It came to the Chuggabug's attention that if she moseyed 7 miles north and caught the wee 5-minute Calmac sailing from Rhubodach to Colintraive, continuing for an hour or two in the direction of Loch Eck, then another Chugscapade was in the offing: a 3-dayer in and around the fabled Puck's Glen.
And so it came to pass.
We sprung from our scratchers, and with breath well and truly bated, turned the ignition key. Would the 'Bug still be mobile after 3 weeks of off-road inactivity? The air reeked of suspense and fingernails were chewed.....Nae probs, another first time start! Off we gaily on we went...
The sun breenged through the clouds just as we disembarked at Colintraive, and in a spirit of holiday spontaneity Jane suggested a quick drink at Colintraive Hotel, a pretty spot overlooking the Kyles of Bute. "Drink?" said the hotel manageress with a quizzical look, "it's 20 past ten in the bloody morning!" Jings, so it was. But the Chuggabug is like that. It's a TARDIS on wheels, a place where Time and reality become skewed on entering her mystical sanctum! Still, the woman served us up a swift swally and tipped us off about a sawmill up the road in Strachur (we were short of kindling for the fire and roadside wood was sodden from the night before).
Up the A886 we went - stopping for leek soup and fresh-cream meringues at the Bay Cottage Tearoom on the shores of Loch Fyne - before locating Davie at the sawmill, who generously plied us with a load of kindling. It was here we clocked a small sign for something called the WHITE ELEPHANT - a quirky bric-a-brac shed-cum-shop in the middle of nowhere staffed by an old biddy who sold us an old metal griddle pan for 20p. Chapatis and crepes here we come!
From Strachur through Argyll Forest Park, and down the A815 to Loch Eck - surely one of the most dazzling of all the Scottish Lochs; a narrow 7 mile stretch of glinting trout-infested water flanked by brooding hills on one side, and a couple of great hotel bar-restaurants on the other. Awesome scenery. Moreover, the diddy doing the TV Weather the night before clearly couldn't tell his isobar chart from his elbow. Far from cold fronts and plastic macs, Argyll was basking in uninterrupted sunshine. What luck.
First priority was to locate a sleepover spot for the night, somewhere within striking distance of one of Loch Eck's two famous inns - the Whistlefield and the Coylet. We had already discovered that both caravan sites on this stretch of road wouldn't take the Chuggabug. It wasn't a case of them being Chuggabuggist, exactly; simply that neither, under any circumstances, permitted touring vehicles on their sites. Really, someone in authority needs to get to grips with this territorial nonsense in Scotland's rural airts. We cruised the area and decided - bad pun alert, folks - what the 'Eck, we'd go for a hike in the forest first, and worry about a sleepover spot later.
The so-called Big Tree Walk was pleasant enough, but hardly a challenge. "Piddling" said Jane, after we returned to the carpark less than an hour later. Time for a refreshment at the Whistlefield, a fantastic elevated eyrie from which to ogle Loch Eck. Loch Fyne micro brewery is just up the road from here, so you're always guaranteed a good pint in the area (I recommend the Highlander Ale). Jane put in a call to her brother John and - would you believe it - he and his wife Cathy happened to be driving in the vicinity, barely 2 miles away! Drinks were ordered and Cathy - a veteran campervanner who knows many idyllic nooks and crannies around Scotland - tipped us the wink about Jubilee Point. A camouflaged beauty spot/picnic area only 5-10 minutes' walk from the Whistlefield, and slap bang on the edge of the loch, this was about as pretty a place for a sleepover as you're likely to find. Some local youths use the area for a spliff'n'Buckie rendezvous, but it was safe enough. Anyway, i keep an axe in the 'Bug's wood-storage box for emergencies...
After cooking up a dinner of Pork Links (gluten-free from a Butcher in Rothesay - a rare find) and Baked Beans dunked with garlic bread, we strolled to the Whistlefield for a nightcap. Alas, the walk back to the 'Bug was fraught with midgie ambushes. Whole clusters of them rampaging about our ears, like thon Biblical locusts. Never mind your Swine Flu - the World Health Organisation ought to get its finger out and start tackling Argyll's midgie pandemic.
SUNDAY: Another sun-burnished morning greeted us as we peered out the Chuggabug at Loch Eck, framing the van's window like a too-good-to-be-true landscape painting. Scrambled eggs (damn, we forgot to pack the black pepper!) and bacon set us up for the short drive down to the Coylet Inn for outdoor coffee before tackling the main business of the day: the mighty Puck's Glen. "Truly, truly magical" gasped Jane. She wasn't wrong. An ascending 2-3 hour ramble amid towering oaks, cascading waterfalls and improvised bridges, there was something Tolkienesque about the place. Had a couple of Hobbits passed and bade us g'day, we probably wouldn't have questioned their presence. The great thing about Puck's Glen is that you don't have to wade through acres of forest to get to the best bits: 10 minutes after leaving the carpark, you're right in the thick of the action.
There was less joyous news further down the same road when we discovered that the Cot House Hotel - proposed venue for our post-hike pick-me-up - had closed amid controversial circumstances. Apparently, the owners had just vanished overnight, the proverbial moonlit flit. "It was like the Marie Celeste" said the lassie in nearby Sheila's Diner, referring to the eerie spectacle of half-drained tumblers, flapping newspapers and smouldering firewood the fleeing occupants had hastily abandoned.
To Sandbank by the Holy Loch, where we parked the 'Bug by the water's edge before John and Cathy collected us for dinner at their place a few miles south in Dunoon. I think it was after the THIRD helping of John's appetite-busting lamb stew - a slow-burning 4 hour marinating job suffused with a delicate balance of spices - that our bellies finally relented. So good, in fact, the dish inspired a new adjective you won't find in your OED: Scofftacular.
A quick digestif in John's local, The Sundowner, and it was time for a late-night cab back to the van ("taxi to the Chuggabug, driver!")
The heavens finally broke next morning, oceans of rain pounding everywhere around, signalling it was time to call it quits.
Adios, Puck'n'Eck.
And so it came to pass.
We sprung from our scratchers, and with breath well and truly bated, turned the ignition key. Would the 'Bug still be mobile after 3 weeks of off-road inactivity? The air reeked of suspense and fingernails were chewed.....Nae probs, another first time start! Off we gaily on we went...
The sun breenged through the clouds just as we disembarked at Colintraive, and in a spirit of holiday spontaneity Jane suggested a quick drink at Colintraive Hotel, a pretty spot overlooking the Kyles of Bute. "Drink?" said the hotel manageress with a quizzical look, "it's 20 past ten in the bloody morning!" Jings, so it was. But the Chuggabug is like that. It's a TARDIS on wheels, a place where Time and reality become skewed on entering her mystical sanctum! Still, the woman served us up a swift swally and tipped us off about a sawmill up the road in Strachur (we were short of kindling for the fire and roadside wood was sodden from the night before).
Up the A886 we went - stopping for leek soup and fresh-cream meringues at the Bay Cottage Tearoom on the shores of Loch Fyne - before locating Davie at the sawmill, who generously plied us with a load of kindling. It was here we clocked a small sign for something called the WHITE ELEPHANT - a quirky bric-a-brac shed-cum-shop in the middle of nowhere staffed by an old biddy who sold us an old metal griddle pan for 20p. Chapatis and crepes here we come!
From Strachur through Argyll Forest Park, and down the A815 to Loch Eck - surely one of the most dazzling of all the Scottish Lochs; a narrow 7 mile stretch of glinting trout-infested water flanked by brooding hills on one side, and a couple of great hotel bar-restaurants on the other. Awesome scenery. Moreover, the diddy doing the TV Weather the night before clearly couldn't tell his isobar chart from his elbow. Far from cold fronts and plastic macs, Argyll was basking in uninterrupted sunshine. What luck.
First priority was to locate a sleepover spot for the night, somewhere within striking distance of one of Loch Eck's two famous inns - the Whistlefield and the Coylet. We had already discovered that both caravan sites on this stretch of road wouldn't take the Chuggabug. It wasn't a case of them being Chuggabuggist, exactly; simply that neither, under any circumstances, permitted touring vehicles on their sites. Really, someone in authority needs to get to grips with this territorial nonsense in Scotland's rural airts. We cruised the area and decided - bad pun alert, folks - what the 'Eck, we'd go for a hike in the forest first, and worry about a sleepover spot later.
The so-called Big Tree Walk was pleasant enough, but hardly a challenge. "Piddling" said Jane, after we returned to the carpark less than an hour later. Time for a refreshment at the Whistlefield, a fantastic elevated eyrie from which to ogle Loch Eck. Loch Fyne micro brewery is just up the road from here, so you're always guaranteed a good pint in the area (I recommend the Highlander Ale). Jane put in a call to her brother John and - would you believe it - he and his wife Cathy happened to be driving in the vicinity, barely 2 miles away! Drinks were ordered and Cathy - a veteran campervanner who knows many idyllic nooks and crannies around Scotland - tipped us the wink about Jubilee Point. A camouflaged beauty spot/picnic area only 5-10 minutes' walk from the Whistlefield, and slap bang on the edge of the loch, this was about as pretty a place for a sleepover as you're likely to find. Some local youths use the area for a spliff'n'Buckie rendezvous, but it was safe enough. Anyway, i keep an axe in the 'Bug's wood-storage box for emergencies...
After cooking up a dinner of Pork Links (gluten-free from a Butcher in Rothesay - a rare find) and Baked Beans dunked with garlic bread, we strolled to the Whistlefield for a nightcap. Alas, the walk back to the 'Bug was fraught with midgie ambushes. Whole clusters of them rampaging about our ears, like thon Biblical locusts. Never mind your Swine Flu - the World Health Organisation ought to get its finger out and start tackling Argyll's midgie pandemic.
SUNDAY: Another sun-burnished morning greeted us as we peered out the Chuggabug at Loch Eck, framing the van's window like a too-good-to-be-true landscape painting. Scrambled eggs (damn, we forgot to pack the black pepper!) and bacon set us up for the short drive down to the Coylet Inn for outdoor coffee before tackling the main business of the day: the mighty Puck's Glen. "Truly, truly magical" gasped Jane. She wasn't wrong. An ascending 2-3 hour ramble amid towering oaks, cascading waterfalls and improvised bridges, there was something Tolkienesque about the place. Had a couple of Hobbits passed and bade us g'day, we probably wouldn't have questioned their presence. The great thing about Puck's Glen is that you don't have to wade through acres of forest to get to the best bits: 10 minutes after leaving the carpark, you're right in the thick of the action.
There was less joyous news further down the same road when we discovered that the Cot House Hotel - proposed venue for our post-hike pick-me-up - had closed amid controversial circumstances. Apparently, the owners had just vanished overnight, the proverbial moonlit flit. "It was like the Marie Celeste" said the lassie in nearby Sheila's Diner, referring to the eerie spectacle of half-drained tumblers, flapping newspapers and smouldering firewood the fleeing occupants had hastily abandoned.
To Sandbank by the Holy Loch, where we parked the 'Bug by the water's edge before John and Cathy collected us for dinner at their place a few miles south in Dunoon. I think it was after the THIRD helping of John's appetite-busting lamb stew - a slow-burning 4 hour marinating job suffused with a delicate balance of spices - that our bellies finally relented. So good, in fact, the dish inspired a new adjective you won't find in your OED: Scofftacular.
A quick digestif in John's local, The Sundowner, and it was time for a late-night cab back to the van ("taxi to the Chuggabug, driver!")
The heavens finally broke next morning, oceans of rain pounding everywhere around, signalling it was time to call it quits.
Adios, Puck'n'Eck.
Hi Jane and Raymond, loved this story as much as the last one. Felt as if I was right there with you minus the suspense of whether or not chuggabug was a goer! Great stuff, can't wait for next one.
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