Remote Aspirations

As I may have said before, I once heard someone dismiss camping as “a complicated way of getting wet” and so it is if you are unlucky with the weather. Not that the weather matters to me, having swapped canvas for campervan years ago. Still, I do recall the excited anticipation of adventure that camping stirred up in me, from that first night as a child with a tent pitched in the garden, to grown-up sorties into the hills for weekends of hiking. The sense of adventure was only part of it: there was excitement also in the acquisition of kit – not just the tent but all the paraphernalia of portable domestic utensils, sleeping bags and weatherproof clothing that goes with it.

I’m writing this while on a campsite, having been “on the road” for a couple of weeks, driving north through Scotland, crossing the sea to the Orkney Isles and returning south via the Atlantic coast of the Highlands. This campsite, like many others, caters for all forms of mobile accommodation, therefore providing the opportunity to compare and contrast the choices people have made. Whether caravan, motor home, campervan or tent, there is, for the aficionado, as much interest in these mobile habitations as there is for someone weighing up the pros and cons of regular houses. My least favoured option is the caravan, mainly because its dumb reliance on a tractor unit renders it clumsy but also because so many of them have been designed to replicate such a degree of suburban comfort – portable conservatories, televisions, garden furniture etc. – as to suggest that their owners are averse to any kind of lifestyle change beyond the scenery. Mobile homes have the advantage of autonomous propulsion but, even so, are often so overblown and laden with home comforts that the only challenge left for their owners is finding somewhere level to park. Campervans, of course, are my favourite. They are suitable for impulsive getaways, nimble enough to access tracks and lanes, cleverly equipped for (relatively) comfortable accommodation and viable as an everyday vehicle. Such is my campervan.

Good as it is, however, I would rather own the one behind me, a Land Rover with a pop-up roof and a bristling array of add-ons that promise to take its lucky owner anywhere on the planet – even on to wet grass. For the fantasy of a true campervanner is to get away to remote places. On this trip, that fantasy is being pursued as vigorously as it may be with a regular two-wheel-drive vehicle, which is to say a road is required. This latest spot, Altandhu, is on a peninsula, at the end of 15 miles of single-track road. Prudence dictated that I stock up on fuel, food and booze before leaving the nearest town though, when I got here, all of these commodities were available. The popularity of remote campsites is so strong that the canny Scots have provided picture-perfect settings, cafes, bars, shops, post offices and wi-fi. Even caravan owners turn up. It’s only the absence of a phone signal that makes this place feel a bit cut-off. Away from the site, however, it is possible to get the feeling that one is in the wild. On a six-mile coastal walk yesterday I did not encounter anyone else. Perhaps the others were cycling or kayaking or taking boat trips to see the seals – or just sitting in their conservatories.  

The last time I slept in a tent, five years ago, was during a hike on the Knoydart peninsula, where there are no roads. The weather was warm, dry and sunny – as it is now – but midges made life miserable. Right now, I am sitting in the front seat of the campervan, with an unimpeded view of the sun setting on the aptly named Summer Isles – and of the tent dwellers dementedly making their way to the pub to escape the attentions of the midges.