Outdoorsman's Weather

Many traditional Scottish West Coast summer events are now underway; highland games and gatherings; field sports; music and folk festivals; agricultural shows; seafood guzzling festivals; golfing tournaments, Royal spotting, yacht races and regattas or on occasions a combination of some or all of the afore mentioned.
Then of course there are those dear visitors suffering the terrors of a scottish highland summer holiday. My eyes fairly fill with thankfulness on a Saturday morning as I watch the streams of northbound cars on the A82, back-ends scraping the tarmac laden with half a household and hundreds of loo rolls (for its a well know fact that soft sanitary loo rolls and safe drinking water are not available north of the Oxford Waitrose); roof and boot racks fairly groan with canoes, kayaks, bikes and golf bags; and perhaps every fifth car tows a smart sailing dinghy. Gravel eyed children, exams and school sports behind them ignoring the scenery of dark Rannoch, shoulder each other on the back seat, thumbs firmly attached to Gameboys and ipads; eager mums lean forward glancing warily from map to road, caffine fueled dads settle into the last few hours of a twelve hour overnight drive from the south.
However by Tuesday the laptop batteries will be flat, the lack of telly forgotten, lippy cast aside as honest English families squeezed into drafty crofthouses will embrace the Ernest Thompson Seton holidays that we all loved so much. Even the most pubescent teenager's pheromone gloom will surely be lifted by the unbelievable exploits of McNab and Gaythorne-Hardy. Gales of wind, torrents of rain, freezing waves and rip tides, sand flies and hordes of midges will not stop the road to health and new friends and enemies. On the same Saturdays from high above Loch Tulla I watch the cars roll south after a week or perhaps even two in the highlands, windows misted by piles of damp clothes, rear suspensions uncoiled after kilos of food have been burnt on a hundred beach barbecues, a few bootles emptied in good company. Now the children sleep, hair spun sun bleached, heather and bog myrtle scented anoraks still firmly in place, absently scratching at the odd midge or tick scab lost on brown salty skin. The boys dream of that corker from Ayr, the girls snuggle with the Glenalmond boy and opportunities missed. Dad sleeps waiting his turn to motorway bash southwards from Hamilton or Tebay, fitfully scheming of telecottaging his career from Scourie or Sandwood. Sensible mums drive, ticking off the practical list of shopping, washing, church fete, new school term. However I like to think that she also thinks of new names to add to her Christmas card list; maybe a lingering smile about the tall guy who always wore shorts whatever the weather with that mousy wife; innocent thoughts, platonic of course but perhaps one day a lifting of kindred spirits.
And just look at the traffic flowing north, who will soon sit in her favourite chair, struggle with the Esse, enjoy the view, who will learn about the safest passing places on the A836 and discover the delights of grilled fresh Flounders and Mackerel? I know many of you will return, perhaps a few next year with a brave dog and a bigger dinghy, perhaps some will not return for many years; however we need you. How much better to let your children run on a glorious highland day than to lose their innocence choking in the horror of an underage disco on Kos. Hopefully many young part-time highlanders will go on to learn from the missed cast in a boiling pool, the duffed "easy" shot on the hillside as ours did, and help us old codgers keep the most wonderful wilderness alive. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh