WILD CAMPING - MULL
Blood spattered across my face with the force of the blow. This was the twentieth fish I’d killed in the last two hours: my twelve year old landing them with distressing ease every time he lowered his rod into the dark waters of Calgary Bay. How many mackerel were we going to be able to eat at tonight’s “bring-whatever-you-have” meal? This was our third night on Mull and we’d fallen in with a crowd of more experienced campers who were happy to share their canoes, fishing tackle and wisdom. Wild camping is legal in Scotland, unlike England and Wales, which means you can pitch your tent nearly anywhere (although it’s advised to ask landowners’ permission), and Calgary Bay is a popular site.
It’s about an hour’s drive from the ferry terminal at Craignure, along mainly single track roads which wind over the craggy hills (with frequent passing places) and amongst roaming sheep. Our new friends advised that the ferry route from Kilchoan on the mainland, rather than Oban, would have saved money on the return journey for our borrowed campervan and three (not borrowed) kids. We’d intended to camp one night, but many of our co-campers visit this beauty spot on the North West of the island annually: the beach is clean and safe, pots can be washed in the freshwater streams in true nomadic style, and there’s a public loo nearby, though no other facilities. One man had rigged up a Heath Robinson-style shower, powered by his van’s cigarette lighter, though most of us revelled in our newfound shaggy status. For those more conscientious, the nearby town of Tobermory offers showers for £2 at its new Harbour Building. We skipped them, but visited the pretty rainbow-painted town one damp day so our five-year old could boast he’d visited the filming location for children’s TV programme ‘Balamory’. We used the trip to stock up on wild-camping necessities, like wine. Sheltering from the rain in the town’s gloriously named Mishnish Inn, where the service was lousy and the maritime decor idiosyncratic, the family agreed to camp a further two nights.
Back at the beach, the days took on the idyllic hue of the adverts, with chaotic games of rounders, kite flying sessions and sandcastle competitions. As the sun dropped on our last evening, I looked along the shore at the children running feral, women gutting fish, and men chopping firewood and realised how, apart from the manmade fibres and wineboxes, we fitted in to a satisfying continuum of community hardly changed since pre-historic times. As Biblical swarms of midges made their dusk appearance, campers donned strange anti-insect garb, including variations on beekeepers hats. We slathered ourselves in Avon’s ‘So Soft’ moisturiser, something recommended as a repellent by locals. You can’t buy it in the shops, so you need to bring your own, or buy it off obliging islanders, as we did. It didn’t stop the midges nibbling, but it went some way to concealing the smell of fish.
