Tag: plus size

NC500 Day 7: Clashnessie Falls, Achmelvich Bay and Corrieshalloch Gorge

Miles: 139. Wildlife: 5 deer and two herons. Camper Vans: 30+. Steps: 12752.

Cost of pre-bought food: £2.20 approximately
Extra costs: £51

I can’t believe it’s day seven already. We’ve been on our tour for seven whole days. That is insane.

We had a chance to have some oats for breakfast today at an actual table in our accommodation. Was a much needed change from sitting on a bed.

Our first stop today was an hour north and along a road we travelled yesterday. We saw rain clouds setting in over Loch Broom and counted ourselves lucky that the trip so far has seen very little rain.

The landscape here is just out of this world. The small winding rivers cut their way through the fern strewn landscapes and up in the mountains small spouts of water force their way down the rock face. Everything is competing for attention. The boulders with their slate grey faces glimmer with dew. The moss springs up and says hello in the often harshest of exposures. Rivers bubble. Lochs hold secrets within their black waters. And there we are navigating our way through these monoliths of nature.



Clashnessie Falls is in a very small village near Clachtoll. There is lots of space for parking opposite the beach and it is not a long walk along the main road until you come to a sign for the falls. My advice is to walk slightly further up the road and slip around the gate on the left. This will save you one scramble over the big rocks.

There is a path that leads up and over the small hills until you reach the river. There are two options. Follow the fence line. Or cross the river on the stepping stones and follow the path that way. We chose the fence line path. After reading lots of advice online, I was expecting a muddy but simple walk. This unfortunately was anything but. The right hand route along the fence was extremely boggy with rocks that were extremely unsteady in the peat field. We wanted to push on so badly, as you can see the falls ahead of you and whilst they are simply spectacular the walk was just proving too much. There comes a time when your enjoyment has to come first and this was a time to stop and adjust our expectations. Mr W as ever was supportive when my disappointment flooded into my face. I guess sometimes you can’t always trust the advice online. I hope when we return to Scotland in a few years that the ground around the river has dried slightly and we can attempt the walk again. The falls looked spectacular and oh so tempting indeed. The stepping stones across the river were really quite dangerous and as we carry quite a bit of photography equipment with us it simply was not worth the risk. I also like the use of my ankles.



Disappointed but determined we set off for Achmelvich Bay. Now this was a time for something new entirely. Wild swimming! Parking in the free/donation welcome car park was easy enough and had lots of spaces. We loaded up our bags and made the very short walk to the bay. The sand here is pure white. It could have been the Maldives and if it wasn’t for the nip in the wind I could have sworn we were back on our Honeymoon. The water had pockets of navy blue and bright turquoise. The sun lit up the waters to such a degree that there was only one thing we could do. Jump straight in.

With fear causing some delays in our movements but the draw of the waters inevitably proving too strong we zipped up our wetsuits and got stuck in. And would you believe it the sun disappeared and with it the pockets of turquoise. The sand under foot was as soft as cotton. There was very little seaweed not pebbles to contend with. As I stepped into the water I felt content that it didn’t seem too cold at all. The water itself is very shallow and has no rocks for you to lose your footing. And then it got very cold very quickly. Up to my hips, I watched Mr W go for it and take the leap underwater. He is one brave man. I got in the water up to my shoulders and started to feel okay. That is until I realised I couldn’t actually feel my feet anymore. It is honestly exhilarating. And I can now say I have swam in the North Atlantic Ocean. How special is that!



I came out of the water long enough to let the sun warm my skin and got talking to a lady who lived nearby. Her name was Sheona and she had purposely walked over to commend us for taking the plunge. She said the water was at 10°! And yet it’s the warmest it will ever get. So despite the fact it’s the coldest I have ever felt it’s still not the norm up here. Haha.

Sitting here now I remember feeling extremely self conscious in something as tight as a wetsuit and yet as soon as that water hit my body my cares drifted away. When I came out of the water and stood in the sun like a basking penguin I unrolled the suit from my shoulders and brought it down to my waist and stood there with my bralet on. That’s how I stood as I talked to the stranger. And I didn’t care. I just felt like me.

Mr W came out of the water and after a warm up from the sun I just had to go back in. This visit was slightly longer and I had to start listening to my body about the temperature. It was getting hard to make my limbs do what they were told.

We helped each other out of our wetsuits, laid them on a large rock in the sun and took our time changing and enjoying the beautiful scene. We managed to spend way more time than planned just enjoying ourselves and as we walked back over the sand dunes I thanked the beach for a truly wonderful morning.

Needing sustenance we bought pies at the Lochinver Larder and grabbed hot drinks at Sovi’s coffee. As we got back in the car, drinks in hand, the heavens opened and we were treated to our first Scottish downpour. Not bad for a whole week eh?



Soon enough we drove out the other side of the rain clouds and arrived into Ullapool. It was time to treat Mr W, he loves seafood and I had heard of a place that sells it as fresh as it comes. The Seafood Shack in Ullapool had at least 7 items on the menu and we had the Haddock. The space around the ‘shack’ has a great vibe, with big wooden seating areas and a sail sun shade it is really welcoming. The food itself was absolutely delicious and sitting in the sun with my husband was one of the biggest highlights of this trip. He also bought us a huge tartan sherpa blanket. What’s a girl to do but be madly in love!



Re-energised but still slowly fading we are now both exceptionally glad that our final visit of the day was relatively short. Corrieshalloch Gorge National Park is 20 minutes from Ullapool and is really well signposted, something that I find the west coast of Scotland sometimes lacks. The parking was free but only because the machine was broken so keep this in mind should you visit. After a fairly easy downhill hairpin walk we came across the bridge across the gorge. With only a six person capacity and a slight sway as you walk it all adds to the feeling of danger. After all, the gorge is 60 metres deep. The waterfall that crashes down beneath you is loud and extremely ferocious. Mr W is not a fan at all but I could not resist leaning right over and tracing the waters down the gorge to the pools below. What a marvel!

Continuing on over the bridge and down the path we came to the observation deck that overhangs the void. It gives you the most impressive view of the waterfall, bridge and gorge itself. With its metal grate it again is not for the faint hearted but is irresistible all the same. What’s life without a little intrigue!



Even though we are half way through our trip I still haven’t really understood the magnitude of this place. It is unapologetic in its ‘get stuck in’ attitude and yet there is beauty in its very raw rural way.

Sitting here close to exhaustion I find myself eager to wake up tomorrow and see what else will be thrown at us.

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2023/01/17/highlight-seven-of-the-nc500-paradise/

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2023/01/15/nc500-day-7-itinerary/

The difference a day makes

Yesterday, after 4 hours of sleep, we forced ourselves out of the front door and into the car. The sun had been in the sky for less than 3 hours and it was shining brightly and extremely hot. Where we were heading called for little clothing but with the reward of being able to cool down.

Conversation was rapid fire as it often is with being over-tired and by the time we pulled into the car park we were raring to go.

As you may have gleaned from previous blogs I’m very uncomfortable in my own skin, hide my body away and this means I have not worn a swimming costume in the UK in over 23 years. Even abroad I’ve only worn one twice in the last 20 years. I usually wear a dress and roll down the straps. Or shorts and a t-shirt. Lately I’ve wanted to push myself to do things I’m scared of. So at 8am yesterday I took off my dress to reveal the swimming costume underneath and stepped onto the cool sand.

The tide was low but the water was cool. Not the gasp-inducing cool that takes your breath away, but the kind of cool that makes you say ‘ooo that’s nice’ and then venture on.

With a lot of slimy and slippery rocks in the water it was slow going and Mr W led me in one baby step at a time. The water felt amazing on my bare legs. Bare legs! Me!

The waves were gentle and before long we were thigh deep. We both agreed not being able to see the large rocks was disconcerting and took a moment to dip down in the water. I felt so free and happy. It was as if with each wave my fears were being cleansed away.

It helps that we were the only ones on the entire shoreline. I’m not naive to that exact fact. It was the reason we went so early. Crowded places, as you may have realised in ‘Panic at the concert’ (link below), are not something we take lightly. So if we can get up early enough to have a place to ourselves we will. It’s also wonderful to say you had a whole beach to yourself!

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/07/16/panic-at-the-concert/

We watched the waves roll the sunlight about for a while longer and turned to walk back to our bags. My body carried itself lighter than ever before. It wasn’t hidden. And I wasn’t ready to cover up just yet.

Mr W took the bags up to the dryer part of the beach while I found a shallow pool of water. At first I sat in its depths feeling it cool my legs. I looked up and saw the odd dog walker on the cliffs. I chided myself for wanting to hide my body again. I splashed the water over myself to shut the thoughts up.

With a devil may care attitude I lay back in the pool and felt the water lap at my shoulders and neck. I knew that half the sandy beach would end up in my hair but I didn’t care. I was laying here, vulnerable and yet enjoying every second.

After 30 or so minutes the cool waters had reduced my skin to goosebumps and the warm sand was calling to me.

Standing up I slowly sauntered to the waiting beach towel. Arms by my side. Not folded. Shoulders back. Not hunched. Head up. Not face down.

I sat on the sand letting the morning sun dry my hair and warm me slowly. Mr W showed me the basics of flying his new drone and we smiled, laughed and talked of our impending trip to Scotland.

The anxiety of the night before felt a million miles away and I high-fived myself mentally. It sounds like such a small victory I know but imagine denying yourself the right to feel the sea on your skin without the cover of clothing for over 20 years.

Mr W and I are already looking for a less rocky beach to continue my carefree activities!

Photo by Dave Watson
Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com

Wearing a smile

For better, for worse.

That’s the wedding vow isn’t it.

I never would have anticipated the sheer amount of stress my mental health would put my husband under.

Today after a long day on the road for work, he drove me to another shop in search of a dress and then an outfit for an upcoming trip.

He hung around outside of the changing rooms. While I pulled on uncomfortable items. One after one. Short length jeans that were still too long, hey I’m 5’5, that’s average! A simple dress that draped on the floor making it unwearable. And a jacket that creased like paper everytime I moved my arms. Let me be clear here. I’m not complaining. I’m bemused. I went to the one shop near me that caters to my size and came away empty handed. Mr W was the dutiful husband who said everything looked fine, but truth be told, I wasn’t willing to spend money on something I didn’t wholly love in the mirror.

And even though yesterday I was upset, today I’m just bemused. I’m laughing that at average height I still found the trousers and dress too long. It’s funny that every item of clothing came up differently on my body. Sizewise I mean. I tried on a range of four sizes and I walked away feeling exceptionally picky.

So for one of the first times in my life I didn’t settle. It would have been easy for sure. If the shoe fits, wear it right? But god what ugly, ill made shoes! I do make myself laugh!

Walking away from the shop, Mr W asked if I was okay. And the truth was yes and I still am.

When I am walking around on our mini-break I will be grateful for the legs that carry me through the National Park. Not the ripped jeans I have no choice but to clothe them in. When my shoulders carry the burden of my backpack with my snacks, raincoat and water bottle, I won’t be thinking of the clothes that keep them warm.

It isn’t life or death. There will be other times and opportunities to look damn fabulous. How I react is the only control I have in this situation. And I choose happiness.

I choose to plaster a smile on my face. Not a fake, faux or little one. But a full, reaching my eyes, chipmunk cheek smile. Because nothing but our enjoyment matters on this trip. I’ll be sliding on my bum to the base of a waterfall and quite possibly catching the raindrops on my head. So me, my ripped jeans and my tatty jumper are going all in!

I deserve that. It doesn’t matter what I wear as long as a smile is on my face. Mr W deserves that. Happy times.

For better, for worse. Always

Photo by Dave Watson

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com

Blocked

I am sitting here frustrated. 

I can’t write. I’m wondering why. I am hitting the keys of my lovely laptop with such vigour Mr W is occasionally looking at me. I know he wants to calmly tell me to go easy. This is frustrating. So frustrating I am allowing the laptop to pick up the errors in my typing rather than sort them myself. I’m usually a good touch typist. I owe that to years of staying up late on MSN Messenger with my friends during my school years. 

I absolutely detest writer’s block. My last two blogs have come from my archive of past writings. It has been a busy month I’ll admit but when I’m stuck I’ll look to life as I know it or past trips and away I go. But today – nada!

Maybe today’s shopping experience has left a sour taste in my mouth and brain. I’d like to share with you one tidbit. Maybe you won’t have heard of it. Maybe it’s something you’ll relate to. Not ALL girls like shopping. I for one will find one staple and buy it in every colour rather than tour around a shopping hall. And I have. During my twenties I had every colour of one particular jumper going. And when the shop changed that jumper’s design I felt attacked! How very dare they. 

When I worked in London, the story was very similar, I would wear one staple dress in various colours, leggings and a jacket or cardigan to suit. I was a slave to Primark and its easy wear items. 

These days, I wear the same two pairs of jeans and choose from my faithful 6-7 tops out of a sea of clothing in my wardrobe. I will occasionally buy a dress for a wedding or a party and it’s the only time I take care in what I’m wearing. I suspect this is because there are other people around and I want to make sure I’m looking the part. Which part that is I’m not sure. Wedding guest. Cousins 30th attendee. Engagement celebrator extraordinaire. 

Last year, I did something completely out of character and bought a vivid yellow casual dress. Did I like it? Yes, enough to buy it. Do I like it now? Completely and unfathomably, I have no idea. It fits, it doesn’t need ironing (always a bonus) however I’ve come to the realisation I don’t even know what my style is.  

If you’re a returning reader you’ll know I’m a big girl. If you’re a first time guest, I’m a big girl. Small in stature. Curvy round the middle. It’s caused by emotional eating (hello poor mental health) and my life long struggle turned-fight with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. So growing up it didn’t really matter what I liked the look of in the shops, it wouldn’t fit anyway. And therein started the problem. Why try and find a style that didn’t cater for the plus size teenager?

Things are a lot better now for plus size peeps. You’ll find a lot online and have it delivered right to your door! Isn’t that swell! But… What if we want to venture out into the world and shop til we drop? To spend money on clothes instead of bills. To bring home pretty things after a long day with friends, shopping, chatting and enjoying it all. 

The last few days, Mr W has tried to push me, ever so gently, into buying new clothes. The vivid yellow dress is the one outfit I can wear without bursting into flames in the recent heatwave. While at home I am the queen of pyjamas and most recently a comfy jogging bottom. Which is fine when you have a fan whirring alongside you but out in the fanless real world, I need some clothes. I had a snoop around online and found a few dresses I liked the look of but I want to see them in person! I hate not being able to feel the fabric and check the length. I ordered a pair of trousers recently and they were definitely not designed for my 5’5 height. I think maybe a height of 6’5 would have worked well. I pulled them up to my bra and went on my merry way. 

Lesson learned.

Tonight, we headed out into the dreaded unknown to find the dresses I’d seen online. Only to find, on arrival, that the store was closed. Disappointed we spent the next hour scouring the shops for anything bigger than a UK size 16 and came away entirely empty handed. Oh wait, tell a lie I got some day cream, body scrub and bin bags! Wahey! 

It’s only now I truly understand that the highstreet does not cater to anyone above a size 16, who does not want gaudy prints or shapeless sacks to wear. What is interesting about this little conundrum is how the UK’s average dress size is a 16. And yet in all shops but 3 today the biggest size they stocked WAS a 16. I’m inclined to think that the only place my money is any good is online. I’ve heard this so many times on the ‘Go Love Yourself’ podcast (link below) but not yet realised it for myself. All this time I thought I was being picky or not knowing my own style but I’ve come to realise today that I’ve grown up not being given a chance to experience clothing like others. 

And that is a very sad situation.

I can hear a few people, there in my head, saying why not lose weight so you can fit into the high street clothes? And the simple answer is, why? Well, and how. My PCOS doesn’t like me thin, in fact it likes to add to my weight whenever it feels prudent to. And there are other women AND men out there who are big for a variety of physical and mental health reasons too. And even if they aren’t big for those reasons, it’s their life, their choice and is their money not good enough?

I came away today deflated, defeated and crying. It’s hard to feel good without being able to project that through clothing. It’s a form of expression. It’s hard to come to the realisation that when it comes to style I have been stifled. As other people have. I assume this is the same for people who don’t fit the ‘normal’ range of heights too. Something has to change. 

Well, would you look at that the writer’s blockage has come unstuck. Now if only the block in shops could be removed too!

Go Love Yourself

Wear the damn shorts. Exclamation point.

‘The way you look is the least interesting thing about you.’ 

A recent,  little quote I have acquired from the ‘Go Love Yourself’ podcast by the lovely Laura Adlington and Lauren Smith. If you need a boost, a different perspective on weight, appearance and everything in between, I highly recommend it! 

Go Love Yourself

So, the way you look is the least interesting thing about you. 

Who would even have that thought cross their mind nowadays, let alone say it out loud? When you say it out loud, and then again, and again, you’ll realise just how very true it actually is. The more you say it the harder it becomes to retreat back into the old way of thinking. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of money to be made in how people look on the outside! Therein lies the problem.

But it’s actually true. Everything you put on the outside for people to see, doesn’t come close to what your mind and soul has to offer. 

Compassion is not the make up on your face. 

Humour is not how you style your hair. 

Morality is not the size of your stomach or thighs. 

Even the kindest of people can have a crooked smile. And the wickedest of people can have a radiating grin on their face that lures you in. Looks are deceptive!

And yet we are conditioned to be attracted to how someone looks in the relationships we seek. Whether it be friends or lovers, we are taught to gravitate towards people by how their looks make us feel. Predominantly it is how people look that our brains conjure up a split second decision on whether we are to pursue a person. Unfortunately, judgement is so ingrained in our psyche that 99% of the time we do it without even realising. 

It’s also true of names. There was a vastly publicised argument between Holly Willoughby and Katie Hopkins a few years ago over children’s names and how certain names meant Ms Hopkins’ children would be dissuaded from playing with the Tiffany’s or Tyler’s of the world. It still blows my mind. And yet judgement of others comes in the form of so many other quick like a cat fleeting thoughts, that we don’t even know we are doing it. 

In 2020, oh yes, the world fell silent. We all swore to ourselves that when the world opened up again we would embrace all of life’s wonders and happiness would reign supreme. I was one of those people and with every good intention, when the curbs were lifted, Mr W and I headed to Italy. Rebooked from its initial date in the April, we headed into a recuperating world and sought to grasp every spaghetti noodle and shake the life and soul out of it. We train-hopped through Pisa, Florence and settled into Venice before responsibilities forced us home. 

It was a wonderful, exhilarating trip. With small backpacks we were, quite literally, at the mercy of the Italian sun. Personally, I was not at all prepared for the heat and my rash decision to pack shorts was all too praised by my boil in the bag body. However, the go free and wander nature I had adopted was soon thrown into turmoil when my short stumpy and fairly chubby legs were on display for the world to see. They’d not seen daylight for a fair while, the shorts were, well, short and teamed up with animal print socks peeking out over a pair of battered converse, I was not going to be invited to a fashion show anytime soon. 

I’m a big girl, I have PCOS and it’s ravaged my body since my teens; only in recent years have I learned what this means for me physically, our fertility and my mental health. What people don’t realise when they look at me, is why I am the way I am. Why I’m bigger. Why my smile wanes occasionally. Why my mind wanders in a room full of people. They just see my size. But underneath that is a warrior fighting battles only she understands, because PCOS is so very different for every individual. Some people have a few symptoms, some have fertility issues and some don’t. And then there’s some people like me. Every symptom. Fertility issues. A rollercoaster of mental health issues, determination and unlimited failure. 

To have people look at me, up and down, whilst wearing those shorts will stay with me for a long time. I got caught up in the ‘fuck it’ nature that so many others embraced after lockdown 2020 that my anxieties over my clothing choices were muffled like never before. I’m sad to say, it made me retreat into myself that day. I didn’t wear the shorts again. And yet, the least interesting thing about me that day was my clothing. Indeed, my body. 

Inside, I was a girl on the move again. Travelling. Living. Fearless. Mentally free from the covid prison of the previous 6 months. Doing what she did best, pursuing the next horizon, the next adventure and pushing for the hidden wonders of the world. Outside I was wearing yellow shorts. Big. Deal. 

The day after short-gate, I wore jeans. They were mildly uncomfortable. I won’t lie. I have little legs, so I find that the steeper the hill the more I have to stretch my legs and those tight jean-ie beauties were having none of it. And wouldn’t you know it, there was a huge hill we had decided to take when on our way up to the Giardino Bardini. Yep, I’m a freaking idiot! Giardino Bardini is a 17th century villa surrounded by the most beautiful gardens overlooking the Arno river and Florence. We found a bench and just sat. No words to be said, but a knowing look now and again to know how lucky we were to be safe, healthy and happy in a world that had lost its way.

When we reached Venice, with its winding labyrinthine streets, I felt a sense of peace in the moments where so few people could see me and I could look up from my feet and see what the city had to offer. Italy was on the news early on in the pandemic because of how fast it was ravaged by covid and the horrors we had not yet witnessed in the UK. We found that just 6 months after Italy had been struck down, the towns and cities had an almost eerie quiet to them. Tourists had not yet returned in their droves. Locals were still weary and you just felt so humbled to be walking those streets. To be given the chance to witness a place in its quiet splendour was indescribable. When talking about Venice in the past, all I had ever heard of was the masses and masses of people that bombard Venice with their boats, feet and ticketed day trips. This was not the Venice I had experienced in my daydreams, and yet even though we felt extremely lucky, the nagging thought of why it was quiet was never far away. And here I was worried about getting a ‘look’ off a stranger I would NEVER ever see again. How does that poison even infiltrate a mind? 

My legs that carried me through Italy wore shorts. My stomach that digested the oh so many delicious delights of Italian chefs was happy. My hair needed (knowing me) a good bloody brush and my makeup was most definitely rushed. 

What I looked like then, and now, is the least interesting thing about me. 

What my soul looks like when I’m travelling is radiant, beautiful and free. Wear the damn shorts!