26. By the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond

C & C Club site
21^st - 22^nd May

A thirty-seven mile drive here from Stepps, right through the middle of Glasgow on the M8, over the Clyde and then back over it again on the Erskine Bridge, skirting Dumbarton, which looked interesting. Just before the centre of Glasgow was quite a sizeable loch in a public park with over a hundred swans on it. I guess that's where my three from last night came from.

The first sight of Loch Lomond through a break in the trees and surrounded by mountains is quite breathtaking. The site is right on the bank of the loch in a 'conservation village' (whatever that is) called Luss. It's part of a big estate, I think, probably owned by Abramovic. It's a very strange village, perfect in every way. Tourists come here to gawp at the neat stone cottages with their beautiful gardens of many colours and to take a boat down the loch. So many come that there is a huge car park, with 'Visitor Centre' and 'Glass Studio' and 'Highland Gift Shop'. I went into the 'Village General Store', hoping to buy some bread and milk, but was confronted with souvenirs and woolly stuff and craft work. The whole place gave me a creepy feeling. It's a bit like Portmeirion, the village in “The Prisoner”. As I rode around I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see a giant white balloon coming bouncing down the road after me. I began to wonder if the people who lived here were like the Stepford Wives. So different from Stepps, a mere thirty-seven miles away.

Loch Lomond, looking north

I think I might become tired, if I lived here, of tourists poking cameras into my front garden and walking mindlessly in groups of fifteen down the middle of the road. I even saw a German in full highland dress (well, he was speaking German, anyway; maybe he was a cosmopolitan local). If I lived here I might dye my beard tartan and set myself up as a local landmark and charge the grockles to take a photograph of themselves with me.

I had a look in the graveyard to see if there was anybody famous buried there (that's the sort of thing you do to amuse yourself in a place like this). Nobody, but one headstone had an interesting Gaelic inscription:-

An cuid de Phàrras dhaibh

I wonder what it means. Another, that of a “wife and mother” of thirty-five, said “Thy Will Be Done”. I'm afraid I wouldn't be quite so accepting if I had been her husband or child.

 

The main street, Luss

But let's talk about the good things. The site itself is typical Camping and Caravanning Club; a bit scruffy and rough-and-ready but spotless and well-run and with friendly staff. The pitches are in clearings, so I have my own private bluebell wood. Overlooking the village is a large hill almost covered in bluebells. I was talking to the warden about it. He said he and his wife had gone out on to the loch the previous day and had taken a photo of it, but 'it hadn't come through'. We agreed that some things are just too beautiful to be photographed. Many gardens in the village have thriving azalea pontica in full bloom, and the scent is just exquisite. I remember my Dad used to have three or four in his garden and I used to go and stick my head in amongst them to get the full effect. Even the leaves are scented. I took a couple of his seedlings to Ireland and they started well, so I hope they are thriving now. Bluebells and azalea pontica. As good as it gets.

Bluebell Hill

I bought myself a bottle of Irn-Bru because (a) it's Scottish and (b) it's made from girders. It says on the bottle “Bru'd in Scotland to a secret recipe for over 100 years” then goes on to give you the ingredients! Some secret, eh? What, by the way, is “Ponceau 4R” which it contains? It might be the flavouring which gives it the slight tang of rust. I fear the whole thing may be an acquired taste and I might not have enough time left to me. I'm rather worried that I may have become the sort of person who drinks something called “Ponceau 4R”.

On the way back from my shopping trip I noticed that there were lots of expensive limousines and SUV's, many with blacked-out windows, parked outside the slightly sinister hotel which is next to the camp-site. I think it must be the annual drug-dealers' conference. Either that or a Police Federation meeting.

 

On my last evening I went down to the water's edge to take some snaps. The midges are out! Oh, calamity!