One Epic Scottish Road Trip with Reubyn Ash and Patrick Landgon-Dark

A storm was brewing out in the Atlantic, a sprawling blob of red and orange tracking northeast and skirting below Iceland. This blob was set to be followed a few days later by a darker, more concentrated blob (maroons, purples), and then an even darker one (black ringed with grey). Even to the pressure-chart-illiterate, the bruised tones indicated something large and menacing. Xcel Wetsuits, the impetus behind this trip, would provide winter rubber. Columbia would provide outerwear. Plenty of both would be needed in Scotland’s far north. Reubyn Ash (noted Cornish aerialist) was up for it, as were his Xcel teammates Patrick Langdon-Dark (keen Welshman) and Kieron Smith (obligatory grom). Sam Breeze had agreed to film and edit whatever happened next and also to pilot the Spaceship, as we would lovingly refer to the 7-man motorhome provided by Spaceships Rentals. He would drive from his home in Penzance up to Plymouth, where the Spaceship was temporarily stationed, and from there to the tip of the Highlands: basically Land’s End to John o’Groats. A virtual meeting was convened. Small talk, connection issues, at least twelve uses of the phrase “pull the trigger”, introductions. “This feels a bit like Alcoholics Anonymous,” said a melodious voice in a Scottish accent. The face it belonged to was covered in freckles and beard and evidence of a different pathology: complexion sun-dried, eyes watery and heavy-lidded. “Hi, I’m Mike and I’m a saltwater addict.” Lols all round. Mike, surname Guest, aka Guesty, was to be our water filmer and spirit animal. Sam joined the call from his van, on the set of a low-budget tv drama starring Samantha Bond, aka Miss Moneypenny circa 1995-2002. He had slunk away during a break in filming. Apparently it was dire stuff. His beard was the longest out of everyone’s. Reubyn, more of a Microsoft Teams man, was upside down. Kieron was still on his way home from school. Pat was sorry he couldn’t make it. “Can anyone hear me?” asked Reubyn. Dan Wakeham from Xcel Europe, a pro snowboarder back in the day and onetime Winter Olympian, was also on the call. He was sporting one of those pencil-thin goatees, Craig David-style. It actually suited him to be fair. “It’s not real!” he protested. “It’s just one of those filter things on my webcam – I don’t know how to get rid of it.” It was very realistic, followed him everywhere. Mike loaded up MSW Pro and shared his screen. We watched the procession of angry amoebas as they spawned in the Atlantic and stalked the British Isles, swallowed up the Hebrides, Faroes, Shetlands, Orkneys, spilled into the Norwegian Sea. He translated into likely conditions on the ground. Hard to know even this close to the event – it’s a fickle coastline, the forecast can swing at short notice – but Mike reckoned there were good chances of good waves. It was a Friday, the swell was due to hit Monday. Saltwater of some description (certainly cold, probably that identifiably Scottish shade of blue-green meets slate grey) would soon be consumed, wallowed in, coughed up, involuntarily nose-dribbled, etc. “Can anyone hear me?” Reubyn asked. Our collective trigger-finger was tensed, ready to squeeze. We’d ask questions later. The rest is a matter of historical record – see above – although it seemed at the time to unfold in an alternative dimension where the usual rules of time and space and etiquette don’t apply. The Spaceship effect.