Claire Macaulay

"Whose idea was it to travel around secret swimming holes in the north of Scotland in a campervan in April?" I ask, guiltily. It is 11pm the night before wild swimming road trip. We are novice caravanners, and I have spent the week writing lists to cover every eventuality, not quite sure what we might need, or what space the motorhome will have. I include sunscreen, with a twist of irony, more in hope than expectation.

Having ensured that the right teddy is packed for our daughter and that our 10 year old son has more than one clean t-shirt and that the dog has enough poop bags, I realise I have no clean pants. This happens every trip. I grumble to the Husband that I resign from motherhood and thank the laundry gods for the 30 minute express wash cycle.

Our hallway is packed with items that do not appear on any of my lists. I am certain that we would need a double decker bus to accommodate all this stuff. The Husband and I have different ideas when it comes to the essential items. I can content myself with clean pants, a good book and a waterproof jacket, my husband's basics include a toolbox, 4 tennis rackets, a gas stove, an assortment of electrical wires and a parachute. We also have to pack the "caravanning jumper," a hideous, itchy tongue in cheek gift from a friend, who also schooled us on the "caravanning salute", to acknowledge other caravanners we pass on our travels.

We manage to crush it all into the car and make our way to Callander to meet James at Highdays and Holidays. Once the collision damage waiver is paid, we load up the Fiat Carioca 635. I unpack the food into the overhead compartments, and realise that I have used every available storage space, and we have not even got to unpacking the clean pants. Fortunately, the bottom bunk bed flips up to create a garage space and the wellies, wetsuits and recreational activities are on board and we hit the open road to the rocking tunes of Twin Atlantic.

Soon we spot another motorhome heading in the opposite direction. We wave enthusiastically, and they wave back. We are delighted and resolve to salute everyone we pass.

Our destination is Inverness and the Auchnahillin Holiday Park for our first overnighter. The site is blessedly flat and we figure out hooking up to the electrics while the kids explore.

Being the organised type, I have cooked some meals and brought them frozen in my trusty clip-lock boxes. Tonight's offering was my veggie bolognaise with puy lentils and wholegrain spelt spaghetti handmade by Italian nuns. Just because we are camping does not mean we need to let nutritional standards drop.

I investigate the storage cupboards in the "kitchen" to discover that it is equipped with a frying pan and a tiny milk pan. I toy with the idea of cooking pasta in one person batches, before admitting defeat and settling for sausages and beans.

After dinner the kids run about until well after dark. They come in buzzing and we settle down for the night, the kids in bunks and the Husband and I in the over-cabin double.

We sleep well and wake up to beautiful blue skies. The showers on the site are spotlessly clean and warm, but I realise that not only have I forgotten my pyjamas, I have not brought my make up. The pyjama oversight had been resolved by my ever organised boy, who had packed extra. I was not convinced that Age 10 Angry Birds nightwear was quite my style, but I was in no position to refuse. Unfortunately, he had not also packed a full set of cosmetics.

Whilst the Husband empties the chemical loo, the kids and I play rounders. It is, for the briefest of moments, the family idyll, until a fight starts about who is in and who is out. Waste disposed and fresh water topped up, we set off for Ullapool, with an unscheduled stop at a hardware store for a pan big enough to cook 4 portions of pasta.

It is my turn to have a go at driving, which I very much enjoy, but it soon becomes apparent that the twisty roads induce travel sickness for the Husband, at least that is what he says, and he takes the wheel for the rest of the trip.

Just beyond Ullapool, we stop at Ardmair Point on a sheltered sea loch with dramatic Ben Mhor Coigach behind. We skim stones, explore caves, train to be Olympic rock runners, watch an amazing sunset then eat spaghetti and sleep like logs.

We cannot believe our luck when we wake to another sunny day. Today is to be our first day of swimming and we motor to Achemelvich, a tiny clachan 3 miles northwest of Lochinver. Turns out that they are three very long, tortuous miles along a hairy single track road.

As we arrive at the rather unassuming car park, the rain starts to fall. Undeterred, we struggle into our newly acquired wetsuits and forge over the dunes. There are no superlatives that can do justice to the crystal clear turquoise water and perfect white sand. Even in the rain, Achmelvich beach is instantly my favourite place on earth. We mess about in the freezing surf, potter in rock pools and climb cliffs until we can no longer feel our toes. We run back to the van chittering, grateful for the gas heater and hob, atop which we make the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted.

By the time we have thawed out, the sun is shining and I head out to take photos. There is another bay on the other side of the rocks even more spectacular then where we were swimming. The first glimpse from the top of the hill is genuinely breathtaking. I contemplate the distances I have travelled to far places in the world in search of beauty such as this, only to find it so much closer to home. The parallels with life itself are not lost on me.

Feeling brave and alive, we decide to wild camp. Finding a spot in the middle of Sutherland flat enough for a motorhome was a more difficult task than we had imagined. With roads barely wide enough to drive on, we were beginning to give up hope when a clearing presented itself. Nestling between imposing escarpments with a babbling burn running through, it could not have been more perfect. We pull up and make camp.

The kids decide to build a campfire, and it is not until now that we notice the absence of trees. This is not the green, pine-forested landscapes of Highland postcards. This is an angular lunar landscape, hauntingly beautiful. But no trees means no wood and the campfire plans are scuppered. Instead we enjoy the lullaby of the gently flowing burn with a gratitude for the majesty of our countryside.

Next morning we head to Clachtoll Beach campsite, overlooking a yet another stretch of beautiful white sand. Jim and Ishabel give us a lovely friendly welcome. During our trip we have been stuck by the sense of community amongst the campers and caravanners. People take time to stop for an idle chat. Need the use of a tin opener? No problem, your neighbour has one. Jim offers to get us bread and milk at Lochinver to save us the trip back, and we gratefully take him up on his offer.

We don the wetsuits again and are straight in for a dip, slightly better prepared for the icy waves. Friends who are seasoned surfers had told us the trick of peeing in your wetsuit to warm it up. The water is so cold that my pelvic floor muscles are clamped tighter than a steel trap - no chance of me centrally heating my wetsuit even if I wanted to.

My son and I try and reach another cove further round the bay. Scrambling up the rocky crags, we come to a farm perched precariously above a sheer drop to the ocean below. Running across the boggy, rivuleted land dodging sheep poo in only a wetsuit and neoprene booties is not an experience I will forget in a hurry. Exhilarated, we slip and slide our way down to the secret beach, pretending to be the first humans to walk the pristine shore.

Our most northerly foray was a walk to the Old Man of Stoer, a two hour trip from the lighthouse car park. Walking high above the crashing Atlantic waves below, it feels like we are at the edge of the world. It is difficult to get a real sense of the phallic structure rising from the sea, but the Husband and I have great fun with innuendo that that we hope is flying far above the children's heads. After the third groan of "Is this what we walked all the way here for?" we stride back and make it to the van just before the rain starts. Our run of good weather has come to an end we elect to start our journey south.

There is only one thing to be done in Ullapool in the rain - eat. The fish and chips at The Seaforth is probably the best I have tasted - the fish landed that morning - and the welcome at Tea By the Sea is the warmest I have experienced in a long while. With the rain still pouring, we head to Loch Ness, the longest leg of our journey. The Loch Ness Holiday Park is sleek, if a little soulless. Hobbits nestle alongside executive lodges with hot tubs. We park up and wait to glimpse the monster.

By morning, my daughter is a little indignant that Nessie has not made an appearance, and we move on to our first inland swimming spot. I have convinced myself that this will be warmer than the sea and that we will be frolicking beneath the waterfall in Hollywood movie fashion. The drive to the Witches Cauldron is beautiful and narrow. The pounding waterfall tumbles into a never-ending plunge pool. I studiously avoid looking up to the snow-capped peaks above, so as not to dash my fantasy of tropical temperatures.

With the exception of the pool itself, the river is only knee-deep. Within a few minutes I can no longer feel my legs, but I am strangely unperturbed. We decide that the challenge is to swim out to the waterfall and back. There is only one way to do this - quickly. The shock of the cold is so great that my vision blurs and my diaphragm is paralysed such that no air will enter or leave my lungs. All I can think of is Davina McCall and how sorry I am that I secretly thought she made a bit of a meal about that whole Windermere swim. I have a newfound respect - I have only swum about 20 metres and I think I am dying. I make it back to the shallows just as some sightseers drive up for a look at the view, and get a little more than they bargained for. I suddenly wonder if they might call social services for abject cruelty to children.

Pink-cheeked, we drive south towards our final stopover. The Pinetrees Leisure Park at Tyndrum, then on to Callander the next day.

With the car packed we make our way home. Instinctively we salute and giggle at the first motorhome we pass. They do not wave back. We are invisible down here at car height. Silently, we agree that someday we will again wear the jumper, hit the open road and take our place in the caravanning club.