Portavadie: Hogmanay
As the cold, crisp air of winter begins to sting our noses, it is a common occurrence among a few friends of mine to jet off into the sunset in search of a warmer festive season.
However, last Hogmanay I was intent on enjoying a truly Scottish experience. In an attempt to bring together friends who were scattered across the various towns, cities, villages and hills of our glorious wee country, we set out on a pilgrimage to the small settlement of Portavadie on the Cowal Peninsula. After a series of wrong turns and close encounters with over-confident sheep (they easily surpass cyclists as the most dangerous road users) we finally arrived. Around 18 of us poured into the tiny rented cottage that was probably built to hold one man, his pipe and perhaps a dog or two.
And so the evening began: the coal fire glowed, candles flickered and a sense of peace filled the cottage as we sat around in smoking jackets, sipping whisky and enjoying catch-up conversations that probably should have taken place earlier in the year but didn’t due to the busy nature of everyone’s respective occupations. It seems there is something uniquely romantic about a croft in the Highlands that inspires one to forget the usual toils of life and allows for poetic insights into the true beauty of our nation and the irreplaceable value of friends huddled together around the light of flames.
Needless to say, our initial Walter Scott-esque feelings of romantic bliss were soon replaced by a more familiar version of modern Scotland - out came the bottles of Buckfast and the night accelerated into frenzied conversation, loud music and endless laughter. Patriotic spirits raised, we danced our way over to the neighbours where we were met with the uncorking of a ten-year old malt in honour of our first-footing efforts. “It’s just like the old days,” whispered Pat as she took a break from incessantly puffing on her cigarette - it was a truly humbling experience to meet an aged Portavadie resident who was more than happy to welcome us young, Buckfast-swigging pretenders. Glasses filled, singing voices in full effect, we stared out to a shimmering Loch Fyne praising the splendour of our nation among new friends and old.
The next morning we cured our hangovers with a walk around the hills and lochs of Argyll in our thoroughly inappropriate attire of Converse trainers, suit jackets and jeans. Upon meeting some ‘real’ hikers along the way, they gave us a friendly nod of hill walking approval that seemed to say “well done for trying folks, but next time please invest in some ugly industrial boots and a thoroughly distasteful all-weather jacket if you want to be taken seriously”. We giggled onwards along our walk and eventually stumbled upon an eerie abandoned village. A bearded local then informed us that Portavadie had been victim to the oil boom of the 1970s. The area had been selected as a site for oil platforms and a village was constructed to house hundreds of workers, however, the tides of Loch Fyne proved too dangerous for the project and so the area has been left to decay ever since.
It is amazing what a hungover stroll around a derelict village in the Highlands can do for the imagination. My thoughts firstly turned to the destructive nature of the oil industry in Scotland and its future consequences, but then as my reverie continued, the crumbling village began to resonate the neglected hidden treasures of our beautiful nation and the manner in which its charms will decay unless we truly begin to value our homeland. I soon snapped out of my hungover thoughts as the mud began to soak through my ill-prepared trainers.
We gradually sludged back to the cottage coal fire where we toasted our feet and warmed our hearts with some of the leftover whisky from the night before. The guitars came out and the familiar chimes of song and laughter filled the cottage once again as we sang our various odes to Portavadie, not wishing to be anywhere else in the world. It’s amazing the fun you can have in your own country - just give it a chance.