That good. I'm just going to go on record and suggest that any chef that can put those elements on a plate and make it work is a flat out genius.

By way of contrast Mrs Snail was somewhat less overwhelmed by her Cheese and Biscuits which seemed a little peremptory - three slabs of cheese with a couple of oatcakes, three grapes and a sort of onion marmalade sort of thing which jst didn't pack the pickly punch that a chutney would have provided. This is not a complaint (yes I know, it sounds a lot like one, but honestly it's just when everything is so good the little things that aren't quite perfect really stand out) as such, and although this was a bit of a low point in the culinary experience, the platter had an unexpected saving grace that made even the low point pretty darn high.

Did I mention that their chef was a genius and their waiting staff are awesome?

Well, I'm going to say it again.

Sitting quietly in the centre of the Cheese and Biscuit platter were three little balls of sesame seeds. Mrs Snail nibbled tentatively and then very quckly ate the whole thing - her expression melting into something approaching delighted content. She passed one of them to me and insisted that I try it.

It was amazing. We've christened these nectareous** nuggets of noshableness "sesame brittle", but in fact they were not quite crunchy and not quite chewey, but somewhere rather fascinatingly in-between. They were also sweet but not too sweet, with that nutty toasted sesame flavour that is almost but not quite bitter. They were so good that when our server came over to see if we wanted anything else, we asked for a bowlful, which she very generously provided. Told you the waiting staff were awesome!

On that second visit we skipped dessert - we were in a bit more of a hurry and settled for the sesame brittle balls. On our first visit the weather was so uninviting we did stick around for a third course. I went for their tablet ice-cream, while Mrs Snail went for a Pear tarte tatin with poppy seed syrup.

People who haven't spent much time in Scotland may be unfamiliar with Tablet. Mrs Snail, who doesn't really have a sweet tooth, once described it as "gritty fudge", but to me it is the finest of confections. It is sort of fudge like, but drier and crumblier. It is also outrageously sweet. My two scoops of vanilla ice-cream were loaded with huge nuggets of the stuff. It was heavenly, but it was Mrs Snails tarte tatin that was the real star.

I confess I was intrigued by the "poppy seed syrup". So far as I was aware the only syrup you're going to get from a poppy seed is opium - which would be an innovative approach to ensuring repeat custom, but I'm guessing it would also attract entirely the wrong clientele. The tarte was just about the right size, just the right texture and actually tasted of pear rather than suger. The syrup was not in fact opium, but a regular suger syrup with poppy seeds in it. They seemed to be a strange addition but they did add an interesting flavour and another layer of texture to the dish. The tarte is supposed to be accompanied with a scoop of Run and Raisin Ice-Cream. I have no idea whether that would have worked, because both Mrs Snail and myself regard Run and Raisin as an abomination so she asked if they would kindly swap it for pouring cream, which worked brilliantly.

And that's the all new Kylesku Hotel. It still gets better every time we visit.

Ultimately I think that the wonderful old regular said it best when he told us "The only thing you can do at the Kylesku is start at the top of the menu and work your way down."

He wasn't wrong.






Postscript:

I loathe prawns in all their forms. Mrs Snail adores them, but now suffers from the kind of allergy to them that makes your lips turn blue and inflates your tongue like a balloon. This is why neither of us ordered what I maintain is the hotel's most spectacular dish - a platoon of langoustines skewered on what is basically a sword which hangs, Damocles like, above a dish of garlic butter. I'm please to report that on our second visit I observed a fellow diner being served with this insanely cool seafood sensation. I'm pleased to see that it's still on the menu and that the presentation has not changed. I'd love to show you a picture of it, but I balked at invading a person's privacy to ask if I could photograph their lunch. If anyone from the hotel is reading this and wants to post a picture in the comments I'd be most grateful...


*Sorry. I do love a good stereotype. And I have visited the chippie in Stonehaven that claims to have invented the deep fried Mars Bar, so it's not like I haven't seen evidence for the idea that the Scots will deep fry anything.

**Sorry again. I wantedto use alliteration so I asked my Facebook friends for a synonym for "delicious" beginning with "N". They have a wide vocabulary, my Facebook friends...

What to do when the whole town is closed!

Long time readers of this Blog will know the special place that Lochinver, the little fishing town at the heart of Assynt in the north West Highlands, holds a very special place in the hearts of myself and Mrs Snail. This was the place that first introduced us to the wonders of the far north of Scotland, indeed this was the place that caused us to buy the Road Snail in the first place, when we decided that we just couldn't afford to keep renting self catering accomodation if we were going to visit as often a we wanted to.

So, on Tuesday 31st March 2015 - the day before I sat in a hail straffed caravan and wrote last weeks post - we set out under gloomy skies and headed west, out of Strathnaver and towards Assynt. By the time we were halfway to Lairg, the snow was plastering itself against the windscreen and sitting an inch thick on the apparantly untreated roads. By the time we'd dropped down towards Loch Shin and begun the approach to Lairg the snow had largely turned to sleet and rain though, so we plodded on regardless.

I'll not bore you with a long winded description of the journey. It was windy, cold, and when it wasn't snowing it was either hail, sleet or rain. Had we been walking or cycling it would have been utterly, utterly miserable. fortunately we were safely ensconsced in the warmth and comfort of our trustworthy Renault Koleos, so we were perfectly fine - it's just that the view was nothing to write home about, so I won't.

Before too long we were skirting the shores if Loch Assynt and then dropping down into the familiar surroundings of Lochinver itself.

I've talked about Lochinver before and to be honest, it hasn't changed much since the last time I posted about it. It is, without question, one of our very favourite places, but on this particular day I must confess only its mother could have loved it. Under a sullen, slate grey sky we drove down the main (and pretty much only) street, and out to the end of the harbour. We were pleased to see that there were a couple of fishing boats in, but no sign of the massive European boats that we used to see so aften in the mind nineties.

It's tragic really. I remember on my first visit to this little fishing town about twenty years ago, I walked down to the huge hanger like building on the dockside late one evening with my father in law and watched as hundreds, maybe thousands of white plastic crates laden to the brim with ice and all manner of fresh fish were unloaded from the boats, auctioned by a man in white wellies, and then loaed into a fleet of refrigerated lorries and whisked away to restaurants, supermarkets and high end fishmongers.

In those days you would see maybe a dozen massive fishing vessels, and any number of smaller local boats a week. These days? Not so much. The massive beige and brown hanger sized unloading shed is still there, but it doesn't seem to get much action these days. It seems that tourism is the town's major industry these days, but even that seemed to be hibernating.

As we'd driven down the main street we'd already noticed that the Assynt Visitor Centre was closed, which came as a disappointment because we'd been hoping to talk to the always knowledgable staff about Eagle sightings and the status of Lochinver's famous Heronry. Culag Woods, on the southern shores of Lochinver are home to one of the largest Heronries in Europe, and the sight of the incongruously majestic birds returning to their treetop nests in the breeding season is noting short of gobsmacking. As it was, we were just going to have to muddle along ourselves, and as the rain came down hard again, we agreed that descretion was the better part of valour and decided against sloshing our way through a woodland walk to go and look for them.

Besides, "lunch o'clock" was rapidly approaching and we had our sights set on a couple of new eateries that had sprung up since our last visit to the heart of Assynt.

Given that we were at the Culag end of the harbour, we furst turned our attention to Peet's. This restaurant opened in 2014, and having given it the once over online, we thought it looked pretty good. However, it also looked pretty closed. On further investigation we discovered that it had been operating as an evening take away only, and that lunch and dinner service would recommence on...

...1st April 2015.

We were a day early. Dammit. Because if the website is even half way accurate, Peet's looks pretty good!

Still, "Nil Desperandum" and all that. To be honest, I wasn't all that disappointed. I'd been keen to investigate Peet's, but there was another "new kid on the block" that I was even keener to try.

You see, the best meal I have ever eaten was in Lochinver, at the very, very fine Albannach Hotel. At the time, I remember commenting that the place deserved a Michelin Star. Well, now it has one and the proprioters have branched out and taken over The Caberfeidh pub, which stands at the western end of the main street, turning it into a "dining pub". We've been keen to try the place since we first heard about it, so we turned the car around and headed back into town.

We were to be disappointed.

Peering through the windows we found The Caberfeidh to be a warm and inviting looking place. But it was also shut. Open for lunch only on thursday, friday, saturday and sunday lunchtimes. We were either a day late of a few days too early. However good it looked (and it did) we weren't getting fed.

Regular readers will know that lunch is pretty damned important, and so we were left with limited options. Our timing was terrible and our next most favoured option  - buying some stuff for a picnic and finding a pretty spot (of which the area is more than well endowed) to eat it in - was ruled out by the ever worsening weather.

So. What to do?

Well, one of the things we really love about Assynt is the magnificent sense of isolation. The other is that dotted through the gloriously empty mountains and moorland is a disproportionately large number of spectacularly good places to eat. All we had to do was move on to another one.

Thus it was that we carried on, back out of Lochinver, back along the shores of Loch Assynt to the main road north, where we turned off and headed towards the Kylesku hotel - another of our favourite haunts. There we knew there would be a warm welcome, a crackling wood fire and some absolutely top notch food. Oh yes, we knew there'd be no surprises there.

Turns out we were wrong about that too...

A Highland Spring.

Hello! Long time no see! I'm thinking of this a "Road Snail season three", and hopefully we'll be weekly from now on...

At Snail Towers we have a mantra. "Never go to Scotland for the weather." Which is why, as I write this, I am not in the least bit perturbed that my view looks like this:

Spring in the Highlands...

It's April 1st and here on our lochside pitch at the Caravan Club's Altnaharra/Grummore site we're experiencing rather a lot of weather. In fact I rather suspect we're getting pretty much all the weather...

Anyway. The point is that Bonnie Scotland is not always the warmest or driest of holiday destinations, especially if  you head, as we generally do, for the northern highlands. What never ever fails to be however, is spectacular! I mean, just look at this for a second:

Stunning, isn't it?

So, I imagine that we'll be doing a lot of getting about and about over the next two weeks - we spent some time yesterday on a snowy west coast, which I'll tell you about in a future posting, and we have plans to hit the east coast tomorrow.

Right now though, the horizontal snow and hail against the 'van sounds like a perpetual fall of ball bearings (not even small ball bearings, mind you) while we are being rocked by what I know from my experience filling the water barrel earlier is a bitingly cold gale force wind. Frankly venturing out is a less than attractive proposition, which is why I'm spending my afternoon at the keyboard pondering the questions that always arise when I think about caravan life.

For instance, why do some people travel with their caravan blinds down? Myself and Mrs Snail have made a bit of a study of this, and roughly half the caravans we see on the road have their blinds drawn, the other half (to which we belong) travel with them open. Now. travelling with them open was never a concious choice - it simply never occured to us to close them before setting off. Presumably, unless they set off in the middle of the night, those who travel with blinds down must have deliberately decided to do so.

Are they carrying top secret cargo they don't want anyone else to see? Is their upholstery particularly susceptable to fading? It may sound as though I'm taking the micky, but I'm really not. If there's a reason to do it I'd love to know what it is!

Then there's the perplexing question of why everyone elses' caravans are so clean. I wash my caravan with reasonable regularity but let's be honest, it's a bit of a chore and frankly life is too short to worry about it too much. as a result some of the hard to get to areas, like the TV ariel, have gathered a bit of muck. In addition, even when we set out with a spotlessly clean unit, by the time we reach our destination we've picked up the usual detritus of the road - splashes of oil, dust, road salt and so on.

And yet, when we arrived at the Caravan Club's site at Bunree - our usual staging post on the way up here to the northern highlands - all the other caravans seemed to be spotless. How? They must have driven up some of the same roads we did. Why were we covered in a thin layer of grime while some of them shone so brightly they were literally hurting my eyes. There is clearly a secret here, and if any of you out there are privy to it I'd be most grateful if you'd share!

Oh, and while I'm on the subject - why are bits constantly dropping off? The Road Snail herself is a Lunar Quasar 462. She's relatively new - bought in 2007, and well maintained. And yet things keep breaking loose. Now, obviously, the nature of a touring caravan is to be dragged up hill and down dale, and in our case, along narrow twisty roads that are not particularly always well maintained. Our caravan's travelling life is one of shake, rattle and roll. This is bound to cause screws to loosen, which is why one of the first things we do on arrival anywhere is to tighten a few things up.

However. Caravan manufacturers surely understand that this will be the case - they put wheels on the damn things after all, they must be accepting that their products will be doing some rolling about! Why then does the front of our fire keep dropping off? Is it really beyond the wit of man to design a caravan heater that stays where it's put when the caravan itself moves from A to B? We can put men on The Moon and robotic explorers on Mars but we can't do that?

Really?

Why have the lenses fallen off both my front running lights? Again, I'll accept the 'van might've been shaken about a bit on the way up here, but bits don't fall off the car in the same way. Are caravans inherently weak? Is this a clever conspiracy to flog us more spare parts? I have no idea, but it's bloody irritating!

Still, the 'van is shaking rather less than it was twenty minutes ago, and the ball bearings have abated somewhat, so I think I'll put the laptop away and see if I can spot an eagle - or at least a buzzard. Have a good week - I hope to see you here again next friday!

Stonehaven

 I think it's fair to say that I've fallen more than a little bit in love with Stonehaven.

Perhaps it's because it's the first destination we've visited with the Road Snail for quite some time, but actually I think it's also that this self-styled "happening little place" really is something a little bit special. Indeed, I can't remember when I've taken to a place more quickly.

We arrived up the A90 after what I can only describe as a freakishly easy journey north. I mean, we drove up past Glasgow on the last Saturday of the 2014 Commonwealth Games and there was still no traffic to speak of. Seriously, we were beginning to wonder if everyone else knew something we didn't...

The Caravan Club site is situated in Queen Elizabeth Park (about which more later) at the northern end of the town, about five yards from the beach. Not even exaggerating, it's literally on the other side of the road. Indeed, as we staggered out of the car (it had been an easy drive, but it had still taken the better part of nine hours and our legs were not all that keen to straighten - one of the hazards of getting to your forties, I'm afraid) one of the first things we noticed was the wonderfully evocative smell of salt and seaweed. And the sound of gulls - but more about them later too.

The Caravan Club site is pretty much brand spanking new. I understand from some of the reviews that there has been a caravan site there for some years, but that the Club has only recently taken it on and refurbished the place. Certainly the toilet/shower block, utilities points and warden's hut are all brand new - and they're all excellent, as indeed are the wardens, who could not have been more welcoming.

From the gates of the site to the beach is a walk of about eight feet - to your left a mix of sand and rocky outcrops dotted with rockpools at low tide. To the right a swathe of sand and shingle stretching all the way to the harbour at the southern end of the town, about a mile and a bit away.

Should you choose to venture to the right, the walk immediately takes you past a 1930's salt water Lido, a magnificent ice cream emporium, an award winning chippy (or "chipper", as they seem to be known up in those parts) and a nice little restaraunt. More about all of those in a later post - and you haven't even walked two hundred yards yet...

The walk south along the front takes you along a pleasant board walk, past a couple of cafes and B&Bs, as well as a range of residential property. At some point, not too long ago  a great deal of effort must have been invested in this footpath.

There are a number of wire framed sculptures, like this dolphin, and swathes of wild flowers were planted.

The sculptures are brilliant, but I think it's fair to say that the wildflowers have suffered somewhat from the ravages of time, tide and winter storms. We were there in the middle of August, and some of the displays of poppies were truly spectacular, but there were also some expanses of gravelly scrub where wildflowers might once have been.

This in no way detracted from the overall impression though, because you're still walking within a few feet of the sea, along a magnificent bay, towards a beautiful harbour.

The first part of the harbour you come across by this route is not only blessed with ice cream shops and the very highly regarded Ship Inn (which I regret I cannot provide a review for because we didn't get a chance to visit, but it was recommended by everyone we spoke to and has four and a half stars on Trip Advisor, so it must be doing soemthing right) but also a beautiful little stretch of golden sandy beach. Further on the harbour is basically mud, but I don't think I went down to the harbour once when there weren't at least a few families with young children buidling sandcastles. It felt like the seaside used to be - not a burger van or amusement arcade in sight, just a lot of people having a really great time.

The "Mudflat" half of the harbour has its own attractions. The water is very clear, and at low tide very shallow. This means that you might get lucky and see a fish or two swimming around. I must've spent nearly an hour watching the flatfish in the photo to the right wandering about on the floor of the harbour. I have no idea what type of fish it was (if you do, please let me know in the comments...) but it was truly fascinating. It didn't swim so much as walk around on its fins.

The harbour is also the home of the Tolbooth Museum, a volunteer run repository of the town's history. There are some fascinating displays of local ephemera and the display cases are (almost) literally full to bursting, which is perhaps slightly to the detriment of the establishment, in that it has clearly made it difficult for the curators (who are volunteers remember, so also time limited) to organise the eclectic collection coherently, which means that it does give the slight impression of being a big bunch of interesting stuff, rather than a carefully assembled assortment of artefacts presented to explain how things used to be. This is, however, not much of a criticism. The staff are incredibly friendly and more than happy to engage the interested visitor in conversation about times past. It's only open in the afternoons,and it's well worth a hour of your time. Even better, entry is free.

Occupying the first floor of the Tolbooth - which incidentally is regarded as the oldest building in Stonehaven, having been originally constructed to house stores for nearby Dunnottar Castle (about which, more in a future post) - is the Tolbooth Restaurant. This is somewhere else we kept meaning to try - but it was always busy and given that I don't like seafood all that much and Mrs Snail is allergic to most of it we never did try all that hard. Again, the reviews would seem to suggest that this is our loss...

If you continue your walk south from Stonehaven Harbour, the path takes you up a steep hill to the Stonehaven War Memorial which stands like a crown on the hill above the town.

Beyond there, the path takes you further along the rather impressive cliffs towards the equally Dunottar Castle. For now, we'll pause on our journey and look at the view. Next time though, we'll go and take a look at the castle which dominates the cliffs to the south.