If Day Two was about "The Drift," Day Three was the "Grand Side-Track."
I woke up at the Clachaig Inn after another night of deep, mountain-air-fuelled sleep. One final, hearty Full Scottish breakfast later (the fuel tank was full, even if the wallet was about to take a hit), I pointed Dezzy Bee East. I was supposed to be heading home to Galston, but Glencoe wasn't quite finished with me yet.
Ethereal Sisters and Spellbound Lochs
As I drove through the glen, the morning light hitting the Three Sisters was, quite frankly, divine. It was that ethereal, shimmering Highland light that makes you wonder if you've accidentally driven onto a film set. The Canon M100 was out in a flash. I battled some sun flare, but I didn't care - the experience was more about the eyes than the sensor.
Further on, Loch na h-Achlaise cast its own enchantment. I walked nearly half a mile from where Dezzy Bee was parked to find the perfect vantage point. Looking across the water toward the snow-dusted peaks of Am Monadh Dubh, I felt that familiar breath-taking thrill. It was a "stop and stare" moment that no camera can ever fully do justice to.
The Killin Diversion: Falls and Fridge Magnets
By the time I hit Crianlarich, I made a command decision: no motorways. I wasn't in a rush, so I swapped the A82 for the scenic route via Callander.
Then came the indicator click. A sign for Killin and the Falls of Dochart appeared, and Dezzy Bee practically turned himself. The falls weren't at full spate, which was a blessing - it meant I could clamber out onto the rocks and sit right in the middle of the rushing water. Another "soul-cleansing" session complete.
I also popped into a cracking little gift shop, Bridge End Mill, for some "tactical" fridge magnet acquisition. My wife Ebony and I have a fridge that is currently struggling under the weight of our Scottish travels; I think we’re nearing the point where the magnets might actually be holding the appliance together.
Callander: The Wallet’s Waterloo
My final stop was Callander, one of my favourite spots. A walk along the River Teith, a friendly coffee, and then... the danger zone. The Callander Woollen Mill.
I’m really not one for labels, but put me in front of James Pringle or P.G. Fields gear and my wallet starts to sweat. Sixty quid later, armed with new shirts and a hoodie, I finally made the push back to East Ayrshire.
Home at Last
Coming back to Galston was bittersweet. The house was quiet with Ebony still down South, but the "mental massage" of Glencoe had done its work. I spent the evening basked in the warm glow of the memories (and the radiator), scrolling through shots of waterfalls, snow-capped peaks, and very satisfied-looking frogs.
Skye can wait. Glencoe gave me exactly what I needed: a reminder that at 60, the adventure is only just getting started.
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