Address to a Haggis

Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race! Let’s head north! With Brexit rules forcing us to remain outside of the EU for the next ninety days, an opportunity to explore our oft-overlooked British Isles gloriously presented itself. With my only previous spree north of the wall a four-day Hogmanay booze fest many moons ago, I was extremely keen to test Vishnu’s new heating system to the max, by touring some of the United Kingdom’s highest, frostiest, and most rugged roads during the frigid height of a Scottish winter. Starting at the Berwick-upon-Tweed border, we planned to spend the following six weeks moving in a generally anticlockwise direction around Scotland’s finely chiselled coastline before finishing in the greatly refashioned city of Glasgow at the beginning of spring.

Our first main stop, however, was anything but chiselled or refashioned: Edinburgh. As we alighted the double-decker which had transported us from our suburb parking location to the city centre, the unmistakable melody of Mull of Kintyre could be heard emanating from a nearby rose-cheeked bagpiper. What was a delightful novelty at first soon became quite torturous given the sheer volume of rose-cheeked bagpiper’s bagpiping on or around every street corner. Following a Tennents or three, we efficiently completed the tourist trail, taking in the unmissable castle and enchanting Princes Street, before focusing our attention on finding a tavern suitable for saluting the one and only Rabbie Burns. Our time in Scotland’s second-largest city just so happened to coincide with Burns Night and so several scotches and a drunken rendition of an Address to a Haggis certainly set our trip on the right path.

Following a brief stop at the historic student/golfing town of St Andrews, we continued following our compass north until the Lowlands turned to High and we were on the doorstep of the UK’s largest National Park: The Cairngorms. Twice the area of the Lake District and home to a quarter of all the rare or endangered species on the British Isles, this was where Scotland’s wild expanse truly began. As the increasingly cornersome road ascended higher and higher, the views afforded through our spluttering van’s every window and mirror grew increasingly spectacular. That was until the road rose no further, marking our arrival at one of the few remaining places in the country where one can pay to slide down a mountain on two thin lengths of fiberglass strapped to your boots. The Glenshee Ski Centre, as well as providing this service, also happens to provide some of the windiest conditions you could find anywhere in the UK – as our night there proved.

Being forced to move Vishnu five times during the depths of a freezing Highland night for fear of being blown over the mountainside made for an extremely uncomfortable sleep indeed. As we arose bleary-eyed the following morn to inspect any vehicular damage, half expecting our solar panels to have returned to Edinburgh, we were staggered to discover everything intact – despite an animated ski instructor informing us of the previous night’s terrifying 100mph wind reading. Not wishing to chance our fortune any further, we swiftly headed down the mountain to the far calmer conditions at Balmoral Castle, a mere eighteen miles away. Despite it being closed to the public (we presumed because one was in residence), it gave us an opportunity to catch our breath and plan our next port of call.

Loch Ness was what we settled upon which, despite the time of year, was more than appealing enough for Lowri to don her swimming cloak and take the plunge – they raise them tough in Gower. Two overly curious swans were the full extent of aquatic beast we could spot and so, unfortunately, proof of Nessie’s existence would have to wait for another visit. Inverness was to be our home for the following week as we gathered supplies, repaired our wounded windscreen, and built up the courage for the next marathon leg of our journey: the notorious NC500.

An often single-laned, spectacularly potholed ‘road’ that encircles the very northernmost and remotest part of Scotland, the North Coast 500 is about as close as one can get to the Pamir Highway without crossing an ocean. However, if John o’ Groats is to be your next destination, (and why on earth wouldn’t it be?), this is the path you must take. As we left the warm comfort of JD Wetherspoon Inverness, we soon realised the extent of our challenge. Snow, the likes of which one might associate with a wintry Lapland or Donald Trump Junior’s bathroom, swiftly descended upon us as the highway narrowed and Vishnu slowly slid further north. We were now well beyond the wall.

J