It wasn’t often that we ran out of milk. Usually, trips into town were planned with enough thought to avoid it – planning what we needed, making sure there was always another pint in the fridge to carry us over until the next time we made the journey out. Because it is a journey to the nearest town. Living where we are now requires that kind of planning – I learnt quickly that nothing is ever quite on your doorstep.
But occasionally, you miss it.
And when you do, you find yourself standing in the kitchen on a Sunday, halfway through making a brew, before realising you’ve got just enough milk left to turn the water a funny colour. The wrong colour. The kind of amount of milk that forces a decision.
On a Sunday, the decision becomes very simple. All the small independent shops that are luckily not entirely far from home are closed. There’s no quick fix, no short walk, no popping out for five minutes. It means one thing.
A drive.
The road towards the Co-op at the mouth of Glencoe isn’t one you take absentmindedly. Even after living here for a fair while now, the journey never feels ordinary.
That day, the tall, rolling hills were obscured. Russet brown, thick grey mist clinging to the bracken, half-hidden with clouds that lazily sloped over their tops, revealing and concealing their sheer height in slow shifts. The clouds hung low with the threat of rain, but it was yet to fall. Which was good, because I had prioritised bringing my camera and wallet instead of a raincoat. Rookie.
The loch sat calm opposite as we hugged the road that coasted beside it. I kept a keen eye out for otters along the way, but saw nothing but buoys and bobbing boats.
The scenery was epic. And yet, there we were – driving through it all for a pint of milk.
By the time we pulled up to the Co-op, the warmth of the car had done its job, and stepping out into the damp air felt sharper than I expected. I blinked at the fluorescent lighting, listening to the hum of the fridges and the chatter of customers. The shop was never quiet. I dodged between tired locals, brushing shoulders with the protective jacket of a Forestry worker and weaved between the huge, bulging rucksacks on the backs of weary hikers. The shop sits on the West Highland Way route, and is a popular pit stop. No wonder the Lucozade stock was almost empty.
I was sluggish myself, still carrying the weight of a late shift. I fumbled with the self-checkout, tapping the screen a little more firmly than necessary as if that might encourage it along. It didn’t take me long to compare the scenery and life here to the one we had in Northern England.
There was a convenience to it, I’ll admit. The Tesco Express by the bus stop I used to stand at on the way to school – always open, always there, never something you had to think about. The kind of place you could walk into half-asleep and still come out with exactly what you needed in under five minutes. No planning or journey. Just…there.
But that thought doesn’t last long. Stepping back outside shifts everything again.
Milk in hand, a coffee for the road, I look over my shoulder to study the huge, roaring mountains behind the back of the shop. It’s enough to make me pause, studying the lolling rolls of a darkening cloud. And just like that, the trade-off feels obvious. You don’t regret it. Not even slightly.
We didn’t head straight back. Not when the scenery looked as epic as always. Instead, we carried on – a loose loop around the mouth of Glencoe through the surrounding village. Just following the curve of the road as it meandered through the landscape.
I didn’t bring my camera for nothing.
Nose practically pressed against the window, the minute I saw anything dramatic enough, I’d ask to pull over and I’d charge out of the car, fumbling with my lens cap.
The jetty stretched out into the water. The wood was slippery and I almost pulled every muscle in my body as I skidded to get a better angle of the scene. Rust spread over the old boat opposite, ropes coiled tight around worn posts. The mountains yet again remained a constant.
Further along, the view opened out. A small island in the middle of the loch. Traces of fresh green, an omen of spring yet to come, that circled bare trees. The water barely moved around it, disturbed only by a pair of Merganser ducks that bobbed through.
It had started to rain by now. My choice to not bring a coat was becoming more stupid and obvious the more I scurried along with my now sodden camera.
The clicks of the shutter was the only sound there, or the occasional “oooh that’s the one” from me studying the rain splattered screen on my camera. Or the embarrassing yelp I made when my foot disappeared down a rock pool.
I found myself rushing back to the car once I’d got enough pictures, thoroughly soaked from the rain that was now heavy and thick.
I shouldn’t have rushed at all really. Maybe because even the most ordinary of tasks here ask a little more of you – a bit more time, a bit more thought.
Or maybe it’s just that, in the middle of it all, you’re constantly reminded of where you are.
And for me, I couldn’t feel further away from the Tesco Express opposite my old bus stop. And that’s fine by me.
By the time we made it back, the milk had become secondary. Just something that justified the drive.
And for what it’s worth – the milk made for an absolutely beltin’ brew.
Tide Notes 