Turn Right onto Loch Ness

The day my satnav went rogue

Loch Ness doing its best mirror - no monsters, only sky.

At 6:31am on Wednesday, my satnav calmly instructed me to “turn right onto Loch Ness”—as if that were a real junction and not a very large body of water slumbering under a blanket of mist about 1.5km away. I was driving my husband to Fort William for an 8am hospital appointment, satnav on even though I knew perfectly well how to get there. ‘Dimwit,’ I thought, though it amused me. I turned right onto the expected A82: black and dry, with cat’s eyes, houses, the usual roadside landmarks, and the loch somewhere beyond the fields and trees, minding its own deep, cold business.

The voice hadn’t faltered. There was no sigh, nor recalculation. Just a calm statement, as though every Highland driver keeps marine charts and a compass in the glovebox, and waterwings on standby at the press of a button. I pictured lane markings on the water, warning signs for waves, a yellow junction box off Urquhart Castle patrolled by an officious kelpie in a hi-vis vest, complete with whistle. Give way to spectral vessels bound for Urquhart Castle. Merge when safe. Mind the monster at peak times—delays possible due to prehistoric right of way.

The monster: Nessie, who lives in that shimmer between the shore and what the eye swears is true. She’s the humps within waves, the ripple you can’t explain, the thing your uncle’s friend swears he saw once in ‘78. A long habit of observation while driving makes you practical in the Highlands - mud, snow, deer, passing place etiquette - but there’s room enough for a creature the size of a rumour. The loch is the key holder of many secrets.

We kept to the road, tyres rolling on tarmac, and the loch—black as unwritten ink—kept pace as we flowed along its length, before handing the baton on to Loch Oich. But, for a moment, I let the instruction drift: signal, turn right, wave to waterfowl, join the slow lane behind a courteous plesiosaur on the school run. Then the thought evaporated, like the morning’s mist as the sun rose.

But I liked the wackiness of it - a reminder that Highland navigation runs on two systems: GPS and folklore. One will take you from A to B. The other lets the journey shift in time, so something more mysterious can travel beside you for a mile or two. Sometimes the best directions are the ones that take you beyond the edge.

Urquhart Castle, framed in fern - prime lookout for rumours on the loch.