Last Saturday I stopped at Scourie, on the North Coast 500. I had planned to catch up with Nathan Millward’s Garbage Run and camp with them, because surely there could be no problem aiming at a (slowly) moving target heading from Applecross to Durness and rendezvousing somewhere around teatime?
Turns out it’s more difficult than you’d think. And after a slightly traumatic day which included the Lomax suddenly turning into a low rider and scraping along the single track about an inch off the ground, I didn’t fancy adding any extra miles to the trip by retracing the route south to where the C90 boys had stopped. Also my camp site had a restaurant and bar. Double win.
So I pitched my tent, and admired the beautiful view, and the Hugh Grant-a-like in the one-man camper van behind me said “If your friend doesn’t make it, at six o’clock I shall be serving wine.”
How is the solo camping lady to respond to such an invitation?
Is it just wine?
Is it wine with a chaser of ‘would you like to see the inside of my camper van?’
Is it the kind of wine that requires you to have a shower and shave beforehand?
I decided to take no chances. A shower it would be. Just in case. But as I trotted off to the cubicles I overheard Hugh inviting the other solo lady camper on the site to join us. Maybe he was hedging his bets. Maybe the camper van was a lot bigger on the inside than it looked.
Or maybe it really was just a six-o-clock chat among like-minded middle-aged travellers.