We set the alarm for 4:30am, which felt criminal. But the Scottish Highlands in June have a trick up their sleeve: the light that comes between darkness and dawn is unlike anything else in northern Europe. It arrives slowly, gold and pink, pouring across empty moorland like warm honey.
We’d parked the van beside Loch Cluanie the night before, in a layby that probably wasn’t an official camping spot but which had the look of a place where vans had been sleeping for decades. The loch was mirror-still when we stepped outside, and the only sound was a curlew calling somewhere in the distance.
The Glen at First Light
Glencoe is different at five in the morning. The coach parties haven’t arrived, the car parks are empty, and the mountains belong entirely to themselves. We walked for an hour along the valley floor, watching the light creep down the ridgeline of Buachaille Etive Mor like a slow tide.
The heather was in bloom — great sweeps of purple that made the hillsides look upholstered. Red deer watched us from a distance, curious but unconcerned. A golden eagle circled above the Three Sisters, riding thermals with the effortless confidence of something that has been doing this for millennia.
Why We Keep Coming Back
This was our fourth visit to the Highlands, and each time we discover something new — a hidden waterfall, a stretch of coast we hadn’t noticed, a pub in a village we’d always driven through. Scotland rewards the slow traveller. It unfolds gradually, revealing its best secrets to those who take the time to wander without a rigid plan.
If you’re thinking of bringing a van to Scotland, do it. But set that alarm. The early hours belong to the patient, and the Highlands have a way of rewarding you beyond anything you imagined.
