SERENE: A Highland cow stands at the gate of Ballimore Farm Estates lodges and cottage in the western highlands of Scotland.
By Kathy Kieliszewski
We sat among strangers, stuffed into wet suits and squeezed into a van headed toward a beach. No one was quite sure what to expect when we arrived.
The web site had used words like “climb,” “scramble,” “swim” and “jump.” It added: “A hair-raising and spine-tingling journey of exploration.”
We were going coasteering.
Never heard of coasteering? Neither had we until I started digging around the Internet as I planned our family’s summer vacation to Scotland. My husband, two boys and I would tour castles, visit tiny villages and eat haggis, but most of all we wanted to experience Scotland’s nature and geography to its fullest extent — the cloud-kissed mountains, sheep-dotted glens, legendary lochs and rugged coastline.
We were headed to the western highlands near Oban, a coastal town filled with bed-and-breakfasts and seafood. Think Charlevoix, but instead of whitefish, there was haddock, and where we have Petoskey stones, they have rocky cliffs.
Coasteering originated in the United Kingdom and combines sea swimming, rock climbing and cliff jumping. Yes, cliff jumping.
On the travel site TripAdvisor, I had stumbled on Stramash, an outdoor adventure company on the outskirts of Oban. They offer a series of what they call Adventure Days that include things like sea kayaking, sailing, archery, mountaineering and coasteering.
When we arrived at Stramash’s office, we met Rob, our guide for the day. He was young, tall, muscular and built for jumping off cliffs. I am over 40, mildly athletic and afraid of heights. And yet here I was in a wet suit, life jacket and helmet so I could jump off a cliff.
Tucked northwest of Oban is Ganavan Bay and a crescent-shaped patch of beach abutted by steep cliffs. This is where we headed in that musty-smelling van.
It wasn’t until I plodded into the cold ocean water that I wondered, “What was I thinking?”
Thankfully, the wet suit did its job — it kept me warm from the icy ocean water. We started swimming toward the cliffs.
I don’t know if it was the weight of the wet suit or the buoyancy of the life jacket, but swimming was difficult. I was last to reach the cliffs and completely out of breath. Again, “What was I thinking?”
My younger son stayed close to his dad, just to be safe. This was, after all, an ocean, filled with lots of unknowns, not a Michigan lake. My confident older son, a teenager, didn’t even look back to see how the rest of us were doing.
One by one, we leapt
Rob explained the proper way to climb. And fall. Grab hold of the black rocks, not the greenish ones, those are covered in razor sharp barnacles, and when you start to fall, push away from the rocks.
As we began to climb, I said, “I’m not going to be able to do this.”
Yet, I did it. I’d find my footing and hoist myself up, around and over the rocky crags.
Now it was time to jump off the cliffs. There would be multiple jumps, each one higher — and harder — than the last one.
You aren’t supposed to jump as much as you are to leap. Rob demonstrated first by striking a runner-like pose; one foot in front, one foot in back, and like a gazelle he leapt off the first jump.
Not practiced in the art of leaping, I couldn’t decide what felt natural, left foot in front and right in back or vice versa. Frankly, nothing felt natural as I stared over the cliff, 10 feet above the waves.
One by one, we leapt, some of us more gazelle-like than others.
The next jump was about 15 feet. Boosted by the success of the last jump, I didn’t hesitate.
However, the final jump was 25 feet, almost as tall as a three-story building.
My older son was the first to go. He had been pretty brave the whole afternoon, but even he hesitated before jumping. After he emerged from the dark green water, he let out a yell and waved up at us.
The other mother in the group stood just to the side of me looking down and said, “We’d regret it if we didn’t do it, right?”
“Right,” I said, with zero confidence in my voice. I’d rather have a little regret than a broken neck.
After one more internal pep talk, I was leaping, holding my nose, off the cliff. The water comes sooner than you’d expect and the impact is harder than you’d imagine. The rush of water and sound is amazing and scary. Thanks to my life vest, I popped out of the water like a fishing bobber that just lost the catch of the day.
Later in the evening we drove back to the beach as the sun was setting behind the islands out past Ganavan Bay and we walked the dry path above the ocean and cliffs to where we had jumped.
We took a family photo and compared battle wounds — I had scraped my face with my nails while holding my nose and the boys counted barnacle scratches.
Those little scratches quickly disappeared. The sensation of hurtling seaward from a Scottish cliff will last forever.
Bicycling the green glens of Scotland
We rented our bikes from a guy named Nick. He lives outside the tiny Scottish town of Taynuilt in the western Highlands off a road about as wide as one car.
Nick Charlton owns RCS Cycles and repairs, sells and rents bikes from a large shed behind his house.
As Nick’s sheepherding dog barked hello and a cat twisted its tail around our ankles, he adjusted the bikes, helped plan our route and loaned us a map for good measure.
We were taking a 25-mile round-trip through Glen Lonan along route 78 from Taynuilt to Oban and back.
Scotland boasts a number of wonderful bike routes as part of the larger National Cycle Network, which includes over 14,000 miles of bike-friendly paths and roads throughout the United Kingdom.
Our narrow road cut through fields of Highland cows lazing by (and on) the road. They just watched us peddle by through their shaggy hair.
The western Highlands are movie-set perfect — rolling fields of heather surround beautiful lochs framed by craggy mountaintops. At any moment, we expected Harry Potter and Mel Gibson’s William Wallace to walk up and offer to take us to Brigadoon.
My older son, who rode at the front of our single-file line, stopped more than once and said, “Mom, just look at this place.”
We were told this part of Scotland was home to more sheep than people. We laughed at the time, but as we biked, we realised it was true. Less than a dozen cars passed us on the daylong trip, but we saw field after field of noisy sheep.
On the ride back from Oban, the faint sound of Scottish music came floating over a field mixed with what sounded like a very busy barbershop. We were hearing electric shears hard at work. As we rounded a bend, we caught sight of a barn, and out of the back of it popped a neatly shorn sheep that joined a line of dozens of equally neat sheep trotting back to a field to graze.
Again, it was like a movie. Where was Babe to round up the flock?
We stopped to watch our own personal movie come to life, bleating back at the sheep as the sun started to go down. No surprise that the real thing is better than the Hollywood version. —Detroit Free Press/MCT