Wee Scottish hiking and biking adventure

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Scotland trip



My first proper holiday in well over a year started with a relaxing train ride up from London during the afternoon, so I had the benefit of wonderful scenery, particularly north of Newcastle when the tracks hug the Northumberland coast with views of the slate grey North Sea pounding the beaches and weather beaten castles interspersed on promontories and headlands. On arrival in Edinburgh I dug out my ski jacket - essential kit in late May for us soft Southerners. There wasn’t a kilt in sight so maybe this year’s summer is so cold that even the hardy Scots have decided to keep their Crown Jewels protected from the biting north wind.



The Scottish lassies, on the other hand are made of sturdier stuff. Their legs were on display from arse skimming mini skirts down to their precipitous needle pointed stilettos, on which they lurched across the greasy cobble stones. I would have liked to see how successful their progress would be at the end of a Bacardi and coke fuelled night, but I was going to be tucked up in bed a long time before they headed for home.



I couldn’t help but notice that bare legs come in two hues. Some, typically the skinnier variety, are orange as though their owners have spent the lockdown soaking in baths of Irn Bru. Others are anaemic slabs of flesh, like joints of raw pork in the butcher shop hoping to appeal to the less discerning (I.e. blind drunk) punter with a voracious appetite. One thing all the lovely lassies had in common was sparkling, shimmering makeup applied in ladles. Their eyelids were weighted down by fake eyelashes batting laboriously at half mast like a ravens damaged wings. And that was at the beginning of the night....



Well good luck to them. They have just emerged from a year of hibernating in a cocoon with just their families and social media as company, so I hope they ensnare one of the boys circling central Edinburgh in marauding packs, already tanked up and ready for action.



I digress. Meanwhile I laboured the few blocks to my hotel laden down by a heavy backpack and pushing my bike. On arrival I was told that no bikes were allowed inside, and definitely not in the rooms, and could I please leave it on the street while I checked in (I had no lock). Huh?!!!! Are you flipping kidding? Ok ok I did forget to check with the hotel, but still.... So I threw a wobbly. It got the desired result. I was told that we could pop it into the secure parking garage before we did the check in procedure, so this we duly did.



Once ensconced in my uber-modern, high tech, very white room (now I get why they weren’t going to make an exception for my grubby, oily bike) with a massive TV, electronic adjustable bed and choice in shade of light to provide the desired ambience, I tried out every knob and control and then set about planning the next few days of my trip. I popped out briefly for supper somewhere away from the carnage that was evolving on the main schleps, before retiring to bed and TV pretty early (gawd haven’t I gotten to be so “old”....?!)



DAY 2



Early to bed, early to rise! What a glorious morning too. The sun was out, the Arctic wind had subsided and the city was virtually empty. There was a certain amount of detritus from the night before, with half drunk beer bottles and the odd splattering of puke, but no bodies in the gutter (too cold to sleep it off outside, I guess, before lurching home clutching a hammering head trying to piece together how the wheels had fallen off the night before).



I set off in the direction of Arthur’s Seat in Hollyrood park - nice and easy to find as it is a flipping massive hill a few miles out of central Edinburgh. It seemed to be set up with a good road bike route around the base (with a bit of a climb) and then various hiking trails up to the top. There were a few others around - mainly dog walkers, a few tourists and then intermittently some trail runners scampering across the loose rocks like mountain goats. The views from the top were fabulous, stretching across the Firth of Forth in one direction, to the Pentland Hills behind or over to Edinburgh castle. I then scooped down in a different direction, slightly losing my bearings on the route back to the hotel.



After checking out I headed on my bike under the weight of my large backpack down (thankfully) to the coast to pickup my hire car. After going through an extensive check in process - since when did you need to provide your NI number.....? I also got asked my occupation, which is apparently for insurance purposes (banking got a “good” response, she was unable to tell me what gets a black mark.... professional base jumper, perhaps?). The car is ample in size, and bright orange so it should be hard to loose, at least. It is, however, manual. I don’t have a problem with that, aside from remembering that it is the case. So we shall see how that pans out.



The route out of Edinburgh was a bit tortuous, trafficy and slow. As I am not good with being stuck in traffic jams (oh the joy of a bicycle!) it involved quite a few detours down bulldozed roads through the underbelly of the city to get to the motorway (well what passes as one in Scotland) and finally out of town.



En route to my next destination- Strathyre (Loch Lomond region) I detoured via Stirling to try and stock up hiking kit (as I failed to locate key items when packing such as hiking boots since builders have taken full control of my flat and contents) and on fresh fruit as I no faith in being able to stave off scurvy in Scotland after my only other trip here to the butthole of the country, Ayrshire, where anything not deep fried seemed to be strictly prohibited.



I arrived in Strathyre in mid-afternoon. The hotel was locked up so I parked around the back, next to various vehicles in states of disrepair - decidedly unpromising. Why on earth did I book here? Ah well, we’ll see about that later. Rising sharply the other side of the river was a hill (hill of the fairies, as I later discovered) so I popped on my brand new boots and hit the trail to break them in. There was a steep climb through the fir trees before the trail opened out into a marshy open valley. The final push to the top involved a scramble up through the heather which I grabbed to help hoyke myself up. The views were fabulous, down to Loch Lubnaig in one direction and then across a vast expanse of mountains and valleys in the other. A taste of what Scotland is really about.



I looped around on the way back down, occasionally getting caught out by mistaking a (not especially) subterranean stream for a trail, by which time my hiking boots definitely didn’t look straight off the shelf, and the hotel was open for business. In spite of the somewhat unpromising indications, it was spic and span inside, bedecked in Highland kitsch (if tartan and stag heads aren’t up your street then it probably won’t be quite to your taste), with very friendly staff so it fit the bill completely.



Day3



The weather forecast predicted a turn for the worse later in the day so I planned an early cycle ride of about 20 miles or so pre-brekkie. The moment I stepped outside to get my bike out of the car the first few drops of rain started. That’s the problem in the hills - it can rain in one valley, but not in the one they are forecasting for. Ho hum. Feeling uncharacteristically wimpy I turned straight back around and changed into my hiking kit instead. When I headed back out the rain had stopped again. Instead of getting stuck in a loop of changing and rechanging my kit ad infinitum I decided to stick with the hiking option.



I jumped into the car and drove a few miles back down the valley I had driven up the previous day, finding a lay-by beside a sign posted trail. Initially the trail climbed steeply through a fir forest before opening onto a forest track that led out to the open moorland. The cloud was swirling around, occasionally breaking to allow shards of sunshine to filter through. After a mile or so there was a signpost that pointed either up to Beinn Each or to somewhere else along the track in the valley. Needless to say I headed up the climb.



Today I was back in my trainers again as my new hiking boots had won the battle for supremacy in the previous day’s “breaking in” session, so I had to be a bit more vigilant about trying to avoid the bogs. Easier said than done. It is quite remarkable the amount of water that cascades off the mountain beneath mushy tundra, in rivulets or in gurgling streams. Keeping your feet dry just ain’t an option.



The path was fairly well defined (apart from in the really boggy sections), largely carved out as a rock strewn eroded gulley. Every now and then I had to scramble across a slick jagged rock face, and at times it was steep enough to resort to “all fours”. The route delivered endless false summits. As I had no idea how far the top was supposed to be, so after about the third disappointment the lure of brekkie led me to give up on conquering Beinn Each. Who’s even heard of it anyway?!



On the return journey I spotted the first red deer of the trip. They seem to be a bit more illusive here than on the Quantocks (and definitely versus Richmond Park!). Then back to base for a well earned breakfast.



After packing up I drove in the direction of the next place I was staying the night - Fort William. I vaguely planned to do a cycle or hike somewhere part way but I hadn’t made up my mind about what or where. I stopped at one point to check out hiking options but that didn’t work so I drove on along the A84 / A85 / A82 until I found a B road that looked good for cycling.



It is worth giving an overview of Scottish roads for those who are contemplating cycling up here. The first thing to note is that there aren’t many of them, so the few that exist may be pretty heavy with traffic. You only need to check out the topography to understand why.



M roads - these are motorways. On a bike avoid these altogether unless you really want to get a lift, most likely to be provided by the local constabulary.



A plus one digit - these are dual carriageways or fast moving single carriageways with all the type of heavy traffic you would expect on a motorway. You probably won’t be escorted off them, but unless you get kicks from surviving the buffeting of articulated trucks pounding past you, probably engulfing you in a tidal wave of murky rainwater, these should also be steered clear of.



A plus two digits - unfortunately you are likely to need to ride on quite a few of these (if you are a roady) as they are often the only option. They are single lane thoroughfares, and the primary arteries between the main urban bases. They are busy with cars, trucks, caravans, so not ideal for cycling, but doable. Quite a few of them have parallel cycling routes, ideal on a gravel bike (personally I don’t like all that on /off pavement twisty, turny, dodging walkers palaver on a road bike).



A plus three digits - these are my favourite. Two lane, quiet roads typically with good road surface. More winding than the A double digit roads, which is perfect for cycling while keeping up a good clip. The only negative is that there aren’t enough of them.



B roads seem to be a catch all for any other road that is paved (or has been at some point in the last five years or so) that links up to the A roads. They are often single track with few passing places and questionable road surface slightly offsetting the clear benefit of being really quiet. Probably more enjoyable on a gravel bike.



(Note: further experience identified so many exceptions to this classification that I can only conclude that no decent classification is possible)



So I ditched the car and headed out along the narrow B road which wound along side a wide river, with the mountains looming up on my left hand side. Apart from a few soggy campers I hardly saw a soul. I caught a glimpse of a red squirrel scampering into the trees. After about ten miles I joined the A85. Given my analysis above I turned off at the nearest opportunity onto the A819, which was a lovely lochside route past Kilchurn Castle, that eventually led to Inveraray, a pretty town on Loch Fyne (I think). By about half way there the light drizzle became far more persistent so I got pretty drenched.



On the way back the cold started to bite, and the last stretch on the B road, in spite of being through pretty deserted countryside, was grim.“Where’s the effing car?” was shouted at the dripping undergrowth with such regularity over the last 20mins that anyone would think I had Tourette’s. Why are cars always far further away than you parked them? Eventually I spotted it, and after a tortuous fumble for the keys with my useless frozen, claw like hands, I climbed dripping inside and jacked up the heating as high as it would go. Then off to Fort William to plan my next steps.



Day 4 Prelims



I woke up at 5.50am in my snug, cosy hotel room to the steady patter of rain on the skylights. So much for the lie-in, but at least I can have a lazy start, languishing in the comfort of my bed. I checked on my clothes which I had hung / laid out by the radiator. All bone dry with the exception of my cycling shoes. Why on earth would anyone who can afford accommodation, choose to camp when bike packing?!



After a breakfast of steaming bowl of traditional style porridge (salt, not sugar, and just how I like it), fresh fruit (it is available in Scotland!), and toast I contemplated my next move. I had ear-marked Ben Nevis for today so I donned my borrowed (thanks Isabelle!) waterproof trousers and hiking jacket - more items lurking under builders rubble currently (not altogether unsurprisingly I made sure my wine supplies were readily accessible, but not my travel clothing. Duh!).



I checked the forecast, which was for heavy snow which doesn’t bode too well. Plan B, for days like today with truly hideous conditions, was to do a whiskey tasting tour, but the only option in Fort William appears to be closed, alas. I think this trip is destined to be littered with unfulfilled ambitions. Ah well, who cares?! No point giving up without even trying, so I jumped into the car and headed off to Glen Nevis.



It is probably worth pausing to explain some of the Scottish terminology to those of you, like myself, who don’t know the difference between a glen and a Ben.



Glen - a long narrow valley, with gently sloping concave sides (sounds like a good place to start today’s hike!

Ben, often spelt Beinn for the ones the English don’t care about - a mountain peak, of which there is a heck of a lot of them

Munro - a big ben of over 3000 feet, or 914.4 meters for those who prefer metric



So I am off to the Glen, to climb the Ben, hopefully bagging my first Munro of the trip.



And if you are really interested here’s a few more, if not then skip to Day 4 Wrap up.



Corbett - these are mountains that don’t quite make the cut required for a Munro, measuring between 2,500 and 3,000 feet ( 762 to 914 meters), as long as it’s got a drop of at least 500 feet to the next listed hill (this getting a bit pedantic now). Named after John Rooke Corbett

Graham - smaller than a Corbett, less drop to its neighbours. Let me guess, initially classified by someone called.... drum roll.....



Ok you get the picture. Invent a new classification. Name it after yourself, become for ever immortalised. I know the timing is the wrong way around but I cannot help but notice that there are a heck of a lot of “tors”, named after (ok, ok, before...) me littered around the countryside....



Day 4 Wrap up



I am now writing this blog while tucked up in bed again (it’s 2.30pm), wearing my puffa jacket and pashmina. The weather forecast was not wrong.



I arrived at the Glen Nevis visitor centre at 9am. A mere 10 cars were scattered around the visitors car park, which one can find either encouraging (whoopi! No crowds!) or dispiriting (what do they know that I don’t? Ergh.... maybe the forecast of heavy snow had something to do with it....). Either which way, I pulled myself out of the warm car and set off on the damp muddy trail. I quickly passed two guys but then couldn’t see a single other person as the route wound through some fields full of sheep and zigzagged through the rocky tundra in a well worn staircase made from slabs of stone interspersed with pools of rain water.



My new boots felt a little sore around where the blister had formed a few days ago. I had combined my amateur surgery skills with my contortionist skills by popping it with the only sharp thing I had access to - my teeth (let me be quite clear- this is not a service I offer to anyone else...) - so I didn’t hold out much hope of a pain free trip. I got into a steady rhythm ascending the steps, occasionally clambering across a jagged rock face, or traversing one of the many streams gushing water down from up top. I finally twigged why there are so many lochs in Scotland - all that darn rain.... However, I was well dressed for what the elements were currently throwing in my direction, maybe a little hot and steamy under all my waterproof layers if anything.



After a lot of plodding up steps the path opened onto a plateau, with a small lake to the left. By this stage I had passed only about twelve people, so the mountain was pretty deserted. I became aware that the drizzle had morphed at some stage into sleet. I crossed a waterfall, after which the path zigzagged through scree and the sleet turned to snow which was settling on the rocks underfoot, making it harder to find suitable footing. My boots were holding up well- gripping the slippery rocks and in spite of the previous blister, not rubbing (now you know the trick!).



I passed a few more hardy trekkers, and a few less than hardy ones who had decided to bail now that the snow was setting in in earnest. I stopped to quiz a few guys who looked as though they had successfully reached the summit to gauge what was ahead. The first pair informed me that there were three others between myself and the summit, which was about an hour away. By that time I was wading through the snow, so I had kind of hoped it was a bit closer... And then once the path evaporated and there was just a featureless snow field ahead I stopped a spritely looking mountaineer (one of the three) who was descending at pace and he advised me to follow the piles of rocks dispersed at regular intervals all the way to the top, so that was a handy tip as long as they weren’t too shrouded by snow and cloud. He also advised me to veer left at the top, but to be careful not to topple off the north ridge which was also on the left. Hmmm. I hoped that tip would be more understandable when I got there, as by that stage the few footprints there had been were obliterated by the wind and the fresh snow.



Eventually I spotted a larger structure emerging from the murk along with a jolly couple waving at me. It appeared that I had made it to the top, without falling off the ledge too (yet). Yippee! I quickly took the obligatory photo and then tried to work out which way to head back down. The snow was like needles in my eyes so it was very difficult to see which way to go, especially as most of the rock piles were thickly coated in snow from the side I needed to see. Just don’t fall off the ledge, don’t fall off the ledge.... Luckily a few other intrepid hikers loomed out of the cloud so I aimed for them, and then the rock piles became easier to see. I made short shift of the snow field and then slightly slower progress on the snow covered rocky path, passing quite a few people I had seen en route up.



By the time I reached the plateau the snow had ceased and the number of people had increased significantly - a clear inverse correlation. I continued the descent, stopping to chat to a few cheery walkers, finally making it back to the car by 1.20pm. So it took approximately 2hrs 20mins up, and 2hrs back down for the 10.5 mile round trip, 1350(ish) meter climb. The record ascent in the Ben Nevis races apparently around about 1hr 30 (men) and 1.45 (women). Hats off to them, and to those amateurs who complete it as part of the three peaks challenge. All in all it was a great day out, probably, rather bizarrely made more fun by the wild wintery weather.



Day 5



I woke up early again, not feeling too full of beans, but I decided to make the most of the reasonable weather conditions by going for a gentle meander on my bike alongside the loch (nice and flat), before turning onto a B road (with quite a respectable road surface) which looped through a strip of farmland between the Caledonian canal and the open moorland or forest. Ben Nevis loomed up the other side of the canal, shrouded in a thick helmet of cloud so I didn’t get to see what I had conquered the previous day, unfortunately. After about three quarters of an hour my legs still hadn’t woken up, and brekkie called so I banged in a U-y and headed back to base.



My plan today was to head to Balmacara, a small village near Kyle of Lochalsh, another small village... but one which is notable for its bridge to Isle of Skye. The route there passed through some more great mountainous terrain so I planned to pull into a lay-by and hike up a mountain en route to my destination, maybe one of the Brothers of Kintail (next to the more famous Five Sisters), or maybe some completely different hill...who knows?!



I found an empty parking place by the Glen Shiel war memorial, and set off over the bridge up the path. There were two posts with arrows on close to the bottom where the path was pretty obvious, well it was one grade up from a sheep track, but within five minutes it petered out completely. The mountain rose steeply up so I just aimed straight up in the same direction. I quickly worked out that gullies which gave the appearance of being “the path” were actually submerged streams or bogs, and therefore best avoided. In the most part the lower section was a scramble through the heather, often on all fours, trying to avoid putting my hands in the copious amount of goat or sheep poop.



As I climbed higher my route became littered with lichen covered rocks, lurking amongst the heather so I had to be a bit more careful where I put my feet. Up ahead I could see funnels of scree and a near vertical cliff face so I veered left through a gully to try and scoop around it. I squelched through there at least on slightly less rocky terrain but once I emerged at the top there seemed to be cascading rock fall in every direction interspersed with only narrow sections of heather. I then picked my way across the rocks and ascended on the next brief stretch of heather as far as possible before repeating yet another rocky traverse. I really don’t think this is the route I am supposed to be on...



I finally got to a point where there was just a granite cliff-face ahead, the clouds which had been lightly swirling around had darkened so I decided to be sensible (on a relative scale....) by heading back down. I could just spot my car below - a miniscule pin prick of orange on the grey snake-like road.



The mountain was so steep at the top that I found the easiest way to descend was crab style. I doubt mountaineering schools teach you the technique but more points of contact seemed a bit safer, and looking outwardly allowed me to plot my route a little better. Needless to say it wasn’t the fastest way to descend but better safe than sorry. After quite a tortuous traverse of the precipitous field of scree I found my gully, resumed the upright position and felt like I was making good progress. Which was just as well, as the moody sky darkened further and the first large droplets of rain started to bombard me.



Just as I spotted my car again, noting how disappointingly far away it still seemed, my left foot slipped and I landed heavily on my right twisted knee (the one with a dodgy ACL). Oh shit! It immediately started throbbing as I struggled to upright myself. Hmm this really doesn’t bode well as it is a long very off-piste steep route back to the car. First things first, I decided to fix my kit by getting my warm layers on under my rain jacket instead of having them get soaked in my not-at-all waterproof day-pack. That way I should at least avoid hypothermia as I crawled down the mountain.



Having fixed my kit I tentatively tested my right leg out. The knee hurt and I could feel that it had already started to swell up a bit, but the pain was manageable so off I set at an even slower pace. I elected to take the most direct route back to the car instead of slight detour to the right where I had ascended. However, I soon found myself between two streams that had emerged at the lower gradients. I decided to cross the one on the right hand side towards where I had climbed. The rocks were ultra slippery and easily dislodged so I fell again, luckily onto sodden moss which cushioned my fall. This is definitely not what I had in mind when I set off earlier today!



Eventually I made it back onto the track (which seemed to only extend a mere couple of hundred meters from the car park), passing the two posts with arrows and reaching the welcome refuge of my car where I inspected my throbbing knee. I think extreme hiking is going to have to be off the agenda for the next couple of days. Luckily the weather forecast looks good so cycling will be a more appealing option once again.



Day 6



This morning I hobbled out of bed. Unfortunately my knee had not staged a miraculous recovery as I slept. What a bummer. Today’s plan was to cycle over the bridge to Skye and then do a longish loop before heading back home again. Given my geriatric attempt to execute the morning’s toiletry routine, I wasn’t even sure I could bend my leg enough to do the full pedal stroke. I realised I was going to have to downscale my level of ambition. So I bunged my bike in the back of the car and headed over the bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh hoping to do a drive / cycle tour of Skye, but probably just to do a driving tour instead.



The great advantage of doing a drive / cycling combo is that there is no need to cycle on any unpleasant roads, pounding with articulated trucks i.e. the A87. I had no particular plan so I drove along the A87 until I got to a junction with the A851 that leads along the southern peninsula to Ardvasar, 15 miles away. That sounded about right to test out my injured leg, assuming I was able to cycle at all. For the first few minutes of cycling I could barely bend my knee enough for the full pedal stroke but then it eased up, with a nagging discomfort but no acute pain, so maybe I was doing it some good.



The lightly trafficked road swooped up through open moorland, with the mountainous interior jutting up beyond. I kept an eye out for red deer which are supposed to be pretty bountiful on the island, but failed to spot any (not quite as easy as in Richmond Park...). After traversing a promontory the road then hugged the coastline offering stunning views across the inner sea to the mainland. I spotted a sign for Garlic Whiskey Tastings. Urgh! I can’t imagine that one is too popular. It wasn’t until the next sign that I realised that what I thought was an “r” was actually an “e”. Duh! That sounded more promising, but it was a bit too early in the day to get distracted by such things.



After about an hour I reached Armadale, where the ferries go from and Ardvasar shortly afterwards so I turned on my tail and headed back where I came from. I got back to the car pretty happy with how my knee had held up, so I then headed back onto the A87 further north to Portree, the capital of the island, where I dumped the car again and headed on the A855 coastal route towards Staffin, without much plan for how far to go. My previous assessment of the road categories seemed not to apply to quite a few sections of the A855, which met the B road criteria of single track and shitty road surface. Thankfully these sections were limited.



There was a fairly steep climb (my knee definitely doesn’t like those....) out of Portree onto the open moorland where the road flattened out descending past Loch Fada and Loch Leathan. It continued meandering and undulating before rejoining the coast, with the Isles of Ramsey and Rona in view across the inner sea through the ominous looking mist.



At one point a huge car park appeared, but I couldn’t work out what the attraction was and as it was at the bottom of a dip I chose not to dissipate the precious momentum to find out. Later I worked out that it was for the Old Man of Storr - reputedly the busiest hike on the island, so I am glad I continued on my way. A little further on I did stop at one of the viewing points to check out a waterfall and a narrow sandy cove, before heading on my way again.



A bit later on few drops of light rain hit me, but the temperature was still pretty mild, so hopefully I would be lucky, and if not, the car was really not too far away. The most troubling factor was the strong northwesterly wind which steadily ground down my enthusiasm. Just past Staffin, about 15 miles from the car I decided I really couldn’t be bothered any more so I headed back in reverse on the same route, being whisked along by a nice tail wind.



Shortly after passing the Box Hill of Skye, I spotted a Sea Eagle sitting on a fence post just by the road, so I jammed on my brakes and pulled up right beside him. As I fumbled for my phone he hopped two posts down the road, still close enough. As I fumbled again with unlocking my phone and to line up the shot the cheeky sod hopped another few posts down the road, and as I turned my bike round to get closer he flew off, probably having a little chuckle to himself (or the eagle equivalent...). Ah well. It was a stunning view of him anyway.



I made it back to the car, and drove back to the mainland which seemed to be basking in sunshine, and back to the Abriachan guesthouse in Balmacara, where I am staying. I definitely hit the jackpot with this accommodation. I have the whole house to myself - I would guess there are 3-4 double rooms - with a huge living room / dining room, and an enormous garden overlooking the inner sea and the Isle of Skye. Tim, the proprietor, is a former fisherman who now runs a small holding with some cattle. He and his wife live in a separate house next door. They are super welcoming and friendly. That combined with the fabulous location make it a total winner. So I decided to extend my stay...



Day 7



I didn’t exactly bounce out of bed today, but I was at least marginally less crippled than the previous day. So this bodes well, as the southern section of the North Coast 500 (NC500) cycling route incorporating the Bealach na Ba is on the agenda for today. I elected to drive a few miles towards the loop to reduce the distance from 100 miles to 80, on account of my dodgy knee, which was uncharacteristically sensible. I found a lay-by just above Achmore where I disembarked.



The initial part of the ride descended through the forestry down to the inner sea, where the road ran alongside the railway line and the sea beyond, offering great views across to Lochcarron. After looping around the end of the inlet I dropped down to a junction where I joined the NC500, continuing through Lochcarron. The road rose steeply out of the village and up to the junction with the Applecross road and the legendary climb. However, I had decided to do the anti-clockwise route so I continued straight on at that point.



The A road (ha ha ha! Completely ignore my previous road schema...) headed through fairly barren, dark peaty moorland between towering mountains dwarfing the occasional shepherds hut with ponds at regular intervals reflecting the white fluffy clouds and the sapphire blue sky. The road was fairly level in the most part (allowing one to appreciate the view somewhat more than usual), and there was hardly any traffic. After about 10-12 miles I reached the far side of the peninsula and turned hard left, rejoining the NC500 along the coast.



The route lurched up and down sharply through the forest which hugged the shoreline, so I had to flit up and down through my full range of gears with the dexterity of a pianist practicing scales. The views I managed to snatch briefly between negotiating the twisting contours of the narrow lane did not disappoint. After a while I emerged onto an open rock strewn moorland once more, with stunning views of the sea to my right.



On the descent into Applecross I noticed a herd of red deer chilling on the beach, and just as I was admiring them I nearly got stampeded by another herd which leapt out of the undergrowth about ten yards down the road. There were yet more of them in the parkland just by the turning onto the Bealach na Ba. Clearly a popular spot for the local deer community.



The climb up Bealach na Ba from the Applecross side is 9kms and largely a nice steady alpine style gradient (5-7%) with a couple of kilometres a bit steeper, with the steepest topping out at a very manageable 10%. The main issue was the fact that it is a single track road, and often too narrow for a car behind to pass a bicycle safely unless at a passing place. It was not quite so bad if the car was coming from the other direction. So I ditched chivalry for the cars behind, but waved them on vigorously whenever there was a passing place, without having to break my rhythm if I was lucky. I only had one foot to the ground hold up where two cars approached from different directions.



I made it to the top without a hitch (not having pushed myself at all...) and my sore knee felt none the worse for it. The views from the summit were stunning. Well worth the schlepp up there. The descent down towards Lochcarron snaked in lazy loops down the valley bookended by sheer cliff-faces. It could easily be mistaken for the Alpes. I stopped to take a few snaps on the way down and then snuck past a convoy of cars that had pulled over at a passing spot. At this point the road was incredibly narrow and the left hand side of it dropped sharply into a gulley, so I had a hairy moment as I had too much momentum to stop on meeting the two ascending cars as they didn’t pull over as much as I had expected (i.e. not at all) so I only had about a spare centimetre between my handlebars and their cars in order to avoid toppling into the ditch and the craggy rock face to the side of the road. I just managed to hold the tightrope line. Phew!



The only other shot of adrenaline came when a group of motorcycles ascended at speed towards me, and the third in line cannot have been concentrating as he headed straight at me even though I was as far left as I could be, only swerving a nanosecond before colliding. Needless to say he got called some pretty nasty names.



In spite of the hiccups I made it down to Lochcarron in one piece where I stopped for a snack before continuing the final climb (why did I park at the top of a hill?!) back to the car. En route back to base I decided to pop into Plockton, a stunning fishing village on the Balmacara estate. I took the “scenic route” (official description). Note to self: avoid those in the car. The route was so narrow, with deep gullies on either side, and with few passing places that, if like me you are a driver with less than brilliant reversing skills you will be far more focused on preemting, and thus hopefully avoiding, the possibility of having to reverse 500 meters down the narrow, twisting lane than on savouring the fabulous views.



Then back to base to chill out in the garden and plan my next steps.



Day 8



Today I planned to head over to the Cairngorms, via Loch Ness (while in Scotland you’ve got to, right?). I was undecided about whether I should do the whole circuit or a loop on the quieter southern side of the Loch (the choice between A double digit or a B road - traffic versus road surface quality). I parked in Invermoriston, which was 6 miles north of Fort Augustus, the town on the southern most point. I figured that would give me a taster of the A82 on which to base my decision.



The road gently undulated through lochside woods which frequently obscured my views of the Loch - even less chance of spotting that illusive monster.... There was fairly consistently heavy traffic. Even though I didn’t have a single lumber lorry (the primary type of articulated truck) approach from behind, the road was far too busy to be enjoyable. My decision was made. In Fort Augustus I found my B road, and was instantly rewarded with a complete absence of traffic. Happy days... well not actually. What I hadn’t anticipated was a 12% gradient that just kept on giving. I thought lochside roads would be virtually flat!



I found my granny gear and ground it out, but all the time wondering if maybe the traffic on the A82 wasn’t actually that bad.... To be fair, the route was lovely, when I could persuade myself to appreciate it. Initially it wound through fields chockablock with ewes and young lambs, then it rose steeply through woods before opening out onto the moorland with many small lochs, more popular with fishermen than monster hunters. It could easily pass as an A road, just without the traffic.



A young pricket with velvety newly forming antlers scampered away from me. After the initial climb the road undulated for a bit and then levelled out. While the route didn’t really tick the “Loch Ness” box it delivered in every other respect. About 10 miles from Fort Augustus the road split, with both options leading to Dores, to form a loop. I elected to stick to the inland route first, and to return by the route alongside the loch. The descent, 15 miles later into Dores was great, although a tad on the chilly side for my shorts / short sleeve top / rain jacket combo (I was a bit too emboldened by the previous day’s gorgeous sunshine...).



I had been hoping for a coffee in Dores but I didn’t spot anywhere obvious and as I was a bit too chilled through I decided to crack on. The initial bit of the return route was a bit dull to be honest - flat, straight and through the woods with pretty uninspiring views of the Loch (still no monster!). And it carried on a bit. As soon as the road started to climb it started to twist and turn through towering firs. Far more interesting, and better for warming up. Eventually I rejoined the previous route, now in glorious sunshine. There seem to be numerous micro-climates as I flipped my jacket on and off about 4-5 times during the ride.



The rest of the ride proceeded without a hitch. The final 6 miles in even heavier traffic, into a brisk headwind confirmed that I had absolutely made the right decision. After chilling out in the sunshine for a bit I then jumped into the car and headed in the direction of Newtonmore where I was staying the night. En route there I decided to exercise my roaming rights by testing out my knee with a stroll through the Ardverikie Estate. I was quite interested to see the house that looked pretty impressive in the pictures, but it must have been tucked away as I never spotted it.



My route took me past some farmland, up past some cottages and outbuildings and then into the woods with towering fir trees and then birch. I veered off the main track down to a waterfall and then to some open moorland - deer stalking country according to the sign, so you might want to watch out for a short sighted tourist taking a pop at you if you are out roaming during the months from July until February. Having established that my knee could manage walking (albeit not very challenging), I headed back to the car, stopping off to save a distressed sheep which was stuck on its back by flipping it back onto its feet again, before heading on to the hotel.



Day 9



I was totally undecided about what to do today as my knee seemed to have staged a miraculous recovery (cycling therapy was clearly highly effective), which meant that hiking was an option again. Over a really Scottish breakfast including porridge and haggis (surprisingly yummy!), I checked out the various options. In the end I decided to do both hiking and cycling, in that order, with how much I did of each dependent on whether my knee was as well recovered as I hoped. I located a climb to the Munro Sgor Goalith which sounded good. I drove to the starting point just above Feshiebridge, along a quiet road that was very popular with cyclists.



There were a few more cars at the starting point than I had hoped to see, but the flip side of the hike being a bit too popular, there was a very distinct sandy track which made for easier walking and navigation, and I didn’t actually pass anyone after the first five minutes for at least an hour, so it was far from heaving. After cutting through the fir trees and carefully navigating the first allt (stream) on the route the trees subsided, replaced by open moorland. On the whole the track was quite good, mainly sandy, with just the odd boggy section. After another couple of river crossings the slope rose more steeply and the ratio of sand versus rocks underfoot plummeted.



After being befriended by a black Labrador, I stopped to chat to the owner, a lady from Inverness who was dragging her reluctant teenage son up the Munro to see the amazing view. I got the impression that he would have been pretty happy just to see the pictures on Instagram instead.



There were a few snowy patches to traverse, and the inevitable boggy patches around them. Then the path became very indistinct. Eventually I came across another well worn path, approaching it like a T junction so I had to decide which way to go. I headed right towards a rounded hilltop as there were a couple of people coming from that way. However, with the benefit of more height, on looking back I could see several people clambering on a precipitous rocky ledge that fitted the description of Sgor Gaoith so I turned around and headed in that direction.



There were a handful of happy hikers up there so I joined the merry throng, taking advantage of the great photo opportunities, and enjoying the sensational view of Loch Einich far, far below. From there I headed across the ridge to the next peak (not sure which). I then tried to cut a bit lower to try and get to the route back down but a wide slab of snow, and the associated boggy terrain caused me to reassess, so I had to cut sharply up across the heather to skirt around it and to get back on the well worn track.



On the way back down I bumped into the Inverness trio again, so I stopped for a chat. Mum is clearly a passionate hill walker, so I quizzed her about the midge situation. Normally they are out in force by this time of year, but they don’t like blizzards (as I enjoyed earlier in the week on Ben Nevis). And they are voracious - at their peak, in mid-summer they will form a swarm around your face the minute you step outside. They die down again in September. Hmmm. Ok. That’s why people bang on about them the whole time. Note to self: skip summer holidays in Scotland. It is a bit of a bummer isn’t it, as the weather is so unreliable the rest of the time, as I found earlier this week....



I made it back to the car after about five hours, with barely a twinge from my knee, proving that “active recovery” was most definitely the best approach. Next I headed in the direction of Aviemore to find something to eat before jumping on my bike to climb up to Cairngorm. Feeling a bit better after a coffee and two cakes (I did detect a slight raising of the eyebrows from the lady taking my order).



After some sustenance I jumped on my bike to go and explore the environs. As I just just a mile from Aviemore I decided to start there. Unfortunately some road works along the main street resulted in a quagmire of traffic, so after passing the dinky old fashioned train station, I turned round and headed for Cairn Gorm mountain instead. This was a climb of two halves. The first section was a gentle meander through the forest from Coylumbridge up to Glenmore, which bordered Loch Morlich. There was a large campsite and the village was abuzz full of people doing paddle boarding, canoeing or sunbathing on the beach... yes, I know, I wouldn’t have listed it top of my picks for a beach holiday either.... There were loads of mountain bike trails through the forestry that also seemed pretty popular. Given the range of activities on offer it looked like a great place for an action packed family holiday.



I was happy to leave them all behind though on the next section of the climb up to Cairn Gorm ski base, during which only the odd vehicle passed me. The road was quiet a bit steeper, but only up to 6-7% at a guess. Due to the higher altitude the forestry gave way to heather and I was rewarded with wide views of various Cairngorm peaks. I reached a one way system fairly close to the top which swooped around to the left and then the right, before reuniting with the traffic from the other direction for the final push to the top. The ski infrastructure didn’t look up to much so I don’t think I will be trading my skiing forays to the the Alpes for a trip here any time soon.



After blasting down the mountain I decided to do a few more miles so I took the quiet B970 to Boat of Garten. This is on the National Cycle Route (NCR7), which is well worth checking out if you want some inspiration for rides in Scotland (although, in my view the cycle path sections aren’t so great on a road bike). This route was lovely, undulating gently through the foothills, which were a mixture of woodland and farmland, mainly stocking Highland cattle or sheep. The snow capped peaks of the Cairngorms towered behind. After a while hunger got the better of me so I headed back to the car and back to the hotel, thus ending the fun bit of the trip as the next day was largely a travel day with nothing remotely interesting to report.



So to summarise, Scotland can be an amazing place to visit for cycling and hiking, so long as you are prepared for all weather, avoid the midge season, and are very careful in your route planning - national cycling routes, north coast 500 and routes borrowed from some of the cycling tour companies are probably your best bet for road bike route planning. Otherwise take a gravel bike and the options go up exponentially. For hikers the top notch website I used was www.walkhighlands.co.uk, which grades all the walks including a rating for the bog factor (grade 5 = pack a snorkel). Whether you can follow the instructions when you are on the ground or not is an entirely different matter... Enjoy!

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