I'm starting this post from Fabio's flat in Prague 3. Fabio lies in bed, snuggled up with a blue sleeping bag. Boy lies on a sort of floor sofa behind me, snuggled up with a green sleeping back. I sit on the wood floor of the bedroom we all share, listening to the sound of the rickety red tram as it lurches up and down Seifertova Street. The weather is overcast and cool, just like it was in England, Wales and Scotland. I'd assumed that once we arrived in Prague, it would be off with the sweaters and on with the sarongs, but I was very much mistaken. The weather has followed us, but the never ending offer "would you like a cup of tea?" has not.
If you're going to have shit weather, at least have tea.
After arriving in Spean Bridge, Boy and I settled into the tiny village's one cafe and texted our hosts, Helen and Mark, that we'd arrived. Then we sat with a hot cup of tea (it was raining) and waited.
About an hour later, Ecuadoran Helen and Highlander Mark pulled into the parking lot to pick us up. We loaded our bags into the backseat and took off down the road to their large, beautiful home in the countryside. Helen showed us to our room, explained how the shower worked and immediately offered us some tea (it was still raining).
The walls were covered in art. Vibrant, expressive paintings, carved stone turtles they'd picked up from their visit to the Galapagos, wooden elephants and the like. Their elderly, stately black cat, Sooty Yot, hopped onto Boy's lap and took a nap. Until Mark returned from the garden, that is. Then Sooty Yot abandoned Boy and pranced over to Mark, who is the love of Sooty Yot's life (Helen and Sooty often have words about this).
We shared couchsurfing stories, compared Highland Hospitality to Ecuadoran Hospitality and laughed about my misuse of the word "pants". I tried to explain the pants I'd purchased in Guatemala that Boy and I share, then realized (again) that pants refer to "underwear" in the UK.
Why can't I remember that one? I remember that pudding means dessert, biscuit means cookie and worktop means counter, but I can't, FOR THE LIFE OF ME, remember that pants mean underwear.
I collapsed into giggles at how ridiculous it sounds that "Troy and I share some traditional pants I picked up in Guatemala."
We all cooked a dinner together in Helen and Mark's beautiful kitchen, Helen giving orders and the rest of us responding with solemn, "Yes, Chef," and "How would you like the onions chopped, Chef?" After peeling and chopping the sweet potato, I discovered that Helen had a container of hot chocolate next to her pile of coffee and tea.
"I loved the hot chocolate in Mexico," I exclaimed. "In Oaxaca, my breakfast every morning was a tamale with mole coloradita and hot chocolate con leche. It was so good..."
"You want some hot chocolate?" Helen's Ecuadoran hospitality kicked into overdrive. "Here's some milk," she opened the fridge and handed me the carton.
And the hot chocolate... was bliss. Took me back to the dirty, colorful, fragrant streets of Oaxaca with street vendors on every corner, crying, "Tamales! Chocolate caliente, con leche, con agua!"
The next day, Mark and Helen dropped us off in Spean Bridge and wished us good luck. We then walked to the outskirts of the cute village and stuck up our thumbs for the 53 mile journey to Oban.
Three rides and a few hours later, we arrived in Oban. Popped into the community coffee house and took turns walking around town and reading our respective books on the kindle.
We lumbered over to a Tesco (when we walk with our packs, it's always a lumber), where we bought picnic foods for that evening and bananas for the next morning. Then we lumbered out of town, past the perfunctory cathedral and castle until we found a flat area on the side of the road where we could pitch Mrs. Peterson.
Our first night wild camping in Scotland. We're still within sight of the road, but we're not on private property and we're not bothering anyone. So according to the Right to Roam, we should be okay.
And we were. We were so okay.
We made our way back into Oban the next morning, scarfed a quick breakfast of bananas and yogurt, and then booked a ride with Caledonian MacBrayne from Oban to Craignure, Isle of Mull.
Upon arriving at Craignure, we discovered that Craignure was a dismal little town. One tourist shop, one dreary cafe and a gas station. We checked with a bus that was heading to Tobermory, and discovered that a roundtrip ticket was ten pounds.
"Ten pounds!" I exclaimed to Boy. "That's more than the ferry cost to get us here."
So we walked to the edge of Craignure and decided to find out whether hitching on Scottish islands is as easy as hitching on the Scottish mainland.
It is. Within minutes of setting down our bags, a woman on her way to Tobermory to pick up her kids pulled over.
"The bus system is so bad here," she explained. "It's so expensive and the buses don't run regularly at all... so there's a lot of hitching. A normal thing to do. Especially since they've doubled the amount of ferries the come to the island, but haven't done anything about the buses. Seems like everything on this island is done for tourists and not for the local people," she sighed. "Where do you want to be dropped off, anyway?" she asked as we neared Tobermory. "You camping?"
"Yes, but we're hoping to wild camp. We'd rather not use the campsite," I replied.
"Well, if you're going to wild camp, best walk out to the lighthouse," our ride advised. "I'll drop you in the middle of town, then."
Boy and I grabbed a coffee at a church that had been converted into a cafe and tourist shop.
Then I went for a walk to scout out a good campsite.
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| Tobermory golf course. Seems like every village in Scotland has a church, a castle (in varying stages of disrepair), two pubs and a golf course. |
I discovered that the lighthouse was actually a two mile walk outside of town on a muddy, narrow path.
Boy won't be pleased...
But we had no other option (if we didn't want to spend money on a campsite), so we bought our picnic and headed out. Boy complained about the mud, and I relished in getting my boots all grubby.
NATURE! Nature, nature, nature, nature, NATURE!
After an hour of trudging along through the muck, we arrived at our destination.
Where we ate our picnic, drank a cider and shared the gorgeous sunset with a nearby cruise ship.
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| Note the tiny green tent perched precariously on a cliff to the right. And the cruise ship. The two most dramatically different kinds of travelers enjoying the same view. |
The next day, we packed up and tiredly stumbled back towards Tobermory, taking a different route with less mud for the sake of Boy and his white indoor football boots.
Who comes to the UK with WHITE SHOES?
People who live in deserts. That's who.
But still.
The route on the way back had much more uphill and much more wet branches that brushed against our legs and thoroughly soaked our... ummm... trousers. So it was my turn to complain.
If I'm going to be wet, I want to have tea.
Hitching out was nearly as easy as hitching in. We caught a ride with a fellow on his way to Oban for physical therapy and to be fitted for special shoes. He used to show jump horses professionally in Europe, but has since retired to Oban and cleans bars for a living.
We docked in Oban around 10:45. We patted ourselves on the backs for a fabulous wild camping adventure and warmed up with some coffee before continuing our hitching south to Lochgilphead.
Scotland is now my favorite place in the UK. Partly because of the nature, partly because of the people, and party because of the Right to Roam. In Scotland, I can walk pretty much anywhere I like, camp pretty much anywhere I like, as long as I follow the three rules. Respect the interests of other people, care for the environment, and take responsibility for my own actions.
Wish the whole world was that way.
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