See You On The Other Side, Nick
I’ll admit, a campervan trip to Scotland in March isn’t everyone’s idea of a fun getaway.
Some people might prefer a week on a sun lounger in the Med, sipping something involving an umbrella while slowly turning the colour of a cooked lobster. But where’s the adventure in that?
Give me a muddy track, a couple of vehicles, questionable weather, enough food to feed a small army and absolutely no mobile phone signal and I’m generally quite happy.
It was March 2025, and I was heading north with my mate Nick for a few days in the wilds of Scotland, not far from St John’s Town of Dalry.
Nick would be sleeping in a rooftop tent perched above his Classic Defender 90 whilst I had considerably more civilised accommodation in the shape of a Volkswagen T7 California Coast. At least, that was the theory.
Armed with a kettle, plenty of wine, a sleeping bag, and an irrational amount of snacks (because you never know when you’ll need an emergency biscuit), we set off on the four-hour drive north. The 2.0-litre diesel in the VW made it effortless, and I even managed 52.3mpg – not too shabby. More impressive was the lack of rattles from the fixtures and fittings, especially considering how many camper conversions sound like a mobile toolbox over rough roads.
Our base was reached via a narrow dirt track that wound its way through around 10,000 acres of woodland. The further we travelled, the more civilisation disappeared behind us.
No traffic.
No houses.
No distant hum of a motorway.
Just trees, hills, open moorland and the occasional track disappearing into the distance.
Eventually we found somewhere to stop and, for the next few days, this enormous landscape was effectively ours. Well, ours and the deer. Although, as it turned out, the deer weren't particularly interested in meeting us.
While Nick grappled with his iKamper rooftop tent in the cold, I smugly pressed a button to raise the California’s electric pop-up roof, swivelled the front seats around, and within a minute, my compact home was sorted.
The reason we'd come wasn't simply to escape for a few days. Nick was involved with a Deer Management Group, voluntary regional networks in which landowners and other stakeholders work together across large upland areas to manage deer numbers. So there was a purpose to being there.
Once camp was set up we wandered over to Nick’s favourite spot, but it appeared that the deer may have read the itinerary and decided to avoid us completely.
Sunset, chilli and putting the world to rights
After a wander around the estate it was, naturally, teatime.
And yes, tea.
Breakfast, dinner, tea and supper. Anything else is southern confusion.
I cooked up a homemade chilli in the California's tiny kitchen while Nick provided the wine, and we ate outside as the day began to disappear.
And this is where Scotland does something rather special. The light changed almost imperceptibly. The hills, which during the afternoon had been sharp and imposing, began to soften into layers of grey and blue. The distant ridges faded into the haze, one behind another, until it became difficult to tell where the land ended and the sky began.
Then the sun started to drop. The sky turned a deep, warm orange, bathing the hills in that strange golden light you only seem to get when you're somewhere properly remote.
There was almost complete silence. Just the occasional sound of the wind and two mates sitting outside a couple of 4x4s, eating chilli, drinking wine and putting the world to rights.
It was one of those evenings where you realise you don't actually need anything else. No itinerary, no attraction to visit, no reason to be anywhere else, just good company, good food and an extraordinary view.
Eventually, the temperature won, and Nick clambered up the ladder into his rooftop tent with all the grace of a newborn giraffe whilst I stepped into the California climbed into the California's top bunk.
And that's when reality hit. I'd brought entirely the wrong sleeping bag. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the wind had that particular Scottish ability to find its way through absolutely everything. I'd love to tell you that I toughed it out. I didn’t. The California's auxiliary heater became my new best friend.
Morning brought coffee, bacon butties and a sky so blue it looked like someone had been let loose with Photoshop. There was no plan for the day, and that was rather wonderful.
We simply walked. The estate seemed to stretch forever, the open hills rolled away towards distant ridgelines, patches of woodland broke up the landscape and the low winter sun threw long shadows across the ground.
There was a quietness to the place that you don't often appreciate until you're away from it.
Not silence exactly. The wind was always there, and birds occasionally broke the stillness.
We wandered from one hide to another, looking for deer. Nothing. More walking more looking., more nothing, but it didn't matter as Nick and I spent most of the time talking absolute nonsense anyway.
That's the thing about good mates. You don't need an agenda. You can spend hours together saying very little of consequence, laughing at things that probably aren't remotely funny to anyone else, and somehow that's exactly what makes the day.
Another night, another bottle of wine. That evening I cooked chicken, rice and spicy sausages., although not too spicy as Nick said he had a sore tongue, which he reckoned he'd bitten earlier in the week. We thought nothing of it.
Another bottle of red appeared from the back of the Defender.
I'm not entirely sure how many bottles he'd brought with us, but apparently he'd brought enough. We drank an alarming amount.
Eventually the cold drove us inside.
The California's heater was fired up and, unlike the previous evening, we sat in warmth and comfort while the temperature outside continued to plummet.
It was one of those evenings where you can hear the wind outside but you're warm and dry inside, with nowhere you need to be. Perfect.
The following morning arrived a bit too early, and panic set in as I realised I’d left my water bottle outside, and it was almost totally frozen - I needed coffee!
The sun hadn’t yet risen, so I donned all my warm weather gear, camera, and went for a walk.
As the first light appeared, the darkness slowly lifted and the distant hills emerged one by one in the pale morning haze, it was stunning. And, finally, I spotted a deer. The only deer I'd see, and Nick was probably still fast asleep
Arriving back at camp Nick was up and appeared to have read my mind - he had bacon butties and pots of coffee ready to go, what a star.
After another scout we arrived back to camp empty handed, again, but it didn't matter, because looking back, venison was never really the point, so we decided to pack up and head for home.
See you on the other side, Nick
A few months later, we discovered that the sore tongue Nick had complained about wasn't the result of him accidentally chomping on it, it was cancer, and almost 12 months to the day after that trip to Scotland, Nick passed away.
And that's why this little adventure means rather more to me now than it did at the time.
Back then, it was simply a few days away. A couple of mates, a 4x4, a campervan, some food and considerably more wine than was probably sensible.
We didn't know it would be our last trip together. I didn't know that the bloke sitting opposite me at the end of the day, laughing, eating chilli and talking absolute nonsense would soon be gone. Perhaps that's why I keep coming back to those evenings in my head.
Because life is full of things we assume we'll do again. Sometimes we get the chance, sometimes we don’t.
I'm incredibly grateful that we had those few days. And if there is an other side, I hope there's a Defender 90 waiting for you, pal.
See you on the other side, Nick, I'll bring the wine.