WEST COAST III 

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At the parking area for the Temple Wood I leapt out of the van, ran across a footbridge over a watercress-filled stream and, dodging a bemused German couple who seemed determined to play hide and seek with me, took this unfairly gloomy shot of the Nether Largie Stones. The tallest is 2.8m high.   Reluctant to leave Jo in the van for too long, I ignored with some difficulty the temptation to cross the valley to the Temple Wood and walked back to the car park.   A hippy-ish chap slouched dozily against a rock while his wife read to him from a book.

We drove straight past the Kilmartin Museum. 

Continuing north in bright sunshine I found myself increasingly amused by the huge number of times our road took us over watersheds, down to sea and freshwater loch levels and back up again, and I had in mind an Alan Whicker-type voice proclaiming,

".....The coast of Argyll, so slashed by sea lochs that at times the traveller may be uncertain as to whether he is on his isles or his elbow".

Dominating Oban's skyline is McCaig's Tower, a coliseum-style monument built in 1897. I can't help but see it as a slightly ridiculous structure, but the very good thing about it is that it was commissioned by a philanthropic man who wanted to give work, and thereby help, to many families dispossessed by The Clearances. Oban is a fine, solid and apparently prosperous town with expensive looking shops and a real air of confidence about it, almost a Scottish Monte Carlo. 

In 1950-something my parents visited Oban and were photographed for a snooty magazine. Though it's years since I've seen the photograph, I remember that my father wears a fishing hat and looks very much the young Conservative. (He has never fished and long since left behind such strange political leanings).

As a very young person I was taken to Oban where a teddy bear was bought for me. He wore a red jersey and red tartan "trews". Struggling with "Oban" I named him Bandy Bear, though his legs were oddly stout and very straight.

As we skirted the port area, after-rain sun sparkled and flashed across Oban Bay and the Firth of Lorn and I instantly became caught up in imagined adventures via the ferries which plough out to Coll, Tiree, Mull and Colonsay.

Crossing Loch Etive on the Connel Bridge we began to see the backs of those serious mountains which rear up from the south side of Glen Coe.

By Ballachulish's massively ugly, but immensely useful, bridge we found ourselves wrapped in a fine mizzle  steadily creeping up Loch Linnhe, as is its wont.

At Corran there was no queue for the ferry. On the north side we whizzed along to Seal Island, as we call it, and stopped, (it's almost a tradition), brewed up and scanned rock and loch for seals. Jo spotted only one, a lazy old bugger who, even so, obligingly waved his flippers and foolish-out-of-the-water tail as he rolled about at the water's edge.

We were heading for the Ardnamurchan peninsula, one of my most favourite areas of Scotland, (since 1960 anyway!). 

241104: Not long ago I bought a good as new copy of the Oxford Dictionary of British Place Names and I've just found out that Ardnamurchan goes back in the records to c.700AD, as Art Muirchol and in 1309 it was known as Ardnamurchin. 

Best of all is its translation - Point of the Otters, literally sea dogs. 

And just look at the Celtic linguistics in that! 

• Ard - (in Irish and Gaelic) a high point, etc.

• na - of, 

• mur / muir - like la mer, (and as in marine, maritime, etc.), 

• chin / chun - cwn (with a circumflex on the w), is Welsh for dogs.

By the way, the Welsh for otter is dwrgi (water dog) or, as I remember it, dyfrgi, which reminds me that in 1966 - 67 my dad was in danger of losing his job as newly appointed warden for 365 of the 550 square miles of the Brecon Beacons National Park, when he organised sufficient of the riperian owners on the Usk and its tributaries to prevent the Hawkstone (Shropshire) Otter Hunt from visiting to indulge in their sick activities.

There's an alternative suggestion based on Art Muirchol meaning Point of the Pirates, but I'm happier with the otter one. 

West we went up Glen Tarbert, (that's another), passing "old road" laybys used just very occasionally for on-the-road breakfast halts by three generations of our family. We passed through Strontian, (pronounced Stront-Ian) avoiding what we're told is a very poor campsite there, to Resipole and a very good and, not surprisingly, busy one. 

Midge alert! I sprayed Avon's Skin So Soft on ankles, feet, hands, head and neck. And it worked! That is, apart from the odd  adventurous midge who, taking unfair advantage of my only slightly flared jeans, bypassed the ankles and attacked me at the knees.

After a while two twitcher-types with serious-looking telescopes walked down to the road's edge, which was also the shoreline. I watched them for signs of excitement. Others campers, overwhelmed with curiosity, were drawn down to the same location.

Nothing exciting did happen, but eventually I scooted out of the van to get the best angle on the sunset.

We walked up to the hotel bar and after a short while, as arranged, in walked Bryan Gregg, an e-friend from Club80-90. Bryan had recently given up a job with Shelter in Edinburgh and moved out to Strontian to teach in four schools on the Ardnamurchan peninsula. 

Now, you might consider teaching in four schools to be somewhat greedy, but it is in fact only one job. Despite living and working in such a marvellous location, he is, to my astonishment, paid for driving around in wonderful countryside and talking to well behaved children.

On the down side, Bryan has had to leave behind his family in Edinburgh until such time as he has adequately prepared a small cardboard box in Strontian in which they will live.

We nattered until the bar closed, then nattered some more and were very nearly the last to leave. 

Which is good.

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