Saturday 20 June 2009 - Derby to Thurso

The big day finally arrived. I’d arranged (or so I thought) to meet Paul and John at Derby railway station, at an excruciatingly early hour - i.e. before 8am - when on a Saturday morning I’d normally be at least two hours away from waking up, but as I wandered languidly home from the paper shop, looking forward to another coffee before setting off at the last possible moment, I was jolted into semi-consciousness by a familiar voice behind me.
“All right Uncle Mick?”
They’d decided to pick me up on the way. “Pop!” went the coffee bubble.
We took the cycle path following the old canal line and the River Derwent from Allenton to the station.
From the moment we entered the depressing 1980s edifice, the stark reality began to sink in. The rail companies are not well-disposed towards cyclists. They don’t want you on their premises, let alone their trains. Everything is as awkward as they can possibly make it for you. In order to negotiate railway stations, you have to ascend and descend long flights of stairs, burdened by your fully laden bike. No doubt there are lifts, but we didn’t bother looking for them because they’d have been full of people and wouldn’t have been big enough for three bikes anyway.
We struggled down to the platform from which our train to Edinburgh was due to depart. After much searching, I saw someone who looked as though she might be an employee of the rail company.
“Er - excuse me - we’ve got three bikes but only one reservation, but the nice-man-on-the-phone said we could take the wheels off the other two and take them on as lug…”
“Well I don’t know who you spoke to” interjected the po-faced lady, “but we don’t normally tell people things like that. You’ll have to ask the train manager, it’s up to him whether he lets you on or not. You‘ll have to be quick though - the train only stops for three minutes.”
My heart sank as I realised that the advice I had been given over the phone had been mere sales patter and counted for nothing. I had no way of proving what I had been told. We were at the mercy of the whims of the Train Managers.
The nice-man-on-the-phone had suggested wrapping the two contraband bikes up, presumably to disguise them as luggage, and Paul was attempting to complete this somewhat problematical task when the train arrived. It stopped about 200 metres away from Paul and his dismantled, half wrapped bikes.
Mindful of the three minutes ticking away, I sprinted along the platform helped by my still two-wheeled bike, while Paul and John struggled along behind with their cumbersome burdens. I located the guard - sorry, Train Manager - who grumbled a bit but let us on without too much trouble once it became apparent that there was ample room for our bikes in the luggage area.
It was a pleasant journey north to Edinburgh, although we felt a niggling sense of apprehension linked to the prospect of trying to gain access to the next two trains, no doubt against the wishes of the notoriously Hitleresque Scottish Train Managers.
The apprehension proved well-founded at Edinburgh where we encountered an obstinate Train Manager who appeared to be hell-bent on putting an end to our northward progress. We argued and argued with him until he finally let us on board, with the warning that, should someone with a cycle reservation be waiting at one of the stops en route to Inverness, we would be thrown off the train - probably while it was still moving, judging by his manner. Again, this charade was compressed into the few minutes between the train’s arrival and departure, thereby maximising the stressfulness of the situation.
With the Train Manager’s stern admonishments ringing in our ears, our appreciation of this most scenic section of the journey was somewhat diminished. The prospect of being cast away in the foothills of the Cairngorms was not appealing.
To our relief, and no doubt to the Train Manager’s bitter disappointment, we made it to Inverness where we were confronted by an even more cyclophobic Train Manager. He thoroughly enjoyed fulfilling the points of his job description requiring him to be as unpleasant as possible to cyclists, and he discharged those duties with unbridled passion. In a Pythonesque scene on the platform, we sneaked on to the train while his back was turned. Possibly exhausted by his frantic attempts to prevent us from getting on, he refrained from trying to eject us.
With the final Train Manager battle behind us, we could now relax. We passed through Sutherland and up into Caithness and the flat landscape of the far north, with its strange embellishments of flagstone “hedges” and seemingly pointless derelict wooden constructions, which I assume are old boundary fences of some type.
We finally reached Thurso at about 9.45pm. Paul and John reassembled their bikes on the platform as the train departed for Wick and the dark cloud of our captivity receded.
There remained one further obstacle. The station was deserted and the main entrance, through which we could have walked straight out on to the street, was locked. We escaped via the lifts and stairs and were free.
Our B&B was easy to find and we were soon settled in, leaving our bikes in the locked garage. I hadn’t eaten for hours and was ravenous, so I went out for a short walk to locate a takeaway of some description. I came across a group of young people queuing outside the local nightclub who gave me directions to the town centre where we could get food. I was struck by their welcoming, friendly demeanour, a trait common to everyone we met in Thurso.
A little later, Paul and I went out and enjoyed really excellent fish and chips. I fancied a pint and even suggested the nightclub, but Paul declined and we returned to the B&B. I had brought with me a quarter full bottle of Talisker, Dad’s favourite single malt, and so we had a wee dram before retiring for the night.