Smells Like Highland Spirit: Bog Myrtle, Midges and the Truth About Surviving a Highland Summer

There's a moment every Highland summer when the scales tip. The sun's out, the glens are glowing, you've just poured a cuppa from a flask at a viewpoint with no one else in it — and then you hear it. That faint, almost affectionate whine. You've been found.

Welcome to midge season. Before you close the tab and book somewhere flat and midge-free instead, stick with us. Because the story of the Highlands' tiniest resident is also the story of why these glens stay gloriously empty in July, why a scruffy little shrub smells so good, and why a bit of local knowledge turns the whole thing from ordeal into a running joke you'll be telling back home.

Meet the Enemy (It's Smaller Than Your Fingernail)

The Highland midge — Culicoides impunctatus, if you want to impress people at the pub — is a biting fly roughly the size of a pinhead. Individually, harmless. Collectively, they can make a still, damp evening feel like a bad decision.

The good news, if you can call it that: midges don't do much. They can't bite through clothing, they're hopeless in even a light breeze, and they can't be bothered with you once the sun's properly up. They're dawn-and-dusk creatures with a taste for calm, humid conditions. In other words, they're fair-weather foes with a very narrow comfort zone.

They're also wildly unpredictable. One glen will be swarming while the next is completely clear. Locals treat it like the lottery: some years are bumper, some barely register. You take your chances and you pack the repellent regardless.

Bog Myrtle: The Highlands' Original Air Freshener

Now for the plant with the fanbase. Bog myrtle — sweet gale, if you're posh — is a low, silvery-green shrub that thrives in exactly the soggy ground midges breed in. Crush a few leaves between your fingers and you get a resinous, herby, almost gin-and-citrus scent that's genuinely lovely.

For centuries, Highlanders have rubbed the stuff on their skin, hung it round doorways and stuffed it in bedding, convinced it keeps the midges off. Crofters still swear by a sprig behind the ear. There's even a modern industry bottling the oil into soaps and sprays.

So does it work? The honest answer: a bit, maybe. Bog myrtle does contain insect-repelling compounds, and some studies suggest mild effectiveness. But rubbing a leaf on your wrist and strolling through a cloud of hungry midges is not a strategy — it's a vibe. Treat it as a charming folk tradition and a pleasant smell, not a force field.

What Actually Works (Tested by People Who Live Here)

Strip away the folklore and the practical kit is refreshingly simple:

• A head net. Unfashionable, unbeatable. About the price of a coffee and worth ten times more.
• Smidge. The Scottish repellent built around a ingredient called Saltidin. It's what the gamekeepers, gillies and guides actually use, and it smells a lot better than the old-school stuff.
• Movement. Midges hate wind and hate a moving target. That breezy ridge? Bliss. That sheltered lochside picnic spot? Reconsider.
• Timing. Plan the still, scenic sit-downs for the middle of the day. Save dawn and dusk for walking, not lounging.
• Avon Skin So Soft. Yes, the moisturiser. Yes, it's a legend. No, nobody's entirely sure why it works. It just does.

And a note on the midge's big cousin, the tick — the one creature worth taking seriously. Tuck trousers into socks on bracken-heavy walks, check yourself over afterwards, and carry a tick twister. Midges are an annoyance; ticks are a health issue.

Why We're Secretly Grateful

Here's the contrarian bit: the midge might be the best thing that ever happened to the Highlands.

It's the reason the most beautiful places in Britain aren't shoulder-to-shoulder in July. It's the reason you can have a beach on the west coast nearly to yourself on a warm summer evening, or eat fish and chips in a harbour town without fighting for a bench. The midge is a bouncer for the whole region, and it only ever checks the id of people who came unprepared.

There's a camaraderie to it, too. Swap a midge story with a fellow traveller in a Lochcarron pub and you've made a friend. Complain about them to a local and you'll get advice, sympathy and probably a recommendation for the best head net. The midge is a shared experience that binds everyone who's ever loved these glens.

The Season, Decoded

Midge season in the Highlands generally runs from late May to September, peaking in June and July, with a second smaller flush in late August. Wet summers are bumper years; dry, breezy ones are a gift. The northwest coast and the damp, sheltered glens are hotspots; exposed coastal paths and hilltops are relative sanctuaries.

If you want the landscape without the whine entirely, come in May or late September — but honestly? Don't write off July. Pack the net, douse yourself in Smidge, time your loch-side dram for midday, and embrace the absurdity of it all.

Because the truth is, nobody remembers the trip where nothing went slightly wrong. They remember the one where they ate a pasty inside a head net, laughing, with the best view in Britain through the mesh.

That's the Highland summer. Midges and all.