A couple of examples over the last week highlighted some of the problems travel writing faces in a world where anyone who’s connected to the internet can pass themselves off as an expert.

The first was an article about the place I grew up, Bute. It was written for The Sun by a friend, Robin McKelvie, and was a positive piece about an island which has not been as successful as other Scottish islands in adjusting to make itself attractive to travellers who want more than a poke of fish and chips and 99s from a scenic, seaside setting. Ironically, the pandemic has been good for Bute, with a rise in staycations meaning the island is seeing more visitors than it has done for many, many years. It was a good article, presenting the island in a very attractive light and showcasing some of the best Bute has to offer. Robin shared a copy with me, and then I saw it turn up on the Isle of Bute Facebook group where some members picked up on a headline which referred to the island’s ’empty beaches’. Instead of being pleased about the exposure, some took exception; sneering about the reference to empty beaches as though it was a slight rather than a positive.

“Definitely no empty beaches over the past few weeks!” one commented. “Hardly!! Depends what they compare it with …” was another. How about beaches in other parts of Scotland as well as in both popular and off the beaten track locations around the world? I’m willing to bet Robin has wiggled his toes in sand in a hell of a lot more locations than the person who left that comment.
As for the scoffing at the very suggestion there were empty beaches on Bute, I’m sure there are occasions when the beaches are unusually busy, but over the course of a year the default state of Bute’s beaches is … empty. Incidentally, at the start of July we spent a Saturday afternoon on the sands of the most popular beach on the island – well within the ‘few weeks’ period one commenter referred to. Here’s a photo. Make up your own mind.

What annoyed me about the comments was the amount of negative ones there were about an article which was promoting the island. Why would people criticise something that was a boost for the place they live in? You simply just can’t help some folk.
But that’s social media. It can often be a platform for those who get a kick out of being destructive. I’ve seen this time and time again over recent years. As a result, most publications have turned off the comments section on travel articles. Who can blame them? But there’s a converse side to this picture. As well as shutting down those who take pleasure in being objectionable, it can serve another purpose.

Over a decade ago, as social media was changing the writing landscape as we knew it, I remember welcoming the transparency it brought, especially after reading one too many rehashes of exactly the same travel article. No longer would the laziest writers be able to re-arrange the same limited handful of experiences and pass them off to editors as being fresh. With publications going online, we were all able to compare and contrast, and those travel experiences which had been wrung out over and over again till they were long past their sell-by date, stood out like a sore thumb.
You had to know your stuff to escape being ‘found out’. Tenuous angles in travel articles might fool an editor, but they didn’t cut the mustard with readers who knew destinations as well as, or better than, the person penning the article. In my book, Camel Spit & Cork Trees, I quote an example of how a reader’s comment on an article about gastronomy in the Alentejo region of Portugal proved more useful than anything in the article itself. The reason for this was the author had taken an approach that distorted reality completely out of shape. Constructive comments, such as the one in that particular example should have acted as a measure of quality control, resulting in publications adjusting their game to ensure writers really knew their stuff, or knew more than the average traveller at least.
But then, more and more people took to social media, and the insightful comments were drowned out by a rabble who simply liked to complain and criticise. So comments sections were turned off, and people with something sensible to add were silenced alongside the majority who didn’t. In essence, the disruptive boys in the class ruined it for everyone, as they so often do.

What this also served to do was to turn back time.

Last week I read another travel article about a place I’m very familiar with. It was a lazy piece, rehashing an angle that was out of date at least five years ago, as well as rehashing content I’d read more than a decade ago. There was no attempt at coming up with fresh and original material, it was what I refer to as a mercenary piece. A connected article about the same destination included huge chunks of the same information; basically it was a cut and paste job, and this was in one of the UK’s leading newspapers.

Instead of learning from the constructive aspects of reader comments, and using them to mould a new travel-writing model that provides useful and insightful material for today’s savvy and well-informed traveller, many publications have raised their drawbridges and basically put fingers in their ears. In doing so, they’ve returned to the days when travel articles could be published in a critique-less void. As a result, quality has been eroded. This isn’t always the case, there are plenty of excellent, ethical travel writers out there producing the sort of material I enjoy reading. But far too many times I find myself left unmoved, except for feeling cheated, by articles that could have been produced by writers who never left the desk from which they’d penned them.

It seems to me that heading backwards when social media, and user participation, continues to march forward can only have one depressingly inevitable outcome.

But there are glorious days which anarchically whip through Vivaldi’s violin concerti at pace, showing no respect to sequence; winter follows spring, autumn shoulder barges winter out of the way, and summer… well, summer’s the runt of the litter, only managing to get a look in for brief periods before her bullying siblings dominate again. It makes for dramatic weather, and the most exquisite light, even when half the sky is gloomy.

A trip from Scotland’s lowlands into an increasingly wild north matches the drama of constantly changing seasons; the metamorphosing landscape adding its own crescendos and diminuendos.

Rolling along in the borders
In southern Europe September is still summer; the sun hot, the land dry and gasping for water. On a gentle hillside near Thornhill in Dumfries and Galloway there’s a late autumnal feel. The sun is shining, but the soft curves of hills that are really just bumps with aspirations are a mix of emerald green and olive. There are even scarlet berries on threadbare bushes. This is sleepy, non-challenging walking country; a land of farmers and fields. Scotland’s right to roam laws mean we can traipse across this beguiling land without fear of incurring the wrath of any irate, tweed-wearing farmer.

Roaming and Roman
A handful of miles further north at Durisdeer and the terrain shows signs of hardening, the southern softness holding hands with shaven hills which might be considered bleak if it weren’t for their curvaceousness and shortbread tin-worthy rustic hues. An ancient Roman road snakes through bare hills populated by sheep who perch on slopes as well as panicky partridges who forget they have wings. Underfoot becomes boggy marsh, slowing progress to a squelching snail’s pace. The terrain may look benign, but it’s a sheep in wolves clothing of a trail. We set off wearing jackets bought to keep us warm on Chilean glaciers and end in tee-shirts.

Sunshine and showers
Heading north and west we rest overnight in Rabbie Burns’ territory, a land where the countryside flows along as pleasingly as one of the Bard of Ayrshire’s poems. The sun dances on a rushing river of the sort you’d expect to find leaping salmon and men in deerstalker caps and fishing waders. In Scotland it pays to keep one eye on the sky. The pale gold orb might be smiling on us but there’s a bruised stain spreading from the east. We quicken our pace and reach the shelter of our hotel just as the first drops pitter-patter on moss-coloured pavements. Five minutes later and the river is obscured by a deluge.

Islets and inlets
Ah, the West of Scotland. My homeland and, the industrialised Clydeside section aside, one of the most beautiful places on the planet; a wild and carefree labyrinthine coastline decorated by sea lochs, islands and royal purple mountains. Some islands snuggle so closely to the mainland you wouldn’t recognise them as being detached. Tiny, humpbacked Clachan Bridge separates one of these, Seil, from the mainland. It’s ironically known as the Bridge over the Atlantic.

Bleak house
With each mile travelled north the land becomes that little bit more raw and rugged, views revealing a ravishing, but remote and weather-ravaged region. It is hard to imagine life in such an environment – harsh yet enchanting. Many years ago, as a fresh-faced civil servant, I had to interview people who moved to places like this, attracted by the lure of unspoiled beauty. A significant amount suffered from depression. Charmed by looks, many were simply unprepared for the reality of life in this untamed paradise.

Land of lochs
Sunrise on the banks of Loch Feochan; the loch’s water is still enough to tempt Jesus wannabes to try to walk on the surface as it appears solid. I’m not an early morning person, but I can appreciate those who are; there’s a magical quality to this time of day, as though the world has been put on pause for a short period, allowing us to enjoy it all to ourselves. Soon fish will rouse themselves and kiss the surface, mallards will create V formations, and then a log-laden ship will completely shatter the liquid glass as it heads for the open sea.

This IS Scotland
Could this scene be anywhere else other than Scotland? It has all the requisite ingredients – the loch, white cottages, heathery hills, pine thickets, and a history as dark as the deepest parts of Loch Leven. Close to here is the site of the Massacre of Glencoe when government soldiers (members of clan Campbell) acting on official orders murdered 38 members of the MacDonald clan; the very Highlanders who had shown them hospitality by sheltering and feeding them for the previous 12 days.

Castles on lochs
In the West of Scotland Castles there are so many castles on, or beside, lochs you can get a tad blasé about them. King of these is Eilean Donan, located where Loch Alsh, Loch Long, and Loch Duich converge. The current look only dates from the early 20th century. 200 years previously three English frigates attacked Eilean Donan during the Jacobite rebellion of 1719. The castle, manned by Jacobites and Spanish soldiers, withstood heavy bombardment for three days until a shore assault overthrew its protectors and the castle was blown to smithereens from within, using the 343 barrels of gunpowder which had been stored there. As we eat fruit slices at the cafe beside the castle, the weather changes from moody autumnal to sunny and spring-like. I prefer the autumnal look as it seems to fit Eilean Donan’s ruddy complexion better.

Over the sea to
Over three days on Skye we’re buffeted by bracing winds on a coral beach; seek refuge from sleety rain in a cosy café where we warm our hands on steaming bowls of pumpkin soup; skip between shelters in Portree whilst hardier souls than us queue in the rain for fish and chips; and enjoy the warmth of the sun on our faces as we walk across bracken-covered moors beneath mountains whose peaks are shrouded by ashen clouds. And it is all invigorating. I grew up on a Scottish island in the West of Scotland and therefore am not prey to romanticised imaginings of what life here would be like. And yet, and yet…

In summer-y
We turn south again, returning to Glencoe where we head east into the depths of Scotland’s most famous, and some say most scenic, glen. It’s an apocalyptic day, even as far as Scottish weather is concerned. Driving rain and dense cloud swirling and birling through the glen obscure any views. All we can see are hordes of walkers hunched against the weather’s onslaught. Even on such a dreich day Glencoe draws its admirers. The strange thing is that in many places this weather would ruin a visit, here it enhances it, adding an extra layer of mystery and drama to the unforgiving terrain. And then, the curtains open, the clouds evaporate, the sky turns blue, a rainbow arcs across the glen, and the seasons change yet again.

At this point Andy rolls her eyes and says “you say that, but you always wolf it down when we have a pud.”

That’s true as well. I love good puddings. The thing about dessert menus is in some countries they can swing from the divine to the deadly dull, especially in traditional restaurants. You never know which is going to show up. Portugal is a classic example of what I mean. This is a country whose dessert menus are dominated by puddings made from left over egg yolks after nuns have used the whites to starch their wimples. Conventual desserts have novelty value when first encountered, but after numerous occasions discovering all those desserts with odd little names (nun’s belly, lard from heaven etc.) consist of the holy trio of egg yolks, sugar, and cinnamon, it all gets a bit samey. But then, deliciously fruity crumbles, and dreamy, creamy cheesecakes can turn up on a lot of Portuguese menus as well, just to confound expectations.

My least favourite part of a meal is dessert… unless there is something which awakens the sweet-toothed child that slumbers within. And there regularly is, no matter where we travel around Europe.

White chocolate egg, Italy and Portugal
The dessert menu at Mundet, located in the non-touristy town of Seixal on the other side of the Tagus from Lisbon, is inspired by Alice Through the Looking Glass, and does feature goodies suitable for a wonderland setting. Humpty Dumpty involved a white chocolate egg enclosing Mundet’s take on a traditional sponge cake called pão de ló. It was fun, lip-licking tasty, and reminded us of another white chocolate egg dessert which caused a WOW moment, as it was dropped from above diners’ heads to smash into pieces on their plates. That one was at the two star Michelin restaurant Piccolo Lago on the banks of Lake Mergozzo in Italy. All night we wondered why there were sudden outbursts of laughter at tables around the restaurant, until a huge,white chocolate egg whizzed past Andy’s head to explode on her plate, revealing an anarchic splodge of raspberries with banana and caramel ice cream.

Deep-fried ice cream, Glasgow
It is true, the west of Scotland is deep-fried Nirvana – a land of battered sausages and hardened arteries. As teenagers we never thought twice about ordering deep-fried pizzas and Scotch pies from the local chippie after a night on the Tennents. But deep-fried ice cream at Oriental fusion restaurant Opium on Hope Street was a first for me. It consisted of a large ball of vanilla ice cream enclosed in melt-in-the-mouth golden, crispy, batter, drizzled with chocolate sauce and honey; the epitome of sinful dining.

Salt and caramel, La Palma
The first time we knowingly tasted salted caramel was at Jardín de la Sal on the volcanic badlands at fiery Fuencaliente, the site of a brace of volcanic eruptions, the last being in 1971. The restaurant specialises in giving traditional dishes a contemporary reboot. The signature dessert dish (literary as the chef actually signed it using caramel) was as wildly surreal as the surrounding terrain – featuring an eruption of chocolate mousse; chocolate cake; almond ice cream; broken Oreos; dried banana; toasted almonds; passion fruit syrup; yoghurt, and goat’s cheese foam. The salt used to elevate the caramel to the culinary heavens was from the salt pans outside the restaurant. Caramel desserts without salt just don’t make the grade now.

Mountain of cream, Bavaria
There’s no split personality issues with desserts in Germany. This is the country which gave the world the Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte – Black Forest gateau. The problem in Germany is trying to not eat too many delicious desserts. Sometimes a mission impossible. We don’t like to eat a hefty lunch mid-hike, but the desserts at Windbeutelbaron (a mountain lodge en route to the infamous Eagle’s Nest above Berchtesgaden) tempted us right off that path. Their speciality is a puff pastry, fresh cream concoction known as Der Windbeutel which is inspired by the various peaks of the Watzmann Mountains forming the panoramic view from the lodge’s terrace. Each cake is gigantic. We showed some restraint by sharing one, whereas most other customers devoured a mountain to themselves.

Spanish toast in Extremadura
If you like French toast, you’ll love torrijas, the improved Spanish version. The really good ones are as light as air, despite some looking the size of a brick. I could mention a few places where we’ve eaten outstanding examples, but the torrija cacereña at El 13 de San Anton in historic Cáceres gets pride of place as we enjoyed such a good evening there, plus the torrija was accompanied by English cream, coffee ice cream, and Licor de bellota.

Deconstructed classic in Drôme Provençale
According to some online sources, the USA is responsible for the gift that is lemon meringue pie. I’m afraid I’m not buying that story. Other sources attribute it to Victorian England; although nearly everybody accepts a form of lemon tart has been around since way before Columbus crossed the ocean blue. Meringue is a French word, so there’s definitely some French influence. It’s one of my favourite desserts, and when spotted on a menu every other option becomes a blur. The most memorable in recent years was a deconstructed version served in the leafy courtyard of L’entre2, a charmer of a restaurant in a typically Provençal stone house just outside the old centre of Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux.

Pure pantomime, Tenerife
It takes some talent when a chef can please the taste-buds and put a smile on your face when you’re suffering from the flu. We’d booked Michelin star El Rincón de Juan Carlos in Los Gigantes months in advance and had spent all day in bed, sleeping, sweating, and shivering etc. after succumbing to some bug picked up thanks to the poor hygienic habits of too many of the guests at a resort hotel we’d stayed at. But there was no way we were going to miss a meal at our favourite restaurant in the Canary Islands. One of the things we enjoy about avant-garde dining is the sense of theatre and fun (see white egg previously). Chef Juan Carlos ended another triumph of a taster menu with a flight of pure whimsy in the shape of a bonsai-sized candyfloss tree. Magical.

Awesome apples, Austria
It’s unfair to pick out one restaurant when it comes to apple strudel as I don’t remember having a bad one anywhere in Germany, Austria, Croatia, or Slovenia; all countries where the dish crops up all the time on dessert menus. We’ve flaked their pastries in roadside cafes, alpine lodges, farmhouses, and bustling city centres. Purely to choose one to illustrate, I’ve opted for Gasthaus Zum Kranz in Freiburg. It was a cosy, convivial, traditional restaurant in the Altstadt whose apple strudel in custard rounded off a tasty introduction this environmentally friendly city’s gastronomy.

Hot and cold in Venice
We expected the gastronomic offerings in Venice to have suffered due to overtourism, just like we’d previously experienced in places like Dubrovnik. We ended up pleasantly surprised both by the quality of the food we ate and the fact that after dark there were nowhere near as many tourists filling the streets. On sultry summer nights good restaurants were far easier to get into than some other popular European cities. Our visit was topped off by a delight of a dessert at Impronta Cafe (not a cafe at all) in the arty Dorsoduro district – mascarpone cheese custard on a meringue waffle with lashings of hot liquorice and star anise sauce. The Italians simply do good food like nobody else.

Hard to beat puds, England
I’m biased, but nowhere in Europe does puds quite as good as Britain. And yet I struggled to come up with a standout one from England. Not England’s fault, it’s just that we don’t spend much time there and when we do it’s usually with family, so desserts don’t often figure. Then I remembered a December day a couple of years ago, sitting by the fire in Yo Olde Nags Head in Castleton with snowy scenes outside the window, good company at my side, a craft ale in my hand, and a bowl with sticky toffee pudding in caramel sauce on the table in front of me. These are the sort of ingredients that make hearty, British desserts difficult to top.

Delivering training sessions about some of the destinations we’ve visited over the year prompts us to reflect on our experiences in a specific location; something which doesn’t always happen immediately after a trip as there’s nearly always somewhere else exciting to visit steaming toward us.

For a similar reason, I enjoy indulging myself with a round-up of the best, and worst, travel experiences from our year.

Biggest WOW of the year
No need to mull over this one, the herdsmen’s village of Velika Planina on a high plateau in Slovenia was the biggest travel surprise of the year. The photos we’d looked at beforehand didn’t prepare us for just how wowed we were when we actually saw it for ourselves. This is an exceptionally beautiful place. As well as being the biggest surprise, strolling around the village and eating buckwheat mush and sour milk outside a herdsmen’s hut was the most enjoyable travel experience of 2019.

Most beautiful destination
For years our nephew Liam has been raving about Zermatt in Switzerland. Finally we found out why. With the world covered by a thick snowy duvet, exploring Zermatt and surrounding countryside was like stepping into Christmas card scenes. Waking up to widescreen views of the Matterhorn each morning made sleepy eyes ping open with untypical enthusiasm. Greatest revelation was just how much fun following walking routes in thick snow can be.

The destination which disappointed
Last year Venice exceeded expectations, this year Florence failed to live up to them. The Florence north of the Arno didn’t charm for a variety of reasons – too many tour groups and grabby restaurants. A measure of a place is how long you want to spend there; our forays into the tourist hot spot across Ponte Vecchio were short-lived. It was simply too frantic. Thankfully, the south side of the Arno was a tranquil and charming contrast. Our experience of Florence was of a Jekyll and Hyde city.

Favourite city
Ljubljana isn’t the prettiest city we’ve visited but the feel-good factor was off the scale. We wandered with permanent smiles fixed to our faces. It’s a city with a big town feel so getting to know it doesn’t take much time. It’s a destination for anyone who enjoys good food, smooth wines, craft ales, and live music; a place to eat, drink, and be merry. After a day there, and some beer and wine, we declared it a place we could happily live.

Best hotel stay
Another category where there have been lots of contenders – Hotel Plesnik in Slovenia’s Logar Valley for its dream location; Hotel Agua Geres in Geres, Portugal, for being ultra comfortable and having excellent food after a tough day’s walking; Quinta Roja in Garachico, Tenerife, because it’s a favourite of ours; Oltrarno Splendid in Florence because it was actually splendid and as cool as Vincent Vega. Best though was Hotel La Laguna Gran in La Laguna, also Tenerife, as its lounge is a compelling blend of colonial and contemporary decor, it has a fabulous Michelin star restaurant, and the bar is of the sort which puts an arm around your shoulders and says “come on in, we’d love your company.”

Top nosh
There were so many excellent meals wolfed throughout the year, ranging from Michelin standard to quality street food, it would be unfair to single one out, so I’ve written a separate piece listing our favourite dishes of the year.

Send it back
The Etrop Grange near Manchester nearly came top as a) their already limited menu had even fewer options by the time we ate at 7.30pm and b) the chef managed to make fish and chips dull to the point I wasn’t tempted to pick at leftover chips (a really bad sign). But biggest culinary disappointment was at Mar e Sol in Sesimbra where the pez espada preto (scabbard fish) we’d told my mum would be meaty and tasty was mushy and bland, the worst pez espada we’ve eaten to date. Not that my mum cared, she was just happy to be sitting in the sun overlooking a gorgeous beach on a warm October day.

Exhilarating walking route of 2019
For having just the right level of challenging walking, boasting contrasting stop-us-in-our-tracks scenery, possessing an eclectic mix of ingredients (a mountain lake, sanctuary in a ravine, stone slab bridges), and just being loads of fun (a rare occasion of being able to walk with our friend and colleague from InnTravel, James) a route from Roucas to Peneda in Peneda-Geres National Park in Portugal ticked all the boxes which make for an exceptional hike. A difficult choice as all the routes we walked in Peneda-Geres were winners.

Most enjoyable transport
A cruise up the Douro River on a sizzling May day proved a scenic overdose as well as being a blast. The hills lining the river were hypnotic – their natural rolling curves artistically enhanced by the addition of narrow terraces of vines whilst the atmosphere on board ship was bizarrely booze cruise, but one mainly full of septuagenarian Portuguese. Why the nationality of partying pensioners made the experience more enjoyable rather than less so, I don’t know. But it did. It was an eclectically experience and the Douro lived up to the promise we’d seen in old films in a Port cellar in Porto.

Most emotional experience
The winter sun sparkling on blades of frosted grass; long, kilted shadows on a crisp forest path; a silhouetted lone piper playing a haunting lament; a roaring fire warming numbed legs; my nephew and his new bride wearing Cheshire cat-sized beams as they dodged a downpour of heart-shaped confetti. Scotland, you tug at my heart like no other destination.

Okay, sitting in a robust, wooden rocking chair in a conservatory isn’t technically being outside, but it is the next best thing… if anything it’s better. It still feels as though you’re immersed in a constantly changing landscape painting; a sun-dappled forest giving way to the emerald Kier Hills. If the weather changes it doesn’t matter.

The hotel itself is an Edwardian country house, which manages to pull off the trick of being both elegant and cosy; a welcoming place in a rural location in which to rest weary heads. Trigony looks and feels uniquely Scottish but not in a hit-you-over-the-head-with-a-caber sort of way. There are a number of qualities that set it apart from other small, rural hotels we’ve stayed in across Europe. A glass holding a batch of ‘pooch passports’ in the reception area instantly speaks volumes about the people who run Trigony. It has the hallmarks of an exclusive lodge, but one without any fussy airs and graces.

From our conservatory we can step straight into the woods and onto walking trails through the soft and seductive Dumfries and Galloway countryside; an activity which helps work up a healthy appetite. This is essential as the menu at Trigony’s restaurant or nook of a bar with its log fire demands you take to your table in a ravenous state. The menu isn’t extensive but it can still be overwhelming – too many “pick me” choices, ranging from the chef’s take on Scottish flavoured classics (Galloway smoked salmon with Sicilian artichoke salad; wood pigeon with Dingwall haggis) to dishes inspired by travels in other countries (Sri Lankan coconut, sweet potato, and mange tout curry). All are helpfully listed with a suggested wine pairing.

Breakfast is no less of a head-scratching affair (locally smoked kippers, haddock kedgeree, Ayrshire bacon, award-winning black pudding, field mushrooms… ). Thankfully, there are plenty more interesting walks in the area to counter the effects of Trigony’s irresistible hospitality.

The Trigony Country House Hotel stamps its own inimitable personality onto the tick lists of all the things we’d hope for from a small, rural hotel. In many ways it captures the spirit of an inn from bygone days (even if it is the romanticised image of ye olde inns which exists in my head). The food is lap-it-up tasty, the hospitality as warm as a roaring fire, and the lodgings über comfortable.

But although working in an al fresco office helps immensely during the dog days of a Portuguese summer, by late afternoon we can become stir crazy. When this happens we kidnap our neighbours’ dog from the pen where she spends long days (they work in Lisbon and leave early, return late) and head into the cork forest outside the front gate. It’s a short yet immensely enjoyable circuit which changes with the seasons. At this time of year the grasses are brittle and thirsty looking, but the corks are striking, barks freshly stripped to revealing a vibrant, copper nudity. Adding a soundtrack are a pair of storks nesting on an electricity pylon, click-clacking as we pass, and Eurasian Jays which screech their way through the trees, sounding as though they have throat infections.

Normally the routes we walk are a lot longer. Shorter ones, like our cork forest trail, are subconsciously dismissed as being almost inconsequential. Of course that’s tosh and nonsense, short walking routes can be filled with more wonder than a 20km yomp through mind-numbing, unchanging terrain.

On a road trip around Scotland in September 2018 we notched up quite a few short walking routes we’ve never written about. So, to prevent them from curling up in a dark corner of my memory where they’re destined to be forgotten, here are some which deserve a wee bit of recognition.

Ring of Bright Water – Loch Feochan near Oban
“There really seems little particular to do or see around this loch.” So states a website about Scotland. The only thing of interest is a lone white cottage with wild Highland views across the petrol sea to Mull. The cottage featured in a film which was responsible for a lot of greetin’ in our house, Ring of Bright Water. There isn’t much to do, but to see? There’s something to serenade the eyes just about anywhere in the Highlands and little Loch Feochan is no different. A short route recommended by the folk at our hotel, the 15th century Knipoch, took us along a grassy path lined by bushy conifers and moss-covered drystane dykes to an open hillock surrounded by crispy bracken. The tartan-coloured vista took in slender Loch Feochan, Mull, Islay, and a rolling landscape that had me wishing I was wearing my kilt. There might be many better views to be absorbed in Scotland, but this one is still grand enough to bring a tear to the eye, and that’s nothing to do with the breeze or any unlucky otters.

Tràigh a’ Chorail – Skye
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclouds rend the air
Baffled our foes stand on the shore,
Follow they will not dare.
Yup, that just about describes the weather we ‘enjoyed’ during our brief little affair with Skye, especially when we braved the dreichness to walk the 1.8km from Claigan to the Coral Beach (Tràigh a’ Chorail), a route that was a tip from a local whisky-maker. The beach lies at the bare, bleak and beautiful tip of a peninsula where the bleached skeletons of red coralline have created an unusual feature, as well as a home for sea urchins and starfish. Offshore is the favoured haunt of harbour seals, not that we would be able to spot any among the boisterous swells. In some places the inclement weather would be a deterrent to taking to the outdoors, not here. Here it fits, it’s nature in all its wild and raw glory, with a billowing wind which would blow even Shelob’s cobwebs away. We lean into it, and then lean some more. It holds us firm at an unlikely angle. On Skye this is nature’s embrace and it exhilarates.

Massacres and faeries – St Fillans, Perthshire
St Fillans’ hand drawn village map, located where a narrow bridges crosses the river at the southern end of Loch Earn, is charming; the sort of village map you’d expect for a world created by Beatrix Potter. It shows us where we can find the zig-zag walk, a goat’s path, salmon larder, the old railway tunnel, and Willoughby Oaks where there’s a faerie stone; not shown on the map. Maybe the faeries like to keep it a secret. It takes us an eternity to find it as locals we ask give frustratingly vague directions. “Oh aye, it’s over there somewhere,” accompanied with a sweeping wave of an arm which tells us nothing. The railway path slices through the hillside behind the eastern side of the lake. It’s an easy, flat trail through an area which isn’t one of Scotland’s big drawers in tourism terms but which is serious clan territory. Rob Roy is buried not far away. Just offshore is Neish Island, the scene of the massacre of the Neish clan in 1612; an act of revenge for a perceived theft. On the opposite side of the loch lies a headstone commemorating a brutal series of events in 1589 which began when John Drummond, the King’s Keeper of the Royal Forest of Glenartney, had the ears of a hunting party of MacGregors cut off after they killed deer in the Royal Forest. He lost his head as a result; it ended up on his sister’s dining table with bread and cheese stuffed into his mouth. The whole MacGregor clan were subsequently sentenced to death. You could say Loch Earn is bloody beautiful.

A tragic beauty – Glencoe
800 meters links serenity and sorrow. Glencoe is arguably one of the most romantic spots in Scotland. It is also the setting for one of its darkest moments; the massacre of 38 men, women, and children of the MacDonald clan by government soldiers who’d been welcomed into homes with open arms. On the banks of a glassy Loch Leven on a sunny day, looking toward the moody Munros which add gravitas to the shortbread box scenery, the betrayal in 1692 seems like it happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Strolling through the village with its pretty stone cottages and their thatched roofs doesn’t dispel the tranquil idyll ambience. It’s only when we turn inland, following a simple sign with ‘Massacre Monument’ painted on it, that the air takes on a chill which seeps into bones even though the temperature is moderate. There’s no pomp and circumstance surrounding the simple Celtic cross which marks the spot of the infamous deed. Standing in the shadow cast by the monument, reading the inscription “Their memory liveth for evermore”, 1692 doesn’t seem so long ago at all.

A factor often connected with satisfaction levels is picking up/dropping off rental cars. The experience, good or bad, doesn’t impact overall on how we view a destination, but it can leave a lasting impression.

Good advice in Milan
The staff at Avis strongly advised, in a friendly ‘this is really for your own good’ way that we take full insurance. When we initially waved the advice away, saying we were used to driving in countless countries they responded with a “this is Italy people drive really badly here, you’ll need it. Trust us.” So we did. Within two days there was a dent in the side of the car, damaged whilst it was minding its own business in a car park beside Lake Garda. Incidentally, the entrance to rental car drop off at Milan is confusing as hell. We managed to find it, just. But over a couple of visits we’ve seen plenty of cars reversing along a busy approach road after they’d overshot the entrance. I hope they’d taken the full insurance option.

Most practical, Munich
Locating a proper supermarket right beside the exit and car rental hall in Munich Airport is inspired planning. You’ve got to love the Germans for this sort of forward thinking. Being able to stock up on wine, water, and snacks at non-airport prices before we set off on a long road journey gets things off to a happy start, especially if arriving quite late… or even early evening. Arriving at 19.00, a drive from the airport to our hotel took a couple of hours, making us too late for the ridiculously early German dinner times, but the snacks we’d picked up at the airport meant there was no hungry gashing of teeth as a result.

No manual drives in Glasgow
Despite having booked a car with a gear stick, Sixt at Glasgow Airport not only informed us they didn’t have the model we’d booked but that nobody drove manual cars there any more. Nobody drives manual in Scotland? Utter bollocks. To be fair, they did offer us an upgrade to a snazzy BMW or a limousine-like pimp car (their words)… both automatic. As neither of us have driven automatics, we didn’t fancy attempting it for the first time in an oversized monster on narrow, winding Highland roads. The only other option was a downgrade (no refund for their error) which we took.

It’s Zadar, but where are we going?
Stepping from the plane to being handed the keys to our hire car at Zadar Airport happened so slickly quickly that we were actually cruising the streets of the Croatian city before we knew where we were heading for. Partially my fault. A distracting party weekend in Hay on Wye immediately before travel combined with a shocker of a night in an airport hotel at Liverpool had meant I hadn’t gotten around to printing off details of our accommodation and couldn’t access the info from my phone. The solution was a prompt introduction to Croatian cafe culture with a quick pause at a cafe with wifi and strong, cerebral cobweb-clearing coffee.

A tale of two airports, Tenerife
Tenerife’s two airports are geographically quite close, but in other ways worlds apart. Tenerife North Airport made Airhop’s top ten best airports list. We wouldn’t argue with that. It’s one of the most relaxing airports we’ve travelled through, and picking up the hire car from CICAR mirrors the general laid back attitude. Newbie arrivals might get a shock encountering a four lane motorway immediately after arrival, but once free of La Laguna’s busy autopista, the drive along the north coast, with Mount Teide providing a stunner of a backdrop, gets the juices of anticipation flowing. Tenerife South is a decent airport, but exudes that homogeneous holiday resort airport vibe. My beef with it is that after a teasing arrival – Montaña Roja looking splendid on the coast – the drive south is through an unattractive landscape which has similarities to builder’s rubble; a poor first impression which isn’t helped by an overdose of naff billboards.

Worst car hire, Fuerteventura
Sticking with the Canary Islands, the most unpleasant car hire experience we’ve had anywhere was on Fuerteventura with Goldcar. It was our first visit to the island and it got off to such a bad start we were predisposed not to like the island after it. It was so bad Andy was moved to write a rant about the experience (I’m usually the ranter). Thankfully our experiences thereafter diluted the bad taste the Goldcar experience had left.

Longest wait, Marseille
Two things stick in my mind about arriving at Marseille Airport. It seemed to take an eternity before we were handed the car keys, the process seemed to take oh-so-much longer than anywhere else. Waiting in a greenhouse of a car rental office when it was 30C plus didn’t help. The other is the runway jutting out into the Etang de Berre lagoon – WOW. For all the fussiness, I like Marseille Airport.

You can’t be serious, Coyhaique
Chile’s Coyhaique Airport is a sweet and friendly big shed of an airport, and one I shall always have very fond memories of thanks to the kindness of the staff there. However, I did exclaim “you can’t be serious?” at one point when returning our Mitsubishi pick-up truck. Over nearly three weeks we’d driven hundreds, if not thousands, of kilometres on the (in)famous Carretera Austral without any mishap other than the car wearing a dusty overcoat. The girl responsible for checking the car was returned in a decent state had commented “it’s so dirty I can’t tell if there’s any damage.” To be fair, after my McEnroe outburst the girl laughed and ticked the ‘all okay’ box on her docs.

A stunner of a way to arrive, Lisbon
It can take a long time to get out of Lisbon Airport. But once free of its clutches, if heading south across the Tagus, the experience is unique. After a few minutes you escape the city to cross the Tagus on the Vasco da Gama Bridge, until recently the longest bridge in Europe at just over 17km in length (12km being over water). It is an architectural marvel. Our first experience crossing it included a dreamy sunset of endless pastel bands drifting across the sky, an army of fisherman wading in the mudflats on each side of the bridge, and a flamboyance of flamingos in the wetlands at its southern end.

Bizarre Basel
Although only 3.5km from the Swiss city it’s named after, Basel Airport is in France so is jointly operated by France and Switzerland. The same car hire companies have different branches located in separate areas. Which you use depends on whether you pick up your hire car in France or Switzerland. It isn’t an issue collecting the car, but returning it is a minefield. You can’t leave a French hire car at a Swiss drop off point. If you try, you’ll be directed to the ‘correct’ country even though it’s the same company. Although they share the one building (only a couple of hundred metres separates them as the crow flies), you can’t just drive across the airport from one to the other. Nope, you have to leave the airport, join the motorway and seek out the correct entrance to the other country’s part of the airport. I know this because we got it wrong on a Monday morning when the motorway was gridlocked and the time left for being able to check in was running out. We only managed to catch our flight because a member of Avis’s French staff took pity on us and allowed us to leave our Swiss hire car in a French parking bay.

The joy of travel.

That might have been teetering on the harsh side, but it has its roots in reality. Apart from memories of British summers being longer and hotter than they are now (the same memory we all seem to share), whenever I think of Scotland in sunshine, it tends to be during one of the spring months.

One of our first trips together involved gazing at a fiery sunset, one which has rarely been bettered, on a balmy May evening in Oban. The year we swapped Britain for somewhere with friendly year-round weather we chugged our way through the Kyles of Bute on my brother-in-law’s wooden fishing boat to anchor in a remote bay in the north of Bute where we enjoyed a picnic on the beach on a warm April afternoon. It was an exceptional day, a day filled with fun and nonsense – an out of control Zodiac and also our stock of beer and wine being washed away from the makeshift refrigerator (i.e. a rock pool).

It’s been a long, long time since I left Scotland, but as well as memorable experiences there’s something else which wraps itself around my shoulders whenever we spend any time there. It’s a comfort blanket; a sense of feeling relaxed, being amongst kin and of escaping to a world scripted by Bill Forsyth with hints of Irvine Welsh thrown in to add that essential realistic grit.

I haven’t been in Scotland during spring for many years, yet our last visit felt springlike. If not always in relation to the weather, at least in the sense of a refreshing blowing away off the cobwebs – a cerebral clean-out which reminded me there are still plenty of people who don’t confuse spouting trashy news headlines with having a conversation.

Argyll & Bute
On the Cal-Mac ferry, which links my birthplace Rothesay with the mainland, we bumped into a couple who played a big part in my transition into adulthood. Donny and Margaret had owned the bar where my friends and I spent nearly every happy night for a number of years drinking too much, putting the world to rights and playing pool, darts and chess. The latter was against a fisherman who was perpetually blind drunk but rarely lost a game. I hadn’t really spoken to Donny in over 30 years, yet the past melted away and so did time as we crossed the choppy, petrol coloured Clyde waters and ate bacon rolls in Wemyss Bay railway station; a remarkable architectural work of Victorian art (not appreciated at all during the numerous times I had to pass through it to get to ‘civilisation’). Donny’s smiling face and intelligent conversation swirling from one topic to another, bonded by down to earth common sense, had me leaving the train in Paisley with a renewed spring in my step.

Dumfries & Galloway
In Scotland’s highest village Wanlockhead, a place which made a ravine of an impact, the trio of staff (locals) who shepherded us from one part of the village to another did so with an easy friendliness, wit and enthusiasm which drew us into the world of the village, opening up revealing portals to give us glimpses of a far harsher lead-mining community past. It was pure Local Hero territory, one window displayed the notice – “Slow down, weans and dugs scooting aboot.”

Stirling
Drookit to the point of having sodden underwear after a wet, windy and glorious walk, we found a warm sanctuary in the solitary Drovers Inn at Inverarnan near the head of Loch Lomond. Bar staff, looking like uber-cool hipster Highlanders in their black tee-shirts and kilts, waved away concerns about us ‘soiling’ the aged seats and even checked out the time the bus would arrive at the stop opposite so we could maximise our beer-sipping time. This was an inn I could have happily settled into for a long session of supping amber ales and listening to the chatter from haggis and tattie-munching punters at the next table. The bus turned up far too quickly and, along with a brace of spliff-smoking German lads wearing fake kilts, we left the Drovers to enjoy the scenery on the way back to our hotel from the dry comfort of the bus… where we did leave damp patches on seats.

Highlands
And then there was Skye – dramatically raw, indisputably bleak in parts, and completely captivating. Even the most eye-catching wrappings need additional ingredients to give them substance. In Skye’s case this was mostly provided by the people we encountered. The owners and staff at Hame on Skye, who really did make it feel like ‘hame’. The convivial ambience at Hame was also partly down to the people who passed through during our couple of nights there. These included wry Americans and sensible Scandinavians, and a softly-spoken whisky maker who popped in for a drink (not whisky) after work. He shared eye-widening insights from the world of uisge beatha (water of life), debated politics in an old fashioned way (i.e. listen to and consider other points of views) and gave us priceless tips on where to explore.

Perth & Kinross
As the chatty curator’s collie stopped me from handing over the entrance fee to Cultybraggan Camp near Comrie by continually forcing a chunk of wood into my hand for me to throw across the confined limits of the Nissen hut, it was impossible to imagine it had been a ‘black’ camp during the Second World War. This was one of only two prisoner of war camps in Britain designed to hold the most fanatical Nazis. Now it’s a museum, and a reminder of a dark and dangerous time when Europe was fragmented. A story concerning one inmate highlighted some of the best qualities of the British character. Heinrich Steinmeyer was a member of the Waffen SS who was captured in Normandy in 1944. Three times his life was saved by Scottish soldiers before he ended up at Cultybraggan Camp. When the war ended he stayed in Scotland until 1970 when he returned to Germany to care for his elderly mother.

When Steinmeyer died in 2014 he bequeathed all his savings, nearly £400,000, to the residents of Comrie as a thank you for the kindness he had been shown by locals during his imprisonment. In 2009 he made this comment about his captors.

“They were tough, but always fair. I didn’t expect to find this attitude. I was not just the enemy, but a Nazi as well. Such friendliness was a surprise. But it is in the British nature.”

It was qualities such as those Steinmeyer had been referring to I felt we’d witnessed time and time again during our trip around Scotland.

You could argue that I’m possibly viewing things through romanticised tartan sunglasses. But our experiences are our experiences, and the ones we had in Scotland in September 2018 left me with renewed hope regarding my fellow humans.