🚐✨ Vanilla & the NC500: Miles, Myths & Magic

September 21 – October 3, 2025

🌈 Day 1 – Stafford ➝ Balintore

459.5 miles | Avg 29 mph | Top 81 mph

The adventure began before dawn, Stafford still heavy with sleep as Vanilla’s diesel heartbeat rolled into the cool air. There’s something addictive about the first day of a long trip — every layby, every coffee stop, even the motorway drizzle feels charged with promise.

The M6 was a steel river of lorries, headlights glaring, but the horizon kept whispering Scotland. By the time Cumbria’s hills shouldered into view, the excitement was fizzing like static. Crossing the border was more than a road sign; it felt like stepping onto a different page of the book. Stirling flashed past, the Wallace Monument standing proud in the distance, and Pitlochry bustled with energy.

Then came Dalwhinnie’s magic trick: a rainbow curved in full technicolour across the Highland sky, bold as a flag. It felt less like weather and more like a personal welcome. By the time you rolled into Inverness, Vanilla had devoured nearly 460 miles. Fuel topped, spirits lifted, the symbolic line of the NC500 was crossed.

Evening light carried you to Balintore, where the Mermaid of the North sat bronze and eternal, gazing into the waves. A pint at the Balintore Inn ended the day with a clink. The NC500 had officially begun.

🥃 Day 2 – Balintore ➝ Thurso

110 miles | Avg 19 mph | Top 68 mph

Morning cracked pink and gold over the Moray Firth, and Vanilla gleamed in the car park as if she knew today would be slower, richer. Just over 100 miles, but every one a gallery.

The first stop was the Glenmorangie Distillery. The copper stills stood glowing like suns, the air dense with malt sweetness. It was calm distilled into liquid, a pause before the road unfurled again. Northward, Dunrobin Castleappeared like a mirage — turrets spiralling, gardens spilling to the sea. Fairy tale stuff, but real enough to smell the salt on the breeze.

By afternoon, the road spilled you onto the edge of Britain at John o’ Groats. The famous signpost, cluttered with stickers, hummed with the stories of thousands before you. Stand there long enough and you hear it — the silent dare of the land’s end, telling you to keep going.

Evening drew you into Thurso, the Atlantic wind punching at the pop-top. Curry and Tennents became armour against the chill, a reminder that the NC500 feeds both the soul and the stomach.

🌅 Day 3 – Thurso ➝ Kyle of Tongue

58 miles | Avg 13 mph | Top 65 mph

Today wasn’t about distance. It was about slowing down.

The road west curled past Bettyhill Beach, where dunes spilled golden into the Atlantic. The drone buzzed into the sky, capturing rivers bending lazily to meet the sea. Highland coos grazed with the unbothered grace of locals who’ve seen it all.

As afternoon waned, the light began to perform. The Kyle of Tongue Causeway stretched across mirrored water, while Ben Loyal wore a fiery crown. Sunset painted the whole sky copper and gold. Inside, the Ben Loyal Hotel dished up Highland chicken in whisky cream sauce — the perfect punctuation mark to a short but stunning day.

🌊 Day 4 – Kyle of Tongue ➝ Durness (Sango Sands)

29 miles | Avg 14 mph | Top 68 mph

Loch Eriboll went on forever, steel-grey and heavy with memory. It was here that surrendered U-boats once gathered, and you could almost sense them under the water still, resting in the gloom.

But the mood lifted with a rush at Ceannabeinne Beach, where the zipline shot screaming thrill-seekers across turquoise water. The coast sparkled, the Atlantic showing off.

Then came Durness, loud with surf. The Sango Sands campsite perched on its clifftop like a theatre balcony above the roaring sea. Lunch from the beach hut — a pastrami-packed “New Yorker” toastie — was a messy, perfect delight. Evening brought a pint at the Oasis Bar, surf hammering below like an encore.

🎣 Day 5 – Durness ➝ Scourie

29 miles | Avg 9 mph | Top 56 mph

The Cape Wrath ferry wasn’t running, shrugging against the weather. But the road had other gifts.

Smoo Cave boomed with hidden waterfalls, the Atlantic surging underground. The land grew quieter as you rolled into Scourie Campsite. Supplies from the Spar, a pint at the local pub, fish & chips steaming vinegar into the cool air — simplicity was the theme.

The drone rose at dusk, catching fishing boats scattered like toys across turquoise water. Vanilla glowed orange in the fading light, a proud witness to the calm.

🏝️ Day 6 – Scourie ➝ Achmelvich

39 miles | Avg 15 mph | Top 59 mph

This was a day for landscapes so perfect they almost seemed fake.

The Kylesku Bridge leapt across a loch in a single elegant sweep, concrete poetry in grey. At Drumbeg Viewpoint, the land unrolled in miniature: lochs, islands, mountains spread like jewels in a giant’s hand.

By afternoon, the beaches took over. Clachtoll Beach flashed white sand and turquoise waves, a Caribbean illusion. But it was Achmelvich Bay that stole the heart. Fish & chips on the sand, gulls circling like they owned the place, and the drone soaring above water so clear it hurt your eyes. Scotland masquerading as the tropics, but with Highland wind as proof of place.

🌧️ Day 7 – Achmelvich ➝ Ullapool

38 miles | Avg 14 mph | Top 63 mph

Rain slicked the windows as you approached Ardvreck Castle. The ruin hunched against Loch Assynt, stones dripping with history. They say a weeping woman haunts it still, and the weather seemed to agree.

By Ullapool the drizzle was relentless, but so was the town’s welcome. Ferries nudged at the harbour, gulls shrieked overhead, and ropes creaked in rhythm. A haddock wrap from the Seafood Shack turned wet grey into flavourful warmth, and roast beef at The Arch Inn closed the day like a hearth fire. Vanilla settled at Broomfield Holiday Park, practically at the water’s edge.

🚢 Day 8 – Ullapool Rest Day

0 miles | Avg 0 | All atmosphere

Vanilla didn’t move, but the world did. Ferries slid in and out of Loch Broom like actors changing scenes. Gulls surfed the drafts, and by evening the loch turned molten under a sunset that could stop time. The MV Loch Seaforth carved a glowing line across water turned to glass.

📍 Ullapool Ferry Terminal – ///unstable.flick.deflated

🏞️ Day 9 – Ullapool ➝ Gairloch

56 miles | Avg 19 mph | Top 70 mph

Gruinard Bay sparkled turquoise, innocent and pure. Offshore, Gruinard Island sat with its dark past — once the site of anthrax testing, now scrubbed clean but never quite free of its reputation. The juxtaposition was surreal: paradise with a footnote.

Later, the road brought something unexpected: a fellow VW driver, survivor of the Kegworth air crash. His story was humbling, proof that every road carries more than scenery; it carries people’s lives.

By evening, the view from Gairloch Holiday Park soothed everything. Mountains loomed, water stilled, and a pint in hand felt like closing the world’s best book for a moment, only to open it again tomorrow.

🌌 Day 10 – Gairloch ➝ Loch Maree (wild camp)

66 miles | Avg 17 mph | Top 55 mph

Loch Maree shimmered like silver poured into the glen. Its wooded islands sat heavy with legend: monks, saints, and ancient rituals clung to their trees. The Torridon peaks stood jagged in the distance, guardians of the west.

The drone rose gently, reluctant to move much. This wasn’t a place for rushing; it was a place to listen. When night fell, it brought silence so deep it pressed against your chest. Wild camping by the shore, stars overhead punched holes clean through the dark. Vanilla idled quietly, heater ticking, as if she too knew this was sacred ground.

📍 Loch Maree viewpoint – ///older.studs.stay

🛣️ Day 11 – Loch Maree ➝ Fort Augustus

156 miles | Avg 20 mph | Top 68 mph

Today was a stretch, but a spectacular one. The road east and south threaded past Inverness before dipping to the theatrical shores of Loch Ness.

First, Eilean Donan Castle rose like a cinematic vision, stone walls reflected perfectly in still water. Then the Ballachulish Bridge swept over mist and mountain, Scotland saying farewell with grandeur.

By evening, Fort Augustus welcomed you with its neat canals stepping into Loch Ness. A pint at The Lock Inn by the locks ended the day, myth and reality comfortably side by side.

🏎️ Day 12 – Fort Augustus ➝ Lancaster

291 miles | Avg 24 mph | Top 78 mph

The Highlands gave you one last theatre show. Glencoe brooded with drama, Rannoch Moor stretched wide and russet, and the Ballachulish Bridge replayed itself in your mind even as the road pulled you south.

By evening, the motorway grind gave way to warmth at The Eagles Head in Over Kellet, a Brit Stops gem. Anne’s welcome was as golden as the chicken & leek pie that followed, and Vanilla rested in the quiet top car park. It was exactly the kind of ending a long day deserves.

📍 The Eagles Head – ///darkest.catapult.unframed

🎉 Day 13 – Lancaster ➝ Stafford

147 miles | Avg 38 mph | Top 77 mph

The last stretch was simple. Motorway coffee, playlists humming, and fields that slowly turned familiar. By the time Vanilla rolled back into Stafford, it wasn’t just a drive that ended — it was a loop closed, a dream ticked off, a legend lived.

The NC500 had been all it promised and more: myths in stone, fire in the sky, waves pounding cliffs, and quiet moments with pies, pints, and people. And now, it was yours.

📊 Totals

• 1,480 miles driven

• 12 driving days + 1 rest day

• 🏁 Top speed: 81.4 mph

• 🐢 Slowest day: Scourie, 9 mph average

• 🌍 Longest haul: Day 1, 459.5 miles