THE FLIPSIDE to my decision not to publish yesterday, out of deference and respect to Queen Elizabeth following the announcement of her passing, is that we now have two destinations to look at; I’m now on Islay, in the Hebrides, but spent yesterday by Loch Lomond. As Loch Lomond is a very special place to me personally, we’ll come back to Islay; I’m on Islay for a couple of days anyway, and I’ll post on that tomorrow instead.

It was the right thing to do not to publish yesterday, by the way; the British media is basically “Queen TV” now, with the papers just as full it (and I know from reading the Australian news sites, the saturation levels of content on her passing are almost as high there, too). Nobody was interested in what I’ve been doing yesterday, but I would sound a note of caution to those bingeing on the royals this week: there’s a limit to how many times you can watch the same footage over and over again…

After I left Glasgow yesterday morning (with deep regret: I love the old town, and I miss it) I was inadvertently sent the wrong way up the freeway by my hotel concierge who wanted to help with a short-cut, and made it 15 miles north-east instead of heading north-west; realising the error from place names that were/weren’t coming up, I turned around — and as I headed back saw four royal-crested Range Rovers, blue lights flashing, heading north-east (toward Edinburgh and Aberdeen) and moving at well over 100 miles per hour, probably more. It makes sense now of course where they were going, at speed, and why. But it was a hint of what we all now know was already beginning to play out.

Anyhow, my stop last night was by Loch Lomond; I feel like there’s been quite a bit of discussion about death on this trip: there’s the obvious event that occurred yesterday; there was an allusion in a post last week to a possible bequest I might make to the St Martin’s Church Trust in Bladon “when the time comes” — not for several decades yet, if iron willpower has anything to do with it, believe me — and Loch Lomond, less than an hour from the familial seat of Glasgow and well within the area a large swathe of my family comes from, also features in this vein.

Some time ago (and after an earlier visit) I decided that “when the time comes,” I will have made provision for my kids to travel to Scotland with my ashes, with instructions to scatter them into the loch. It isn’t the kind of place you could lead a normal, busy, modern life (especially as a city type like me) but as a place near one’s roots to stay and roam in spirit forever once you’re gone? I think that’s a lovely idea, and if nothing else it’ll give my kids a trip to Britain, and that is important. They have Scottish roots from me, but my ex-wife is 100% English, and I think it’s imperative they learn over time about both of the strands of their heritage.

I think everyone who’s watched TV anywhere in the world knows that it rained in Scotland yesterday. Heavily. Intermittently, but with increasing frequency and intensity. Literally across the road from the hotel I stayed at (castle #2 for the trip: the Tarbet Hotel) is a jetty and boat dock from which sightseeing cruises on the loch depart; I have done these before, but my first attempt to get out on the water was thwarted by the fact everyone would be drenched. So I retreated to the impressive-looking Tarbet Hotel, and waited for a break in the weather.

But when I was finally able to get on one of these things, the first shock was the price: last time I did a cruise up and down Loch Lomond (one hour, mind you), the asking price was £1; admittedly that was in 2008, but yesterday’s effort cost £16.50. For this, of course, I was always going to pay, but the usury (or sheer gouging) was galling.

Some light relief was provided by a large party of (mostly) German tourists who were also joining the field trip up the loch; the “tour guide” made a joke to her charges (in German) about freezing certain anatomical parts were anyone to jump in the loch naked. “But nobody wants to go swimming today!” I cried, in English, which elicited hearty guffaws from some of the tourists, and a look that could have detonated a nuclear warhead from the tour guide. One of the German tourists (a nice bloke actually, of about 65 or 70), had a bit of a chat with me, half in English and half in German at his behest, but the tour guide spent the ensuing hour or so directing malevolent Teutonic death stares at me whenever I dared cross her line of sight.

Cage rattled.

(Actually, for the most part, the Germans were absolutely uninterested in what they were supposed to be looking at: a couple of them were right into it, but this sneaky picture tells a thousand words…)

The thing about Loch Lomond (as with many of the other lochs, and indeed much of Scotland generally) is that it’s a place you can simply breathe; you don’t so much “experience” it as inhale it. So much of Scotland is completely unspoilt, and it would make me very happy were it to stay that way; but of all the places in Scotland I love (and there are more than a few) this one is very near the top of the list.

Others think so too, and have always done.

Near the north-eastern end of the loch sits the Inversnaid Hotel; this majestic resort was once a hunting lodge, and dates back some 200 years. For many years, it was a favourite summertime retreat of Queen Victoria, and has apparently attracted business leaders, artists, writers, and adventurers from all parts of the world. It looks majestic, to be sure…but per my warning about my own accommodations last night, don’t judge a book by its cover…

In my first post on this travelogue, I was very candid with readers; there’s head and soul balm to be elicited from this trip (and it’s sorely needed), and it’s days like yesterday that have been delivering on it. It’s hard to describe; call it “osmosis;” call it “inhalation,” as I more or less did earlier. One way or another, the goodness and spirit and “elixir of Scottish soul” is being absorbed. And as I said a few days ago, I certainly feel good — better than I have in a very long time, in fact.

Spiritually and emotionally, that is…

…for one of the big black marks of this stop at Lomond was last night’s food: I was warned off eating in the hotel restaurant by a considerate staff member. A nearby restaurant (that my ex-wife and I ate in when we were here in 2008, with great satisfaction) was recommended, and that was crap last night, too.

The downside of my week of antibiotic treatment, more or less for the week after leaving London, is that the past week (since the antibiotics were finished) has seen me with colossal tummy problems (and I have those anyway: antibiotics or not). The food last night, delicious as the Cullen Skink was and whilst the Haggis wasn’t the worst I’ve eaten, had something in it that (to put it delicately) gave me a very uneasy, unsettled, uncomfortable evening last night.

Add to that a “grand” hotel that reeked of cheap detergent, was clean but oozed decline, and then add in torrential rain and the inescapable pall of death and misery the media erupted with at 6.33pm (BST) last night…

I might be feeling better about myself and about the world than I have for a long time, but I simultaneously felt like shit last night.

And I use that term advisedly…

Anyone reading this who is thinking of exploring Scotland should put Loch Lomond on the list, and don’t stray from it under any circumstances.

But stay in Arrochar instead. Don’t stay or eat in Tarbet. Trust me on this.