Looking across to the snow capped alpine mountains seen from the back seat of a motorcycle

Home Travel Stories Camping In Scotland 2006 - By Ren Withnell

Camping In Scotland 2006 - Langholm to Windermere

The incessant birdsong this morning is not even tuneful, this time it is the raw squawking of crows. I listen to these miserable sounds and finally get up, far too early, 6am. I wander around the site for a while, have a smoke or two, spend some time looking at the rusty tractor’s engineering and curse the crows. I manage to get through to 7.30 before I feel the need to accidentally wake the gf. When she is finally up and functional we both agree the transport café will provide breakfast.

It’s a transport café, dirty spoons and truckers grunting at each other over huge fatty breakfasts. No, not here, tables with tablecloths, shiny floors and shiny cookers, a chiller cabinet stocked with tasty deserts and sweets and all this comes with a friendly smile. I order a bacon barm and the gf has bacon on toast along with 2 teas. A short wait then we eat, oh man, this is to die for, bacon cooked to perfection and warm sweet tea. I finish and I could eat it all again 3 times over. But I know that would be too much, so we both indulge in a sweet for the 2 minute walk back to the site.

The Langholm Rugby Club Campsite is not at all posh, has very basic services and is very cheap. Yet, so far it has been the best place we’ve stayed at in providing exactly what we were looking for. We take the tent down and pack and say goodbye to the grey-haired campsite supervisor. Off to Carlisle and the lakes, to a site I’ve been to several times before.

Langholm Rugby Club. Nothing special or fancy, simply adequate

The A7 runs along quietly enough into Carlisle. But Carlisle itself is heaving with slow moving traffic. I suddenly feel closed in again, claustrophobic and cramped. I know I’m back into England, civilisation and all the downsides that come with this. It seems to take an age to get through the town. Penrith is busy too and when I finally get onto the Kirkstone Pass road I’m already sick of the traffic.

In Scotland the roads are quieter. Small back roads that twist and turn still flow freely and people seem happy to move over when they notice they may be slowing you down. On the twisty A592 long lines of cars crawl along behind dithering idiots reaching 30mph on the short straights and slowing to 15mph for easy corners. No-one can overtake, there are no safe places. I’m going spare inside my helmet, cursing and shouting and wondering what is their problem and why don’t they stop to let the huge queue behind them pass. I take advantage of the bike’s size and power to work my way past the first long line, but it is only moments before I’m behind another line. I work my way past this line with a few dubious overtaking manoeuvres and off we go again. Sure enough it’s only minutes before I’m in another queue. I give up and accept the inevitable fate of crawling through the most popular piece of greenery in the UK.

It is beautiful greenery. Not quite as vast as Scotland’s western mountains, but lush vivid green and basking in glorious hot sunshine. It is obvious why it is so popular. Yet still it seems to take an age before Windermere comes and goes along with Bowness, not that you can tell where Windermere ends and Bowness begins. Soon enough we are at the site.

The Park Cliffe site is packed! I’ve been here before and there are always folks here but plenty of space too. Today each patch of hillside has either a tent or a car on it. I begin to wonder if we will be able to camp here. The smiling but somewhat harassed lady in reception instantly recognises me and assures me they will make space for a “regular” like me. I’m a “regular”, nice one! There is a pitch available just large enough for my 3 man tent, over on the other field. We are guided by another familiar face to a rare vacant space and soon enough we are pitching for the final time this trip.

Park Cliffe Campsite.
Park Cliffe Campsite, with precarious camping on the hillside.

The contrast from Scotland to here is quite a culture shock. The sites in Scotland have been occupied and in use, but not packed to capacity like this one. The sun is beating down on families and couples all around. Cars are parked at dangerous angles on the steep hillside and barbeques are sizzling away. It seems the modern camper expects all mod-cons these days. Gone are the days of canvas tents with wooden poles, tiny stoves powered by blue gas bottles and clothes washed in the stream hanging on guide ropes. Everyone has 4 ring stoves and gas barbeques, enormous nylon and carbon fibre multi-compartment tents and a hook-up to power everything including heaters in case it gets cold at night. Hell, even I on the bike have a modern tent and my trusty dual-fuel stove.

I need to send my daily text message to my mother to let her know I’m still alive, but there is no mobile phone reception here. I have to walk to the highest part of the site to get even the weakest signal and manage to send a simple message. Other than that we are happy to sit around and watch as kids scream at each other, adults wash endless pans and crockery and cars shuffle between ropes and rocks.

Later we head into the restaurant for tea. Whilst waiting for our order I notice a group of bikers looking somewhat perplexed and confused. I walk over to say hello, only to have to practice more German. These guys are on the way to the TT and are looking for somewhere to stop the night. They think this campsite does not like bikers. I manage to explain they are cool with bikers, just that there is no room left for them. I advise as best I can where more sites may or may not be available but the general advice is to head out and look around to see what they can find. I wish them luck as they get back on their bikes.

Our meal is brought to us, and is eaten with much relish. The food is good, the restaurant and bar is fine and everything here is just as it should be. That is except for the fact it is far too busy for my linking, and the cost. Last time I was here it was on the last night of the season, and I paid an acceptable £12.50 for my pitch, today we have paid £18 for a small patch of grass some way from the toilet block. It is not a perfect world, but we can still wish.

The night ends by listening to kids still hyper and talkative as parents try to settle them down. The gf curses the parents for letting the snotty little brats get away with it for as long as they do. Eventually all is quiet and we fall asleep.