Taking a Motorhome Up North to Scotland in Winter: A Love Story (With Wind)

There are two kinds of people in this world:

1. People who go to Scotland in winter and say, “What a magical, rugged, cinematic experience.”

2. People who go to Scotland in winter and say, “My motorhome just got headbutted by the weather.”

I am both, having started my camping experience as a boy, then joining the Army… Sennybridge… Salisbury… oh the joy.. and lets not talk about Germany…

Taking a motorhome up north to Scotland in winter is not just a trip. It’s a full relationship. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll apologise to your vehicle like it’s a person, and you’ll develop a deep respect for the concept of parking slightly less exposed.

Packing: the great illusion of “I’m prepared”

Before we left, I packed like a seasoned explorer. I had layers. I had gloves. I had snacks. I had “winter-rated” everything.

Then Scotland looked at my “winter-rated” optimism and said:“Aw, that’s cute.”.. let me show you wind… horizontal rain… and more wind…

You know it’s serious when you start packing things like:

• emergency blankets

• a shovel

• enough tea to run a small café

• and the sort of torch you normally only see in police dramas

Also, if you haven’t argued with yourself about whether you really need four pairs of socks per day, you’re not doing it right.

The drive up: Britain slowly turns into a nature documentary

The journey north starts normal. Roads are roads. Cars are cars. You’re playing music, feeling smug.

Then somewhere past “I’m sure this is still England,” the scenery begins to change. Hills get bigger. Clouds get moodier. The wind develops opinions. And suddenly you’re driving through landscapes so dramatic you half expect David Attenborough to narrate your reversing attempt.

“Here we see the motorhomer, approaching a narrow lay-by. Watch closely as it… panics.”

Weather: Scotland’s most confident personality

Scotland in winter doesn’t have “weather” like other places, even Sennybridge seems nice compared to the highlands on a good winters day…

Scotland has events.

The forecast might say “light breeze.” But the wind up north will introduce itself like it pays council tax.

At one point, I swear the gusts weren’t even trying to move the motorhome. They were just bullying it. Like:“Nice van. Would be a shame if… it wiggled.”

And rain? Scottish rain isn’t wet. It’s personal.

It doesn’t fall. It arrives sideways at speed, aiming specifically for the gap between your sleeve and glove. A gap it somehow senses from 40 miles away.

The first stop: parking like you’re defusing a bomb

Parking a motorhome in winter Scotland is a tactical activity.

You don’t just pick a spot, you consider:

• wind direction

• slope angle

• nearby trees (friendly shelter or widowmakers, who can say)

• and whether you’ll be able to leave without needing a tow, a priest, and a motivational speech

If your motorhome has ever rocked gently in the wind while you sat inside pretending it’s “cosy,” you’ll understand the unique mental gymnastics of winter van life:

“This is fine.It’s just… air.Nature is simply… expressing itself.”

Heating: your new religion

Once you’re parked, the motorhome heater becomes your best friend, your therapist, and your entire identity.

You will:

• check it

• praise it

• whisper encouraging things to it

• and treat it like the most valuable member of your family

Because in winter, the motorhome is basically a small, rolling experiment in: Can I remain warm inside a metal box while the outside world tries to turn itself into ice?

Also, there is always that moment at 2:47am when you wake up and think:“Is it quieter because the wind’s calmed down… or because something has gone terribly wrong?”

The glamorous reality of winter motorhoming

Instagram:Aesthetic mug of coffee by the window, snow falling gently, soft fairy lights, cosy blanket.

Reality:You, in three layers, holding a mug like it’s life support, staring out at rain that appears to be coming from every direction at once, while your wet boots slowly terraform the floor into a swamp.

And the condensation. Oh, the condensation.

You will wipe windows. You will wipe them again. You will wonder if your motorhome is crying. You will accept that yes, it is crying, and so are you, but it’s a beautiful experience.

The Highlands: absolutely worth it

Here’s the thing, jokes aside, winter Scotland is unreal.

The light is soft and moody. The mountains look prehistoric. The lochs are dark and still like something out of a fantasy film. And when the clouds lift, you get views so stunning you forget your toes are cold and your trousers are suspiciously damp.

You’ll pull up somewhere wild and quiet, step outside, and the air will feel sharper, cleaner, like it’s been filtered through a thousand ancient rocks.

Even the silence is different up there. It’s not empty. It’s massive.

And when you climb back into the warm motorhome with rosy cheeks and that “I’ve just seen something incredible” glow? That’s the good stuff. That’s the whole point.

The people: friendly, unbothered, and slightly amused by you

In winter, you’ll meet locals who are casually walking their dog in conditions you’d describe as “end times.”

You’ll be stood there dressed like an astronaut and they’ll be like:“Aye, bit breezy.”And you’ll reply, voice shaking:“YEAH… JUST A BIT.”

You’ll also discover that Scottish hospitality hits extra hard when it’s cold. A warm café, a chat with someone in a village shop, a pub meal that tastes like it was cooked by angels. Every indoor moment feels like a reward.

The final truth: it’s chaotic joy

Winter motorhoming in Scotland is:

• breathtaking

• unpredictable

• occasionally terrifying in a “why is the van leaning” kind of way

• and weirdly addictive

You’ll come home with:

• a camera full of dramatic skies

• a newfound respect for wind forecasts

• and an emotional attachment to your heater

Even maybe a little more love for Sennybridge..(maybe not)

And you’ll start saying things like:“It was amazing. Really character-building.”Which is code for:“I was cold and frightened, but the views were elite.”

A few survival tips (delivered with love and experince)

• Check the weather, but emotionally prepare for it to ignore you

• Park sheltered whenever possible (wind + open lay-by = regret)

• Keep emergency snacks accessible at all times (hanger is real)

• Dry everything whenever you can (the damp spreads like gossip)

• Give yourself extra time for driving, winter roads don’t care about your schedule

• And if it feels unsafe, relocate. Scotland will still be gorgeous two miles down the road.

  
  

Would I do it again?

Absolutely, and have many times.

Because there’s nothing quite like sitting in a warm motorhome, watching winter rage outside, sipping tea like a champion, and thinking:

“This is madness.

This is magic.

I am never selling this van.”