This is my personal account of a cycle ride from John O’Groats to Land’s End undertaken in late June and early July 2009 by me, my brother Paul and my nephew John. All opinions and observations expressed are my own and represent nobody else's views on anything whatsoever.
The ride was John’s idea, coming soon after the death of my father, Jack, in June 2008 from liver cancer. It was to be a sponsored ride to raise money for Cancer Research UK, and as it was in Dad’s memory we would start on or about June 22, the anniversary of his death.
Tragically, Paul’s wife and John’s mother, Sue, passed away in January 2009. The ride would now be in memory of two much loved members of our family.
In the event, John was forced to retire by a foot injury at the half-way point, but Paul and I continued and completed the ride, recording 953 miles and raising in excess of £1500 for our chosen cause.
John’s Giant Defy 3 was the only modern bike on the trip. I had my Raleigh Randonneur hand built tourer, bought in early 1990 and the veteran of many thousands of miles. Paul used Dad’s old bike, a Raleigh Royale bought in the late 1980s.
I’m a bloke who sometimes rides a bike, as opposed to a “real" cyclist. I refuse to push myself, and I plod up even moderate inclines in low gear at little more than walking pace. I wouldn’t meet the criteria for acceptance into any serious cycling club. Nevertheless, I have considerable experience of cycling fairly long distances, and I knew I could manage the end to end ride.
My training was minimal, consisting of a few local runs with Paul and John, the longest of which was 64 miles. I struggled somewhat on these practice runs, and began to wonder whether I would be capable of regaining my fitness level of 15 to 20 years ago when I thought nothing of a 70 or 80 mile ride. Then I bought a pair of decent Continental tyres which made things a whole lot easier. I’d been using cheap tyres with knobbly treads which were not designed for distance and which made anything that wasn’t downhill hard work.
Although I’d now reached the point where I felt confident of my ability to complete the ride, I remained on a different level from Paul and John. Their idea of “taking it steady” is my idea of “going flat out”, and every time we set off from anywhere, they both became dots on the horizon by the time I’d got my feet into my toe clips. I thought of the ride as a cycling holiday which I intended to take as leisurely as possible given the daily target destinations, whereas Paul and John took a much more athletic approach. During the ride, they often discussed how few days they thought they could manage it in next time, whereas I on the other hand considered how many extra days I would treat myself to should I repeat it at some point.
Agreeing a route was difficult, as might be expected when attempted by three stubborn men, each of whom wants to go a different way. Eventually, a compromise was reached incorporating bits of everyone’s preferred routes. I was surprised to learn that Paul and John wanted to stay at home one night. I’d thought of suggesting this, but hadn’t as passing through Derby seemed a considerable diversion from the direct line.
Accommodation was pre-booked for every night of the trip. I had reservations about the resultant inflexibility, but it was reassuring to know that a bed would be waiting for us at the end of each day.
We were riding from north to south, so we needed to get ourselves and our bikes to John O’Groats. Eventually, in fact not until about a month before the trip, we decided to go by rail to Thurso, stay there overnight and cycle the 20 odd miles to John O‘Groats the next day before starting the ride proper. Having previously heard many a train/bike related tale of woe, I wasn’t expecting the arrangements to be easy. I knew that British rail companies don’t encourage cyclists and that the few spaces for bikes on trains could be difficult to secure.
When I phoned to purchase the tickets for the journey to Thurso, changing at Edinburgh and Inverness, there was predictably only one cycle reservation available. However, the nice man I spoke to, from Scotrail, reassured me that there’d be no problem if we took the wheels off the other two bikes and took them on to the trains as luggage. “That’s what people usually do”, he said in his comforting Highland lilt while relieving me of £390.
The tickets arrived a few days later.
Monday 5 April 2010
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.
“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.
Sunday 21 June 2009 - Thurso to Helmsdale
Thurso - John O’Groats - Wick - Latheron - Helmsdale
The first day of the ride dawned bright and sunny, heralding a period of fine weather which was to remain with us almost throughout our journey. We soon saw off our rather parsimonious breakfasts and set off for John O’Groats along the gently undulating A836 with the wind against us. A couple of hours saw us at our official starting point with its unforgivably run down architecture backed by the Orkneys across the Pentland Firth. After the obligatory photos at the signpost and an expensive coffee, we were on the A99 south by 11am, still hampered by the south-east wind.
Maritime Caithness is lush and verdant, in contrast to the stark hinterland of the Flow Country. We were uplifted by the views of the rocky coast plunging into the azure North Sea and the distant Sutherland hills beyond the moorland.
We had decided to stop for lunch at Wick, so once we reached the ancient burgh we began to look for a café or pub with outdoor seating. The crime rate north of Inverness is probably negligible, but as Derbeians we imagine thieves everywhere and we wanted to be able to keep our eyes on our bikes and belongings. We found no such café or pub so the Aldi store at the end of the town had to suffice.
John eventually emerged from the shop with several baguettes and packets of various sliced meats, which we ate in the Aldi car park. Paul and John both have excellent teeth, even though Paul once went for 100 years without visiting a dentist, and their baguettes, though dense and unyielding, vanished within seconds. I, on the other hand, was subjected to decades of inept, brutal and unnecessary NHS “dentistry“, leaving me with fragile, collapsing and missing teeth which struggle, like Father William, with anything tougher than suet. I resorted to picking out the cotton-wooly stuff and tried with limited success to eat that. My dental handicap also meant that apart from this first morning I hardly ever ate all of my breakfast, as Paul’s and John’s plates were always clean before I’d finished my first rasher of bacon, and I didn’t think they’d want to wait another half an hour for me to nibble my way through the entire plateful.
Fortified by the gastronomic delights of Aldi, we continued along the A99, grinding climbs alternating with gradual drops almost to sea level, through Thrumster, Whaligoe and Lybster.
From the outset, the pattern of the ride was that Paul and John would zoom ahead of me while I plodded along at my pedestrian rate. Every ten miles or so, they would stop and wait for me to catch up, whereupon we’d have a brief chat and set off again. Sometimes I’d go so slowly that they’d get fed up waiting, and I’d see them put on their helmets and cycle away as soon as I came into sight. This didn’t save any time, in fact it took longer because I always stopped for my break anyway, and it lasted longer if they weren’t there to supervise.
However, along this stretch of road it became apparent that John was having some difficulty. Not only was he within sight, I was actually catching up with him. It transpired that he was experiencing severe problems with his right knee. He had been coping valiantly but had now reached his pain threshold. He limped along, pushing his bike up the hills, to Latheron where we stopped at a farm gate.
The A99 joins the A9 at Latheron, and twenty miles of that rollercoastal highway, including the vicious Berriedale Braes, lay between us and our destination at Helmsdale. John clearly wasn’t going to make it and was aghast at being stopped by injury on the first day of the ride. It seemed that he might have to withdraw from the trip altogether, and Paul doubted his own motivation to continue under those circumstances.
The kindly farmer, on hearing John’s predicament, gave him a lift to Helmsdale while Paul and I continued sombrely on along the A9 until it suddenly dropped off the edge of the world just before Berriedale.
Having reached the bottom of the edge of the world via a hairpin bend, we were faced with the climb back to the top again. Neither of us even considered trying to ride up. We pushed our heavily laden bikes uphill a bit, past the northbound escape pit, then had a rest. Then uphill a bit more and another rest…
Seemingly hours later, the gradient eased and we got back on our bikes. The road continued relentlessly uphill for miles until we were presented with the delightfully long plunge down towards Helmsdale, which we descended with great glee. The hostel, our home for the night, was in the centre of the village and there we found John, now in a much better frame of mind and hopeful of being fit to ride again the next day. The renowned hostel was full of nice people, all familiar with the rigours of cycling and mountaineering, and they had obviously managed to raise his spirits.
We went out and dined again on fish and chips, which were inferior to those at Thurso and half of which I threw away. Back at the hostel, we finished the Talisker as our fellow hostellers regaled us with accounts of their various epic adventures. A few hours later in the dorm, they lulled us to sleep with a symphony of snoring and farting.
The first day of the ride dawned bright and sunny, heralding a period of fine weather which was to remain with us almost throughout our journey. We soon saw off our rather parsimonious breakfasts and set off for John O’Groats along the gently undulating A836 with the wind against us. A couple of hours saw us at our official starting point with its unforgivably run down architecture backed by the Orkneys across the Pentland Firth. After the obligatory photos at the signpost and an expensive coffee, we were on the A99 south by 11am, still hampered by the south-east wind.
Maritime Caithness is lush and verdant, in contrast to the stark hinterland of the Flow Country. We were uplifted by the views of the rocky coast plunging into the azure North Sea and the distant Sutherland hills beyond the moorland.
We had decided to stop for lunch at Wick, so once we reached the ancient burgh we began to look for a café or pub with outdoor seating. The crime rate north of Inverness is probably negligible, but as Derbeians we imagine thieves everywhere and we wanted to be able to keep our eyes on our bikes and belongings. We found no such café or pub so the Aldi store at the end of the town had to suffice.
John eventually emerged from the shop with several baguettes and packets of various sliced meats, which we ate in the Aldi car park. Paul and John both have excellent teeth, even though Paul once went for 100 years without visiting a dentist, and their baguettes, though dense and unyielding, vanished within seconds. I, on the other hand, was subjected to decades of inept, brutal and unnecessary NHS “dentistry“, leaving me with fragile, collapsing and missing teeth which struggle, like Father William, with anything tougher than suet. I resorted to picking out the cotton-wooly stuff and tried with limited success to eat that. My dental handicap also meant that apart from this first morning I hardly ever ate all of my breakfast, as Paul’s and John’s plates were always clean before I’d finished my first rasher of bacon, and I didn’t think they’d want to wait another half an hour for me to nibble my way through the entire plateful.
Fortified by the gastronomic delights of Aldi, we continued along the A99, grinding climbs alternating with gradual drops almost to sea level, through Thrumster, Whaligoe and Lybster.
From the outset, the pattern of the ride was that Paul and John would zoom ahead of me while I plodded along at my pedestrian rate. Every ten miles or so, they would stop and wait for me to catch up, whereupon we’d have a brief chat and set off again. Sometimes I’d go so slowly that they’d get fed up waiting, and I’d see them put on their helmets and cycle away as soon as I came into sight. This didn’t save any time, in fact it took longer because I always stopped for my break anyway, and it lasted longer if they weren’t there to supervise.
However, along this stretch of road it became apparent that John was having some difficulty. Not only was he within sight, I was actually catching up with him. It transpired that he was experiencing severe problems with his right knee. He had been coping valiantly but had now reached his pain threshold. He limped along, pushing his bike up the hills, to Latheron where we stopped at a farm gate.
The A99 joins the A9 at Latheron, and twenty miles of that rollercoastal highway, including the vicious Berriedale Braes, lay between us and our destination at Helmsdale. John clearly wasn’t going to make it and was aghast at being stopped by injury on the first day of the ride. It seemed that he might have to withdraw from the trip altogether, and Paul doubted his own motivation to continue under those circumstances.
The kindly farmer, on hearing John’s predicament, gave him a lift to Helmsdale while Paul and I continued sombrely on along the A9 until it suddenly dropped off the edge of the world just before Berriedale.
Having reached the bottom of the edge of the world via a hairpin bend, we were faced with the climb back to the top again. Neither of us even considered trying to ride up. We pushed our heavily laden bikes uphill a bit, past the northbound escape pit, then had a rest. Then uphill a bit more and another rest…
Seemingly hours later, the gradient eased and we got back on our bikes. The road continued relentlessly uphill for miles until we were presented with the delightfully long plunge down towards Helmsdale, which we descended with great glee. The hostel, our home for the night, was in the centre of the village and there we found John, now in a much better frame of mind and hopeful of being fit to ride again the next day. The renowned hostel was full of nice people, all familiar with the rigours of cycling and mountaineering, and they had obviously managed to raise his spirits.
We went out and dined again on fish and chips, which were inferior to those at Thurso and half of which I threw away. Back at the hostel, we finished the Talisker as our fellow hostellers regaled us with accounts of their various epic adventures. A few hours later in the dorm, they lulled us to sleep with a symphony of snoring and farting.
Monday 22 June 2009 - Helmsdale to Inverness
Helmsdale - Golspie - Tain - Nigg - Cromarty - Avoch - Munlochy - Inverness
The hostel kitchen was well-equipped, but we hadn’t thought to buy anything to cook so we left hungry, intending to breakfast at Brora about 11 miles down the A9. John had recovered well and was raring to go again, and we reached Brora after a fairly easy ride apart from one sharp rise at Portgower.
John bought a knee bandage at the chemist opposite the railway station, and again we looked in vain for a café with outdoor seating, eventually settling for passably edible fare from a sandwich shop.
Continuing towards Golspie, I was initially puzzled by what appeared to be a line of hills lying out to sea. Then I orientated myself and realised I was looking south across the Moray Firth towards the mass of high ground including the Cairngorms. We were travelling south to the Highlands - a rather unusual concept.
The road swings inland after Golspie to skirt Loch Fleet via The Mound, then heads south over rolling countryside to the Dornoch Firth, which it crosses by the Dornoch Bridge built in 1991. The last time I visited the area, with my parents in 1988 shortly after Dad retired, the route was forced to the west via Bonar Bridge, increasing the distance by some twenty miles.
The two junctions with this old road, either side of the bridge, feed traffic from the north-west on to the already busy A9. This, combined with the recent “improvements” to the road from here on results in a fast, busy trunk road which is fine for motorists but highly unpleasant to cycle along. I was thankful that we’d decided to follow the recommendation of one of our erstwhile friends at the hostel, which was to cross the Black Isle and thus avoid the worst section of the A9 by turning off at the Nigg Roundabout to reach the Nigg-Cromarty ferry via the B9175.
The Dornoch Firth was holding a bank of low cloud which provided the only rain shower of the northern half of our trip and deprived us of any views from the bridge. A further mile took us to Tain by which time we were out of the cloud, and the blue skies returned.
We found a café at Tain which again only provided for indoor eating, but the proprietor allowed us to leave our bikes at the back of the building while we enjoyed a pleasant lunch. The café’s cat was rather indignant at this invasion of his territory, but he forgave us when we stopped to chat to him.
A mile after Tain we left the vile A9 for the peaceful B9175 and the half mile ferry crossing to Cromarty. After a swift drink at the pub, we took the steep A832 out of Cromarty. Upon topping the rise, we met a genial local who pointed to rising ground in the distance which he assured us was the “last” hill. He was partly right, at least as far as the next fifteen miles or so were concerned, but the hill continued for miles before finally descending steeply to sea level at Rosemarkie. We then followed the shore of the Moray Firth to Avoch, with its silent Av, where we stopped for a chocolate covered ice cream bar. It was quite warm by now, and we were soon surrounded by drips of the molten confection.
We left the A832 at Munlochy to follow the B9161 which led back to the A82 a few miles from Inverness. Cycle paths enabled us to avoid the main road and cross the Kessock Bridge into the city.
After locating our B&B and checking in, we set off in search of food, eventually choosing an Irish bar near the picturesque Ness Walk. Our food took an age to arrive, by which time I’d finished my first pint and was beginning to feel a little queasy. I had obviously done something to annoy my stomach, and I only managed half of my game stew before I began to heave and had to give up. I began to worry that I might not be eating enough to sustain myself for the demands of the ride, as I hadn’t really eaten a proper dinner since we left Derby.
A group of loud, macho types, possibly servicemen judging by their uniform haircuts, were monopolising half of the bar area throughout our visit. None of them stood still as they were constantly either play fighting or grabbing each others’ buttocks and genitals. No doubt summary justice would have been meted out to anyone with the temerity to suggest that they might be harbouring latent homosexual tendencies.
The pub was not a place I wanted to linger, and it was a pleasant walk back in the cool evening air amidst the fine architecture of Inverness. On the way we crossed the River Ness which leads to the north eastern end of the Great Glen, Britain’s most prominent fracture and our route for the following day.
The hostel kitchen was well-equipped, but we hadn’t thought to buy anything to cook so we left hungry, intending to breakfast at Brora about 11 miles down the A9. John had recovered well and was raring to go again, and we reached Brora after a fairly easy ride apart from one sharp rise at Portgower.
John bought a knee bandage at the chemist opposite the railway station, and again we looked in vain for a café with outdoor seating, eventually settling for passably edible fare from a sandwich shop.
Continuing towards Golspie, I was initially puzzled by what appeared to be a line of hills lying out to sea. Then I orientated myself and realised I was looking south across the Moray Firth towards the mass of high ground including the Cairngorms. We were travelling south to the Highlands - a rather unusual concept.
The road swings inland after Golspie to skirt Loch Fleet via The Mound, then heads south over rolling countryside to the Dornoch Firth, which it crosses by the Dornoch Bridge built in 1991. The last time I visited the area, with my parents in 1988 shortly after Dad retired, the route was forced to the west via Bonar Bridge, increasing the distance by some twenty miles.
The two junctions with this old road, either side of the bridge, feed traffic from the north-west on to the already busy A9. This, combined with the recent “improvements” to the road from here on results in a fast, busy trunk road which is fine for motorists but highly unpleasant to cycle along. I was thankful that we’d decided to follow the recommendation of one of our erstwhile friends at the hostel, which was to cross the Black Isle and thus avoid the worst section of the A9 by turning off at the Nigg Roundabout to reach the Nigg-Cromarty ferry via the B9175.
The Dornoch Firth was holding a bank of low cloud which provided the only rain shower of the northern half of our trip and deprived us of any views from the bridge. A further mile took us to Tain by which time we were out of the cloud, and the blue skies returned.
We found a café at Tain which again only provided for indoor eating, but the proprietor allowed us to leave our bikes at the back of the building while we enjoyed a pleasant lunch. The café’s cat was rather indignant at this invasion of his territory, but he forgave us when we stopped to chat to him.
A mile after Tain we left the vile A9 for the peaceful B9175 and the half mile ferry crossing to Cromarty. After a swift drink at the pub, we took the steep A832 out of Cromarty. Upon topping the rise, we met a genial local who pointed to rising ground in the distance which he assured us was the “last” hill. He was partly right, at least as far as the next fifteen miles or so were concerned, but the hill continued for miles before finally descending steeply to sea level at Rosemarkie. We then followed the shore of the Moray Firth to Avoch, with its silent Av, where we stopped for a chocolate covered ice cream bar. It was quite warm by now, and we were soon surrounded by drips of the molten confection.
We left the A832 at Munlochy to follow the B9161 which led back to the A82 a few miles from Inverness. Cycle paths enabled us to avoid the main road and cross the Kessock Bridge into the city.
After locating our B&B and checking in, we set off in search of food, eventually choosing an Irish bar near the picturesque Ness Walk. Our food took an age to arrive, by which time I’d finished my first pint and was beginning to feel a little queasy. I had obviously done something to annoy my stomach, and I only managed half of my game stew before I began to heave and had to give up. I began to worry that I might not be eating enough to sustain myself for the demands of the ride, as I hadn’t really eaten a proper dinner since we left Derby.
A group of loud, macho types, possibly servicemen judging by their uniform haircuts, were monopolising half of the bar area throughout our visit. None of them stood still as they were constantly either play fighting or grabbing each others’ buttocks and genitals. No doubt summary justice would have been meted out to anyone with the temerity to suggest that they might be harbouring latent homosexual tendencies.
The pub was not a place I wanted to linger, and it was a pleasant walk back in the cool evening air amidst the fine architecture of Inverness. On the way we crossed the River Ness which leads to the north eastern end of the Great Glen, Britain’s most prominent fracture and our route for the following day.
Tuesday 23 June 2009 - Inverness to Ballachulish
Inverness - Fort Augustus - Spean Bridge - Fort William - Ballachulish
The morning routine had already evolved into a recurring pattern - wake up, swear a lot, have caffeine fix, swear some more, get dressed, gather belongings, pack panniers, hump panniers downstairs, have breakfast, extricate bikes from overnight storage, load bikes and set off. Having done all the foregoing, we soon found ourselves ascending the long incline on the A82 out of Inverness. The perspective made the road appear flat, and for a while I wondered why I was having to pedal so hard. Halfway up the hill, I caught my badly mounted rear left pannier with my heel, causing it to release its tenuous grip on the rack and land in the road. More swearing ensued.
Within a few miles, we had passed Loch Dochfour and the vastness of Loch Ness lay before us. We stopped and took photographs. Paul and John were first time visitors to Scotland and I enjoyed being with them for their first sight of true Highland scenery, the grandeur of which increases as you progress south west through the Great Glen.
The long stretch of the A82 skirting Loch Ness is much hillier than it appeared on our inadequate map. At one point, between Drumnadrochit and Invermoriston, my bike threw off its chain in protest at my attempt to change from top to bottom gear at the start of an unexpected incline. Both Raleighs had a tendency to do this throughout the trip, and it transpired later that Paul’s had done likewise in exactly the same spot.
The chain had jammed between the crank and the frame. Song lyrics, vaguely related to whatever I happen to be doing at the time, often pop into my head during the day, and here, as I wrestled with the grimy, sweaty task of restoring my machine’s transmission, “Bat Chain Puller” by Captain Beefheart sprung to mind. The previous day, tired by the hills and incessant headwind, I passed a sign indicating seven miles to Tain where we were stopping for lunch, and instantly thought of Klaxons’ Isle Of Her and its repeated line “Row! There’s only seven more miles to go”. On the first day, as poor John laboured in agony on the A99, My Chemical Romance chimed in with “I’m not OK”. The mere thought being unpardonably callous and particularly offensive to a heavy metal fan, I didn’t tell him.
Eventually we reached Fort Augustus at the end of Loch Ness and stopped for a light meal at, for the first time, a café with tables outside. By now the weather was sweltering and Paul and John poured copious amounts of sweat from their helmets when they took them off. I was helmetless and as a result my forehead burnt in the sun, but I was rewarded later when it began to peel, providing me with the most agreeable pastime of picking bits off and flicking them around the pub.
Fort Augustus is a magnetic Highland village, and had I been by myself I would probably have inserted an extra day by stopping there to get drunk by the Caledonian Canal. No such aberration being forthcoming, we continued our journey by leaving the A82 to follow the canal path for five miles before re-joining the main road at Aberchalder after waiting for a graceful vessel to pass through the swing bridge. The ride by the canal was a delightfully flat and peaceful respite from the traffic, but the next twenty miles to Spean Bridge were much more demanding due to the heat, the hills and the headwind. I paused by Loch Lochy to cool myself down by soaking my shirt in a burn tumbling down from the hillside.
From Spean Bridge, with the watershed of the Great Glen now behind us, we rode mostly downhill to Fort William, stopping on the way to take photos of the still snow-capped Ben Nevis. The last mile or two into the town was nasty in view of the heavy traffic and the fairly narrow road, which we belatedly realised we could have avoided by a cycle track.
We pushed our bikes around Fort William for a while looking for somewhere to eat, although it was still only late afternoon and personally I wasn’t really hungry. We couldn’t find anywhere suitable so I asked a local. “No, we don’t go much on al fresco dining around here. That’s Highland hospitality for ye”, came the sardonic reply.
Leaving the Highlander to extend his welcome to the next hapless visitor, we pedalled off to complete the final stage of the day’s ride to our B&B at Ballachulish. By the time I reached Corran Ferry, at the narrowest point of Loch Linnhe, the heat of the day had subsided and the terrain was mostly flat. I stopped for a while and savoured the memory of my first visit to Scotland back in 1984, when at this spot I had met up with my parents on their Mercian tandem, built to Dad’s specification.
After rounding the coast to head east towards Onich, I caught up with Paul and John who were taking photographs of Glencoe, illuminated to perfection by the westering sun. From there only three miles remained - across the Ballachulish Bridge spanning the point where Loch Leven branches off from Loch Linnhe, then along the southern shore of the former to Ballachulish.
To my delight, our B&B was over the road from the pub, where a short while later I ate a proper evening meal at last. Paul and John retired back to our lodgings while I stayed for another pint, eventually being driven away when the sun went down at about 10pm and the hordes of voracious midges woke up.
Ballachulish was one of my favourite overnight stops of the trip, situated in some of the finest scenery in Britain at the foot of Beinn a’ Bheithir, next door to a pub and with the ridges of Glencoe and the Clachaig Inn with its legendary selection of single malts only a few hundred yards away. It will probably be the base for my next hill walking holiday in Scotland.
The morning routine had already evolved into a recurring pattern - wake up, swear a lot, have caffeine fix, swear some more, get dressed, gather belongings, pack panniers, hump panniers downstairs, have breakfast, extricate bikes from overnight storage, load bikes and set off. Having done all the foregoing, we soon found ourselves ascending the long incline on the A82 out of Inverness. The perspective made the road appear flat, and for a while I wondered why I was having to pedal so hard. Halfway up the hill, I caught my badly mounted rear left pannier with my heel, causing it to release its tenuous grip on the rack and land in the road. More swearing ensued.
Within a few miles, we had passed Loch Dochfour and the vastness of Loch Ness lay before us. We stopped and took photographs. Paul and John were first time visitors to Scotland and I enjoyed being with them for their first sight of true Highland scenery, the grandeur of which increases as you progress south west through the Great Glen.
The long stretch of the A82 skirting Loch Ness is much hillier than it appeared on our inadequate map. At one point, between Drumnadrochit and Invermoriston, my bike threw off its chain in protest at my attempt to change from top to bottom gear at the start of an unexpected incline. Both Raleighs had a tendency to do this throughout the trip, and it transpired later that Paul’s had done likewise in exactly the same spot.
The chain had jammed between the crank and the frame. Song lyrics, vaguely related to whatever I happen to be doing at the time, often pop into my head during the day, and here, as I wrestled with the grimy, sweaty task of restoring my machine’s transmission, “Bat Chain Puller” by Captain Beefheart sprung to mind. The previous day, tired by the hills and incessant headwind, I passed a sign indicating seven miles to Tain where we were stopping for lunch, and instantly thought of Klaxons’ Isle Of Her and its repeated line “Row! There’s only seven more miles to go”. On the first day, as poor John laboured in agony on the A99, My Chemical Romance chimed in with “I’m not OK”. The mere thought being unpardonably callous and particularly offensive to a heavy metal fan, I didn’t tell him.
Eventually we reached Fort Augustus at the end of Loch Ness and stopped for a light meal at, for the first time, a café with tables outside. By now the weather was sweltering and Paul and John poured copious amounts of sweat from their helmets when they took them off. I was helmetless and as a result my forehead burnt in the sun, but I was rewarded later when it began to peel, providing me with the most agreeable pastime of picking bits off and flicking them around the pub.
Fort Augustus is a magnetic Highland village, and had I been by myself I would probably have inserted an extra day by stopping there to get drunk by the Caledonian Canal. No such aberration being forthcoming, we continued our journey by leaving the A82 to follow the canal path for five miles before re-joining the main road at Aberchalder after waiting for a graceful vessel to pass through the swing bridge. The ride by the canal was a delightfully flat and peaceful respite from the traffic, but the next twenty miles to Spean Bridge were much more demanding due to the heat, the hills and the headwind. I paused by Loch Lochy to cool myself down by soaking my shirt in a burn tumbling down from the hillside.
From Spean Bridge, with the watershed of the Great Glen now behind us, we rode mostly downhill to Fort William, stopping on the way to take photos of the still snow-capped Ben Nevis. The last mile or two into the town was nasty in view of the heavy traffic and the fairly narrow road, which we belatedly realised we could have avoided by a cycle track.
We pushed our bikes around Fort William for a while looking for somewhere to eat, although it was still only late afternoon and personally I wasn’t really hungry. We couldn’t find anywhere suitable so I asked a local. “No, we don’t go much on al fresco dining around here. That’s Highland hospitality for ye”, came the sardonic reply.
Leaving the Highlander to extend his welcome to the next hapless visitor, we pedalled off to complete the final stage of the day’s ride to our B&B at Ballachulish. By the time I reached Corran Ferry, at the narrowest point of Loch Linnhe, the heat of the day had subsided and the terrain was mostly flat. I stopped for a while and savoured the memory of my first visit to Scotland back in 1984, when at this spot I had met up with my parents on their Mercian tandem, built to Dad’s specification.
After rounding the coast to head east towards Onich, I caught up with Paul and John who were taking photographs of Glencoe, illuminated to perfection by the westering sun. From there only three miles remained - across the Ballachulish Bridge spanning the point where Loch Leven branches off from Loch Linnhe, then along the southern shore of the former to Ballachulish.
To my delight, our B&B was over the road from the pub, where a short while later I ate a proper evening meal at last. Paul and John retired back to our lodgings while I stayed for another pint, eventually being driven away when the sun went down at about 10pm and the hordes of voracious midges woke up.
Ballachulish was one of my favourite overnight stops of the trip, situated in some of the finest scenery in Britain at the foot of Beinn a’ Bheithir, next door to a pub and with the ridges of Glencoe and the Clachaig Inn with its legendary selection of single malts only a few hundred yards away. It will probably be the base for my next hill walking holiday in Scotland.
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.
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.
Thursday 25 June 2009 - Balloch to Lockerbie
Balloch - Dumbarton - Glasgow - Abington - Beattock - Lockerbie
Our genial host offered every conceivable component of a full Scottish breakfast, including haggis, and virtually ordered us to try them all. My only criticism could be that the porridge was made with rolled oats and not oatmeal in the proper Scottish way.
Following John Smith’s suggestions, we joined a cycle path at a bridge not far from the B&B. We had a pleasant ride through Dumbarton and northern Glasgow, for a while in the company of an Australian couple who were touring Scotland. All went well until John suddenly stopped alongside the Forth and Clyde canal. When I caught up with him, he was staring forlornly at his deflated tyre.
Paul and John began repairing the puncture while I waited round the corner at Dalmuir drop lock, which as a passer-by informed me is the only one of its type in the world. The canal drops into a pit as it passes beneath the A814, so I assume the water is pumped back up into the canal as the level falls to allow traffic to pass under the road.
The puncture seemed to take an age to repair, and when Paul and John got going again I found out why - a second one had followed a few yards after the first. Amazingly, these were the only punctures incurred during the entire ride. Crossing the road, we continued along the cycle path where we soon began to encounter difficulties common to all urban cycle paths - they’re fine if you know where they lead, but if you’re strange to the area you have to rely on signposts which as often as not are missing or have been turned the wrong way round. We soon found ourselves in one of the numerous labyrinthine “schemes” where we asked directions from a couple of local Rab C. Nesbitt types. One of them, despite his advanced stage of inebriation, was very helpful and advised us to keep as close to the Clyde as possible. This proved to be sound advice and before long we were heading towards the impressive architecture of central Glasgow and into the city centre.
Crossing the Clyde by one of the several bridges, we stopped at a sandwich shop but were defeated by the lunchtime queues. We decided to continue, although we weren’t really sure where we were going, and eventually found ourselves in Pollock Park which we exited into another sprawling estate. This, we soon realised to our horror, was in the south-west of Glasgow. We needed to be in the south-east. All three of us were hot, lost and bad-tempered. I hadn’t helped in the latter respect by my sarcastic reply when Paul asked me if I thought we were going the right way. “No”, I had replied. “We should have gone via Arran.” This was a reference to my expressed preference for avoiding Glasgow at the route-deciding stage, which had been overruled. I felt obliged to apologise for my scathing comment, although I still tittered inwardly, and we decided to head back on ourselves and search for the correct route.
Eventually we escaped the concrete jungle and began to see green open space again. We followed the line of the old Carlisle road, now the B7078, through the outskirts of the metropolis and into the inaptly named Lowlands.
The remainder of the day’s route was bleak but traffic-free, the adjacent M74 now serving as the main north-south artery, and we made steady progress through Lesmahagow and Abington and up to Beattock, with panoramic views of the remote Southern Uplands, finally sweeping down to Lockerbie where after some searching we located our accommodation, the Queens Hotel.
It had been a particularly trying day and we were relieved to be able to relax and unwind in the evening with a drink and meal in the hotel lounge. My chicken korma, though a little on the mild side, hit a spot I'd been missing since leaving Derby as in contrast to my usual diet I'd eaten no Indian food thus far, and was beginning to yearn for the spicy masalas I use almost daily in my own cooking.
Our genial host offered every conceivable component of a full Scottish breakfast, including haggis, and virtually ordered us to try them all. My only criticism could be that the porridge was made with rolled oats and not oatmeal in the proper Scottish way.
Following John Smith’s suggestions, we joined a cycle path at a bridge not far from the B&B. We had a pleasant ride through Dumbarton and northern Glasgow, for a while in the company of an Australian couple who were touring Scotland. All went well until John suddenly stopped alongside the Forth and Clyde canal. When I caught up with him, he was staring forlornly at his deflated tyre.
Paul and John began repairing the puncture while I waited round the corner at Dalmuir drop lock, which as a passer-by informed me is the only one of its type in the world. The canal drops into a pit as it passes beneath the A814, so I assume the water is pumped back up into the canal as the level falls to allow traffic to pass under the road.
The puncture seemed to take an age to repair, and when Paul and John got going again I found out why - a second one had followed a few yards after the first. Amazingly, these were the only punctures incurred during the entire ride. Crossing the road, we continued along the cycle path where we soon began to encounter difficulties common to all urban cycle paths - they’re fine if you know where they lead, but if you’re strange to the area you have to rely on signposts which as often as not are missing or have been turned the wrong way round. We soon found ourselves in one of the numerous labyrinthine “schemes” where we asked directions from a couple of local Rab C. Nesbitt types. One of them, despite his advanced stage of inebriation, was very helpful and advised us to keep as close to the Clyde as possible. This proved to be sound advice and before long we were heading towards the impressive architecture of central Glasgow and into the city centre.
Crossing the Clyde by one of the several bridges, we stopped at a sandwich shop but were defeated by the lunchtime queues. We decided to continue, although we weren’t really sure where we were going, and eventually found ourselves in Pollock Park which we exited into another sprawling estate. This, we soon realised to our horror, was in the south-west of Glasgow. We needed to be in the south-east. All three of us were hot, lost and bad-tempered. I hadn’t helped in the latter respect by my sarcastic reply when Paul asked me if I thought we were going the right way. “No”, I had replied. “We should have gone via Arran.” This was a reference to my expressed preference for avoiding Glasgow at the route-deciding stage, which had been overruled. I felt obliged to apologise for my scathing comment, although I still tittered inwardly, and we decided to head back on ourselves and search for the correct route.
Eventually we escaped the concrete jungle and began to see green open space again. We followed the line of the old Carlisle road, now the B7078, through the outskirts of the metropolis and into the inaptly named Lowlands.
The remainder of the day’s route was bleak but traffic-free, the adjacent M74 now serving as the main north-south artery, and we made steady progress through Lesmahagow and Abington and up to Beattock, with panoramic views of the remote Southern Uplands, finally sweeping down to Lockerbie where after some searching we located our accommodation, the Queens Hotel.
It had been a particularly trying day and we were relieved to be able to relax and unwind in the evening with a drink and meal in the hotel lounge. My chicken korma, though a little on the mild side, hit a spot I'd been missing since leaving Derby as in contrast to my usual diet I'd eaten no Indian food thus far, and was beginning to yearn for the spicy masalas I use almost daily in my own cooking.
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