We had made it, and the fears of the night melted away, we patted the pole of our tent as we would a faithful steed, who had seen us through the most treacherous trails. Our first night wild camping was a success.
The view out the tent was beautiful, but the cloud clung grimly to the landscape unwilling to let go. One night of damp was a fun adventure, a whole week would be a soggy grind.
We rolled up and down hills, the up more of a huffing puffing boot camp for me, Dylan calling back, exasperated, that I should calm down and enjoy it. Thank you for the tip, ex-semi-pro cyclist. I concentrated my enjoyment on the rejuvenating descents and pullovers.
Fat baby lambs lolluped beside the roads, next to bleating mothers. Each had a red or a black spray paint splotch, which I feared was the mark of doom. They were like pups, rejoicing in the world, curious and certainly thirsty for mother’s milk, practically knocking their mums over with their greedy gulps.
The grass too was covered with curious black slugs, damp peaty grass their paradise.
The rain began again as we searched for a camping spot. In Scotland you can camp anywhere as long as it is not too close to a house or livestock. We found the perfect place, it involved some carrying of bikes over a rocky beach, but this protected little cove with its mini runoff waterfall was idyllic.
Our tent formed a Zen window of waves and golden light, rain ceasing, and could that be? Our first tiny patch of blue sky.
