Wednesday 24 June 2009 - Ballachulish to Balloch

Ballachulish - Bridge of Orchy - Tyndrum - Crianlarich - Tarbet - Balloch

Paul and John had decided to lighten their loads by posting their dirty washing back home, and I had some business to conduct by phone, so our start was delayed until 10am while we faffed about after breakfast.
Once on the road I realised that the wind, as it had been every day, was blowing against us, even though we were now heading east as opposed to south-west the previous day. The temperature was already in the mid 20s and we were faced with a continuous climb from sea level, through Glencoe and up to the summit of Rannoch Moor at 1141 feet, with no shelter from the blazing sun. I stopped many times to rest and cast my eyes around the jagged landscape, much of which I had explored on foot in past years. I revel in empty, wide open spaces and I like nothing better than to spend long days in the sun wandering across mountains and moorland far from human habitation. When I caught up with Paul and John, I found that they didn’t necessarily share my preference for solitude, and John in particular seemed to find the remoteness of the moor a little disturbing. I realised that he probably wouldn’t have liked my preferred route from John O’Groats which was to avoid the east coast by travelling west to Bettyhill and then turning south through Strathnaver to Lairg through one of the most desolate and sparsely inhabited tracts of land in Britain.
Past the summit, the A82 drops steeply to Loch Tulla and then more gradually to Bridge of Orchy. Apart from the cooling breeze and the effortless exhilaration, I had another reason to look forward to the descents. I had never previously worn cycling shorts, but I bought a pair for the trip and wore them throughout. They were very comfortable except in one respect - they made my left testicle ache, an irritation which plagued me all the way from Thurso to Land’s End. However, when coasting downhill I was able to stand up on the pedals and allow the cool rushing air to deliver exquisite relief to my beleaguered gonad.
At the Bridge of Orchy Hotel, the barmaid informed us that we weren’t allowed to eat outside the front of the hotel by the road, but we were welcome to use the rear patio and bring our bikes round the back of the building. This we did, and I had expensive but excellent smoked salmon sandwiches. I wondered why it had been perfectly OK to eat outside by the road at Fort Augustus, whereas here it was forbidden.
The next seven miles to Tyndrum consisted of a relentless climb up Strath Fillan. Although I had driven along this road many times previously, I had never noticed the gradient before and I was relieved to reach the Green Welly Stop at Tyndrum where we stopped for a cold drink. We spoke to a couple of whippet-like young guys with carbon-fibre bikes and hardly any loads who were doing the end to end trip from south to north at the rate of 120 miles per day. The mother of one of them was providing motorised back-up and carrying much of their equipment. They eyed our antique beasts of burden pityingly, while assuring us that any gradients we may have encountered thus far would pale into insignificance compared to those which awaited us in Devon and Cornwall.
Once again we were due a reward, which started with an easy five miles to Crianlarich where we met a lady with very little English who wanted to follow the West Highland Way. She listened to my directions with utter incomprehension before thanking me and setting off to continue her adventure.
From Crianlarich we coasted all the way down to Loch Lomond, at about seven miles one of the best continuous descents of the entire trip, although in places the road surface left much to be desired. The first section of the ride by the loch was delightful, the narrow, twisting un-”improved” A82 being relatively quiet by late afternoon. At Tarbet however, where the A83 merges from the west, the road becomes a fast trunk route and is much less pleasant. They’ve even sited it alongside a belt of trees in order to deprive you of all but the occasional glimpse of the loch.
I am always saddened to reach the Highland Boundary Fault, marked by an abrupt change in topography, and leave the Highlands behind. The fault line crosses the southern section of Loch Lomond, meaning that the land to its south becomes increasingly amenable to development. Our destination, Balloch, is the first settlement and is effectively a suburb of Dumbarton, which in turn is effectively a suburb of Glasgow.
The last few miles before the turning off to Balloch seemed interminable. The volume of speeding traffic increased and the cycling options narrowed. For a while there was a reasonably good track running alongside the road, but this deteriorated and then vanished, leaving only the painted white line at the edge of the road as a metre wide psychological refuge. Eventually the metre shrunk to a millimetre and with nothing left to separate us from the madness, we became part of the Wacky Races.
Balloch disappointed me. I’d hoped that a village on the shores of Loch Lomond would have a picturesque, rural feel but in fact it’s a fairly nondescript small town which merges into the larger Alexandria, and signs of urban decay such as run down, graffiti plastered shopping precincts extend almost right up to the bonnie banks themselves. This was a profound culture shock compared to the environment we had become accustomed to over the past few days. Moreover, I discovered to my horror that our B&B was nowhere near a pub, thereby condemning me to an alcohol-free night.
Our host, John Smith, was a large, ebullient chap with a military background which manifested itself immediately when he began by describing his statutory duty of care towards us as paying guests, and reciting all the rules, regulations and health and safety arrangements pertaining to his establishment. Nothing was too much trouble for John, who had been a keen cyclist himself in his younger days and was eager to help us in any way he could. He contributed to our fund and spent time searching the Internet and printing off suggestions for tackling Glasgow the following day. He and his wife prepared an evening meal for us for a very reasonable price.
Our beds came complete with teddy bears. Paul’s and John’s were three of a set - Paul had Mummy and Daddy Bear on his double bed while John had Little Baby Bear. I had a manky old blue one with his eyes hanging off. I liked my poor bedraggled little teddy, so I told him a psychedelic bedtime story and cuddled him as I drifted off to sleep.