For many people, summer is all about finding escapes, trips that soothe the soul and create lasting stories. In August 1997, my old school friend and I (plus his enthusiastic golden retriever) set our sights on Jura, a rugged Scottish island known for its wild landscapes, sparse population, and the famous Paps of Jura. What started as a spur-of-the-moment adventure to revisit the first MBA bothy I stayed at would become a trip stitched with comical mishaps, unexpected encounters, and a startling world event that broke into our remote bubble at journey’s end.
Saturday:
My first step toward Jura began with a lift from my father to my friend’s house in Stretton, Derbyshire. There we stocked up on provisions. The day drifted into a classic English summer evening: a leisurely pub visit in Matlock with an old schoolmate, enjoying that carefree post-exam feeling. The only snag came when we returned to my friend’s place and realised he had left his house keys behind. A frantic search ensued, but in the end, we managed a laugh about it. An omen, perhaps, that our trip might hold a few “unforeseen incidents.”
Sunday:
Early Sunday, we crammed our gear (including the dog’s food and water bowls) into the car and hit the road for the Scottish west coast. The drive was long, punctuated by conversation, dog pit stops, and rummaging through snacks. We eventually reached the ferry port, perched on an outcrop of land connected to the mainland by a single-track road. Before catching our boat the next day, we detoured back to the nearest village for fish and chips, then found a roadside patch for the night. A quick meal, a short wander, and we were done; time to rest up for Monday’s crossing.
Monday:
We packed the tent at dawn, made a swift pit stop for last-minute supplies, then a wander towards Isle of Arron on the horizon and visited a 13th century church before headed to the ferry terminal for our boat to isle of Ilay. Our first crossing was two hours on the CalMac vessel, dog not allowed indoors. Thankfully the weather stayed calm, so we braved the deck, soaking in sea air and keeping the retriever happy.
At the port, we encountered the characteristic ferry “madness”: trying to decipher signage, waiting for the Jura ferry, and weaving around other cars. One short crossing later, we were truly on Jura. After a scenic drive across the island; heather-clad moors, occasional deer, and few signs of civilisation. We parked and gathered our mountain of gear (including a fair supply of alcohol for “base-camp enjoyment”).
Around 5:30 p.m., we set off on foot. Two hours later, we arrived at the bothy. Inside, the midges were thick enough to form a living curtain, so we pitched our tent close by. Dinner was a “cowboy supper” from an old trail cookbook. Which promptly scorched the bottom of our pan. Still, after cracking open a few “tinies,” we soon forgot any culinary failings. That evening, three Glaswegians arrived. We swapped stories, jokes, and sips of whisky, forging a little community in the middle of nowhere.
The bothy itself was in decent shape, with leftover provisions (tinned soup and even potatoes) plus candles, matches, and logbooks dating back years. I found an old entry from a previous Stancliffe Hall trip. My own personal time capsule, reminding me we had stayed at the bothy for a night on an expedition during a school trip when I was 10. The hammocks from that era were still around, albeit fewer than I remembered.
Tuesday:
The next morning, we woke groggily to bright sunshine. I chowed down on Weetabix, jammed a day’s rations in our packs, and set off to see the whirlpools at the island’s north. Taking the main track, we reached the churning waters around midday, just as the sun reached its zenith. Sunscreen was essential as the sun was deceivingly intense that summer.
We continued westward along Jura’s rugged coast, passing a lively beach where a group had arrived by boat (we later learned it included our Glaswegian friends were also there). By late afternoon, we were footsore and craving an easier route, so we veered back onto the track. On passing the car we drove out to find a working phone but discovered it useless. That’s Jura for you: remote and quaint in equal measure.
Returning to the bothy on foot in the evening, we noticed smoke curling from the chimney. Someone had lit a fire. Two new arrivals had boated in from Oban, bringing precious firewood. Bliss! We cooked pasta on top of the stove and settled in for another night of conversation. The Scotsmen rejoined us, and the gathering became a merry (and slightly hazy) evening with maybe slightly too many drams of whiskey.
Wednesday:
Our hiking pace had been relentless, so we designated Wednesday as a day of rest. The Scottish trio packed up and left, heading home. We lingered, sleeping late and strolling casually down the coast. Enjoying Jura’s wilderness and today the dog lagged slightly behind us in an attempt to conserve energy. In the afternoon, we spotted a large motorised sailing yacht offshore. Turned out it was collecting the two men from Oban, who parted as suddenly as they’d arrived.
That evening, we dug through the bothy’s logbooks again. We found an entry from Stancliffe Hall, bringing back memories of my younger self, wide-eyed and fascinated by the rawness of Jura and one of the smallest members of this school expedition. Naturally, we scribbled our own note to join the tapestry of travelers who’d stumbled through the bothy’s doors. With the dog dozing contently near the tent, we spent a last night finishing off our “liquid provisions,” knowing we’d head out the next day.
Thursday:
Saying goodbye to the bothy, we ambled back to the car and drove for provisions: postcards, snacks and a mandatory pit stop at the local pub. By chance, we ran into our Glaswegian friends, who were equally amused to find us reemerging from Jura’s wilds.
We eventually followed a newly built “track” toward the Paps of Jura. Three cone-shaped mountains that dominate the island’s skyline. We soon discovered the path was more of a “scar” across the land, but we pressed on to a passable spot for the tent. It wasn’t ideal: peaty water in a barely-flowing stream, midges on the prowl although at least we had a vantage for the next day’s climb. The evening passed quietly.
Friday:
We woke to low cloud swirling around the summits, a stark contrast to the earlier clear skies. By mid-morning, we started up the first Pap, forging a steep path of scree and rocky outcrops. The dog struggled on the loose stone and by the time we descended, we decided the canine was having none of it. Rather than push on (and risk carrying a 30-kilo retriever!), we returned to camp.
The weather turned gloomier; the site had few comforts beyond a stunted stream. We concluded it was time to pack up and pivot to a more civilised evening. After calling the ferry company to alter our booking, we headed for a pub that allowed camping on a nearby field for a donation. In typical Scottish fashion, midges swarmed the site, so dinner was swift. Then we retreated indoors to the pub, where the dog flopped happily under the table.
Saturday:
Early morning, the dog demanded out. Unfortunately, that meant letting midges in. We all scrambled to break camp in record time, aiming for the “moving fortress” of a car. After stashing gear in a windy lay-by (to blow midges away), we got ourselves organised for the drive south. The rest of the journey passed largely without incident. Unless you count my friend’s enthusiastic attempt to drive nonstop back to England while I dozed off in the passenger seat.
Sunday:
We arrived sometime late Saturday or in the wee hours. Sunday morning, I was jarred awake by my friend announcing, “Diana has died.” In my drowsy confusion, I thought he was referring to someone we knew personally. Until I realised he meant Princess Diana. The entire UK was reeling from the tragic news out of Paris. It felt surreal to have spent a week in Jura’s wilderness, only to return and find a different world than the one we’d left.
Reflections:
That final punch of reality, emerging from Jura’s raw seascapes and lonely hills into a country in collective shock, solidified how isolated and timeless our trip had been. We’d spent the week lugging supplies to a remote bothy, scorching our cowboy supper, forging instant friendships over a glowing hearth and contending with terrain the dog either loved or outright refused.
This journey also tapped into a deeper truth: that travel can be a momentary sanctuary from the world’s noise, until it’s not. The Paps remain unconquered in my memory, but the sense of camaraderie and the magic of stumbling upon old logbook entries linger with me to this day.
Would I go back? Absolutely. Perhaps better prepared for midges, with improved route-finding around those screes. But nothing beats the recollections of sun-baked afternoons, the swirl of the whirlpools, or the hush of Jura’s heather-laced moors.