Mull Of Kintyre Lighthouse

Before we left for Campbeltown, my friend Kate asked if we were going to live in the Mull Of Kintyre. I believed (incorrectly) that that was an island further up the coast, but now know differently. It's the very tip of the peninsula where we now reside.

In 1966, Paul McCartney bought a farm here, and in 1977, sung a song about it creatively entitled 'Mull Of Kintyre'. Yes Kate, it seems we are.

Well, a slight lie - it’s at least a few miles from us, but given there’s nothing else around us except sheep, a few farms, some sheep, stone walls, a few farms and some sheep, I guess it’s almost right on the doorstep. There are certainly no other attractions between our cottage and the Mull Of Kintyre - Scotlands most infamous plane crash sight.

Whilst en route to Southend Beach yesterday (you can take the boy out of Essex, but you can’t take the Essex out of the boy) we spotted a sign for Mull Of Kintyre Lighthouse which I decided would be worth a visit. I have a phobia of lighthouse staircases that needs to be tackled head on, and I thought what better place to conquer this most stupid of fears*.

The road quickly became a single track, with a 60mph speed limit we’d never achieve due to the pot holes the size of duck ponds littering our path, and Croissant the Peugeot quickly felt like a bouncy castle as I dodged, but often hit them.

We came across a farm gate (surely there aren’t too many of these across the public highway?) which we proceeded though, upwards into the hills, following a single power line with wooden poles standing at every angle except vertical, until finally we reached another gate.

This one however was padlocked closed, and a large sign informed us that the road had come to an end.

Alas, there was no lighthouse, and thus no phobia overcoming was to be had. We turned back.

As it turns out, there is a lighthouse, and you can visit it, but we were glad we didn't. Rumour has it that it's miles down a steep rocky road to hell which can only be reached by foot, and (in the words of the locals) isn't worth the effort at all.

*I’ve had two major panic attacks inside structures with spiral staircases now - one in a lighthouse somewhere in the south of England, and one inside the Statue Of Liberty. There’s something about a circular set of stairs running straight up the middle without touching the sides that sends the fear of God through me. Going up is no issue - it’s coming down that turns my legs to jelly, and guarantees that both my hands will take up a vice like grip, thus gluing me to the handrail. On both occasions, I had to be talked down by Twinkle, step by step.