(Parts 1, 2, & 3)

The next morning dawned sunny and clear, and nary a midge lodged itself between our teeth at breakfast. It was the day we had been looking forward to the most since the trip was just a twinkle in our eyes—the day we would finally enter the Highlands!—and it could not have started more beautifully. We donned our short sleeves and sunglasses and stopped by the Scottish Wool Centre on our way out to pay our respects to the sheep. As it turned out, the sheep were far more interested in A) trying to nurse each other and B) trying to headbutt each other (as one particular gender of sheep is likely to do upon being “nursed”) than in hanging out with us. However, the miniature horses were much more agreeable, especially when we offered carrot sticks. I tried to cleverly maneuver the conversation toward the amazingly awesome yumminess of carrots and/or vegetables in general, but you, Sophie, saw right through my tactics like any self-respecting two-year-old. At least the horses won’t be coming down with scurvy.

Whaddya know, we stumbled on some social sheep after all.

By lunchtime (carrots), we were headed north. I remember the precise moment when the landscape changed from forests to something you might find on the green side of the moon, and there they were—the Highlands, in all their scandalous beauty. At this point, we began to make decidedly worse time, partly because the road broke out in acne, and partly because I had to get out of the car every half mile to snap another photo. The sun had stayed back in Stirlingshire, but clouds simply added to the mystique of untamed hills, chaotic and purposeful all at once. It was easy to understand why people in movies always run through the Highlands, because how could they not?

One almost expected Liam Neeson to dash by in a kilt.

The farther north we traveled, the wilder the terrain grew. By the time we crossed onto the Isle of Skye, we were beginning to feel like extraterrestrials. The road had narrowed to little more than a jogging path with “passing places” marked every so often; besides that, there were few other signs of human involvement. We were alone in our car with craggy green-dusted mountains on all sides punctuated by snaking waterfalls and a rollicking armada of a sky. The wind didn’t whip or gust so much as it simply was—a powerful constant, a ruling presence whose ghost-hide we penetrated with each turn of the wheels. It felt lonely, exhilarating, and a little terrifying to find ourselves on nature’s turf. At least we had our car and our sense of adventure, and after approximately a million hours of twisting away from civilization, we arrived at Glenbrittle Beach, our getaway for the next few days.

Guess which member of the family said “Nah, I won’t need a coat; it’s summer!” and subsequently rued her optimism?

Once we set up camp, there was absolutely nothing to do except take a walk. Fortunately, taking walks happens to be one of our favorite family activities and was our only agenda for Glenbrittle. We planned to tackle a mountain the next day, but a simple stroll along the beach seemed like the perfect way to unwind after a long day in the car. The sand was packed with rivulets and pebbles like the sea’s personal Zen garden. Wind rushed headlong through our ears, and it was impossible not to get caught up in the wildness of it all. You girls climbed on driftwood, filled your pockets with purple seashells, and waved across the Atlantic at your grandparents. We all raced together along the waterline and even defied all beach logic by managing to get livestock charging at us again.

At least these sheep didn’t look particularly hungry.

Once the coatless member of our family was sufficiently frozen to death, we headed back in for hot pasta (we’re the only family we know who counts a colander among their camping gear) and bundled up for a blustery night, secure in the knowledge that our tent could withstand whatever the Isle of Skye brought its way. <insert pause for dramatic effect> Oh we of little faith. We should never have doubted the wind’s ability to flatten resistance… quite literally. We woke up the next morning to our tent roof pressed against our noses while outside, our anchors flew wildly in an authentic island tempest. And with that, our three nights’ stay turned into one.

This is the sole picture we managed to take before our tent began digesting us whole and photography dropped abruptly off our priority list.

~~~

On to Part 5…

(Parts 1 & 2)

We would have happily stayed for a few more days chilling with our new friends, but our plans lay further north, and neither Roman walls nor belligerent cows were going to keep us out of Scotland. It was a lovely day, cool and pearl grey with the sun occasionally slipping off her veil to waltz across patchwork hills. We hadn’t driven very far before the lure of an impromptu detour grew too strong, and we found ourselves piling out of the car beneath a patch of Stirling forest. Our real interest stood at the top of that patch of forest—the towering Gothic sandstone of the National Wallace Monument—but the hike itself proved to be the star of the show. When I announced that we were going to go exploring, you, Natalie, replied as drily as John Cleese on toast, “Indeed.” But after noticing the frequent switchbacks on the trail (“It’s wiggly!”) and the tall wildflowers flanking it (“So many magic wands!”), you decided a little woodland trek might not be the worst thing in the world after all.

If you’re not careful, impromptu detours have a way of leading to other impromptu detours, some of which are impossible to get down from with any semblance of dignity.

You two have a gift for pure silliness, and it’s truly a delight to experience… especially when it turns an uphill hike into a hilarious obstacle course. We wiggled and waggled and jumped over logs and scaled boulders and raced and tripped and climbed trees and took our tennis shoes off-roading in all the best possible ways. Before your dad and I even had a chance to properly whine, “Are we there yet?” we were at the top drinking in the panorama. Below us, the landscape of Stirling rustled in the wind. Behind us, the Wallace Monument twisted into the clouds. In front of it, two pint-sized fairy princesses ran and twirled, zapping each other with freshly picked magic wands. Your dad and I have traveled to incredible places over the years, but it still blew our minds that we were spending the afternoon in the Scottish countryside with our precious little girls. (Scratch that; you, Natalie, just turned your sister into a toad. Oh, and you, Sophie, followed that with a grasshopper spell. Now, both of you are members of the crustacean family.)

Well, our two precious spawn, at any rate.

After a while, the wind began to rattle our comfort levels into oblivion, so your wands were donated to hungry bees (Sophie’s idea), and we ran pell-mell down the hill to continue the next leg of our trip. The destination? Trossachs National Park. We stayed at a rather snooty campground that charged us twice as much for the privilege of following a hundred nit-picky rules and being spied on from camper windows, but that didn’t stop us from having a fantastic evening Bassett-style. We simply drove off into the surrounding forests, found a spot to park, and explored to our hearts’ content. As far as we could see stretched craggy hills mottled in endless shades of green with the occasional silver glimmer of a loch. We trekked over boulders, fallen trees, and friendly neighborhood slugs in between pauses to marvel at the view. You girls plopped down with me to test the napping potential of the pillowtop moss. We played I Spy Foxgloves. We made up marching songs. You could say we were enjoying our first day in Scotland.

No hands!
(In our family, this qualifies an activity as an extreme sport.)

Did I mention it was your dad’s birthday? So far, we hadn’t done anything specific to celebrate, unless you count the beautiful farm-fresh eggs I bought for his breakfast… and promptly emptied half the salt shaker into. (Me: “Ugh, these are the least edible scrambled eggs I’ve ever tasted. What should we do with them? Oh, I know—we can put them in the scrap bucket for the chickens!” Your dad: “…”) We headed back to camp in the lingering twilight for a birthday supper of hot dogs and midges and pickles and midges and Dr. Pepper and midges and midges and midges and a lovely Tesco birthday cake that we ate inside the tent to minimize the number of midges sticking to the frosting which still ended up higher than one would hope. You, Sophie, led us in a rousing chorus of “Half a birthday to you, half a birthday to you!” and then your dad opened his new Bliptronic 5000 with which you two generously volunteered to help play.

I’d like to think all the half birthday wishes added up to one fantastic day for the favorite man in our lives.

~~~

On to Part 4…

For the past three years, I’ve been writing monthly letters to the girls as a way to chronicle their childhoods and show the threads of love woven throughout. As much as I enjoy reading other bloggers’ similar letters (that’s where I got the idea in the first place), I don’t usually post my own because I don’t want to censor the me that my daughters will end up reading one day. However, I think this letter can be an exception… mostly because I don’t feel up to re-writing this sucker. Whew.

Without further ado, I would like to present Part 1 (out of 37,156,044,192,518) of our epic summer camping trip to Scotland.

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~~~

Sweet girls of mine,
One year ago, when your dad said, “Let’s camp our way to Ireland!” I laughed. Then I said, “He’s kidding, right?” Then I laughed some more. Then I said, “He’s not kidding.” Then I searched psychiatric help sites for Delusions of Travel before curling up in a ball and leaving the suitcases to pack themselves. (I blame our unfortunate lack of raincoats and fleeces entirely on them.) As you may recall, it rained fifteen days out of fifteen on that trip. We cooked pasta under umbrellas, woke up partially underwater, and aspirated mint tea to keep warm. One of us (name rhymes with SOPHIE) got skid marks on her face running pell-mell down a cliffside, and I had to buy blanket-sized tissues for my historical head cold that I no doubt passed on to the rest of you each time I spread peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my fingers in the front seat. (I blame the unfortunate lack of table knives on the suitcases as well.) This year, however, when your dad said, “Let’s camp our way to Scotland!” I immediately began researching tent sites. Such is the growing power of Bassett insanity.

It’s okay, I hear insanity is often associated with genius.

I hope that you girls inherit this knack for adventure; otherwise, this summer is liable to come up in therapy one day. A fifty-one hour drive has the potential to turn anyone into a card-carrying basket case, but a fifty-one hour drive involving seventeen cities, two ferries, eight campgrounds, three hundred and seventeen requests for bathrooms in the middle of Nowhere, Belgium, two guest bedrooms, one hidden apartment, seven hikes, and a delegation of hostile cows… well, maybe I should start from the beginning.

Our plan for the first day was to drive the few hours from your uncle’s in Milan to the city of Luxembourg where we would get ourselves delightfully lost in the casemates, nibble on plum tarts, and try to act like we speak one of its three national languages instead of two irrelevant ones. However, our plans were no match for the mighty traffic of Switzerland. While you girls marveled at the mountains (and discussed their eating habits, much to your parents’ amusement), we sat in traffic. While you napped, we sat in traffic. While you dissected your sandwiches, we sat in traffic. While you sang along to the entire They Might Be Giants’ “NO!” album several times over, we inched forward… then sat in more traffic. Once we finally arrived in Luxembourg, we barely had enough daylight left for setting up camp and eating supper. Of course, that didn’t stop us from jumping on the campground’s trampoline for an hour first. Responsibility has its limits, after all.

Totally almost legally circumventing traffic to get to a Swiss rest stop
(Having a newly-potty-trained passenger makes it okay, right?)

Day 2 was much more enjoyable, despite the stretch across Belgium which is so completely and mercilessly boring that one is tempted to stick a fork in one’s brain on the off-chance of seeing stars. We did have a few attention-grabbing moments when the fast lane narrowed to the width of an anorexic bike path, but we were still glad to board our ferry and wave au revoir to mainland Europe for two weeks. When we crossed the Channel last year, we took the Eurostar which was charmingly Seussical at first—in a car, on a train, under the sea, for a fee—but rather claustrophobic by the end. This year, however, we wised up (wose up? wizened up?) and paid a third of the price to cross the Channel in a floating internet café (yay! said your dad and I) with a colorful indoor playground (yay! said you already halfway up the rope ladder).

If the ferry’s other features hadn’t won out, the view certainly would have.

When I heartlessly insisted on going above deck for the last five minutes to see the cliffs of Dover, you allowed yourselves to be dragged, but neither principalities nor powers could convince you to look at the stunning scenery. Natalie, you protested the injustice of it all by collapsing onto a picnic bench and announcing to everyone on deck, “Please leave me alone; I am BASKING IN THE SUN.” Not to be out-dramatized, you, Sophie, promptly chimed in, “I’m basking TOO.” I took this to mean that the ferry was a hit. Oh, and I have to say, you two have excellent taste in protest activities.

We could see the thought bubble forming above the picnic table:
“I am NOT going to enjoy this, I am NOT going to enjoy this, I am NOT… dang it.”

Despite how much your dad and I like making you suffer, we set up camp that afternoon smack dab in a magic forest. True, the forest had only one tree, but the Fenland isn’t typically known for its foliage, and that one tree trumped all others in your world. The third most common question your dad and I were asked this summer (after “You’re driving where?” and “Just how far were you dropped on your head at birth?”) was “How do you manage camping with two young children?” This is our secret. It starts with “play” and ends with “ground,” and somewhere in the middle are the delighted squeals of girls exploring a magical treehouse while their parents set up camp and maybe even get a little unsupervised flirting in.

The Swiss Family Robinson was on to something…

Actually, that’s not our only secret. We also heavily rely on a parenting strategy known as Wearing You Out. Here’s how it works: After callously insisting you come down from the treehouse for a delicious supper, we bring you to historic Cambridge for an evening stroll. We pass punts along the river, plot  how to take over King’s College, squirm in front of the incredibly creepy Corpus Clock, and discover that British squirrels can swim. Oh yes, and we march a few miles. By the time we return to our tent, your minds have had their fill of amazing new sights, your bodies are properly exhausted, and you are only too happy to curl up in your sleeping bags and say goodnight to another brim-full day.

Every little girl’s dream is to claim a phone booth as her new living quarters.
(Fortunately for the sake of continued tranquility across the UK, we found two.)

~~~

On to Part 2…