CHUGGABUG (chugg-a-bug) (n) Converted campervan of questionable pedigree, assembled by Jalopy Autos (Prop: A. Daley). En suite facilities include Heath Robinson collapsible bed and wood-burning fire with protruding lum, a design feature based on the Wacky Races vehicle ARKANSAS CHUGGABUG (younger readers consult your Cartoon Anthology).

Would she start? Would she run? Would she EXPLODE? Nae bother to the Chuggabug! With nary a wheeze or splutter the old girl chuntered out the driveway in regal style, as AA Recovery Men sighed relief and reset their alarms. After a short cruise across the Clyde from Rothesay to Wemyss Bay, the 'Bug was soon chuggin down the coast. Destination: the Rhinns of Galloway (the jutty out bit in Scotland's deep south).

Jane soon got to grips with the 'Bug's sundry quirks, while i appointed myself CHIEF NAVIGATOR and MAP CONSULTANT. Largs (elegant), Ardrossan (midden) and Saltcoats (ditto) flashed by the window, but trouble was afoot in nearby Stevenston. We just couldn't get out the effin place. It was Groundhog Day in North Ayrshire as we kept goin round in circles looking for that elusive turn-off. Jane suggested i didn't know my A-Z from my elbow (or sterner words to that effect), but i blamed poor signposting, naturally!

Then, something remarkable happened on the A77 south of Ayr: for the first and only time on the trip the Chuggabug actually OVERTOOK ANOTHER VEHICLE! Admittedly, the banger in question was driven by a squinting octogenarian, possibly related to Mr Magoo, but we didn't care about that. It was a proud moment for the 'Bug, no question. Prior to this, we had twice almost been overtaken by a goddam TRACTOR. What humiliation that would have been, eh?

Time for a pit-stop in Girvan: chippy, coffee, meringues and, realising we hadn't packed appropriate coat-wear, a Charity Shop raid. Jane dug deep (£1) for a sprawling ankle length coat that would double up as a spare blanket/dressing gown, while i plumped for a fetching faux-sheepskin number. Who says fashion aint wot it used to be? Girvan was also home (a cave, actually) to Scotland's most interesting historical figure, SAWNEY BEAN, the 17th century cannibal with an insatiable appetite for aristocratic flesh. He ATE THE RICH, Hannibal Lecter style! Now that's what i call an idea ahead of its time (do bankers taste better fried or grilled)? A cultured man to boot, he crafted xylophones from his victims' bones. Sadly, Girvan Tourist Office does not care to promote Sawney's colourful life. No Sawney statues, commemorative plaques or meat pies, even. Shameful.

With the rain now teeming, we pulled up for our first night in the Chuggabug further down the coast in Cairnryan. Starving. Or as Jane graphically put it, perhaps with old Sawney still fresh in her mind, " i could eat a scabby wean's heid". Alas, dinner was a disaster...our portable stove was running low on gas and we prematurely papped the gluten-free pasta into the pot before the water had properly boiled. Result? Pasta El Gloop. Inedible. Plan B - cold meat and beetroot. Ach, a few Riojas and we hardly noticed the difference.

* * *

Our first night in the 'Bugbed was surprisingly comfy for such a cobbled-together contraption - a kind of DIY fold-down futon affair designed to offer ample storage space underneath. After breakfasting on - you guessed - cold meat and beetroot, it was time to cross the fingers and petition Motoros, ancient God of Engines (or in the 'Bug's case, God of Ancient Engines). See, something we couldn't fathom had been draining the van's battery, resulting in a few pre-trip non-starts (Immobiliser? A second battery under the 'Bugbed, perhaps)? But Jane came up with a beautifully simple idea to surmount the problem: detach battery from engine every night (an easy 2 minute job) and re-attach next day. Wielding a mean adjustable wrench, this she duly did in the misty Cairnryan morn and - joy of joys - the 'Bug started first time to the accompaniment of much hurrahing in the cockpit.

Off we cruised to the Rhinns of Galloway, stocking up in Stranraer (gourmet gluten-free sausages, no less - a rare find!), before taking the scenic, but longer, A718 route to pretty Portpatrick - an immediately appealing coastal village: pastel-coloured bars and restaurants cramming the seafront, clifftop hikes, ruined castles, winding backstreets. Perfect. After a nosey around the village and a swift one or three in the Harbour Bar, we chugged off to a nearby campsite up on the hills.

Tonight's 'Bug-feast was a different gastronomic animal altogether...the gluten-free sausages were a real treat, putting your scrawny Pork Link job to shame. After scoff, we tried igniting the van's fire for the first time, feeding it wood we'd collected just outside Portpatrick. The heat was astonishing. It was howling wind and rain outside, but T-shirt temperature in the old Chuggabug. It's a greedy bugger, mind. You feed wood through a small iron grate at the bottom of the stove, and the smoke spews out of a chimney that extends through the roof of the van. A great piece of invention by the previous owner, for sure.

Warmed up, we fished out the wee battery operated record player Jane had picked up in France, and settled down for a "record session" starring Sidney Bechet and Eugene Chadbourne, accompanied by some herbal remedies and a diminishing stockpile of gluten-free beer.

* * *

Morning after recuperation included a few hilltop hikes around Portpatrick's coastline, out to Dunskey Castle and along part of the Southern Upland Way (south Scotland's version of the West Highland Way). Then, mid-afternoon, the sun burst through the clouds and Portpatrick took on the glistening appearance of - i kid you not - a Mediterranean coastal resort. Off with the waterproofs! We settled down to a few swallies in the Harbour Bar's beer garden, an aperitif before tonight's Grand Scoff in the Crown Hotel, one of several great looking eateries on the seafront. I put in a quick call to my newspaper editor suggesting the Crown was worthy of a restaurant review. She agreed. Bizarrely, our restaurant window seat overlooked a cemetery, and it was Jane who noticed that the old Bee Gees' track Stayin' Alive was mid-song on the cd player as we were shown to our table. You couldn't make it up.

The meal was a stonker. We Billy Buntered on crab claws, scallops, Galloway lamb, lobster thermidor, fresh fruit cheesecake and toffee ice cream before moving - with great difficulty - through to the Crown's creaky old bar for brandy and whisky and the 2nd half of the Liverpool v Chelsea Champions' League tie. That night, Mr & Mrs Creosote slept soundly and long in their buggy, which miraculously stayed upright despite the extra body tonnage of its occupants.

***

To the Mull of Galloway, Scotland's most southerly point, the John O' Groats of the south. We pitched up in Drummore, a small town seemingly on the edge of the world, and camped rough by the shore. It was monsoon season in the Mull (waves cascading on to the main coast road in Apocalyptic fury...ok, i exaggerate, but only slightly), and after a stay-at-home dinner of sausage and rice hotpot (there's only so much lobster thermidor a belly can take) it was time to try out a new gadget called an "inverter" we'd recently bought. Basically, a small electronic box with power points you crocodile-clip on to a 12v battery, enabling you to plug in TVs, DVDs, laptops and - most important of all - Jane's straighteners. It worked! We battened down for a few episodes of The Wire (2nd series) and turned in early. Long drive tomorrow.

***

There was no real plan, travel-wise, other than to drive round Galloway until we found places we liked. Glenluce was bland. Three uprooted Londoners ran a low-rent snackvan in the main street and looked bored rigid. What brought them to this dismal one-horse town 100s of miles from home? Fresher air? Cheap snackvan rental space? Witness protection scheme? We continued around Luce Bay, through Port William and The Machars and on to the Isle of Whithorn (confusingly, not an island at all). What luck!...the village's main pub, the Steam Packet Inn, was hosting a mini Real Ale festival, a discovery that warranted an extended pit-stop you will agree, before landing at Burrow Head "holiday park" way up on an isolated clifftop. Great location, great scenery, the "holiday park" was a real throwback to Butlins' camps of the 70's: vintage amusement arcade, Crazee Golf, "discotheque" (pack your flares!). It was good for one night but no more.

***

Next day, we planned to pitch up at Garlieston Bay an hour north, but for the second time on the trip a caravan site wasn't having us. Some sites, this one included, are run by a bumptious, snob-ridden organisation called the British Caravan & Camping Club, staffed by tinpot dictators in crested blazers and ties, the type who run bowling clubs and who are forever joining committees. Frankly, they didn't like the cut of the Chuggabug's jib. Or maybe it was its hairy-faced occupants (that's me, not Jane, i should add!). I pulled the leg of the site's Herr Commandant, saying we might camp rough nearby. He was having none of it. "The police will be on to you in a shot" he snorted. Fuck you, then. North to Wigtown. It promotes itself as Scotland's bookshop capital, but is essentially a dreary, parochial and cliquey little place. The drone of Received Pronounciation - the non-accent of the privately educated - was everywhere in earshot, and it's little wonder this area of Scotland is one of the very few that consistently returns a Conservative MP. Only the English upper classes could devise a mode of speech that actually removes the personality from an accent, replacing it with a colourless uniform whine designed to imply authority. Twats.

But all this worked in our favour, because further up the road we discovered the spicy delights of Newton Stewart! You know the feeling...away from home...something nagging your insides...something detracting from your well-being. Then it dawns on you, and your thoughts turn to one thing and one thing only: MURDERING A CURRY. And what a curry it was! We marched in and announced we were from Glasgow and wouldn't accept any provincial rubbish, grub-wise. Turns out the chef was fresh from a kitchen stint at a top Bearsden Indian restaurant, and he saw us alright for a feast of pakoras, Bhoonas and all the rest of it. Later on, enjoying a few snifters at the Creebridge House Hotel, we met some lapsed Glaswegians and told them about that wonderful curry. Salivating at the mouth, the two guys immediately cancelled their hotel meal and legged it round to Little India. They do say word-of-mouth recommendations are the best, after all.

Everything looked good about this town: campsite barely 5 minutes away, a great pub, sun shining for three days, riverbank walks and - a real rarity - a gluten-free cafe for Jane!

***

It was time to head home, but we didn't want to bomb it, so decided to pitch up on the fringes of Galloway Forest Park at Glentrool, with its 300 square miles of woodland terrain. As luck would have it, there was a crackin wee pub in the middle of nowhere near the campsite called House O' Hill, perfect for watching that mad 4 v 4 draw between Chelsea and Liverpool.

Mind you, the old curry cravings returned, and there was no chance of finding any Indian shops in this here neighbourhood. So we made our own. Here's what you do if you've got limited pot-space and/or time. It's idiot-proof, too.....soften a chopped onion in olive oil. Add strips of chicken breast, little water, 4 chopped tomatoes and 4 spoons of Madras curry paste for 20 mins. Season with s & p if required. Stir. Guzzle.

Home via Girvan, Prestwick, Wemyss Bay.

All in all, the old Chuggabug did the business in fine style, never failing to start, and giving us 300 miles of use for 30 quid's diesel. Somehow, i think we're goin to keep the old jalopy...