The Quiet Paths

Galloway Coast, April 2026

We stretched Easter into something a little longer this year, taking an extra day’s holiday and setting off on Thursday for the coast. Our destination was Garlieston — a small harbour village on the Galloway coast, quiet and unassuming at first glance, but steeped in history. During the Second World War, its shoreline played a role in the testing of the Mulberry Harbours used for the D-Day landings — vast floating structures that would later support the Allied invasion of Normandy. Today, it feels far removed from such purpose, a place of calm water, open skies, and gentle coastal rhythms.

The journey took around four hours, but under clear spring skies and with the promise of a long weekend ahead, it felt anything but long. There is always something quietly joyful about the outward journey — the sense of leaving the everyday behind.

Our home for the weekend was the Garlieston Caravan and Motorhome Club campsite, and we were lucky enough to secure a pitch overlooking the water. After a little nesting — that familiar ritual of turning a temporary space into something resembling home — we gathered with the rest of the Famous Five to catch up and plan the days ahead.

Planning, this time, came with a caveat. Storm Dave was due to arrive on Friday, and our exposed position on the coast made that a consideration we couldn’t ignore. So, with some tactical foresight, we opted to barbecue that very evening.

Mark, undeterred by the increasingly enthusiastic wind and rain, took charge of proceedings and produced a perfectly cooked bavette of beef. Served with roasted potatoes, fresh salad, and a generous selection of wine, it set the tone for the weekend. Chocolate treats followed, along with a few warming nips of whisky, and we eventually retired — a little later than planned, a little unsteady on our feet, and entirely content.

Friday arrived… and Storm Dave, it seemed, had slightly overstated his intentions.

Mark, Pepper and I set out for a coastal walk to Cruggleton Castle, a striking ruin perched on the cliffs to the east of the village. Once a stronghold of local lords, its remains now sit dramatically above the sea, its broken walls hinting at centuries of occupation, defence, and eventual abandonment.

The day was bright and clear, though unsettled in that familiar coastal way — coat on, coat off, sunglasses on, sunglasses off. We followed the shoreline for a time, the water’s edge alive with movement. Egrets, ducks, geese, and other shorebirds busied themselves among the shallows, while the trees above held chaffinches, nuthatches, and the delicate flicker of goldcrests.

Further along, a large rookery announced itself well before we saw it — an avalanche of sound as the birds wheeled, called, and settled noisily into their nests.

It was only as we approached the castle that we understood why Storm Dave had felt so restrained earlier. The coastline had been shielding us. Once exposed on the headland, the wind hit with full force — tearing at coats, stinging eyes, and turning Pepper’s ears resolutely inside out. After approximately four seconds of castle appreciation, we collectively decided that scaling the cliffs for a closer look was perhaps not in our best interests. With dignity (mostly) intact, we retreated to the calmer shelter of the trees, admiring the ruins from a safer, sunnier distance.

Out on the water, however, a small rowing boat carried on regardless. Its occupants waved cheerfully as they passed, seemingly unbothered by conditions that had driven us back inland. Braver souls indeed.

Our return took us through the arboretum of Galloway House — a quieter, more sheltered landscape of carefully planted trees and winding paths. The estate, once the seat of the Stewart family, carries an understated grandeur, its grounds offering a mix of formal planting and natural woodland that feels particularly alive in early spring.

Back at the van, we regrouped before heading out for a pub dinner and a slower, earlier night.

Saturday brought another beautiful day. After a run along the coast road, I waved the boys off on a fishing trip and settled into a slower pace — a good book, a warm van, and the gentle, rhythmic snores of Pepper beside me.

That evening, Sarah and Trevor took their turn as hosts. Wine flowed, risotto was served, and we rounded things off with a cheese and wine tasting selection from The Courtyard Dairy — a genuinely spectacular spread that may well have been the highlight of an already indulgent weekend.

Sunday saw us back in boots, setting out on the Mulberry Harbour Walk — a route that quietly echoes the village’s wartime past. Our progress was briefly interrupted by a group of recently released dairy cows who had taken a firm stance on path ownership, forcing a tactical retreat and reroute.

The detour proved worthwhile. We stumbled across a series of small, unspoiled beaches — empty, quiet, and beautifully untouched. In the surrounding fields, hares darted and scattered, often startling us as they broke cover and sprinted away at speed, much to Pepper’s frustration.

Monday dawned just as bright, softening the inevitable task of packing up and turning back towards home. There is always a slight reluctance to that final morning — the quiet dismantling of a temporary life well lived.

A beautiful weekend, shaped by good food, changing weather, and even better company.

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There is something about time spent by the coast that seems to stretch and soften the days. Perhaps it is the rhythm of the tide, or the ever-changing light, or simply the space it gives you to slow down and notice.

This weekend had a bit of everything — wind that pushed us back, sunshine that drew us out again, paths rediscovered, and new corners explored. But more than that, it was shaped by the simple joy of gathering — of shared meals, easy laughter, and the kind of company that turns even the wildest weather into part of the story.

Places like Garlieston have a quiet way of holding those moments. Long after the van is packed and the road home is behind you, something of it lingers — the sound of the sea, the pull of the horizon, the memory of a table well shared.

And perhaps that is reason enough to return.