A couple of miles past Callander, on the main road up to Fort William, you’ll find Loch Lubnaig. Lubnaig means bend in the Gaelic. It runs nearly north to south until just past the second car park, when it kicks off a wee bit to the west. I’ve mentioned this loch a few times before — most notably in To Wetsuit or Not to Wetsuit, where I nearly drowned myself (not on purpose, obviously), and Top of the Loch Please, my first big adventure swimming from the top down to the second car park.

The second car park is the perfect first stop for buses carrying tourists north. Cakes, coffee and toilet facilities — the holy trinity of the Scottish day tripper. In summer it’s rammed, in winter it’s empty, apart from us sometimes and the odd tourist in a hired car. For most folk on one of the many 16-seater buses, this is their first real chance to leave the city behind. You can see them in awe jumping off the bus to grab photos of their first loch and first decent sized hill, Ben Ledi. They’re completely blown away when they spot us fully neoprened up, wading in to swim into the distance, or back on shore stripping off for a wee skins swim with ice floating around us. I have a friend who drives his tour bus past Lubnaig nearly every Friday morning on the way to Skye. A wee while ago he told me that one winter a young American girl shouted in complete disbelief, “Hey, I think there’s someone swimming in that water!” There was even more disbelief on the bus when he switched on his microphone and said, “Aye, that’s my friend.” (I have enjoyed his bus tour a couple of times, the Blog Magical pools has some of his trips highlights )

Tourists sometimes want to know the temperature and some are curious to know if we are training for an event, either way they’re all bemused when we reply
“Naw, it’s just for a laugh.”

One American lady was so completely taken by the whole swimming in cold lochs thing that she chatted to us for ages, got some photos at the lochside, then chatted some more, went away again for more photographs — you could tell she was gooey inside, a complete overload of everything Scottish — shortbread, hieland coos and our gruff accents.

Eventually I had to say “Come here you” and this middle-aged tourist practically jumped into my arms for a cuddle before she would get on her bus. I was changed into my clothes at this point, though I still got a strange look off Clare when she asked me about my swim and I said “Great, I got a cuddle.”

Cuddles are funking amazing.

I know, I know — coarse language. But hyper, epic, mega, absolutely and amazing just wouldnae have cut the mustard.

No doubt boffins could explain the chemicals involved, endorphins and cortisol levels, but for me it’s simpler than that. It’s that emotional and physical lift you get — if the other person is strong enough — where everything just stops for a second. Nearly as good as jumping in a cold loch. Nearly.

My work takes me away from home but when I’m back I have days to bash on with what I please. I long to take the van on camping trips up into the Scottish Heilands, but Clare is a magnet. I love it when her alarm goes off in the morning — she requires at least five snooze extensions before crawling out of bed — so on the first snooze I slide across and enjoy some innocent sleepy cuddles before attacking the day. I try to be home when she gets in from work so I can wrap my arms around her and hear about her day. But this isnae a boring mushy tale of how I’ve somehow kept my wife sweet.

I’ve received and loved giving loads of amazing hugs but there are two that still make me go What the funk happened there?

The first happened when I was back fitting carpets for a spell, working in a big house in a posh village close to Glasgow. The owners had expensive grey suits, stressful careers and wanted their massive house looking like an amazing home. Our job was set over two days to give the family a chance to clear rooms — carpet fitters are not furniture movers.

The hug happened on the day the Forth Road Bridge was closed back in November 2015. The husband had nipped out to see a client in the morning. Instead of moving beds and lifting carpets he was held captive for the whole day in the traffic chaos in Fife. We arrived late afternoon expecting empty rooms and a cup of tea and a biscuit for my pal, but we were faced with a locked door. A few phone calls and an hour later the lady of the house arrived home full of apologies and we started moving furniture. After a wee while I ended up downstairs lifting old carpets trying to calm her whilst my carpet fitting pal was upstairs dodgin away.

She was full on anxious, heavy emotional, and it didnae seem like it was all related to the stress of decorating her big house. We’ve all been there — instead of pausing, taking a breath, we keep bumping our gums, as if our jaws are a vent for frustration, but they only heat the situation. The more she spoke the more worked up she got. I tried to explain we’d organised another two fitters to come and help and everything would be done that evening. These comforting words had the opposite effect. She grew even more concerned as I’d added more fuel to the fire. She threw her arms down at her sides, stamped her foot on the bare floor and nearly shouted, “It’s getting too much.”

I just looked at her. Every time I spoke trying to ease her worries, I just fanned the flames. My instinct was to step over the old rolled up carpet and take her in my arms. But that’s how you get arrested and put on the register, isn’t it?

We both stood motionless, her with rage, me with doubt, until words bypassed my client/carpet fitter filter — “Look, are you okay? Do you need a cuddle?” It was a mental thing to say and I couldnae believe it came out my mouth. My shock was amplified when her face softened and she said, “Yes, that would be very nice.”

Let’s remember my job was physically demanding and always inside warm, cosy, unventilated hooses — so I was a wee bit conscious of the fact that this stinky carpet fitter had a well-dressed executive relaxing against his chest. Not in a fifty shades of tartan way. It lasted longer than a goodbye or welcome embrace. When it felt appropriate I let her go and she released her arms from my back.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Better,” she said.

We both turned away in opposite directions — she headed for the kitchen, I headed straight upstairs to give a high-pitched description of the previous few minutes to my carpet fitting pal.

I used the same squeaky freaked out voice recounting the story to Clare when I walked into our kitchen that night.

“But you can’t hug customers,” she said.

“I funking know, I didnae know what else to do.”

Clare gave me one of her looks. I didnae end up on the register, the job was completed that night, and my wife is still talking to me.

The second hug that freaked me out happened about a year later. I was daundering down the main street of a wee village close to Stirling, when this big dude walking towards me stumbled and bounced off a shop wall. If I had not caught him he would have hit the deck.

I helped him steady himself and asked if he was alright.

He didn’t appear to be drunk or full of chemicals. He looked dazed, like he was treading water, waiting for everything to catch up.

He said thanks, that he felt kind of dizzy.

Again, I don’t know what came over me but the words escaped my mouth before I thought about it —

“Do you need a cuddle, mate?”

Now, we are talking about a big bloke, over 6 foot, with a big belly who must have been over 16 stone — he was well over that but I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He scratched his head and said, “Yeah, would you mind?”

Gulp. In for a penny. My arms didnae meet round him. The hug didnae last as long as the posh manager’s hug but it lasted longer than a greeting and it was nearly an exact rerun of the last freaked out cuddle. We released, went our separate ways.

In the kitchen at home I gave Clare a high-pitched rendition of the street hug.

“But you can’t hug big strangers,” she said.

“I funking know… I didnae know what else to do.”

I got another look.

You know when folk say things happen in threes — there was a third cuddle, and arguably it was the original hug that freaked me out. Tarragona, south of Barcelona, years ago. Back when drinking was a great game and getting hammered was the goal. Let’s just say the cuddle buckled ma stainbrain and I sobered up before we parted. Some stories are better left in Spain.

Right back to swimming, that’s what you signed up for. I have spent less time up at Lubnaig the last wee while. Although, a couple of weeks ago we couldnae get to the Saltire flag in the middle of the loch because ice hampered the route out. Right now it’s completely lost, submerged likes — I’ve tried to find it twice this week and failed. Saying that I squeezed in three 2km swims and ripped my suit before the third one, leaving me with a mad scramble to get back to warm clothes with the cold biting in through the tear.

Look, I’m going to stop mumbling on — come up and experience it for yourself. That’s Loch Lubnaig I’m talking about, not the hugs… well, you never know. I might end up with another high-pitched explanation to Clare and you leaving calling it Loch Hugnaig.

(You have probably guessed, all the photos are of Loch Hugnaig, I mean Lubnaig from the last six months.)

Cheers