THE HAPPY CAMPERS

With winter woolies, runny egg rolls, and an army of midges for company, Fiona Armstrong has renewed enthusiasm for life on the road

Camping is not Fiona Armstrong's preferred pastime, but her recent trip was more tolerable than expected

Well, ‘tis done and dusted. And having hit the Highlands, the chief and I are happy campers... Argyll is wild and magnificent; lichen-clothed trees lining moody hillsides; rushing rivers carving out endless valleys. Glen Orchy is a particularly glorious spot. Not least because Rob Roy MacGregor has links there through his mother.

We sit and we soak up the history. But not for long, because there is not a breath of wind and the midges come out in force.

Midges. Who’d have thought it in late autumn? And can someone please do something about it? These tiny devils can make a grown man cry – not that the MacGregor ever blubs, you understand – and they are a serious drawback to life in a campervan.

Another thing is never to underestimate how cold it can be north of Glasgow. Woolly socks and thermals are worn each day – the same socks and thermals – because the aim in these nervous times is to see no-one and let no-one see us. So, who’s caring about a change of clothes? After all, there are no restaurants to eat in.

Then the hotel booked last-minute as a one-night mid-week marriage saver is closed when we turn up. So frankly, by now, who’s bothering?

But the thing is, we did it. We packed up the rented red VW and off we set, MacNaughties and all, because the doggies don’t care if you’re a bit whiffy and they do like an adventure. Which is what it turns out to be.

There is the ferry to Coran, a brief but romantic journey across Loch Linnhe. Then the pretty village of Strontian, where we find a shop stocked with hand gel, masks and, mercifully, muchneeded provisions because the chief takes this trip as a chance to show me another side to his talents. The egg banjo. Is there no end to this man’s genius?

To the uninitiated, this is a military delight. It is a lightly fried egg inside a buttered roll. One which is so-called because when you bite into it, yolk squirts out onto your clothes. You then raise the thing in the air while trying to ‘strum’ the yellow mess away with your free hand… I give you the egg banjo. And I tell you it is simply delicious when consumed in the great outdoors.

And on we travel. At one place a red phone box brightens up a garden while late sunflowers offer rays of sunshine. In wilder parts this is a land that time forgot. It is where Sunday’s newspapers can arrive on Monday.

Indeed, some villages look like folk actually live there and not just at holiday time. At the most westerly part of the British mainland we watch the Atlantic crashing against the rocks. From Ardnamurchan Point one can dream of foreign lands, and that is all it is in these lockdown times. Then who needs to travel far when we have such excitement on our doorstep?

The chief is in his element, of course, happy in his sleeping bag and out at dawn with his camera to get the early bird morning light. But others, it seems, have the same idea, and if the Scottish tourism industry is tragically on its knees, campervans and caravans abound. Because, apart from sleeping by the side of lochs, we do spend one night on a site to have a shower and recharge heating and human batteries.

I had not thought this would ever be the life for me. But frankly, it is not a case of Lochaber no more. We will be back….

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These tiny devils can make a grown man cry, not that the MacGregor ever blubs