Before we get started on my grandest blogging work, here is a little context for these things:
Last year I graduated from studying Geography with the University of Exeter Cornwall Campus. Absolutely loved it. One thing it particularly gave me the chance to do was investigate my own research…
I chose to look into gap year travellers and their attitudes towards the carbon footprint of the travel they are making. I found that a lot of people choose to go to the other side of the world for their travel and this inevitably means flying there. However, once many had learned of the attached carbon footprint, they were keen to seek overland travel alternatives. If you would like to know more, have a read of this on gapyear.com or email me and I will send you a copy of the dissertation.
This got me thinking – how come I decided to go all the way to Australia and New Zealand for my gap year? And is it right that I should know much more about these islands than those of my native British Isles?
This gives you an understanding of why ‘go to Scotland’ was the first thing I scribbled down in my notebook. Never been there before yet I hear it is quite nice. Plus there are islands a plenty so this can also help me with number 44- 2 birds with 1 stone and all that.
Where did my journey start?
It was in a toilet cubicle of a Wetherspoons in London Euston train station.
The verbal exchange of the hand-washers outside confirmed that, although in the heart of England, I was most definitely in Scottish territory.
Returning to the lounge area to sip my Eskimo cocktail (tap water and ice cubes) the accent prevailed among the chatter. I realised these were to be my fellow passengers for the 23.50 Caledonian Sleeper.
I found the train as a snake of carriages on platform 1 of the station. My crest fell on the discovery that seat 10 was genuinely a seat, I had been hoping for a bed in a twin-berth, but ah well.
As soon as we were rolling I was keen to establish what other facilities this vehicle could offer me. After a short announcement, I was made aware that the lounge car sat 5 cars away – quite a distance normally but felt like nothing with the prospect of single malt whisky at the other end.
Now when I imagined a train serving whisky, I imagined it serving a cheap blended one and maybe one of the more famous single malts as the variety. I picked up the menu to peruse my assumptions only for the waiter to briskly divert my eyes to the designated Caledonian Sleeper whisky list. To be able to choose whether to venture for the 15 yr over the 12 yr of the same brand is somewhat of a liberty in a static bar regardless of a train. I was warming to this journey.
I made friends with a Scottish guy who told me great tales of this, as of yet, unknown country, including the history of the deep-fried Mars bar and the significance of Hibernian in Scottish football. We were not alone in drinking in this licensed premise either.
This was brought to our attention most by a sudden and consistent screeching accompanied by a forceful deceleration of the train. At the stop, our waiter was hurling accusations at a very inebriated Scotsman. After minutes of discussion between staff members, they confirmed such conclusions with this not so gentle gentleman who adamantly denied the situation. He had just returned alone from the lavatories so, without an alibi, evidence was stacking against him. I left before I saw the outcome but I can only imagine he confused the flush button with the emergency pull-cord…
I awoke to find myself in a dishevelled state and with a complimentary blind fold covering my eyes. Upon removal I gained my first ever glimpse of Scotland out of the window; drizzle and council estates – My ideal holiday location.
Glasgow Central Station was where I made my first wary steps in this multi-storey jungle. I had 50 minutes to kill before my next train journey. Upon saying fair well to my whisky-drinking fellow he pointed me in the direction of Queens Street Station and in return I wished him and his team, Hibs, well in the semi-final later that day – by the looks of things, they used it.
Apologies if I offend anyone, but I really was not that impressed with the city. I know it has a bad press, but I can see why. I wonder if it got its name from a shortening of how you should treat it – ‘glance at it then go’ becoming ‘gla-ce-go’.
I wondered around the Merchant City, the shopping districts and the river Clyde and really struggled to find much of inspiration. One caveat that I must mention include the fact that 7.30am on a Saturday morning with much of the city suffering a hangover is never going to be provide the liveliest of environs. Nonetheless, I was happy to move on.
The train out of Glasgow presented me with more estates but a more novel site – stacks and stacks of wooden barrels. I thought I had maybe dropped a couple of centuries on this mystical locomotive tour to a time when they produced beer in barrels. But no, I was just in Scotland, a place that apparently produces a lot of whisky.
This was the last thing I saw of Glasgow in the daylight as I soon fell into a deep and needed sleep. But when I roused myself at a jerky turn of the train many minutes later, I could not believe what I saw…
I was in New Zealand! It must have been somewhere further up lake Wakatipu, towards Glenorchy, or maybe towards Milford Sound way. Either way, I’d definitely fallen through a very deep tunnel and resurfaced in South Island. Surely.
Or maybe, just maybe, Scotland is delivering the very same scenery that I had only imagined somewhere ridiculously far away and exotic could offer. I spent my childhood summers in Bala, North Wales, so I am no foreigner to the beauty of British mountains but this had a more rugged feel to it. Maybe, all I needed on my gap year was to fall asleep on a train to find somewhere awesome. If more young people realised what was right on their doorstep, would they be tempted away from the most remote corners of the globe and towards the most remote corners of Europe or Britain? I think there may be potential.
After a pool of saliva had amounted close to the window that I had been gawping at for the past couple hours, the train came to a stop in Oban – my holiday destination for the next 8 hours.
Not previously knowing anything about the town other than it produces good Whisky and that my grandparents once came here, I was ready to explore.
First thing to do in every town I visit on the whim, hit the tourist information, tell them how long I have and ask what the heck to do. Doing this in Oban’s respective information point, I was presented with a map and various points highlighted for my benefit. Also, I asked if the island across the way was accessible in my time frame. Good news – it most certainly was.
I began my exploration with a 10 minute calf-busting climb to McCaig’s Tower – a 100 year old remake of the Rome Coliseum apparently. It provides a terrific view of Oban, its bay, the Isle of Kerrera and the Hebridean land masses beyond. Inside it lay a nice little park which would be ideal for hosting bbqs, informal gigs and a variety of events in the summer. Though, I imagine it is youth territory a lot of the time, as the Rough Guide mentioned.
The girl at tourist info had suggested a coastal walk round to a Castle. Lovely walk, didn’t manage to find the castle grounds itself, but it was nice to go for the jolly. Every step I took I could not believe my luck with the weather. I was sweating away in a thin jumper when I had been expecting to sweat away in salopettes trudging through the snow of late. Good work Spring.
Feeling a little peckish I wondered back to the town but not without poking my nose round the door of the Oban War and Peace Museum. Free entry little joint where the lovely elderly volunteers there spend 10 minutes deciding who will make the coffee. Worth a visit if you wanna see what the nose of a German WWII bomb looks like.
Oban is proudly the seafood capital of Scotland. Not that I would know what that tastes like. My hunger drew me close to the nearest chippy. I was amazed to establish just how expensive the fish was. £7.80 for a large Cod and a couple quid more if you fancied chips with that too… Is this what prices are these days? If so, please provide cheaper alternatives. I’m all for weaning the British public away from the same 3 types of fish but do this by variety over out-pricing policies any day. So, I sat with my cheaper, and presumably far less local, scampi and a couple pouches of Heinz’s red stuff on a promenade bench next to some old ladies.
Refueled I began an ambitious journey. I found a sign saying 1 and a half miles to Kerrera Ferry. I knew the captain was finishing lunch at 2pm so if I quick-marched it, I could catch the first afternoon ferry to the Isle.
1 and a half miles is a lot longer than it looks on the free tourist map. Eventually, I was looking across the passage of water towards my island destination to see in the distance, a slightly scraped, single vehicle ferry setting off towards my side. It took me a couple of seconds to establish if it really was moving, but if it was, I had about 800 metres to lose before it landed and began making its return journey. It was moving so the race was on. Performing some jerky half-sprint, half canter, like some suit-wearing commuter late for a meeting, I made it just in time.
Now if you would like to know what the ferry looks like, have a look at its website. It’s a bit more romantic looking than reality, if that is possible. Joined by a slightly confused Scottish couple, I boarded the raft, paid my £4.50 and began pottering across the water.
After a rather more rapid crossing than I was expecting, we were beached up onto the shores of Kerrera. I felt a bit like one of the soldiers landing at Dunkirk but that’s probably because my mind was still in the Oban War and Peace Museum.
So, the Isle of Kerrera. Here we are! #44 is completed. With very few buildings, a couple of sheep looking at me accusingly and the occasional human going about their normal business, it was time to explore.
I had got chatting to the Scottish couple on the ferry. Turns out they were heading to a castle and invited me to accompany them on such an adventure. Lovely people, probably about my parents’ age. They were on a weekend away from their usual residence in Dunblane, a town close to Stirling apparently.
I confessed that, although a Geography graduate, my knowledge of Dunblane was limited to one tennis-racquet wielding, curly-hared resident. It was at this point, that the lady, quite quiet until now, burst out that she was actually Andy Murray’s art teacher when he was at school. Apparently, he didn’t show too much potential, particularly because he spent most of his school time away in the US training. If he’d got his priorities right, he could be a half-decent water colour artist by now… such a shame.
Time was ticking along and there was still no sign of this promised castle. Twas a great shame but I made the decision to turn around, I could not risk being marooned on this island, as lovely as it was. Saying farewell to my walking friends I retraced my steps along the rocky tracks back to the ferry. Past the lone terrace of houses, past the parrot sanctuary that greeted me with tremendous screeches while passing by and past the Royal Mail Postlady who uses a pillarbox red quad bike to make her deliveries – got to be one of the top 10 jobs in Britain.
I did stop briefly to observe the little lambs though. There were some very juvenile creatures that watched me from the safety of their mum’s legs as if I was a postcard photographer making the spring ‘Welcome to Argyll and Bute’ selection. Very cute.
But onwards, and again I was in a race with the boat. I reached the landing site just at the same time as the captain did. Perfect. Except, brandishing his tea mug, he declares the next sailing will be 20 minutes.
This gave me time to make new friends. I met a couple of ladies on their mountain bikes. A fellow Londoner who was up visiting her friend before flying back the following day. Very jealous I was of her twin-pronged transport superiority – she had a bicycle while I had blistered toes; she had aviation while I had Megabus to look forward to. Grrr. Lovely ladies though.
After chatting to them through the return sail I realised that my Dunblane couple had also returned with us. They kindly delivered me back to the town centre, saving me from further growth within my already successful blister colony.
Turns out I had plenty of time left before the Megabus experience. I opted to try out the local youth entertainment. But loitering the streets with a can of Irn Bru soon became tiresome.
It was at this moment that a vehicle I had completely neglected to notice, came into view. Along the sea front, I encountered the most impressive motor scooter you could possibly imagine. See for yourselves but we’re talking self-propelling trailer, headlights, twin GoPros, a tax disc and confirmation of it featuring on Top Gear. To top it off, the trailer was home to a couple of cats. Where on earth was the owner of such a vehicle because I need to meet him!
I found him only a couple of metres away, inside the bar, sipping a pint and updating his blog. He was called Mark and he was riding his mobility scooter around the entire coastline of Britain to raise money for 5 great charities, including the RNLI, a charity close to my heart. I met him 7 days into his 425 day journey and what a hero. Learn more about him and his amazing challenge here and, if you can, show your support from him here. Most importantly, if you are near a coastline, work out when he will be near, go say hi to the cats and buy him a pint!
Inspired with tales of slow transport, I was buoyed up for my 12 hours of road travel before me. Saying farewell to Oban, I hopped aboard a really rather nice coach. I was astounded at how comfy, spacious and clean the transport was. If coach travel was more like the journey from Oban to Glasgow, it would be far from the stigma currently attached to an outdated form of public transport.
Again, akin to my Glasgow train experience, I fell sound asleep only to find myself in New Zealand a few minutes later. All I needed was a couple more sheep, a few more deer and a load more rugby posts in the fields and I would have been convinced.
At one awakening moment, the driver stopped the coach and announced we were stopping for a smoking break for a couple minutes. We were in a place called Invarlay. Very picturesque with big boats, mountains and a lake – perfect picture opportunity…
Satisfied with my successful moment capture, I remounted the coach… But it was taking me longer to find my seat than expected. In fact I barely recognised any of the faces either… I was on the wrong coach.
Trying to maintain an appearance of confidence and purpose, I casually walked off the vehicle praying as hard as I could that there was a twin coach just behind it. The LED lit-up arrangement of dots saying ‘Glasgow’ on the coach behind wiped away hours of stress and countless payments and phone calls to reunite me with all my things.
This was not to be the final adventure of the journey. 14 miles outside of Glasgow our driver appeared to be struggling to shift gears and was regularly on the phone with an engineer back at base. We soon found out that the hydraulics system, that lowers a bus when it stops, had got stuck. As a result we were driving with little suspension and we were prevented from travelling at speeds greater than 28mph without serious bouncing being felt.
20 minutes late but in one piece and with myself and all my things on the same coach, we made it to my favourite place, Glasgow. I had another hour to wander the city and I hoped it was going to get better than my last experience of some 13 hours previous. Of course it was drizzling which didn’t help the mood but at least there was a lot more activity at this time of day.
Wander as I did, I struggled to find anything that really excited me about the city. Lots of bars, particularly a lot of Wetherspoons – must surely be the Wetherspoons capital of the world! Avoiding such premises I decided to go on one last Scottish adventure; a hunt of a delicacy synonymous with the health-conscious of Scotland – the infamous deep-fried Mars bar.
Going from street to street, block to block, I really struggled to find many fish and chip shops. When I did, they were not looking like the kinds of establishments that would be willing to interrupt its non-stop custom for a cheeky Englishman and his touristy concerns. Eventually, I locate it. It was a chippy that wasn’t too busy and he even had a counter packed full of various confectionary. This must be the place.
I asked. It was a firm no. Gutted and a little embarrassed I settled with chips and left. Ah well. I enjoyed my soggy chips while listening to a soggy busker lady playing Mr Brightside to a group of drunken 30yr old men.
Before long, my Scottish adventure was coming to an end. As I staggered passed the ever-helpful Street Pastor army towards the Buchanan Street Station I realised that I’ve had a tremendous micro-holiday. Okay, so I am not that enamoured by Glasgow, but it has some good things (the fact it puts neon lights on all its estate tower blocks and that traffic speed cameras tell you your mph as well as a smiley or frowny face to indicate whether that speed is good or not).
I have realised that I haven’t just completed #1 and #44 on my list. I have confirmed that you don’t have to go all the way to the other side of the world for some breath-taking beauty. If you are lucky with the weather, you could find a slice of the British Isles look like anywhere in the world.
I have also found that you can take 31 hours and turn it into an adventure. Of course you could catch a plane and go on a city break anywhere in Europe in that time. But for me, that is just a bit unimaginative. Travelling overnight on overland travel to randomly selected locations can save you accommodation, allows you to meet amazing people and gives you an excuse to drink a lot of whisky. All of this, for less than £120 – not bad for booking the travel a week before.
Glad my Geography degree taught me something then.
