The next day proved to be a veritable feast of Lochside travel, partly circumnavigating Loch Laggan. We travelled along the A82 towards Inverness and about ten miles North East of Fort William, near Spean Bridge, we came upon the Magnificent Commando memorial standing proud in the Highlands. It remembers all that have fallen since their formation in 1940.
They did much of their training in the surrounding hills and nearby Achnacarry. After spending some quiet moments reading all the humbling messages here, we moved on, discovering Loch Lochy (daft name) Loch Oich, and, inevitably, Loch Ness. So much has been written and postulated about Britain’s largest body of water, its difficult to know where to begin. Its deepest recorded depth is well over 800 feet, which is, if you’ll excuse the pun, almost unfathomable! It is connected by the Caledonian Canal which bisects the nation. It was designed by a famous Scottish son, Thomas Telford, promised for £300, 000 in five years, cost a million and took nineteen. Millenium dome, anyone? But it is Nessie that really makes the cash registers ring. The green backed monster that generates greenbacks.
Real or imagined, this water horse has become a worldwide industry.
I hope she exists, if only to see her turn up on the shore one day demanding a percentage of her image rights. We were mug punters, paying a fiver each to see an old documentary that probably predated Nessie herself, and 80 pence for a postcard. Now, its not the money per say, it’s the fact that they are insulting the tourist. 30 pence would be okay, 40 the tops, but 80 is like, we hate you, but we need you here for our business, so we’ll milk you dry, but make sure you’ve all buggered off by the end of August.
It makes you proud to be British
It had to happen. The indignant neighbour. There was always going to be the day when our horrid motorhome was going to be viewed as an affront to society. You didn’t need a degree to work out that this would happen somewhere in the British Isles, and the guy would be English. We’d been settled for a mere fifteen minutes when there was a knock on the door. We never get a knock on the door.
“Hello!” I answered cheerily. Middle class indignance with small-minded
Mentality stared up at me. The world slowed to treacle toffee as I could see him trying to compute the unlikelihood of a long haired English bloke greeting him from an obviously French motorhome.
“You do realise you can’t stay here overnight?” That curious pitch between question and statement.
“No,” I replied, “I do not realise that, after all there are no signs to that effect.” I continued, reasonably.
His reply was breathtaking.
“Well, there are no signs saying you can’t murder me, are there, but it doesn’t mean you can.”
This took the conversation to a whole new level. I wasn’t just dealing with small town pig-headedness here, I was dealing with a twat.
“Are we on private land? I’ll be happy to move along if so.” I offered.
“Yes, yes, you are, its British Waterways” he gushed, grabbing my get-out clause with his manicured middle class paws.
“Ah, not strictly private then, is it? “ I countered, “Is there a copy of the Waterways by laws displayed nearby?” He was sweating.
By now I had tired of the fight, but wanted to turn his head to the mirror of truth and shove his face in the murky reflection, so that he might experience a brief moment of clarity and see himself for the bigoted, Dickensian inbred throwback he really was.
“Why don’t you just admit it,” I offered, “Lets forget all this residential/privacy crap, you just don’t want anyone parking anywhere near your house, and you haven’t the guts to say so, have you?”
“Well, erm, yes, no, that is, of course I don’t.” he stammered.
“I’ll move this eyesore from your residential area immediately” I replied.
“Have a nice day.”
We left. After I’d made another coffee of course. He was the ultimate NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) and yet we were in no way overlooking his property in any way, and were perfectly legally parked.
I hope, and I cannot emphasise this enough, that a horde of unwashed gypsies camp outside his house, steal all his valuables and neuter him. Twice.
We moved on, in search of more friendly pastures. Through Inverness, and over a mighty bridge across the firth, ever northwards we trekked, finally coming to rest in a lay-by set back from the road just after another stone bridge across another sprawling estuary.
We’d been in place for only a few minutes, and I was enjoying a quiet moment in the loo, when I heard a roar like a jet and the Boomobile was rocking. I emerged to an incredulous Miki. A car had screamed into the lay-by and goosed us at close on a hundred miles an hour. If either of us had been stepping out to switch on the gas, we’d have been history, not to mention a mile up the road. We dismissed it as a reckless overtaking ploy, but about half an hour later, a car full of Neanderthals went past shouting “Find a bloody campsite!” I was beginning to think Hadrian’s Wall had been a damn good idea. My riposte, had they lingered, was likely to have been “find an intelligent thought” but perhaps I was setting my standards too high for non-sentient beings.
We decided we weren’t welcome there either, and Inverness was rapidly being re-christened “Unfriendli-Ness”
Third time lucky we tucked into a services car park just outside Alness, and spent a thankfully undisturbed night. Eventually!
Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom
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