Loch Trool – Day 1

It's been less than a month since our last camping trip, but it is starting to feel like a year. I don't know what fuels this urge I have to return to The Nature – perhaps the bed at home is too comfortable, the food too copious and easy to prepare, or the lack of biting insects too conducive to peace and sanity. Whatever it is, it's evident that all this comfort and ease is not going to cut it. It's time to rough it again.

The weather is looking promising, so Mark and I agree on Wednesday that we'll spend the weekend outdoors, and that is about as specific as our plans get. I realise on Friday morning, as Mark heads out to his appointment at the Job Centre, that although the packing has begun and the grocery list has been penned we still have no idea where we're actually going. And so I sit down to find a likely spot the same way I always do: by browsing the countryside via Google Earth. First I scroll North. The Cairngorms are meant to be lovely at this time of year, but the lochs there look difficult to access. I like to camp near water. It's not just for aesthetic reasons, either – when you're carrying everything you need for a 3-day trip into the wilderness, the last thing you want is to haul 10 litres of water with you as well. Wherever there's a loch surrounded by hills, there's bound to be a spring somewhere nearby, or at least a stream you can pretend is freshly sprung by fetching the possibly-brownish water in opaque containers. We should probably invest in one of those water-purifier pumps, or at the least the tablets that do a similar job, but it seems like just one more thing to carry. I'll take my chances with Beaver Fever or whatever the Scottish equivalent might be (Loch Ness Distress? Scots Trots? I'm not too sure.) And so I scroll South a little bit. Northumberland National Park? Oh wait that's in England, I've gone too far. Back to the West and I spot Galloway Forest Park, the Southernmost park in Scotland, boasting such place names as Loch Moan, Clatteringshaws, and Glentrool. It's a very large park and appears to be somewhat accessible by public transport, which is usually the trickiest bit. After an hour of research I have pieced together a feasible route. I have called the bus company to make sure things are running as normal, I have mapped out train times not just for today but also for returning on Sunday, and I have done some reading on the area we will visit. I stumble across a post by some mountain bikers who assert that camping at Glentrool is a "dream", and my eyes are obscured by pre-camping excitement as I scan the next paragraph, something about the largest population in Scotland, and perhaps a mention of midges. I don't bother to read it twice. We are off to Loch Trool!

The train from Glasgow to Ayr is fairly uneventful, the only entertainment brought by a group of small children in matching neon smocks who briefly take over the carriage. They swarm around us and settle on the seats beside us, despite the many empty seats elsewhere. As I puzzle over this Mark leans over to explain it to me. Evidently the guy sitting behind us has a bit of a pedo-esque air about him, so the woman in charge has wisely forbidden the children from sitting near him and asked that they sit with us instead. We chuckle at this, unaccustomed to being seen as respectable citizens.

The second train, from Ayr to Girvan, is an old one that smells (according to Mark) like a rotting Big Mac. We envision gangs of neds* eating fast food as they head home, giving up mid-burger and pushing the leftovers into the air vents, chortling and making obscene comments in their nasal voices as they do so. Mark does an amazing ned impression that just cannot be replicated in text, though I have sat here trying. You can rest assured it was hilarious, so just laugh like you were there.

It's a massive relief to disembark from the stinking train at Girvan station. This where my hand-drawn map will come in handy, and we soon make our way to the nearest Asda to stock up on groceries and insect repellent. We are inside for 15 minutes tops, but by the time we emerge Mark's mood has been dragged into the black pit of despair and irritability that yawns wide any time he sets foot in a shop that doesn't sell computer games. It is an unfortunate handicap that I am constantly forgetting about. I vow to myself that next time I will do the shopping alone, sparing us both the anguish of that terrible chasm. Once thrown in, it takes him a good while to crawl back out again, and on this occasion there are further setbacks when we reach the 'bus stop'. We have dragged our poorly-balanced packs through the streets with muscles crying out at every step, only to discover, upon arrival, that there will be no bus leaving from the Girvan Academy as I was promised over the phone. Everyone knows that school is out for the summer, which is why I called to check on the status of the 15:30 bus from the Academy. Evidently the woman I spoke to is never allowed out of the office (because she was obviously unaware of the season), and now thanks to her presumed imprisonment we are a good 15 minute trudge from the town centre. The annoyance this causes is only amplified by the knowledge that the next bus from the school will not, in fact, be departing until September. The sun is shining and there are flowers all around but nobody is particularly pleased to be stretched out on the schoolyard grass, trying to let our back-sweat dry before we take up our packs once more. We take the opportunity to rearrange the contents of our rucksacks into more ergonomical configurations and then we start walking back in the direction we came from. It is with a real effort of will that we force ourselves out of grumpiness – Mark needs to overcome the hardships of shopping and the letdown of transportation failure while I just have to overcome my annoyance at his irritation (I try to remind myself that he is allowed to have one illogical hangup, considering that I have a monopoly on all the rest of them). Against all odds we manage it, possibly thanks to the Ferrero Rocher gelato we pick up along the way. Pretty soon the streets open out onto a sunlit harbour where idle children play in the grass and unemployed adults recline, looking dopey and stunned as if the sun has reached down and smacked them in the face. This is what Scotland is like in good weather – a whole country filled with people who can't believe their luck. Despite having lived here for a while now I never cease to find it entertaining.

Because the clock is ticking and the next bus that goes anywhere near Glentrool is not for another 3 hours, we decide we'll start walking that way and see if we can get a lift. Although we're on the mainland the small town and the seaside atmosphere make it feel like the islands (where I have hitchhiked with much success in the past), and when a woman on the street greets us as we walk by I am certain we'll have no problem in getting a ride. As we continue down the road I expound upon the friendliness of the locals and their undoubted willingness to share their vehicles with two upstanding, well-spoken, recently-showered, easy-on-the-eyes travellers such as ourselves. No worries! Perhaps the sun is going to my head as well, as it seems unable to harbour a negative thought. They come in to dock – "You are not going to get to the loch before dark"; "Why on earth would anyone pick you up in this hyper-paranoid day and age"; "You are an idiot and should have planned this trip better, what is wrong with you" – but are turned away without so much as an inspection of papers. Hurrah. Here comes the first car now.

4 miles down the way we are still putting one foot in front of the other, arms shaking with the effort of holding our thumbs aloft. We are widely ignored, though some exceptionally clever folks (usually guys in their mid-twenties) give us a thumbs-up back, laughing as if they have just invented the world's funniest joke. It's hard to blame these people for their unwillingness to help. The only hitchhikers I've ever picked up made off with my favourite pipe and a packet of tobacco, and who's going to take that kind of risk twice? Undoubtedly these gentle souls have offered rides to strangers in the past, only to discover, days later, that their Handy UK Road Atlas or the box of kleenex that's been yellowing on the back seat for years has gone missing. So you'll find no attempts at blame here, just a weary sigh as the long walk continues. Glentrool Village is 23 miles away, and hardy as we are even we will not make it that far before dark. We agree to walk as far as we can. Only at the point of collapse will we pitch our tent, and then we'll set out again in the morning.

We've walked about 3.5 miles when we come upon a lorry stopped at the side of the road. The window is open, and I walk past, expecting that Mark will chat the driver up and procure us a ride. As we round the next corner is becomes clear that this was a foolish expectation, and Mark scoffs when I ask him why he didn't do it, rightly pointing out that I, being a youngish and semi-attractive female, would probably have had better luck in any case. I spend the next half mile trying to figure out why I automatically assume that Mark will sort things out. All I can come up with is... laziness? Or perhaps a misguided idea that as part of 'taking care' of me he should naturally and automatically do whatever I find distasteful or uncomfortable, such as approaching strange bearded men in trucks to ask them for rides. Hmm. I am kind of lame that way, sometimes. Fortunately for us both the truck is now back on the road, and as it comes up behind us I steel myself and take advantage of my second chance by putting out a thumb. The man pulls to the shoulder immediately. How friendly! I approach the open window and we discuss destinations. As the road only goes to one place, it is not much of a surprise to discover he'll be driving right past the turnoff to Glentrool Village. He puts our packs in the back and we all climb up into the cab. Hooray for a ride!

It only takes maybe 25 minutes to get to our turnoff. We jump down from the lorry with effusive thanksgiving and wave goodbye to our new friend Robert. We will never see him again but he has been kind enough to save us from a night spent sleeping on the side of a motorway, and for that we will always think of him fondly. He wasn't a bad conversationalist either, come to think of it.

Rain starts to fall just moments after we leave the protection of the cab, but the shower isn't heavy and we're too pleased with our progress to care. It's another 2 miles to the village, and from there a further 4 to the loch itself. The trick is not to think of it as 6 miles; if you break it up into 1-mile segments you can feel a sense of accomplishment after each one, the happy flush of which eases the first half of the subsequent mile. With this method in place we soon cover the distance to the village, outside of which a dog is so excited and stunned by the presence of stranger that he tries to escape his leash to welcome us. The poor woman on the other end of the leash looks slightly embarrassed by the dog's behaviour, while her unfortunate second dog is rolling its eyes in panic and trying to get away from its maniacal leash-mate. A lot of people would stop and pet the dog, soothe it, maybe exchange friendly words with the owner. But Mark and I are not particularly fond of dogs, and when you add this to our general anti-sociability you have a recipe for walking right on by. We know how to get things done. Time we might've wasted talking to an unruly canine is better spent moving forward, and soon we find ourselves outside the Glentrool Visitor Centre.

It is deserted, and judging by the fact that we've only seen one person in the past 2 hours we aren't convinced of its necessity. I am really thirsty by this time, but in an unusual oversight I failed to fill our bottles before setting out, leaving us with a sad dearth of water. I approach the closed-up building hopefully, and am delighted to find an outdoor tap just begging for me to take advantage of it. I call out to Mark (who has gone to fill his bottle in the stream) and giddily, jokingly, express my wish that their toilets might be similarly accessible. As I fill my bottle I am astounded to see that the door to the toilets has indeed been left on the latch. What's more, the tiny room is clean, there's plenty of toilet paper, and there is even a heater installed above the tank which speaks to the kindness and year-round thoughtfulness of the centre's manager. I reflect on the way the youths of Glasgow would trash such a place in an instant, were they to find one so unguarded and temptingly pristine. Strange how an unlocked bathroom can call to mind the deplorable state of civilization these days. I shake off my old-womanish thoughts and we hit the trail once more.

Not far down the road a car packed with neds pulls up beside us, its occupants wondering if we have heard of a certain bothy (a type of basic shelter you can stay in for free in the Scottish countryside) they are trying to find. We are unable to help them, and as they drive off in their car packed to the roof with booze I speculate as to whether the toilets at the visitor centre have been destroyed yet, or not.

"You just can't get away from them!" exclaims Mark as we watch the car disappear around a corner. "You could go to Antarctica, just trying to get away, and they'd be beside you – "Awright, pal? Gies a shot ae yer parka." There's just no escape." The hint of a tremor in his ned imitation, designed to convey the extreme cold of the Antarctic, doubles me over with laughter. He's right though. They're everywhere.

The road we're on is long and not especially exciting once the neds are away. There are, it's true, a lot of trees to be seen, in varying species and sizes, but other than that there's not much. I find myself fascinated by the enormous tar-black slugs lounging in the grass to either side of the road. Each one is at least four inches in length and resembles, in texture and colour, a rubber tire on a rainy day. They move slowly and ponderously through the greenery and don't blend in at all. Do they have no predators? It's unusual to see an animal that makes so little effort at disguising itself. I later read that these slugs have many predators – badgers, hedgehogs, frogs, and carnivorous beetles (!) to name but a few – but the dense forest has yet to reveal any other life forms to us, so perhaps the slugs here don't worry too much. Their mucous-y coating probably boosts their confidence as well, as by all accounts it is quite unpalatable, but I don't get close enough to taste it because Wikipedia describes the mucous as "somewhat difficult to wash off". Thus I content myself with observing them from a distance, calling out "Slug!" every time I see one as if Mark might miss them without my help. He does the same with any mushrooms he spots over the weekend, though – "Mushroom!" – so I guess we're equally easy to amuse.

At about 20:00 we finally come upon a path that leads into the woods, with a sign assuring us that it leads to Loch Trool. There is much rejoicing. Tramping through the forest is more interesting than staying on the road, although it's quite tiring to hop from one dry bit of ground to another with a 25-kilo pack on your back. As we progress deeper into the trees the path becomes even swampier, but we stubbornly continue to choose every turnoff that takes us closer to the loch. Eventually we spot the loch itself – and it becomes clear that Loch Trool is one of those lakes that, at least at this end, has a swamp in place of a shore. There is no way to get to the water without navigating a wide expanse of ferns, under which the only solid footing is offered by clumps of plant life. It's an easy place to break an ankle, and our plans to pitch the tent immediately the loch came into view are ruined. We march ever onward, over moss and grass and reeds and muck, anxious to find any patch of level ground that is at least a meter square. I am feeling okay, having been blessed with a second wind when we turned off into the forest – I find it hard to remember that I'm tired and sore when my mind is taken up with avoiding dangers on the path and admiring the new scenery. Mark, however, is getting progressively more fed up and just wants to stop. The path leads us back into the trees, where there is an expanse of moss large enough to pitch a tent. Mark's eyes light up and he makes it clear he would be more than happy to set up camp here. I step onto the moss to test it out, immediately noting that there is enough water in it to flood my sandals every time I put a foot down. I point this out to Mark, but he is not convinced that we should rule it out as a possibility.

"Everywhere else is just as wet, we won't find anything drier." he tries to convince me. I tell him I'd rather camp on the road itself than in a giant (if soft) puddle full of moss. He eventually agrees to go on, though he's clearly not pleased. We consider a few more spots, knowing deep down that each of them is not very suitable, before eventually settling on the least-swampy one we can find.

As soon as we stop walking the forest explains to us why we have not seen any other people. A dark cloud rises from the undergrowth whilst simultaneously descending from the treetops, enveloping us in an opaque flurry of tiny bodies and miniscule, beating wings: midges. We are reduced to mindless, flailing animals in seconds. I suddenly know the insanity that lives in the mind of the fly-pestered horse you might see at the side of the highway, eyes rolling, tail switching, dancing sideways and generally going mental in an attempt to get away from the insects. I have known pests before: I have spent the weeks of spring in Northern Ontario as the blackflies, mosquitoes, deerflies, and horseflies are hatching, when they all join ranks to consume your flesh; I have walked through a damp forest at dusk with a canoe on my head, no hands available to swat at said pests and therefore allowing them free access to my face, neck, arms and legs; but in all the summers I have spent at cottages and camps I have never seen a swarm of bugs like this. Even the time I (as a child) mistook blackflies for fruit flies and let them devour me while I sat on a rock reading was as nothing compared to this. We dig through our packs in horror, pulling out every article of clothing we have brought and putting it all on. Scarves are tied around faces, woollen socks are worn beneath sandals, and Mark even donates his hat to me because my hairspray seems to be driving the little bastards into a frenzy. This kindness in a time of despair shows the depths of his love for me. If I wasn't so busy continuously sloughing the sheets of bugs from my limbs I would take a moment to be grateful. I debate kissing him but don't want to get midges in my mouth.

The tent is erected in record time. We coat ourselves in bug spray and set up our picnic area at the rear of the tent. We are basically sitting in the middle of a swamp, where Mark tries to light a fire with wood that is damp not only because of the jungle-like humidity here but also because it rained for a few hours, hard, earlier in the day. Even our cooking fuel can't get that wood to light, and after briefly discussing the merits of cooking an actual meal before we retire to the tent (we have walked at least 9 miles today on nothing more than 3 fancy cookies and a few bites of gelato each) but our ability to have a coherent conversation is soon undermined by the bugs, so all the food is tossed inside and we heave ourselves through the door shortly thereafter. Even with our well-honed quick-get-in-the-tent-leave-your-shoes-outside-waste-no-time-zip-the-door-closed-even-as-you-are-still-coming-through-it skills a tiny segment of the midge population has managed to come inside with us, only a few thousand or so. We spend a while smushing them against the sides gleefully as we unwrap ourselves and shake the dead bugs from our scarves and socks. We are, understandably I think, fairly tired from the day's exertions, and as soon as we've eaten some bread with cheese and a few Tunnock's tea cakes we crawl into our sleeping bag and close our eyes.

There are whispers of returning to the city tomorrow lest we lose our minds, but no decisions are reached before we slip into slumber.

TO BE CONTINUED....

*for more info on neds, go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ned_%28Scottish%29

Camper Pas Très Sauvage

Camping in France has the potential to be even wilder than camping in Scotland, if only because we don't speak the language. However, thanks to the lack of access rights or large swathes of uninhabited parkland to invade we are forced to book a place at an actual campsite, with running water, and... um... that's about the only added amenity that's offered, actually. Still, when you're going to be away for 10 days, it's probably not such a bad thing to have access to showers, or sinks to wash your dishes in.

So no complaining here, just a gentle admission that this post doesn't really fit with the theme of the blog. This camping trip is not so wild. Although believe me, we are still camping wherever the hell we feel like it: we really do feel like camping here.

It's an hour-long bus ride from Glasgow to Edinburgh airport, and fortunately the buses run occasionally in the night. As our cheap flight to Marseille leaves at an ungodly hour from a city we don't live in, Mark and I spend the previous day packing, take a short nap, and then hit up the bus station at 3:00 am. The weather in Glasgow is pretty typical: 8 degrees and raining. The weather in Marseille, however, has been forecast at 28 degrees and sunny, which leaves us with a bit of a quandary about how to dress when leaving the flat. When you're a backpacker, forced to carry all you need on your back like a snail or some other lowly creature, it is of genuine importance that you avoid bringing unnecessary items on any trip. The heavy leather jacket that could keep you warm on your way to the airport will become nothing but a burden the instant the plane lands, and you will spend a good number of hours lamenting your weakness in bringing it as you stumble wearily from one place to the next, trying to find your campsite.

"Oh, woe is me!" you'll be crying as the leather sticks first to the sweaty arm you've rolled it up under, then to the damp back of your neck when you strap it to the top of your pack. You'll find yourself trying to open the top of your partner's pack like a pickpocket, but instead of removing valuable goods you'll be gently depositing the hated garment, hoping the added weight won't attract undue attention.

To avoid all of this – because I know that Mark would totally notice if I tried those shenanigans on him – I leave my warm jacket on the coat stand, though not without trepidation. I'm wearing a floor-length jersey sundress, a scarf, a cardigan, a hat, and hand-knit socks with sandals. It is not a great look, but I try to stamp down my vanity enough to let me leave the house in such a getup. It goes against everything in me, but I do manage. Socks and sandals in the rain is not a clever choice of footwear, but if you see the above situation with the leather jacket and just replace "jacket" with "shoes" you'll see why I couldn't persuade myself to bring anything but sandals. In France, by all accounts, it basically never rains, so what will I need with close-toed shoes?

Mark is similarly attired (not in a sundress though) but he is much less whiney than I am about it. He doesn't care what he looks like, which is something I could do with a dose of.

We sort of doze off on the bus, and the hour-long ride passes quickly. Thanks to the cleverness of another airport-bound passenger we realise there is a stop within walking distance of the airport, which will save us a good twenty minutes and the price of a second bus fare. My legs are numb by the time we reach the terminal, but for once I hardly even complain.

At the check-in desk I am forced to move a towel from the checked luggage to hand luggage, and then, miraculously, the bag is within the limit. Considering the amount of heavy camping and cooking gear we are carrying with us, I can only pray that they don't demand to weigh our carry-ons. The day airlines start to enforce their carry-on luggage weight restrictions will be the day that I am forced to stop traveling.

The flight is a typical Ryanair experience, making me wonder if we should have paid double to fly with a real airline. It does land safely though, which is the main thing. As we walk down the staircar steps to the tarmac a deliciously warm breeze wafts over us and the French sun greets us with a hearty 'Bonjour!'. I stop to remove my socks. I could camp out right on this runway and still have a good vacation. As much as the weather at home doesn't usually bother me, once a year or so it is nice to feel the sun on your face, or to plan a picnic a few days in advance knowing that you have a 99% chance of actually going ahead with it. Hooray for vacations! And if being in the sun is good, well, not being at a desk in the basement of an office building talking to moronic customers all day is even better. I'm pretty sure Mark would second this sentiment.

A few short hours after arrival our train pulls into the station at La Couronne. This is my third trip to the South of France, and the filthy, tumble-down railway shelter recognises me and pretty much screams "you're about to have an awesome time!". I knew it already. We walk the short road to the centre of the village, where our favourite cafe is continuing business as usual. First stop: deux pain au chocolat et deux crème, s'il tous plait. It is so good to be back!

The next ten days are not actually all that eventful. In the mornings we walk 25 minutes from the campsite to the village, where we have the same pain au chocolats and the same sweet milky coffee every day. Then we do a little grocery shopping, usually involving not much more than bread, cheese, wine, and pasta. Upon returning to the campsite we pack up a cooler for the day and hit the beach, always the same shady cove that saves our pale hides from the blistering sun. After this the day consists, for me, of reading, eating, spending twenty minutes trying to coax myself into the freezing Mediterranean while Mark watches in exasperation from the water, swimming, sitting in the sun briefly to warm up, and more reading. Thanks to the shiny new kindle my parents have surprised me with I am never short of books, and average about 2 per day. Around 6 or 7 pm we will usually go back to the campsite and slowly make some dinner on our favourite camp stove, then read or walk on the beach until we're sleepy enough to go to bed. It is a delicious and relaxing way to while away the days, but of course we do, very occasionally, mix it up a bit.

One day in the afternoon we decide to take a walk to the next village over, a place called Carro that boasts a large sandy beach and, therefore, a mass of super-tanned French people and a strip of surf shops and ice cream stands that cater to them. Mark needs a new hat, because the one I bought him last year somehow ended up in the laundry hamper and then, logically, in the washing machine, and came out misshapen and depressing to look upon. Mark blames me for not sorting the clothes, but I blame him for letting it fall into the hamper in the first place. What, am I supposed to look at every individual item I put in the machine? Who has that kind of time!? Mark maintains that I should have learned my lesson from the time his brand new leather gloves went through a similar experience, but once again, if it's in the hamper I am well within my rights to wash it. Perhaps, I counter, it is he who should have learned from that past experience and stopped putting inappropriate items in with the laundry? Or, failing that, stopped piling up so much stuff on top of his dresser that inappropriate items have no choice but to slide off the pile and into the laundry.

Or perhaps we can just agree to blame it on gravity.

Regardless, Mark definitely needs a hat of some kind. He is not known for his cleverness when it comes to putting on sunscreen or remembering to stay in the shade at high noon, so a hat might be his only chance of still having skin on his face by the time we head home. We spend half an hour picking our way along the beautiful, rocky coastline to get to the other beach, and once there have to cross a large expanse of sand full of mostly naked people to get to the shops. I avert my eyes, as nothing good can come of comparing oneself to the fit, confident French ladies who work on their tans all year and see no need for bikini tops. Mark has no such hang-ups, so it takes a while to get to the pavement. Just as we reach the end of the sand I notice a family of sunbathers engaging in a photoshoot. There is a girl of about 6 or 7 throwing a ball in the air and catching it, striking more and more ridiculous poses with every catch. Her camera-wielding father is laughing so hard he can barely focus, and I keep watching, trying to understand why it is so funny. The mother has a faintly disgusted look on her face, but that makes sense as she is in the middle of changing a baby. A baby. Something clicks, and that's when I realise that the child is not playing catch with a ball – it's playing catch with a dirty diaper. I grab Mark's arm and make him aware of the situation. It goes on far longer than you would believe possible. At first, the young girl is simply tossing the diaper up and catching it with her hands, but her father's laughter encourages her to come up with ever-wilder schemes. She leans over to throw the diaper through her legs, with a look of triumph on her face at having thought of something so clever. As it comes down, I see her brow furrow in thought. Then her eyes light up in delight and she runs to meet it, timing it just right so she can get underneath the plummeting packet of feces and bounce it off the top of her head. Her father, her mother, Mark and I all nearly die. The girl is running ecstatically through the sand, on fire with knowledge of her amazing showmanship skills, and anxious lest someone else retrieve the diaper before she can get to it and begin all over again. I can hardly take it. It is tempting to stay and watch, knowing that at some point the diaper must burst open, but on further reflection such a sight would likely give me nightmares for a long time to come. So we leave the beach and head towards the surf shops.

A massive cup of gelato and a new hat later, we are ready to head back to our site. There is a massive staircase running up the cliff on one side of the beach, and since Mark is well known for never wanting to "go back on himself" it is decided that we will climb those stairs and find a different way back. At the top we walk through a parking lot, and then along a road for about 2 minutes tops before we come to an intersection we recognise.

"Wait." Mark says, hesitantly. "Isn't that the old folks' home? Surely there can't be two of them?" He is pointing towards a swanky apartment block that we recently discovered to be a seniors' residence, and which we have decided we want to be sent to if we live long enough to become old and senile (family members reading this, take heed!). He is right in that one tiny village can't possibly support two upscale residences like this, and therefore, we must be pretty much at the campsite already! It turns out that the half hour long trek we made to the other village was by a very circuitous route, and it is actually possible to walk from one to the other in a matter of minutes. We are not sad to be spared further trudging under the hot sun. As much as I love the beautiful weather, my appreciation soon wanes if I am left shadeless for more than a few minutes at a time. Mark can attest to this, as later on the same day we stupidly decide to walk to the *other* sandy beach on the opposite side of our cove, which is a good 45 minute hike on hot tarmac and across arid plains. By the time we reach the tiny ice cream hut that sits at the parking lot entrance, I am little more than a moving (and whingeing) puddle. Mark has to take charge and goes to procure some ice cream to revive me with, even leaving me his hat lest I expire from two more minutes in the open sun.

The days go on much like this, with a few sunburns here and there (for Mark, that is) to mix things up a little. There is also a German guy who sets up camp across from us for a few nights, traveling by himself. Upon arrival he exits his car wearing nothing but a pair of saggy grey underpants and an unbuttoned shirt. It's lovely that he is so unselfconscious, but I kind of wish he'd go do it somewhere that I wouldn't have to see him. It doesn't seem like a big deal, and I suppose it's not, but it does put you off your dinner when you glance up and see an old-man bum waving in the air as the bum's owner obliviously searches for things in the trunk of his car. I'm still pretty young, and I was hoping to avoid such sights until Mark's at least 30 years older. And even then, I'm pretty sure he won't be a) wearing greying underpants or b) forgetting to wear shorts in public places. And if he is I'll be packing him off to the Résidences Personnes Agées quick as you like.

When you're living like this you would be forgiven for forgetting that you ever had a job, or a flat to pay for, or any responsibilities other than making sure the ice packs in the cooler are switched out every day before the office closes. And the time just flies. Soon enough there's only two days of our holiday left, and we are trying to make every moment count. Instead of heading to the campsite to cook dinner, we bring dinner to the beach. Our portable stove seems even better than it already did (sounds impossible, I know!) when it is balanced on shells and sea-glass in front of a driftwood fire. All of the German tourists and French holidaymakers abandon the beach as the shadows lengthen, retreating to their well-equipped caravans or the expensive restaurants scattered throughout the region. We have the cove all to ourselves. We're camped out on a picnic blanket, with plenty of soft warm clothes and candles for when the sun goes down. Mark concentrates on collecting kindling for the fire while I – surprise – read. As the sun begins to set, fish start jumping everywhere you look, and flocks of clean, proud seagulls (so different from their city-living counterparts as to be another species altogether) fly overhead on the lookout for an easy target. We watch as one bird circles the water directly in front of us.

"It looks like that seagull is hunting." I say. "They don't pick fish right out of the water, do they?" Mark doesn't know. I have seen hundreds, probably thousands of seagulls in my life but I have never seen one eating anything other than human food. The bird circles again, then beats its wings quickly to stay stationary as it studies the surface. It swoops and, disappointingly, lands quite normally with its feet in the water. But wait! After a few second of awkward grappling, the seagull rises back into the air with a small fish in its claws. Triumph! You can tell that Mark and I don't get out much by how long we sit there, reliving the moment. Who knew a seagull could put on such a show.

Night has pretty well fallen by the time we light the fire and it's as good a time as any to start on dinner. We'd splurged on some tasty parmesan cheese and cream that morning, and although we're cooking on the beach we have decided not to let that stop us from cooking up a nice fettucine alfredo. It takes a lot longer than usual to bring the sauce to a boil, but we've got all the time in the world. The stars start to show themselves as I cook the pasta, with Mark sitting beside me roasting hot dogs in the fire. It turns out that alfredo sauce is delicious with hot dogs, and we are just classy enough to go there. I am pretty thrilled to be sitting on the beach, gazing out over the Mediterranean, while eating one of my favourite dishes with my favourite man.

There are a few wild housecats that like to roam the shore, which somehow contributes to the magic of the evening. I don't know why I find cats on the beach so strange, but their wary presence at the edge of the firelight does add a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole experience. Our dinner finished, we have a few drinks and puzzle over the tiny lights that seem to be drifting in the water. Mark decides he wants to go swimming. I immediately agree that it is a great idea, because in theory, it is! But considering how long it takes me to coax myself into the water during the day, I have serious doubts about my ability to ever manage it at night. Mark wades in without hesitation and is soon floating on his back, taunting me with exclamations of wonder as he looks up at the sky. I stand on a slippery rock, knee-deep in water, trying not to fall in. Every few seconds I wave my arms wildly in an attempt to maintain my balance. I am overtaken by the fear that I will take so long to get in the water that Mark will have had enough, and then I'll be the first thing the sharks eat when they inevitably come to investigate the intruders on their territory. This thought somehow spurs me on, and I splash myself repeatedly with the icy water, trying to accustom myself to its unfortunate temperature. During the day Mark and I enjoy mocking the timid women and girls who employ this splashing method of acclimatization, but I have dropped my cynical and judgemental mindset and decided to do whatever it takes. Mark continues to mock me though.

After a good fifteen minutes of tottering on that rock, I finally fall into the water, shrieking like a wimp. But Mark was so right – it is absolutely beautiful once you're in. I swim towards him with my teeth chattering, and then we hold hands as we float on our backs, admiring the impressive display of stars. There is no moon, and there is not enough light pollution on the coast to have a detrimental effect on stargazing. Thus we are able to see as many, if not more, stars than I have ever seen lying on the dock at my cottage. The Milky Way puts in an appearance as well. I look down into the water (against my better judgement, because I will probably see a shark) and am amazed to see tiny lights floating around me. Every time I move my arms or legs the lights cluster and ripple around me like tiny drowning fireflies. I am utterly enchanted.

Eventually we lose all feeling in our limbs and have to head back to the shore. It's so dark out here that we are grateful for our campfire, without which we could end up accidentally swimming to Greece. Getting out of the water proves difficult, however, even with the firelight. The seabed here isn't sandy and smooth, but rocky and slimy and sharp, requiring great fortitude and an unnaturally high pain tolerance to navigate in bare feet. Mark has had a few beers and has been in the water rather longer than I have, and his frozen legs refuse to cooperate. He falls down repeatedly. It's hilarious.

When I'm finished laughing I help him out of the water, and we settle on the blanket near the fire, trying to coax some feeling back into our shivering bodies. This is almost better than the swimming itself – the slow tingle of nerve endings coming back to life, the light-headedness caused by nearly dying of hypothermia, and the almost-painful warmth of the fire pit rocks my toes are curling around gratefully. I don't think I have ever been happier, and looking at Mark I can see he's thinking the same thing. Back when the seagull caught the fish he had already told me that this was the best day of his life, and I would be willing to bet it's gotten even better. I am smiling foolishly at nothing when Mark startles me out of my reverie. He's kneeling beside me, and takes both of my pale cold hands in his own.

"I don't have a ring, but... Andrea Heins, will you marry me?"

I flip out a little bit in my head as I realise he's completely serious. I have known for a long time that I would happily marry the loving, talented, goofball of a man who now kneels beside me, so I look up at him with tears in my eyes and tell him that I would love to. This is the best day of my life.

A few other things probably happen before we get on the plane home; more ice cream is undoubtedly consumed, further swimming expeditions are undertaken. But most of it is lost in a haze of sheer bliss, so just know that we do indeed tear ourselves away from the French soil, and make it safely home. And then I get a sparkly gorgeous ring which I have a more girly reaction to than I ever anticipated.

One day next summer we'll get married, and from what I hear it's all downhill after that.

the Forecast

It's all very well to plan a fortnightly camping trip. To get the food prepared, the gear ready, and the schedule organised. But come departure day there will always be just one, tiny, 78,772km² problem: this is Scotland. It might be beautiful and full of majestic vistas, but this can be hard to appreciate when your tent, clothes, and shoes are wet and freezing and there's so much rain dripping off your forehead that you might as well be trying to see those vistas through a waterfall. It's okay if you've managed to get everything pitched and ready before the rain sets in, and I'd be on my way to some hillside this very minute if I thought there was any chance of that. But the forecast for today and tomorrow calls for one thing and one thing only: rain. Rain, rain and a 60% chance of more rain. Even though the sky is a pristine and cloudless blue at the moment, bitter experience has taught me that if we take the risk and the weather doesn't hold, the cost of our recklessness will be high.

When I lived in Canada I was once the director of a leadership program at a small, no-frills camp in Northern Ontario. By frills, I am referring to such things as running water, or beds. So it was really more a semi-permanent wild campsite. As part of their training, I was required to take my group of 10 teenagers on a 5 day out-trip. By no means was I qualified to do this. Despite having grown up attending another, slightly more luxurious summer camp (I can still remember the way your cheek would stick to the plastic coating on the mattress if you accidentally strayed from your pillow, and the battle to limit any visits to the toilet facilities in an effort to avoid exposing one's tender areas to the swarms of mosquitoes and colonies of spiders in every corner. Unpleasant, perhaps, but luxurious in that there were beds and toilets to be had) which offered classes in things like 'paddle strokes', I'd never had the chance to try my fancy skills in anything other than perfectly still water. And to be honest, even that experience was limited; most of the paddle-in-water time I'd clocked was accomplished by sitting cross-legged on the edge of the dock, dipping the paddle into the lake and pretending to be in a canoe. I thought I was a brilliant navigator but it turns out almost anyone can keep an unmoving dock on course, even without a paddle or the ability to execute a flawless J-stroke. Needless to say, my confidence in my ability to handle rapids and waterfalls was not particularly high.

Battling the wind on the outskirts of Georgian Bay

I survived 2 ½ days of the out-trip with only minor difficulties. After getting over my initial terror of rapids I managed to run a few courses of them pretty successfully, only tipping my canoe once in an attempt to clear a small, narrow waterfall about 4 feet high. I did accidentally smash my head off a rock under the waterfall, and then proceed to nearly die of panic because every time I surfaced I was trapped under a canoe with an ever-diminished air bubble in it, but eventually I prevailed. So things were going relatively well. Or seemed to be, anyway, given my concussed state.

But then came the rain. Our situation was already looking pretty grim, as our scouts had neglected to scout quite far enough ahead, and as a result we had ended our last portage too early. All the canoes were back in the water, and we rounded a bend to find a set of unmanageable rapids pulling us in with alarming strength. Everyone battled to reach the side of the river before getting sucked into the gauntlet, but even though we were all successful our problems were far from over. We could see that portaging from our present location would be near-impossible, even without the rain. On both sides of the river, the land rose up in angles not far off 90 degrees. And thus, already soaked to the bone, we spent 3 hours emptying the canoes, guiding them down the rapids one by one, and then ever-so-carefully hauling our gear downriver like spiders: clinging to the rockface with hands and feet and trying not to let our heavy packs pull us down into the dangerously swift water. Dusk was creeping up by the time we got everyone and everything to safety. Unfortunately, the landscape hadn't changed much and there was no way to pitch the tents on such steep slopes. That's how we ended up still on the river as night fell, rainwater rising in the bottoms of the canoes, and blind terror rising in our hearts. Or mine, at any rate. I am not a very brave person at the best of times – the fear of a painful or drawn-out (or anything other than a peacefully-in-her-sleep) death keeps me from enjoying many things in life – and it had taken all my courage just to steer my canoe down rapids at all, never mind attempting it in the dark. But of course the river could not continue smoothly. Inevitably there was a patch of extremely rough water before the land to either side of river finally began to level out.

I'm pretty sure I came very close to dying of panic in the five minutes it took to guide my canoe through the unseen dangers of the rapids. But I made it to the bottom, where I felt as much like I'd survived a battle as I am ever likely to. Euphoria! In the proper sense of the word. I am rarely worried enough to feel euphoric when things take a turn for the better, but in this case, I am embarrassed to admit that my reaction to the night-rapids was to believe I wouldn't survive, and thus my response on coming through successfully was equally disproportionate. Despite the rain, despite the cold, despite the fact that two of my 17-year-old charges had ended up in the river, I felt amazing! But it was not to last.

By the time we pulled our canoes to shore at a flat stretch of ground, the sky was impossibly dark. And despite all the horrors that had gone before, this was when I really discovered how awful it is to camp in the rain. You pull your tent from your bag, only to discover it's already wet. It takes three people an hour to pitch it, because the fabric is sticking to itself and the sodden channels through which the tent poles should go are just not having any of it. On the plus side, the tent pegs require no coaxing upon sliding them into the muddy ground. On the down side, however, they slide right back out again the moment the wind picks up. Which it does. Repeatedly. There comes a depressing point where it's still not pitched quite right, but you are so cold and fed up and hungry that you can no longer be bothered fighting with it, so you turf your gear inside to prevent it blowing away and retreat to attempt a campfire.

I'm still not sure how the fire ever got started. I remember digging around with bare hands in the frigid muddy ground, trying to get below the layer of leaves to find some dry kindling. I also remember a fair amount of flammable liquid being poured onto the kindling as encouragement. Whatever it took, we did succeed in getting it going, or I may not have made it through to be telling you this today. The kids all gathered round as we began to cook up a big pot of mac n' cheese. Flashes of lightning every few minutes illuminated our pale, sallow faces, so eager in their hunger, and the sad, sagging attempts at shelter pitched behind the firepit. The food smelled amazing. At long last the pasta was tender and the sauce was mixed in, and everyone rushed the pot at once. Ah selfish humans, see how your greed is your undoing! For now your mac n' cheese is all spilt upon the dirty ground, and you are so hungry you will scoop it up again. Down on hands and knees each of you will grasp handfuls of pasta, pine needles, and mud, and you will be thankful for the darkness that hides what you are forced to eat from your finicky eyes. But darkness can't hide the sharpness of a pine needle when you try to swallow it. No, it cannot.

Surprisingly, even with our bellies full no one feels much better. It's so cold, though, that our expert out-trip guides force us to do the hokey-pokey. And then the macarena, and a conga line, and that Sunday School one about father Abraham having many sons. Finally they judge that our heart-rates are restored as fully as possible, and we are allowed to crawl into our damp sleeping bags and attempt unconsciousness. It is mainly this scene – 13 depressed people doing the hokey-pokey in the rain with mud around their mouths – that deters me from heading to Loch Glentool today as planned. The only thing sadder than 13 people in the situation previously described would be 2 people in the same, one with a Scottish accent who I'm pretty sure would be pure ragin and like as not to be substituting profanities for all the lyrics of the songs. Even after relating all this I am kind of tempted to go, but it would have to be alone as there is no chance of Mark leaving his armchair today. And I just can't be bothered being miserable by myself.

Overturned canoe the morning after the storm

Loch Lubnaig

It’s the Thursday before a bank holiday weekend. A royal wedding that is otherwise pretty meaningless to my daily life has resulted in an extra day off work, and the last thing I want to do with it is to sit and watch said nuptials. I’m sure the bride will be lovely and the hats will be of unbelievable proportions, but even still. I have better things to do.

Mark and I have planned a camping extravaganza! But the Post Office’s close of business has come and gone, and the only bit of camping gear we’ve received so far has been our double adventure mat (which, I realise, is pretty awesome all by itself – it must be with a name like that, double adventure! – but even though it is “guaranteed to provide you with all the warmth and comfort you need for a good night’s sleep” we are reluctant to brave the wilderness without any further protection). We are settled in the living room with novels and computer games, resigned to a weekend like all the others that have come before when suddenly there’s a knock at the door.

“It’s 9:15! Who on earth could that be?” I ask Mark, but in typical fashion he ignores my unanswerable question and keeps on pwning noobs. I jump up and run to the door, quickly straightening my hair so as to look a bit more presentable. Upon opening it, though, the man standing there tells me with his face that I haven’t succeeded. I look down in shame. And realise that I’m wearing a tiger-striped onesie with ears on its hood.

The man recovers first. He is sweating and breathing heavily, and for the first time I notice the oversized box at his feet. He proffers the electronic signature-taker thing that there is probably a word for, wishes me a happy weekend, and trots off down the stairs. I squeal something unintelligible at Mark and rush back into the living room with the box, whereupon he looks over and unexcitedly says “Oh, the tent. Huh.” I tear the box open and immediately remove all the packaging from our fancy new stuff: one 3-berth, double layer tent with porches at front and back, and a trangia spirit stove complete with two pots and a frying pan that all packs up in a tidy lightweight bundle. I’m in gear-induced heaven! Nothing I love more than really top-quality stuff that lets me go do other stuff in a professional manner. However, there’s still one thing standing between us and an idyllic weekend at Loch Lubnaig: our undelivered sleeping bag.

We do have sleeping bags already, but they are of the super-cheap, ultra-hot-weather variety (little more than a sheet sewn in half, really) and will not be sufficient to let us sleep through an April night in Scotland. And so I try to temper my excitement with a little realism, and once again the trip is off.

Cue Friday. At Westminster Abbey a middle-class girl is about to become a princess, meanwhile another girl of similar upbringing (namely, me) is about to go grocery shopping. I suppose you could say I’m in the less exciting situation, but thanks to that much-loved Kate Middleton the shops will be deserted so it works out in my favour nonetheless. I am calling “bye!” to Mark over my shoulder as I exit the flat, and nearly fall on my face tripping over the big box left outside the door. What’s this!? Our sleeping bag? Delivered on a bank holiday!? It’s a backpacking miracle! I am instantly even more excited about our now-unstoppable trip than I was before, because obviously everything has been coming together to make it possible, and therefore it will be the best thing ever. Mark seems somewhat less excited. This could be because he had already overcome his disappointment about the cancelled trip and begun looking forward to a weekend of gaming, or alternately he could just appear unenthused next to my (over the top?) jubilance. In my defence, I have been working really long hours. It will be nice to get out of the city.

I’m ambling through Queen’s Park on my way to the supermarket, enjoying the strange solitude, when I stumble upon a group of children on a hill. I’m glad there are at least a few other people in the country who aren’t glued to the television right now, I think. But then I get closer. The children are throwing daisies at each other, emitting gales of forced laughter and not-quite-real glee. Then I notice the photographer, weighed down with loads of professional equipment. And then, getting even closer, I realise that the children are wearing matching t-shirts with a picture of “Wills&Kate” printed on the front. This is the first indication that the service might be over, and it also gives me some insight into how deeply some citizens are taking the royal wedding to heart – I am imagining the parents who hired this photographer, and the album they will create from these ridiculous photos, and it scares me.

There is a long grocery shopping trip, with many calls to Mark about potential purchases. Mark hates to shop, and also hates talking about shopping, and further dislikes planning things “when somebody is constantly asking me useless questions that have no answer”. And because of this, he gets fed up with the trip preparations before I’m even halfway ready to go (perhaps I shouldn’t be asking his opinion on every sock, torch and matchstick I am thinking of bringing?), forcing me to step up my packing to an unhealthy speed almost as soon as I return from the shops. There’s no way everything will be remembered with this sort of negligence! Mark is downstairs smoking and I’m running around in a frenzy trying to put the final items in my rucksack. On the way to the train station I discover he wasn’t trying to hurry me, he just went out for a smoke. Oh. For that I left the towels, wet, in the washing machine, where they will develop my least favourite smell in the world by the time we get home? And forgot a camera of all things?! I should really stop reading impatience into every cigarette.

Finally, we’re on the train. It’s only about an hour to Stirling, through lovely countryside and with a donut to keep us entertained on the way. Upon arrival things are looking grim. The sky has darkened, it’s kind of raining a bit, and everyone we encounter at the bus station is either creepy or creepy-by-association-with-the-other-creepy-folks. We shiver in the strong wind and wait for the bus.

It’s a shocking £4.50 each for a one-way ride to Callander, but we don’t argue because we are quite keen to get away from that unsettling bus station. After a while the price starts to make sense anyway, because the bus seems to travel in concentric rings that allow each passenger to disembark almost at their doorstep. In this way we see some of the lesser-known marvels of Scotland, including a town square with a clock tower that is only 1.5 metres tall but has the huge face of a much more impressive structure, the World’s Ugliest Church, and an exciting wildlife specimen that was definitely swimming in the river but that Mark says I imagined. There are also fields full of sheep, and darting between them are the tiniest lambs you ever saw. Oh, they’re so tiny. And some of them have little tiny black faces and tiny black legs, which is my favourite kind of lamb. I can hardly handle it.

Mark’s favourite kind of lamb is the kind on a plate.

Eventually, after many winding roads and just as I am starting to feel really motion sick, we arrive in Callander. The sun’s not out but it isn’t raining, so we hoist our heavy rucksacks and set off down the road.

Because we rarely plan anything properly, we aren’t actually sure how long of a walk it’s going to be to Loch Lubnaig. Mark keeps saying we’re nearly there, but then it usually turns out that we’re not, and everybody’s getting kind of footsore, weary, and, in my case at least, a bit whiney. The fancy gear is not quite as light as it could be. The scenery is undeniably gorgeous but kind of ruined by the busy road we’re walking along. At long last (after 3.6 miles, as google maps later confirms) the river starts to widen, and from there it’s only another 2.1 miles to the middle of the loch. Finally we stumble down a steep verge to the lakeside, nearly colliding with a guy who’s chopping down one of the few trees left in the area. The beach is fair hoachin’ (you would call it busy) with tents and families and fires. Mark and I are practically notorious for how little we enjoy spending time with strangers, and are not relishing the thought of spending the weekend in such close proximity to really loud children and soon-to-be-drunken youths. We stand around dejectedly for a while, and then Mark decides to cross the loch. Despite the plethora of tents on the East bank, there is not a single one on the West. As there are no bridges or stepping stones or zip lines we figure it’s down to the lack of access, but we’re not like everybody else so that sure as heck isn’t going to stop us. Mark rolls up his trouser legs and wades in, just below a very small dam with water flowing over it. I’m thinking to myself you should really be walking above it, where the pressure of the water hasn’t made it deeper but he’s too far out and looks really determined so I just leave it. He’s slipping around on the mossy rocks, nearly falling over, getting a bit soaked, and then quite suddenly he is across. I applaud loudly, much to the amusement of the tree-felling couple behind me. Mark drops his rucksack and crosses back (this time above the dam, thanks to my shouted, expert outdoorsman-type advice) to find me dragging my heels in reluctance. I have no desire to end up in a freezing cold loch (it really is very cold), I am not wearing submersible footwear, my trousers are too tight to roll more than halfway up my calves, the wind is definitely going to blow me over, and I can provide a host of other great excuses at a moment’s notice. But Mark is not taking no for an answer. Eventually we reach a solution: I will remove my boots and tie them around my neck. Mark will shoulder my pack. I will carefully, in sock feet, teeter from stone to stone right at the edge of the dam (it’s only about half a foot high) while Mark, in sandals and therefore more sure-footed, will walk beside me and hold my hand for balance. In this way we will provide a good 10 minutes of priceless entertainment for everyone on the East bank whilst simultaneously winning ourselves a secluded encampment on the West.

It is past 7:00 by the time we pick a site, our feet numb with cold and the rest of us numb from the gale-force winds. The sun is on its way down as we pitch our new tent for the first time, slowly, having to chase it down every few minutes when it is blown away. We do manage though, and Mark proves great at stomping tent pegs into reluctant ground after I have failed to do so with my girly hands. Which later have bruises from my efforts.

Exhausted and freezing, we climb into the haven of a tent and out of the wind. The first part of the adventure is successfully completed! I find myself wondering whether most people feel such an out-of-proportion sense of accomplishment upon pitching a tent.

An hour out of the wind is sufficient to restore some feeling to our limbs, so we pile on all the clothes we’ve brought and go out to gather wood in the dark. Our flashlights are both the self-powered kind, and while this is really convenient it also means that, as far as illumination goes, they are a bit crap. But mine is shaped like a cow and has light coming out of its mouth, so that makes it worth it, doesn’t it?

A few near-falls into a stream hidden by darkness and a touch of methylated spirits later and the fire is roaring away behind the tent. We spread out a picnic blanket and huddle in the lee of the tent; our eyebrows singeing every time the wind changes. And then it’s time for the debut of the new camp stove! Of all the new gear the trangia stove is my very favourite. Things that are both well designed and food related tend to hold my attention rather longer than simply well designed ones. We cook up some tomato soup accompanied by buttered baguettes, and then I remember why I love camping so much: every tiny bit of food tastes amazing (and that is really the only way I measure enjoyment). It is probably down to our exhaustion and the fact that we walked 5.7 miles on empty stomachs but I don’t even care. Yum! Soup is followed up by the Scottish make-do version of s’mores: dense, weirdly-textured marshmallows and chocolate sandwiched between two Fox’s butter crinkle biscuits. They are both amazingly tasty and, equally amazingly, even more unhealthy than their North American counterparts. And so to bed.

The “double adventure mat” will not self-inflate very well the first time you unroll it. I read this handy advice on a camping website from my iPhone as we lay atop a stubbornly airless mat. We also read that you shouldn’t blow mats up manually because the condensation will ruin them, so we just leave well enough alone and crawl into the deliciously cosy double sleeping bag (no adventure advertised) that got so many 5-star reviews on Amazon. It is super cosy, but between carrying a rucksack through the day and sitting hunched-over on a picnic blanket for most of the night my neck and back are in no state to notice. In addition, the wind has not abated and I don’t sleep at all. And I don’t mean the kind of not sleeping where you just say you didn’t sleep at all but were actually drifting in and out of consciousness. I mean AT ALL. I am hesitant to disrupt Mark’s sleep so I limit my noisy searches for painkillers to four attempts – all unsuccessful. I know I saw my pill container in the tent earlier, but no amount of cow-mouth-illumination can find it now. I weep with frustration but there’s no point in waking Mark up and forcing him to help me, though I do consider it – I have already searched everywhere. The night passes with excruciating slowness. At about 5 I finally make my way outside into the frigid, windy morning.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the little stream we nearly fell into the night before is a beautiful, crystal-clear bit of enchantment to a city dweller like me. I wander around collecting more firewood and trying to find a place to huddle out of the stupid incessant wind. No chance. I sit down behind a stone wall anyway, and pretend to be sheltered.

Mark eventually leaves the tent, and as soon as I crawl back inside I find my painkillers. The half-assed inflation of the double adventure mat somehow managed to hide them from me all night, despite the fact that I was sleeping (well, trying to) right on top of them. How ridiculous. Fortunately a few capsules of ibuprofen make me forget all my troubles and I am soon leaning against a fallen log beside the firepit, cooking up some scrambled eggs.

Breakfast is every bit as delicious as dinner was the previous night, just as I expected. It only took 25 minutes to cook the scrambled eggs! How very efficient. Mark is on dish detail (in the stream, freezing his hands off) while I take in the beautiful morning and admire all the firewood I gathered. We’re going to have one beauty of a campfire tonight!

I am distracted from these profound thoughts by Mark’s announcement that there is a couple approaching – not from the loch, but from the opposite side of our campsite where a road is hidden behind a line of trees. As these assailants bear down on us I get the sinking feeling that perhaps it’s not just laziness and lack of ambition that keeps the crowds to the East side of the loch. These suspicions are shortly confirmed.

“Ye cannae camp here, ye’ll need tae take tha tent doon!” exclaims the shorn-haired, middle-aged Scotswoman in an angry tone. “Och look, they’ve gaun an built a fire an’ aw. That’ll ne’er dae so it won’t.” she continues to her husband. She goes on at a feverish pitch for some time, but she’s wasting her time because both the speed of her speech and her thick highland accent are making her incomprehensible. Her husband is slightly less worked up about the whole thing, and eventually explains to us at a more reasonable pace that this side of the loch is actually protected, thanks to the likes of the campers we encountered on the other bank. “Soon ye willnae be allowed tae camp oor there neither,” he says, “too many folks’ve been cuttin and burnin doon the trees, an’ leavin their tents an’ bags an’ aw. Ah’m sorry but thair’s nawt can be done, ah’ll need tae bell tha polis if ye willnae go. Gaun pack up whit ye’ve got an we’ll gie ye a lift doon the way.”

15 minutes later you would never know we’d been there. The ashes from the fire have been covered, the firewood I collected so excitedly is scattered, and all of our gear has been returned to our rucksacks. We trudge across the field to their car. I am admittedly pretty annoyed that they’re forcing us to move, but even still there’s no way I’ll turn down a ride, which will save me having to making the treacherous return journey across the loch. So there’s already an upside. Upon reaching the car I am made to doubt the wisdom of this decision, however. The man – Doug – opens one of the car’s rear doors. “Gaun, in wi’ ye. Mind ye dinnae catch yersel’ on thon raggy bits”. I am stunned to see that the back seat of the car is not only flipped down but also piled high with a good foot and a half of shingles, tools, wood, and tarps. I start to laugh gamely, thinking Doug is joking, but quickly stop when I realise he’s not joining in. I scrutinise the jumble for a little while, trying to work out the best plan of attack. Then I turn away from the car, bend at the waist and stand on tiptoe, backing up towards the door arse-first until I can hoist my bottom onto the pile of junk. It is, as warned, quite “jaggy”. I swing my legs round in front of me, bend a little further to get my head in the car, and am dismayed to find that my forehead has no choice other than to rest on my knees. Doug’s wife crawls in the other door in a similar fashion, somehow managing to turn her face to me to begin a casual conversation. With both of us folded double, our faces pressed against our legs, I am far too distracted to pay her much attention. Doug starts the car and her words, which I was neither listening to nor capable of understanding in the first place, are immediately obliterated by the blast of traditional Scottish music that pours forth from the speakers. It’s the sort of stuff you normally only hear in the souvenir shops on Edinburgh’s royal mile, and it’s hard to tell but I am pretty sure that Doug is singing along :

“The honest man, tho e’er sae poor, is king o’ men for a’ that

Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord, wha struts an’ stares an’ a’ that...”

I recognize the Robbie Burns poem and the rousing tune makes me giggle, but I am fortunately kept from bursting into incredulous laughter by a screwdriver trying to bore a hole through my thigh.

After multiple stops to view potential campsites (I feel bad refusing any of them, but just can’t face the thought of pitching our tent in a thorny swamp so dense with growth no sun can reach it) we round the end of the loch and drive along the East side. We pick up speed as we leave the potholed road behind, and I am kept entertained by imagining all the various materials I might be impaled with and positions I might end up contorted into should we crash. I am a nervous passenger at the best of times, which this is not. Doug pulls to the verge and stops the car with a jolt. I manage to get the door open and roll awkwardly out onto the ground, where I check to make sure I’ve not inadvertently stolen any of the tools that were imbedded in my posterior. All clear! We thank Doug profusely for his kindness in giving us a lift, then shoulder our bags and climb over a stone wall onto the sunny, stony beach.

Though we initially planned to camp where we were dropped, it turns out that nothing is to our very particular tastes, and thanks to this we end up walking for another hour and a half along the shore. Every fifteen minutes or so we stop to discuss the merits of a site, then keep going, only to stop in another fifteen minutes to contemplate heading back to the last spot because we might not find a better one. It is a fruitless and frustrating search. There are people in all the best spots, and the second-best spots are too close to all the people.

Eventually we just give up. Our new site isn’t a patch on the old one, but it does provide some level (if muddy) ground on which to pitch the tent, and a half-decent selection of firewood to keep us amused through the night.

After this things stop being exciting, and are just relaxing and enjoyable instead. More s’mores, more poking around in the campfire, and more time spent in the undergrowth in search of stuff to burn. It's amazing how happy we are to sit on the beach, doing nothing but staring at the loch and the sky and the trees. It's a much more fulfilling kind of laziness than we usually go in for. I propose to Mark that we make this our new weekend routine, and it is decided: this will be the summer of camping wild.