Day 6: Golspie at dawn, Dunrobin Castle (& a lost travel companion)

📍 Golspie > Wick > Dunrobin Castle > Dingwall > Kyle

Early morning wanders in Golspie

I woke before 5am in Golspie, Scotland. RaRa and Lainey were still deep in slumber, and the sky was already pale, soft light filtering through the campervan windows. I moved quietly—or tried to. In the stillness of the morning, every sound felt amplified, my attempt at stealth more baby elephant than breeze. I slipped out of the camper into the fresh light like an amateur ninja in a puffer jacket.

I wandered down to Golspie Beach, the village still tucked in and silent. Out on the pier, I stared into the blueish-green seawater. The only sound was the sea, whispering secrets to the stones. Not another soul in sight. Peaceful, yes—but I couldn’t quite shake the flicker of unease that comes with being a woman alone at dawn.

I passed a collection of intentionally grounded fishing boats, wondering about the inspiration behind their fanciful names (with only one plainly called Sarah), then walked along the main street.

Small village snapshots

The village had that close-knit, everyone-knows-everyone community vibe. Memorial benches dotted the foreshore—tributes to much-loved locals, now etched in stone and remembered beneath the bums of fish-and-chip eaters. The homes had thick stone walls and wide window sills—architectural proof that this place was built to survive winters that make your bones want to weep.

In the park, a flower-covered memorial caught my eye. Two overflowing charity shops only seeking volunteer time, their racks already full. A surprisingly stylish hair salon stood out on the main street, like a West Elm showroom dropped gently into a coastal village.

The pharmacy window displayed funeral notices in wildly varying tones. One, stark and spare in Times New Roman. Another, poetic and intimate—“loyal friend, brother and brother-in-law,” but no mention of a spouse. A mystery that reveals itself the longer you think about it.

Food2Go promised egg sandwiches at 6 am, in just 10 minutes. Thankfully, it was just around the corner from the council-approved overnight motorhome bays at the beach car park.

Our home-on-wheels sleeping at Golspie Beach.

Frozen fingers & push-button coffee

By the time I returned to our home-on-wheels, RaRa and Lark were up, dressed, and had already scoped out the playground. Lark’s hands were freezing. For a seaside village in late May, it was icy. I found myself wondering whether anyone actually swims here—or if the sea is purely decorative. A stark contrast to the warm, bustling beach towns of Australia, full of sunrise swimmers and activewear-clad joggers all year round.

Side note: When I first moved to Sydney over a decade ago, the nightlife was vibrant. That all changed with the lockout laws. I remember the outcry—but in its place, something strange and wonderful bloomed: a morning culture. Far more spritely and healthy than most cities I’ve visited.

After collecting those egg sandwiches, a push-button coffee (which RaRa rated surprisingly high), and a hot chocolate for me—yet another proud member of the chai-free zone—we had some muesli, fruit, and Bluey for breakfast.

Then we hit the road, aiming to drive as far north as we could in 90 minutes before looping back to make our 10 am slot at Dunrobin Castle. Our goal is to see as much of Scotland as possible, afterall.

The drive north to Wick

The road was winding, the countryside windswept and striking. To the left, gorse blazed yellow across the rolling hillsides. To the right, the North Sea stretched out—foggy and vast—its horizon dotted with wind turbines, looming like a slow-motion sci-fi invasion.

We passed Scottish blackfaced sheep, tidy homes sitting on lawns so manicured they looked like ornaments, a smattering of land turbines, and the occasional solar panel—brave, slightly out of place. The battered rooftops told their own story: of wind, rain, and winters that test both mortar and spirit.

I’ve seen more shaggy Highland cows on tea towels and postcards than I have on hillsides. Honestly, I’ve seen more in Australia. At this point, I’m beginning to suspect they’re just as mythical as Nessie.

We reached Wick before pulling a U-ey and heading south again.

Scenes from the backseat

I kept glancing back at Lark in her car seat—peacefully asleep, face soft in the morning light. Each time I looked, the scene had shifted. One moment, she was sleeping soundly. The next, sipping Ribena from a baby bottle, eyes closed in quiet bliss. Then wide awake, staring at me through glassy brown eyes, her red curls swept across her forehead like the wind had arranged them just so.

This is the magic hour of childhood, and I’m driving right through it with her. I took a mental snapshot—something to keep.

And then… the Ribena ran out.

Betrayal. Grief. One long inhale, and then she wailed. The kind of tears only toddlers produce—giant, slow-motion drops rolling down her cheeks like the world had ended.

We pulled over. One of the underrated joys of campervan travel: the ability to stop, regroup, and serve snacks on demand.

A Ribena top-up. A mango pouch. Five Biscoffs—one for her, one for me, one for RaRa, two mysteriously unclaimed. RaRa checked the news (mass floods in NSW), while I caught up on travel notes. The van gently ticked in the breeze. The north behind us. Dunrobin ahead.

Dunrobin Castle: grandeur unleashed

We arrived at Dunrobin Castle with minutes to spare—just enough time for RaRa to shower, Lark to be de-grubbied, and me to apply makeup in a still mirror. Another quiet win for van life.

Too many stairs for a pram, so we carried Lark along the crunchy gravel path as the castle emerged behind the trees—one moment: forest, the next: turrets. How a building that size hides behind a few trees is a visual magic trick that deserves an academic study.

It was grand. Clock-tower grand. Falconry-on-the-lawn grand.

Lark, still recovering from her Ribena crisis, needed to run. So we started in the gardens. And my goodness… those gardens. Immaculate. Layered. Like several different gardens stitched together. Box hedges. Fountains. Stone walls. Iron gates. All set against an ocean backdrop that looked like high-budget CGI.

Admiring Dunrobin Castle from the gardens.

Feathers, falcons & flight school

At 11:30am, Andy the Falconer took the stage—well, the lawn—alongside three birds: a peregrine falcon named Charlie (who promptly went rogue chasing pigeons around the castle), and two harris’s hawks—Amigos and one whose name I can’t recall, but definitely started with H.

Andy tossed what looked like baby chicken feet into the air. The falcon caught them mid-flight with eerie precision—swooping and spiralling through the sky like they’d rehearsed with Cirque du Soleil.

Harris’s hawks, we learned, hunt in packs. They’re used to clear grey squirrels from forests in winter. Nature’s aerial strike force.

Inside the castle

After the show, we climbed the many stairs upto the castle, holding Lark’s hand as she bounced between us, taking moon-walk-style leaps and using our arms as suspension ropes.

Inside was somehow even more over-the-top than expected. Gilded portraits lined the walls. Sculpted ceilings curved overhead. Round rooms. Grand pianos—plural. Matching lion fur rugs (with roaring faces!) lounged in what appeared to be an office. A spiral staircase led from a living room straight into a bedroom, because why not!?

Why have one lion rug, when you can have two?!

Living larger

It was more than worth the entry fee, and I’m so glad we didn’t try to rush it the afternoon before. We left feeling inspired—enchanted, even. Reminded that we only get one life… so why not live it as ostentatiously as possible?

Every time we visit somewhere new, I feel the urge to take pieces of it home with me—not just souvenirs, but moods, textures, ways of living. A garden gate here. A secret staircase there. A little grandeur in the everyday—even if it’s just lighting a candle with dinner or casually referring to the hallway as “the west wing.”

Snickers “accidental” sleepover

After a quick snooze in the castle car park (another quiet victory for van life), we began the three-hour journey to the Isle of Skye, aiming for a fully serviced caravan park called Morvich Caravan and Motorhome Club Campsite. But first—an unexpected detour.

An email had arrived from our new friends at Tulloch Castle. It turns out we’d left behind a stowaway: Snickers! Rather than face the guilt of abandoning our newest family member (and not even realising), we reframed it as an accidental sleepover. Lucky Snickers.

So, we swung past Tulloch Castle once more, tipped our hat to The Green Lady (still no sightings), and collected our wayward companion, who had presumably spent the night exploring haunted staircases, hiding beneath antique chairs or making friends with Hamish the Highland Coo door stop.

On the way out, I was hit with a sudden and undeniable craving for sweet and sour pork. We stopped at a takeaway in Dingwall called Wok This Way (a name that deserves its own round of applause). We added beef and black bean, egg-fried rice, a couple of fortune cookies—and just like that, we had a prawn cracker of a feast!

With bellies full and snacks secured, we hit the road again for the late-afternoon drive toward Kyle, arriving at our destination a minute past 8pm. Exhausted from a long day.