After being away for nearly four months we are back in Innellan
Right then, settling back into the Innellan rhythm after our travels has been, well, a bit of a kerfuffle. We plunged headlong into a frantic scramble to whip the Airbnb into shape for its first long-term guest – a state of affairs rather like trying to assemble Ikea flat-pack furniture during a small earthquake.
You’ll recall we’ve pivoted towards longer stays, a decision that prompted a micro-renovation of the humble kitchenette. Gone is the rather pathetic microwave replaced by a splendid new all-singing, all-dancing microwave/oven/grill combo, (although the instructions are only suitable for brain surgeons, advanced nuclear physicist or alternatively the ability to decipher Chinese English.) augmented by one of those famous George Foreman grilling contraptions, the sort that promises leaner living while leaving intriguing grill marks on your toast. Between that, the coffee machine, kettle, and toaster, we feel they’ve got the essentials covered for reheating life’s pre-prepared offerings from M&S or Waitrose. Then again if buying from Dunoon the choice reverts to the Co-Op. We’ve been at pains to point out, mind you, that there’s no proper hob. Frankly, the idea of transient strangers juggling open flames and hot oil in that snug space sent shivers down our spines. A fire hazard just waiting for its moment. Besides, experience suggests most souls ending up here aren’t harbouring ambitions of whipping up coq au vin; they’re generally just keen to zap a ready meal without incident. Yet lam sure there will always be the exception.
We’d already tackled the bathroom before we left, back in January, banishing the bath in favour of a spanking new walk-in shower. This wasn’t mere caprice; we’d observed too many of our more mature guests performing precarious acrobatics trying to navigate the old shower-over-bath arrangement. Much safer. The grand vision, gathering dust for the moment, involves constructing an al fresco bathing experience out on the deck. Imagine lounging neck-deep in steaming hot water under a gloriously dark canopy of Scottish stars… clouds permitting, naturally. A splendid notion, currently firmly on the back burner.
Why? Because we returned home to a scene of utter carnage. The January gales, apparently feeling rather left out, had taken savage exception to our fencing. Over twenty metres lay in ruins. The front section, held aloft by metal fixings now resembling shattered abstract sculpture, was particularly hard hit. Elsewhere, sturdy posts were reduced to mere kindling, and two gates had been utterly demolished, rendered so comprehensively unrecognisable you’d struggle to identify them in a police line-up of garden debris. So, my mission, was Operation Fence Resurrection.
We managed to salvage and repurpose some of the timber, waste not, want not, and sourced replacements for the rest. And for once, the task wasn’t a chore conducted under weeping dreich skies. Oh no. We’d seemingly packed the Spanish sunshine in our luggage and brought it back to the Costa del Clyde. It was actually rather blissful to be pottering outdoors. Sunshine! In Scotland! Who could complain?
Well, as it turns out, we could. Because this unaccustomed solar bounty brought its own distinctly Scottish problem: drought. Yes, you read that correctly. Drought. In a land famed for its dampness, its soggy socks, its biblical quantities of rain, its multitude of streams, rivers, and lochs sufficient to drown a small continent… we found ourselves worrying about water levels. It’s the sort of joke only this part of the world could deliver with a perfectly straight face. Months of rain, seemingly stored in some celestial reservoir, and the moment we need a drop for the garden... not a trickle. Truly, Scotland keeps you guessing.
Lately, most evenings and early mornings have found me putting the finishing touches to my musings. Those diary entries, now imbued with a fresh, humorous tone gleaned from literary lessons aboard the Queen Anne, have taken on a new life. With the internet on board the Queen Anne stutteringly slow and uncooperative, uploading to the blog proved impossible. Instead, I took to posting a daily quip on Facebook. To my astonishment, these snippets caught on, amassing hundreds of followers practically overnight. One particular piece proved rather contentious – as one might expect on Facebook – attracting a dizzying 1,300 engagements in half a day.
The upshot? A chorus of followers suggested compiling them into a book. And hey presto, an ebook is now set to launch on Amazon Kindle on the 17th of June.
Uk edition can be found by clicking the following link
2025 Queen Anne World Cruise. A Seasoned Traveller's Voyage Through Wit and Wonder
Meanwhile, we escaped the torrential rain of Scotland and made a trip south to visit our Australian friends, Jill and Chris. The occasion was the 50th wedding anniversary of Jill’s sister, Linda, and her husband Dave – a bash we were delighted to attend. It was splendid catching up with long-unseen friends, though we also pitched in with preparations. We camped in their drive alongside another couple in their motorhome and a lady residing very practically, if somewhat surprisingly, in her horsebox – mercifully horseless. The thought of nocturnal neighing was not one to relish.
Did manage to get out and have a short circular walk along the canal. So lucky with the weather.
Afternoon hike along River Lox on June 6, 2025
The day of the event dawned, and we got everything set up – just in time for the weather to come out fighting. Gales and monsoon rain descended. Thank heavens for Jill’s partner, Chris – all 6’6” of him – who heroically took on parking duties and umbrella-wielding escort service, shepherding guests into the hall with one in each fist. Top marks for effort.
It materialised, however, to be simplicity itself. The organiser had three tablets pre-loaded with distinct Spotify playlists catering to every conceivable taste. Our job? Switch them on, press play, and hand out headphones. Result: 100% audience participation. Marvellous.
We soldiered on with just the grill and a hotplate. For speed, I opted for poached eggs, par-cooked then plunged into ice water for revival later. As guests arrived, Dave valiantly tackled toast, tea, and coffee. Things progressed reasonably well from there, save for a slight hiccup when the toast, neglected during a complex tea-and-coffee manoeuvre (instant and Nespresso – too many balls in the air), decided to achieve a profound shade of charcoal. At least the improved weather allowed people to escape to the garden.
Once cleared up, we had a frantic pack of the van. We were heading back to Scotland with our Aussie friends, stopping at our usual Premier Inn in Carlisle – a charming spot overlooking the graveyard. Very peaceful. The next day, onwards to Perth where they were collecting a motorhome, before the four of us ventured into the Cairngorms.
One slight snag emerged. When I went to retract the electric roof on our van... nothing. The batteries were utterly flat. We hadn’t plugged into mains during our four-day stay, naively hoping the charge would suffice. The imminent roof bed remained stubbornly imminent. Panic ensued as I rushed to find an electrical hook-up... until the embarrassingly obvious solution dawned: start the engine. Power restored.
With cheeks aflame, we bid everyone farewell and set off north on a Sunday. The journey was a classic blend of weekend traffic, diversions, endless roadworks, and pedestrians possessing an almost religious fervour for pressing those crossing buttons. But then, that’s rather the essence of a weekend in the South of England’s expensive commuter belt.
From Facebook to Kindle!
Remember those real-time musings from the Queen Anne World Cruise? They’ve become a BOOK! My candid (& often chaotic!) adventures are gathered in one place. Wit, wonder & questionable buffet choices included.
Kindle Edition lands 17th June! Pre-order/
Uk edition
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FBSGL31T?ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_mwn_dp_W4KT5K4F4N8D72R3320K&bestFormat=true&language=en-GB
Us edition
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FBSGL31T?ref=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_mwn_dp_0N7DRR4CKTWK2A47FQV5&ref_=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_mwn_dp_0N7DRR4CKTWK2A47FQV5&social_share=cm_sw_r_ffobk_cso_cp_mwn_dp_0N7DRR4CKTWK2A47FQV5&bestFormat=true&previewDoh=1
Braemar Bliss: Highland Sunshine, Surprising Snow, and Showers of Perfection!
Right, let’s talk Scottish summer! Forget sweltering Mediterranean heat – here in the Highlands, it’s all about those impossibly long, golden evenings, where the sun seems reluctant to dip below the mighty peaks, and the air carries that unmistakable, invigorating cool crispness. Think average highs of a pleasant 17°C... blissful walking weather.
Ah, but then there’s Braemar! Last night, the thermometer took a rather enthusiastic plunge down to a bracing 3°C. Factor in the wind whistling off the Cairngorms, and let’s just say it felt distinctly Arctic rather than June!
Did we care? Not a jot! Why? Because it was the perfect excuse to fire up the van’s trusty oil heater for its inaugural test. Verdict? Works an absolute treat – seamlessly pumping out glorious warmth. Silent? Ha! Think more ‘contented mechanical dragon’ purring (or perhaps gently growling) beneath the bed. But hey, when you’re cosy as toast inside your tin can while the Highland air nips outside, a bit of background rumbling is a small price to pay. You truly can’t have everything… but this came pretty close!
Our sanctuary? Braemar Caravan Park, run with impressive efficiency by the local estate. Imagine organisation worthy of a military campaign – and honestly, it suited us down to the ground. Gates firmly shut at 8 pm? Marvellous! A strict ‘no loud music or parties’ policy? Absolute bliss! This is tranquillity dialled up to eleven, the perfect base to soak up the truly bucolic splendour of Deeside.
Facilities? Top-notch.Honestly, some of the best I’ve encountered. The shower block deserves a standing ovation: perfectly designed cubicles, loads of hanging space (genius!), a clever curtain to keep your clothes bone dry, and – the real star – copious amounts of gloriously hot water. Pure, unadulterated bliss after a day exploring. The laundry room, however, sparked debate. While perfectly functional, Jill (our resident laundry maestro) declared it worse than navigating "Cunard’s den of vipers"! Only two machines, seemingly on a 24/7 marathon. The enormous drying room? A constant, almost comical cascade of colourful long johns and hiking socks, perpetually overflowing! A minor quirk in an otherwise stellar setup.
Fuelled by a frankly decadent breakfast of muesli drowning in thick cream fraiche (deliciously naughty!) and industrial-strength coffee, we set off. Our target: the ‘Clunie Water’ circular walk, found on the trusty Walkhighlands site. We ambled past the famous Highland Games gathering spot – hallowed ground where the late Queen revelled in the spectacle. Imagine it: a thundering showcase of strength and skill where clan chiefs once picked their warriors! Today, it’s cabers flying, hammers spinning, pipes shrieking, and fierce tug-o-war battles. If they used to do it to prove their mettle against the English... well, nowadays, let’s just say it’s probably more about pulling power of a different kind and serious bragging rights!
The path led us up a lane buzzing with construction. Forget identikit Wimpy boxes – these were extravagant, modern timber palaces for the seriously well-heeled. And the views? Absolutely to die for. Sweeping panoramas over the sparkling River Dee to mountains still clutching pockets of the white stuff (snow!) in their shadowy corries. Just looking at it made me shiver! Thankfully, the sun beamed down benevolently as we descended to the majestic Dee itself, a silver ribbon meandering through the lush valley floor.
Walking its banks was a sensory delight. The piercing, familiar cry of oyster catchers filled the air. Swallows performed aerial acrobatics, skimming the water’s surface to snatch abundant insects. (Why, oh why, didn’t I pack my fly rod? Regrets!). Chaffinches darted, blue tits flitted, and the occasional flash of a vibrant bullfinch added splashes of colour. Eventually, we turned back towards the village, our path momentarily halted by the lively River Clunie joining the Dee. Here, among the frothy, fast-rushing waters tumbling over ancient, mossy rocks, we glimpsed the occasional wild brown trout breaking the surface– a fleeting, magical sight.
Crossing the bridge into Braemar proper, we passed an old derelict hotel, standing forlorn and lonely, seemingly awaiting its fate. Planning notices hinted at apartments over an events space and cinema. Future residents enjoying late-night parties serenaded by Top Gun’s dogfights at full volume? Hmm... Have they really thought this through? Jury’s out on that one!
Lunch called. The pub beckoned, but we were utterly seduced by the siren scent of freshly cooked haddock and chips from the local takeaway. Sitting outside, bathed in glorious sunshine, we dived in. Crisp, golden batter giving way to flaky white fish, accompanied by properly chunky chips* with just the right hint of salt. And the pièce de résistance? Two giant, eye-wateringly vinegary pickled onions. Perfection on a polystyrene tray!
Day Two: Sunshine Amplified!
Woke to skies even bluer, sunshine even brighter! A quick foray into Braemar, then we pointed ourselves uphill (calling the 1765 ft peak a ‘mountain’ felt a tad generous, but it offered splendid views!). This area is the gateway to the Glenshee Ski Area, (just 14km south) – a winter wonderland boasting the UK’s largest lift system. In summer? Their café beckons, and the chairlift offers a lazy way to the top of the Cairnwell for jaw-dropping Cairngorm vistas and access to epic walks. Worth remembering for next time! (*Check www.ski-glenshee.co.uk for details*).
History whispers everywhere. Braemar Castle, that striking pink-hued landmark dominates the landscape. It’s seen it all: 17th-century hunting lodge, Hanoverian garrison, Clan Farquharson stronghold. Now run by the community, it’s a treasure trove of stories – soldiers' graffiti, royal links, Victoriana. The very name ‘Braemar’ comes from the Earl of Mar, whose power base this was. (Fascinating stuff -www.braemarcastle.co.uk for opening times!).
Popping to Ballater on our way to the campsite in Aviemore. The campsite is located by the side of
Lock Morlich.
Found Ballater a delightful place, full of Victorian atmosphere. Couldn’t help but pop into the local butcher for one of his renowned Haggis, minus legs. Yet the piece de resistance was the Scottish pies. Crispy pastry housing minced lamb in gravy. They didn’t last long in the bag. An early lunch.
Then onto Aviemore along the old military road. The high altitude route was truly magnificent.
A musing from @@Musings.Parker
Perched in the top bed of a VW California, you find yourself peculiarly exposed to the whims and vagaries of the entire campsite. At six o’clock sharp, the Scottish early morning chorus detonates with the subtlety of a bagpipe rehearsal. Birds erupt in a frenzy of territorial chirrups, closely followed by dogs, blessed with hearing a hundred times keener than my own, who commence a cacophony of yelps, desperate to escape their aluminium prisons. Nearby, the unmistakable sound of gravel crunching under urgent feet signals the bleary-eyed procession of the bladder-burdened towards the ‘toilet block’ (a term always uttered with a certain grim reverence). Their return is heralded by the apocalyptic roar of the Dyson hand dryers, monstrous devices seemingly designed by someone with a deep-seated grudge against human eardrums.
Adjacent motorhomes rumble to life as gas boilers ignite, pre-heating showers for the zealously early risers. From the paper-thin walls of caravans drift other, less salubrious, bodily symphonies, the unmistakable sounds of those who couldn’t face the pre-dawn trek, resigned instead to the dubious sanctuary of their own chemical loo. This plastic cocoon, invariably wedged with Tetris-like precision between the fold-down bed and the microscopic kitchenette, becomes a chamber of quiet, malodorous desperation.
Six metres away, a fresh drama unfolds. Two determined ‘wee ones’, vibrating with pre-breakfast energy, are already badgering to unleash their bicycles upon the world. Their exhausted mother, voice frayed at the edges, issues a plea for slumber that carries the hollow ring of utter futility. It was never going to happen.
By seven, fully half of the site’s 500 souls are awake and stirring. Roused not by the lark but by a neighbour’s booming laugh, a spirited debate about the inevitable rain forecast, or the industrial clatter of an awning being wrestled down. A ritualistic dance begins, figures emerge to unhook electric cables, while others make the solemn pilgrimage to the ‘chemical disposal point’, a necessary chore.
And yet, amidst this burgeoning anthill of activity, this circus of ants on steroids rushing in ever-decreasing circles – comes the singular, rhythmic counterpoint, the seismic echo of a snorer. Deep in the Land of Nod, utterly oblivious. A monument to human imperviousness, peacefully sawing logs while the world boils around them.
Well, so much for escaping into the solitude of the Scottish Highlands; trading the clamour of the metropolis for mountain vistas, the scent of damp pinewoods, and the faint, rather optimistic hope of glimpsing some rare beastie. Instead, you find yourself plunged into a surprisingly vibrant, and invariably slightly damp, microcosm of humanity. All of us, it seems, are earnestly seeking the same elusive tranquillity, only to discover it comes in very close quarters indeed.
Still, as we laced our boots and wrestled with waterproofs before slipping away into the hills, we could at least console ourselves with the certainty of experiencing actual wilderness. Meanwhile the majority of our fellow campers were already busily packing up, preparing to trundle onwards to their next stop on the great North Coast 500 pilgrimage. It does rather feel like a number-to-number trawl through what was once Scotland’s most serenely scenic quarter. And upon our return? Why, we’d undoubtedly find another earnest tranche of campers, diligently occupying the very same patch of this sacred earth.
Welcome, then, to the alternative countryside. It possesses its own peculiar charm, mind you – a charm largely contingent upon a sturdy pair of earplugs and a constitution of iron.
We said goodbye to Jill and Chris, they are heading up to John O’Groats, they meandering south to Perth where they hand back their hired motor home. For us, it was a relaxing drive back to Innellan. Mainly using back lanes and tracks. Stopped off for a walk at the RSPB site at Insh.
Yet ultimately we had to get back onto the A9, yet we kept the speed down, allowing the boy racers and bikers to take chances. Youth. We were just the same at that age. Invincible. Luckily we found a new road that took us cross country via Crief. Superb, although rather narrow at times. Mountains rose on both sides, and a stream eventually turned into a full blown river. A wild area.
Home safe and sound. Now the most important job of the day. Contact Amazon, try and get the washing machine returned. It arrive September 2024. Broken during delivery. And due to our frequent cruises and days away, it’s still languishing on site. But that’s another good story. You just wonder believe it.
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