More on Pauline and Johan

Rereading my previous post, I realized I had forgotten about some important bits, especially as relates to biking. I hadn't been particularly close to Pauline, more or less because their kids weren't my age. So it was a revelation when Johan gave a very good eulogy at her memorial service in the Unitarian Church in North Hatley. (The last time I had been in that room was for Olivier's baptism!)  He told the story of how they had met, something I had never heard before.

Fate evidently intended them to be together as you could not write this as fiction. Pauline had gone on a bike trip in Scotland with a friend of hers. Johan had been hitchhiking around Britain with a friend of his. Johan and his friend needed to split up for a while but made arrangements to meet up in Killin in Scotland on such and such a day. The choice of Killin was determined by throwing a dart at a map of the UK(!) and then checking to see if there was a youth hostel nearby. There was and that was were Pauline and Johan met, Johan's friend having failed to get there. It may not have been love at first sight (though it could have been) but at the very least, Johan was attracted to Pauline sufficiently to pursue a relationship which led to what seems to me as a successful marriage, though one cut too short.

One of the things that struck me was that I more or less knew where Killin was having biked near it on not one but two bike trips in Scotland.  I have since looked it up and it lies roughly midway between Crianlarirch and Kenmore. On my first bike trip in Scotland, I rode within 5 kms of it!

Another thing that struck me was just how positive a person Johan* is and has always been in my view. It is too easy to be negative or to fall into the trap of negative statements. Lately at work, I have been often asked if such and such a minor schedule change would be acceptable. I have striven to avoid responding with "No problem" and instead have written "Fine by me". I would like to hold up Johan as an example of positivity.

So, hear's to Pauline and Johan!

* Addendum, dated 2017-10-03. In considering Johan's optimism, it must be pointed that he is old enough to have suffered through and remembers the Hunger Winter.

On European cyclists

For the second time this fall, I have hauled Floria up the stairs to my bike storage area in anticipation of snow. Who knows if the forecast snow will stick, but I getting the point where I tend towards the preemptive.

I am in the process of watching the Suzuki Diaries featuring David Suzuki and his daughter travelling around Europe by train and observing various eco-friendly features such as Copenhagen's bike culture. This made me think on an incident (possibly exaggerated) from my youth. As I was growing up, there was a Dutch family up the road with which my family was friends. (Olivier, with whom I stayed in Corner Brook, is a member of said family.)  The mother of the family, Pauline, died recently, which partly explains the "why" of this post.

At some point in the early 1980s, the one set of the family's grandparents (i.e. the grandparents' of "my" generation of the family) came over for a visit. I believe they were Pauline's parents, but I can't be sure.  In any case, the story came out that the Opa (Dutch for Grandfather) borrowed Johan's (the father) bicycle and rode downtown.  As many of my readers may know, North Hatley is in a valley and the slopes are significant. Opa zoomed down the hill to centre of the village and is said to have said: "What a wonderful country for biking!" He struggled back up the hill, whereupon he is said to have said: "Canada is no country for bikes!"  From what little I know of him, I gather he would have been saying so facetiously. In any event, the story was related to me as such.

However, on much later reflection, I am intrigued by the fact that he would have borrowed a bike in the first place. The distance between the house and downtown is less than a kilometre and easy walking distance. Yet he casually chose to bike it. Looking back, none of my grandparents would have chosen to ride a bike around North Hatley, even Granny M., who was very active and with whom I biked around Stanley Park when I was 9. (I once skied to church (in North Hatley) and back with her on a particularly snowy Christmas morning in the late 1970s.)  My point is that Opa riding the bike was, in its own way, quietly remarkable for North America in the early 1980s, but probably utterly unremarkable for the Netherlands. And yet, as a child, I didn't think it remarkable aside from the funny comment on Canadian hills coming from a Dutchman.

On being an authority, of sorts

While in Scotland, I made fairly frequent use of my rain shoe covers until the last several days when good weather reigned. (And rain didn't.)   However, the covers had seen better days with fraying stitching and weakening velcro. They were MEC brand and quite effective. Unfortunately, the design had a mild flaw which caused people to sue MEC into withdrawing them from sale and indeed issuing a product recall.  I had been trying to get a suitable replacement for them for months to no avail, so when in Kirkwall, I bought a new pair. However, the weather has been quite dry these last couple of months, so it was only in the last week that I have really used them. And I found them wanting. So I went back to the old ones.

Because of this, when I was in MEC this afternoon on other business, I stopped by the bike department to see if there was anything suitable. As luck would have it, there was a new type of rain shoe cover for sale which fit the bill and my feet. I therefore returned the well-used, and recalled pair for a refund and used the money to help pay for the new version! I felt a bit guilty about this, but not enough to seek confession.

There was a rush at the cash as the store was about to close, so after paying for the new shoe covers, I went to the door to don them (it was raining).  As I did so, a man in scruffy urban cycling togs, asked me about my rain pants and then rain jacket. His approach to biking in the rain was a poncho, but evidently he had doubts about it.  I gave him my opinion, namely that my Activa rain pants had served me well for ten years and that my Showers Pass Transit jacket was value for the money and, no it wasn't too warm as it had pit zips. I was a shade embarassed at saying this, as a glance at his gear suggested a jobbering, budget approach to cycling gear.  In plain language, he wasn't as blessed as I in his biking budget. I made an attempt to cover my relative expenditure by saying my bike was my car, hence... 

As we chatted, a second cyclist approached me and asked where had I got my rain shoe covers! I told him that I had just bought them, then and there! I felt like I was the authority on biking in the rain!

On the end of my trip

I guess the place to begin is Inverness. I had chosen an earlier train than strictly necessary in order to have time to try and buy a CD or two of Scottish music, most notably a Red Hot Chili Pipers CD so I could give it to Col as a bit of a tease. (He's a rock music aficionado.) I therefore stashed most of my bags in the lovely lockers at the train station and rather foolishly set off on the bike for the shopping centre. This was foolish as it turns out the shopping centre is next to the station. I'd have done better to add my helmet to the the stuff in the locker, secured the bike to a bike rack and walked. Anyway, I found the music I wanted. 

I went back the station to have a shower. I then found supper in a nearby pub which featured a good selection of real ale. As I was eating, some other patrons came in, three ordered wine, whereas the fourth ordered a Budweiser. When I went to order a second pint, I asked the batman if he ever got discouraged by such behaviour? He shrugged and said it was money in his pocket. A little later, two couples of older people came in together. One of them asked if the Supermoose T-shirt I was wearing referred to a bar! I said no, it was just a novelty tourist shirt. One couple was from Vermont, the other from England.

Back to the station to retrieve bike and panniers, then over to the Caledonian Sleeper where I employed a cunning strategy I worked out. Typically the bike-carrying car is located close to the entry to the platform. However, I have come to the conclusion that the best way to proceed is to go to the car containing one's sleeping compartment with the bike, put the bags in the cabin and then bring the bike to its' car thereby saving a bit of lugging of panniers. In other words, I use the bike as a luggage trolley.

The trip South was uneventful. Not having get up at 3:45 AM to move bikes made it much easier get a good night's sleep. (I have learnt that it is only Fort William trains that are so afflicted.) Ironically, I woke up briefly in Waverly Station at about 1 AM. A little after seven, I asked the attendant giving me my morning coffee and shortbread biscuits how close the train was to being on time, thinking that long distance trains often pick up a bit of delay. I was surprised when he said that we were going to arrive a minute ahead of schedule!

In Euston Station, I bought a breakfast roll (i.e. bacon and egg in a bun) and walked over to one of the bike parking areas to eat it. While I munched away, I witnessed at least a couple of businessmen exit the station and proceed to unlock a bicycle from the rack and head off, presumably to their offices. I was a bit surprised to realise that they evidently keep a bike at Euston Station for the station-office segment of their morning commute!  To my mind, this speaks wonders for the state of biking in Britain.  

I spent some more time bumming around Regent's Park, including stopping to have tea by a pond filled with birds. I could look up which pond it was, but I don't feel like it. I was killing time as I didn't wish to have a day in London, but did want to shop at Cadenhead's Whisky Shop which only opened at 10:30. In a sense, I was stuck with Leonardo and bags, but it wasn't that great a hardship. At Cadenhead's, I made a number of purchases, most notably a bottle of the defintive version of the Kilkeran 10-year Single Malt. (Cadenhead's is more or less the retail arm of J.A. Mitchell, makers of Springbank and other fine whiskies.) I also got a bottle of Old Raj Gin for Caddy as I had been informed she is something of a gin fan.

I then caught a train to Didcot from Paddington Station. Caddy's Dan was there to greet me, as was Bella who told me of her tail of woe and of how she had been beaten with rolled up strips of bacon and then not been allowed to eat the bacon or even lick the crumbs off her fur. ;-) 

What next?  My stay with Elly and Collin is now a bit of blur. I told them about my journey and things I had seen. Caddy was happy to get the gin and Collin enjoyed the beer from Orkney I brought with me. The next day was somewhat wet, so I took a train without Leonardo to Oxford, where I saw acres of bike parking at the station and around town. I saw a large number of East Asian tourists, likely Chinese. I nearly went to see the new Swallows and Amazons movie but the timing wasn't right, so I had lunch and the Eagle and Child instead. I spent a shade too much time and money in bookstores, including the surreal Blackwell book store and it's underground Norrington Room.

On the Saturday, I took in a visit to the Didcot Railway Centre which included a ride in a train hauled by the King Edward II steam locomotive. I took a picture of it for Edward's benefit. Then it was time to head to Heathrow and catch a 787 back to Montreal. This involved a somewhat surreal experience as although British Airways has the entirety of Terminal 5 almost exclusively to itself (and the terminal has 3 sub-terminals) getting to my plane involved taking a "mystery bus tour" and walking up a gangway!

The flight was nondescript which is good. The high point was the meal where the choices were between roast beef or chicken tikka Marsala which, as I pointed out before, represents a considerable amount of British cooking, and especially adjusted for the fact that fish and chips doesn't fly as airline food (pun intended). I had chosen the chicken tikka Marsala The real problem came from the fact that the plane landed in Montreal at 8 PM which was sufficiently late that it made jet lag harder to deal with. 

On photographs and issues relating to it

Hi. I tried to upload some photos from my trip tonight and got frickin' nowhere as Google has taken over Picassa and is much less user-friendly, or to be more accurate it seems to assume the users are idiots and therefore doesn't give them tools such as "sort album by date" and the like. I am seriously considering moving my pictures to a better host.

On my current location in Heathrow

I was about to write an entry about my adventures between Inverness and my current location (Heathrow, Terminal 5) but my iPhone says I should mosey to the gate. So the short version will suffice. No issues getting back to Didcot. Collin, Elly, Bella and Bridie were glad to see me but Caddy was too cool to show much emotion. I bought too many books in Oxford. And I don't enjoy going to airports.

On heading South

The day started with an encounter with an older Australian couple in the process of assembling their touring bikes in the parking lot of the hotel. It wasn't clear how they had got to John O'Groats with bikes still in their shipping boxes but they had and I was offered one. They were about to do a reverse LEJOG, which I guess should be expected from antipodeans with reversed brakes on their bikes (that is the rear brake was controlled by the left hand brake lever). ;-)

At breakfast, I sat with Michael, a Canadian who just complete a LEJOG in about two and a half weeks. He commented that the record for a LEJOG was something like 48 hours, but he couldn't ride that fast. I asked him if he would want to go that fast. He paused, then chuckled a "No!" He had a generally negative take on British drivers vis-à-vis cyclists. Ones in the South of England seem to have been quite unpleasant.

I set off at a time which got me to the Castle of Mey too early to enter which was just as well as I was able to use the time to make a side trip to Dunnet Head the most Northerly part of the Island of Great Britain. This headland features a sea cliff home to a wide assortment of seabirds: kittiwakes, guillemots, gannets, fulmars, puffins, razorbills and of course seagulls. I have no clear picture of which I saw flying around. I don't think I saw members of the auk family (puffins, guillemots and razorbills).

I got back to Thurso in time for a quick lunch. I then got to the station, changed into civvies, and waited only a few minutes for my two coach train to arrive.

So now I am on the train to Inverness looking at the scenery. Wide blanket bog has given way to hills/mountains. In not too long, the train passes by Lairg!

Almost strange to see trees again!

On first, off last

The winds gods giveth, and the wind gods taketh away. The westerlies of my first day in the Orkneys were replaced by winds out of the South East or the South-South East. This was more or less exactly the least useful direction for me. My plan for Monday was to go to the Broch of Gurness followed by the Brough of Birsay, then loop back via the Stones of Stenness. This meant a return against the wind which is the least desirable situation.

I did it anyway. The Broch of Gurness while not as high as the one on Lewis, was interesting because of the collection of surrounding buildings and its location guarding a strait which would have been a dandy place to keep an eye on incoming ships and extract a tax or two. The Brough of Birsay is a tidal island which housed first a Pictish settlement followed by a Viking one and then a monastery which may or may not have been connected to St Magnus. Nearby was the ruins of a late 16th Century palace built by Lord Patrick Stewart, a right royal bastard. More on him later.

As I began to head for Kirkwall, I stopped at a brewery and then a water powered grain mill. Both of these added to my load. The mill had two or three old millstones in the yard outside, so I asked the person showing me around how quickly the stones wore out. The answer was very slowly. One of the millstones in use dated back to the 19th century!

While the wind was contrary, the weather wasn't. The Sun came out from behind the clouds and stayed visible. I actually had to apply sunscreen. I even wore a biking jersey that wasn't Merino!

Going back to Kirkwall was the expected chore, however it was broken by a few incidents. Nearing the Ness of Brodgar, I noticed a car behind me and as I was near a good place to pull over, I did so and turned to wave the driver on. (Incidentally, the drivers are very polite and have never honked at me, except once and that was a double toot as the car was passing saying "Thank you, mate!" I have tried to return the courtesy.) In this instance, the woman driver didn't advance as she was waiting for a blockage further on to resolve itself. More on that later.

I stopped to give the Ness of Brogar another look. This time, the archaeologists were hard at work with trowels, notebooks and survey equipment that used lasers. I was tempted to ask if they could use a volunteer the next morning.

I then stopped at the Stones of Stenness and tried to put myself in the mindset of the builders. This was tricky as a pair of teenage brothers were wrestling nearby.

I was so tired as I got back to Kirkwell, I went straight to a pub for supper. As it was, I had been holding up traffic as I rode. I was, however, doing a better job of letting cars by than one or two of the other cyclists I saw going the way. I was not the only cyclist or cycle-tourist around.

Coming into the hostel, I stopped by reception to ask about leaving bags after I checked out the next morning for a few hours. The young woman behind the desk assured me that there would be no problem. She then said she had seen me on the road! It turned out she had been the driver I had tried to wave her past near the Ness of Brodgar!

At breakfast the next morning, I noticed a woman of about my own age sitting at a table industriously poking holes in a pile of Ziplock baggies marked with a felt tipped pen. I asked if they were samples which wasn't quite the right word  but that is the consequence of having a geologist for a dad. They were in fact artifact bags for an archaeological dig. Which dig? Ness of Brodgar. I expressed my envy of her!

I spent the morning in Kirkwall visiting the St Magnus Cathedral, the ruins of the Earl's and Bishop's palace.

The Earl in question was the previously mentioned Patrick Stewart, son of Robert Stewart bastard son of James V. Patrick Stewart ruled the Orkneys and the Shetlands harshly and badly generating numerous complaints from his use of kidnapping, extortion, torture and the like. It was not until he rebelled that his cousin, James VI had him and his son arrested, tried and put to death. As I said  a right royal bastard. He did have enough taste to put up a nice house, now ruined.

After doing the Kirkwall museum, I returned to the Hostel, retrieved my bags and set off for Burwick and my ferry for John O'Groats. I stopped for an audio-visual tour of the Highland Park distillery (which came with a wee dram). From then on it was a long, slightly grim plod against the wind and more hills than seemed strictly necessary. Neither the hills nor the wind was bad on their own, but together, they were a nasty combination.

I went over four causeways between islands that Churchill had ordered built to help keep submarines out of Scapa Flow. These Churchill Barriers were completed too late to be of much use in their designed function.

Part of the workforce consisted of Italian prisoners of war, whom it seems were given considerably leeway, doubtlessly because one of worst things the British could do to them was to leave them in the Orkneys! ;-)  Anyway, the British allowed them to convert two Nissen huts into a chapel, now called the Italian Chapel and like the Churchill Barriers, completed too late!

I arrived at the ferry terminal at about 4:30 for my 5:15 ferry. There was nobody around. After maybe ten minutes, a man showed up and sat on the pier waiting. The ferry arrived and two passengers got off with their bikes. I presented my e-ticket and oversaw Leonardo being hauled on board and lashed securely. I made my way to the boat deck and asked a crew member rather facetiously: "Is ferry always this popular?" It turned out that far from me being the only passenger, they were expecting about two hundred passengers in four coach loads! The reason there were only two passengers on the previous run was that it had been an informal run intended to re-position the ferry. The coaches arrived on schedule and disgorged their contents. The ferry was quite full and when we got to John O'Groats, I had to wait until they got off before manhandling Leonardo up the gangplank. First on, last off.

On the long version of how yesterday went

I apologize for the curtailed entry yesterday but both the iPhone and myself ran out of juice.

Mainland, the largest island of the Orkneys, features low, gentle hills and good roads. The wind was out of the West and as Stromness is at the Western end of Mainland, by dint of clever navigation, I was able to avoid riding into it for all but a few short bits. In addition, no rain fell. Thus a pretty good situation for biking.

En route to Skara Brae, I saw an open topped double decker bus go by and was struck by the thought "What idiot would have an open topped double decker bus in the Orkney? And who want to ride in it?" I made Skara Brae in time for lunch of locally made and sourced food in its tearoom. I shared a table with an older couple from Portsmouth who were up on a cruise ship and who had ridden from Kirkwall to Skara Brae in the open topped bus! It turned out that the bus they had been supposed to take had broken down.

Skara Brae is a collection of stone houses built out of the local sandstone which is fairly easily quarried into rectangular blocks owing to its particular geology. They are amazingly well built even after 5000 years. No mortar, they were drystone constructions and set into the earth and linked by a central, covered passageway. The stone was also used to make furniture such as beds and dressers. Two of the houses were built before the others and more remains of the earlier phase are thought to be beneath the later phase buildings.

What blew my mind was the almost casual note that these buildings had been dug into a large midden (a waste dump) of an earlier occupational group! This put the prehistory of the place in a very strange place to my mind.

I almost couldn't cope with the hopelessly modern (17th to 20th century) Skail House a few hundred meters away. I therefore went back to Skara Brae for another look. Still mind boggling.

I then set off to the Ring of Brodgar, set on spit of land between Loch Harray and Loch Stenness. These stones were impressive as one of the larger stone circles in the British Isles, though they showed the effects of the weather including lightning damage. The circle was roughly contemporary with Skara Brae. A very little further was the Ness of Brodgar. This is an ongoing archeological dig of a village of the same approximate vintage as Skara Brae only seemingly several times larger. They are still at work and the guide said there is enough material to keep working for a lifetime. Part of me wants to come back in twenty years to see what more they have found. The site is only excavated for about eight weeks of the year. For the rest of the time, it is covered with tarpaulins weighted down with "Neolithic tires" sourced from the garages of the Orkneys who are only too pleased to get rid of them so easily.

I had to get to Maes Howe by four, so I skipped the related Standing Stones of Stenness. I am hoping stop by later.

Maes Howe is a chambered tomb which is currently reached by the entrance the builders intended which is a long low passageway lined with long slabs of rock weighing at roughly ten tons. There is a one ton "door" rock which rests on a pivot. The guide said that a retired guide told him that she used to go in as a child and push the rock closed!

The main chamber is about fifteen feet square. It has three small chambers off of it. The walls and the original ceiling are the usual Orkney sandstone laid very carefully and at height are positioned inwards akin to an igloo. The corners were formed by four re-purposed standing stones. The entrance tunnel was align so the dawn light of the first day of winter shines down it from over the top of the largest hill in the Orkneys and a standing stone located hundreds of yards away! After many years of use, the access tunnel was blocked off with large stones. The next recorded entry was that of the Norse who dug a hole in the top in a quest for treasure. They were disappointed and left runic graffiti to this effect. The roof was replaced in Victorian times.

The combined effect of all these sites, approximately from the era of 3000 BC, makes me think wistfully about changing careers, becoming an archeologist and moving to Orkney. What we don't know about these people would fill a library. What we do know is that they must have had serious building skills including the logistical element so often overlooked. They have caught my imagination.

With the Westerly wind, getting to Kirkwall was easy. After getting to my hostel and attending to various needs, I went down to the harbour front for supper. There were three steam trucks or traction engines smoking away. They had obviously been a part of the Vintage Rally. I later saw then going off into the distance in the direction of Stromness. I couldn't help but wonder about the logistics of getting them on and off ferries given modern safety regulations.

On the short version of how my day went

The day started rather like how I slept: badly. I had carefully arranged my clobber to permit a quick and discreet getaway but then my bright yellow rain jacket was nowhere to be seen. Thankfully a scene was avoided when I checked the kitchen area where I made my previous post.

Off to Scabster to catch the ferry. It arrived to disgorge (among other things) an assortment of traveling fair rides. It seems I missed the Orkney county fair by one day. What I didn't entirely miss was the Orkney classic vehicle rally. I was the first vehicle to board. The next was a Norton motorcycle, which dated from at least before 1960. A car from about 1930 was also on board.

I made a bee line for the breakfast buffet where I loaded my plate with more than my "proper" share of sautéed mushrooms. I had to wait for the buffet to open and while waiting I chatted with a Swiss woman up on a rail pass.

The crossing was marred by the heavy motion of the ship. Rather than annotate the map I'd torn from a tourist brochure, I gazed out at the horizon in an effort to avoid seasickness. Hoy heaved into view. Our passage took in the Old Man of Hoy, a particularly spectacular sea stack.

Stromness is a surprising town. None were more surprised than the fleet of BMW motorcycle riders (twenty plus) when the Norton went by. One of the surprises is that they let vehicles near the ferry terminal. I obviously made a wrong turn leaving the terminal, but the street I was on was paved with actual paving stones! In fact, I was surprised cars were allowed on it let alone going in both directions. As I was leaving Stromness, I had the idea of stopping at a gas station to get a proper map of the Orkneys. This was promptly cut down to a more convenient size. (Maps of islands lend themselves to this.)

It was after this that things kept getting better. A whole lot better. However, I am too tired right now to go into details. Short version: my god, those Neolithics knew how to build.

On an indulgent end to a surprisingly tough day.

My stretch goal for today had been to drop most of my clobber at my hostel in Thurso and make a dash for Dunnet Head in order to say I'd been to the most Northerly point of the Island of Britain and therefore save time later.  This seemed feasible given a nominal distance of 44 miles to Thurso and a forecast tailwind. I packed accordingly.

Unfortunately, the road was hillier than expected. Furthermore, as my breakfast had been on the light side, when I got to Bettyhill, I was in the mood for an elevenses at the Bettyhill Café. It wasn't open until 5 PM on Saturday. This threw me for loop. I ended up going to the nearby museum which was open then going back about a mile to find a scanty lunch.

The road took in a lot of up and down surrounded by blooming heather. Also by a surprising number of sports cars. Lotuses, Miatas, Ferraris, Porsches and others. I one point I wondered if I had wandered into a Top Gear shoot or something similar. The weather was drier and I made a number of sartorial alterations to find the optimum moisture management.

I had shared a dorm room with a young Italian. He seems to be hitchhiking as I passed him once walking along the road then again several miles later!

At some point a bit before Reay, the land settled down and spread out allowing for more sustained pedaling and some serious "Wee!-ing". In Reay, stopped for a snackrel at a shop. The young lady till asked a few basic questions about where I was going. (She must have seen hundreds or thousands of LEJOGgers and their ilk.) My responses were slow to the point that I realized I had a degree of brain freeze. I decided I would put a Buff on my noggin to keep the little grey cells warm.

After Reay, the NCN left the main road partly to avoid the mothballed Doune Reay nuclear power plant. (Elly's brother Ben doubtless has an opinion about it.)  The land became "tidy British agricultural" (as opposed to "rough sheep pasture"). Thurso came up and I found my hostel, but I wasn't about to go to Dunnet Head. I felt pooped. Through a certain effort of will, after dumping clobber at the hostel and changing my socks, I visited the excellent museum. Afterwards, I made a trip to the ferry terminal in Scrabster (circa two miles away) to get some particulars about taking the ferry on the morrow. Only then did I go back to the hostel and shower.

The hostel is opposite a fish and chips shop that advertises "fresh caught Thurso haggis". It wasn't where I had supper but would have better suited the whiny bloke at Le Bistro where I did have supper. However, I did patronize it, as I had a post-prandial battered and deep-fried Snickers Bar there. It hit a number of needs.

Bed time.

On side winds

The advertised distance between Lairg and Tongue was 62 km so I set off with less than any sort of hurry. In fact, I rode back about a mile to the Ferrycroft Interpretive Centre to delay my departure from Lairg. It was only moderately interesting.

The weather was quite frustrating today with a crosswind that alternatively helped and hindered. In truth, I think the wind was more assist than hindrance. With the wind came weather in great variety: rain, sun and cloud all competed but the most common was a very fine and thin rain that only barely required rain gear.

In addition, the landscape was relatively devoid of landmarks from which I could locate my position with any certainty. I rolled through pasture, moor, forestry commission forests and the stumps there of until I came to the hamlet of Crask.

Crask consists of the Crask Inn and one other house, currently for sale. It is surrounded by moorland and is off the electrical grid and so relies on its own generator and batteries. They applied to get permission to install a wind generator but were turned down by the planning committee.

I had seen another cyclist ahead of me. When I went into the Inn, the proprietor asked me if I had gone past and come back. No, that was a different solo cyclist.

I had lunch there in the company of the owner and an assortment of border collies, one of whom placed a tennis ball on my table and tried to eye me into throwing it for him. I tried to tell him that the health board wouldn't stand for it but he wouldn't listen.

About halfway through lunch, an Englishman from Portsmouth in his twenties came in and announced to the owner that he had rented a house nearby for his gap year and would therefore start to be regular. This led to a discussion about how communion services were held in the inn about once a month. It seemed quite baroque. I chatted a bit with the Englishman and asked him to try not to go insane during the winter! ;-)

The next section went by in a blur as the wind and gravity were with me. The road went down along a valley in an orgy of whee marred only by the necessities of single track road.

The final section went along shore of Loch Loyal. The low clouds would sometimes part to reveal some of the mountains it was concealing. The teasers.

Decent day all told.

On a pack of small incidents

In writing these entries, I keep on forgetting some incidents only to remember them later. So this entry is a collection of bits.

While I was waiting for the ferry in Lochmaddy amidst wind and heavy rain, a man came in dressed in Bermuda shorts, a short sleeved shirt and flip-flops. It was so odd, that I didn't resist making the comment: "You must think it is summer."

I had pondered whether to turn on my rear blinking light yesterday owing to low clouds that I was nearing. I didn't do so, but kept it at the back of my mind as an option. When I took off my helmet in the tearoom, I was startled to see the was on. Investigation suggested that water infiltration was causing a short circuit. I removed it from the helmet and wrapped in a paper napkin to absorb the water. I stored in my handlebar bag. In Lairg, I put it in a small ziplock bag with a packet of silica gel to absorb any residual moisture. (I keep a few packets of silica gel in my Ortlieb bags as waterproof bags have the problem that if water does get in, it doesn't get out easily.)

The Oykel Bridge Hotel caters to anglers in a big way. At least, that is what the pictures in the public bar strongly suggest. While Grandpa might be disappointed, fishing is something I am quite happy to let other people do. (I refrained from making any mention of my connection to Kemp Davidson who had won a landmark case against the interests of the recreational salmon fishing industry.) Later, an actual gillie came in for lunch wearing hip waders and commented the fishing was no good that day on account of the very high water levels. Later that day, I came across a side road that obviously flooded on a regular basis as there was a sign warning that it was prone to flooding, a permanent sign that could be flipped open to say "Road closed on account of flooding" and a depth marker which showed the current flood height was about two and a half feet.

In the stairwell of the Lairg Highland Hotel is a framed cartoon from Punch magazine in the 1960's. I know its origin as it was included in one of the two Pick of Punch compendiums in my Parents' library. It is a depiction of a day in the lives of an executive and his gardener. It being a pastoral take, and a sunny summer's day, the gardener is the happy one.

On a coincidence of cyclists

While I was loading Leonardo this morning, a man was delivering beer to the hostel. He facetiously said I would now be staying instead of leaving as there now was more beer. The real origin was the rain coming down. The day before, a CalMac had made a comment to the effect that it was a pity it was raining but that's the West of Scotland for you.

Heavily garbed in rain gear including Gore-Tex socks, I set off up the road. My original plan had been to follow the coast up and around to Thurso, but a shortage of accommodation obliged me to divert inland and indeed across Scotland. My destination was the town of Lairg whose principal distinction seems to be that it hosts Europe's largest one day agricultural sale each August during its annual sheep sale.

The road wound up and unfortunately down various glens and ridges. Thankfully, the wind was essentially helpful. I stopped at Knockan Crag where there was an interpretative centre that Pappy would have either enjoyed or dismissed as it was about how the cliff above had resulted in progress in the science of geology as the rocks above had been found to be older than the rocks below, contrary to conventional thinking. It also had a note about how these mountains were the same as the Appalachians and illustrated it with a picture of Mount Washington!

As I was leaving the site, I saw a sign advertising the Elphin Tearoom a few miles ahead. This was admirably positioned for an elevenses. After a nice downhill run through the wild countryside, I rolled up to the establishment. As I was finding a suitable wall to lean Leonardo on, I was surprised to see six other cycle tourers also turning into the establishment! Inside, it came out that they were not one party but two! It was an odd coincidence as each party rolled at different speeds. I spoke mostly with one group, a pair of Englishmen. The other four were older and from their accents, I would guess they were from Glasgow. The Englishmen were traveling very lightly and had bare legs. I was surprised they weren't cold. I latter wondered if they more used to the cool weather as my body had acclimatized to Montreal's hot summer. They were going to follow the coast up to Lochniver, then ride to Lairg tomorrow to catch the train.

We set off at about the same time. They outpaced me a shade to Ledmore Junction (think Minton) where they turned left whereas I hung a right. Unlike the proceeding road which I would describe as a mountain road, the one I was on followed a gently rising glen which widened as it went. With the wind at my back, I climbed easily to a height of land between the West and East Coasts of Scotland. I rode down along the Oykel which was in spate to say the least. Almost exactly on cue, the Oykel Bridge Hotel appeared in time for lunch.

There was an older couple taking a break for lunch from their motorcycle trip and a family of five with a spaniel, possibly a Brittany. The woman motorcyclist promptly informed that the coffee and sandwiches being served were wonderful and that she wasn't being paid a commission! This set the tone for a rather lively lunch. There was some talk of roads being flooded, which led to the family mentioning their wish to see the Falls of Shin. At that point the name meant nothing to me. I had a great toasted sandwich (cheddar, pepperoni, onions and peppers) and coffee for lunch.

When I got back on Leonardo, I checked my map and saw that the Falls of Shin was just below Lairg and if I took the A837 at Rosehall rather than the A839, it would add only about nine miles to a short day. Also, my read of the map was that it would be a flatter route. Also, the rain had mostly stopped.

After lunch, the land spread out and became very civilized with mature stands of trees (rather than forestry commission monoculture) and old farms. As expected, the route was fairly level. At Inveran, I turned onto B864 which was in the process of having the brush trimmed back which gave the road the lovely smell of freshly cut vegetation.

The Falls of Shin were impressive with the tea coloured river running in spat causing foam to accumulate in one eddy. Among the throng of sightseers was the family from lunch! I thanked them for having inadvertently let me know about the place!

It was then only about 4 miles to Lairg which seemed out of place in the nominal Highlands. However, it was there as was the Lairg Highland Hotel. At a guess, I would say it was built between the wars as it has a suggestion of Art Deco to it's exterior, the interior being the result of recent and ongoing renovations. My room is just about the right size. Furthermore, their menu hit the spot with a starter of pan fried mushrooms in creamy garlic sauce, followed by roast lamb (something I had been having a hankering for seeing those wooly creatures bounce around) and then sticky toffee pudding. There were other things on the menu, but those were things that I particularly like.

Lairg is evidently not a smokeless zone as the smell of burning peat is in the air and is enticing me to go down to the bar for post-prandial single malt.

On wet weather and cruise ships

Today started wet and grey. The weather stayed that way all day. As the plan for today was to do a load of laundry, see a few sights in Stornoway and then catch a ferry at 2, the weather did not pose a real problem.

The first thing I visited was Lewes Castle, a former baronial heap not a public building to which they have added a surprisingly small exhibition space which houses among other artifacts one of the six types of pieces from the Lewis Chessmen. The latter are some 93 chess figures carved by the Norse out of walrus ivory circa the 12th century found in Uig on Lewis in about 1831. The museum was crowded with a large number of middle aged and older tourists whom I assumed were like me taking shelter from the rain. However, when I was buying a liquid souvenir at the gift shop, the cashier asked me if I was off the cruise ship? Cruise ship? It turned out there was not one but two of them in the harbour. One docked next the ferry terminal and the other (larger) one anchored in the bay and lightering in passengers. I overheard someone in the ferry terminal say that one was en route to Iceland!

On the ferry, there was a lorry load of sheep on board which was parked on an open portion of the vehicle deck at the rear of the ship. Overlooking it was one of the outside passenger areas which had a notice saying "No smoking on account of hazardous material." I commented to a fellow passenger: "I didn't think that sheep were that flammable!" ;-) Either thank or they didn't want the sheep to breath second hand smoke!

The passage to Ullapool went by without incident. However, there were two more cruise ships anchored in the loch! It feels very weird to see four in one day. I don't think I saw that many in one day in Puerto Rico.

On standing stones and brochs

Today began overcast, damp and midge infested. I wanted to apply bug dope but was disappointed to find I had left it in Montreal. The wind had dropped which was just as well as it was generally a headwind today. I set off up the granite slopes of North Harris. The scenery was spectacular but alas steep. It was slow going for quite a while.

Harris gave way to Lewis at a seemingly arbitrary point, but following it, the landscape began to soften. After stopping at the Land Raiders Monument, I rode into a village to mail postcards and eat a banana. While performing the latter action, the two young Englishmen rode by on their way to Stornoway. Their plan was to catch the two o'clock ferry to Ullapool.

As the land leveled out somewhat to peat bog and moorland, I hung a left to take the long way around to Stornoway. This took me to a number of historical sites, most notably the standing stones at Calanish. Unfortunately, the visitor's centre was short on a lot of answers and left me with a lot of questions, such as "Where did they get the stone from?", "Have the archeologists look along the lines suggested by the stones for anything of interest?" and the like.

As I was heading back to Leonardo, an outdoorsy looking woman of about sixty asked me if I would mind Millie, her golden retriever, while she used the loo. I accepted as the golden was very appealing. When she came back, she asked me if I knew where "The Broch" was. (Brochs are a distinctive form Iron Age fortified houses ruins of which can be found in a number of locations in Scotland. I had visited the bare foundations of one in Kintyre in 1996.) Being a librarian, I said I know but I thought I had seen on the map which was on the bike. We headed over there and sure enough, it was only a few miles along the road.

The Broch in question is the best preserved one in existence. I got there after the woman who was from Cornwall and described herself as over-educated. I met as she was leaving and we ended up having a long discussion about history, archeology and tangential  matters. (In hindsight, I should given her my card.)

The Broch was a marvel of preservation and seeing this one gave me insight into the nature of the fragmentary remains I had seen in Kintyre. Also, the sun came out in earnest which was good.

I made a discreet investigation as the whereabouts of the oil rig. The result of this was that I found out which road to take and that said road was cordoned off by the authorities to give easy access for   heavy equipment. I could have hiked over a hill, but the ground in these parts is currently saturated and I didn't have hiking boots.

I was also getting tired. One symptom was growing hunger which I dealt with via chocolate bars. It was also getting lateish so I pressed on in the golden sun over the moors to Stornoway arriving tired but pleased.

For one thing, it was the first day I had ridden in anything but my merino jersey.

On getting to the Harris Tarbert

I got up in the company of two guys from Spain and two Chinese speaking women. I set off to go the long way around to Uig via the Trotternish Penninsula. This was wildly scenic but much hillier than the Uists. I passed the Old Man of Storr and the Kilt Rock. The latter appeared to me like basalt columns viewed from the side. This was in contrast to the horizontal sediments below. Looking at the explanatory sign I found I was spot on about the basalt. I wonder if it is related geologically to the Giants' Causeway and possibly Fingal's Cave in the Inner Hebrides.

I was aiming to catch a particular ferry out of Uig which the ferry guy had suggested I be there by 1:30. There was a stiff wind out of the North which made for slow progress as the sun flitted in and out clouds. There was a shower that started near Staffin and required full rain gear. After the shower, the sun came out in earnest.

One of my guidebooks describes the scenery as Tolkeinesque. However, that must modified as Peter Jackon's version of Tolkeinesque. I made it to the ferry in suitable time, just before the arrival of a pair of young English cycle-tourers with whom I ended up talking quite a bit. Indeed, I am sharing a bunk room in the Tarbert (Harris) hostel. From what I have heard of their plans, I will be seeming them until Ullapool. Therein lies a problem. They are a damn sight fitter than I having covered about sixty miles to my 34 or so. Also, the one I really talked to is woefully ignorant about Scotland and was startled by all the tourists on Skye. Apparently, he hadn't heard of Skye until a few weeks ago!

We were joined in our bunk room by an older cycle tourist from the East Coast of Scotland. He was heading South from Stornoway on his way to Barra. While he was using the hostel computer, a Facebook friend of his sent him a link about an oil rig which ran aground not far from where I intend to go tomorrow. I asked him to show where it happened on my map. Something else to see tomorrow. The weather forecast calls for better weather tomorrow. As well, I have no ferry to catch so no time constraints! Here's to hoping.

Plus, I managed to change my rear brake pads without incident.

This the third Tarbe(r)t I have slept in. Sometimes I think "Tarbert" is the Gaelic word for "Portage".

On plaster madonnas, music and lifeboats

South and North Uist are notoriously Catholic and Protestant, respectively. I was surprised to see the former represented by two roadside shrines featuring plaster Madonnas. Benbecula is apparently split on the issue as there was the ruins of a medieval church whose grounds were used as an ecumenical burying ground a few hundred yards from the Nunton House Hostel.

While waiting for lunch in the Westford Inn, something in the lyrics of the "fiddle-dy-dee" music seemed familiar. Then it struck me: I was listening to a Celtic/folk version of "The safety dance", a pop song by the Eighties group "Men without hats"! I laughed and told the barmaid who was skeptical until she checked the computer.

While walking along the shore near Portree, I heard the sound of a boat's engine. My immediate thought was: "What duffer would be out in a boat on day like today?" I turned to see Portree's RNLI lifeboat racing off on some errand of mercy.

On a "gale-lic" holiday

Gale warnings for today had been in evidence yesterday. Given the winds were forecast as being more than 50 mph, I decided yesterday to nix my plan of going to Dunvegan (it is not pronounced like a former vegetarian who has discovered the virtues of meat).

Instead, I did my laundry, had a morning snoozed followed by lunch followed by a visit to the Aros Centre to see an exhibition about Saint Kilda. (Apparently, they mostly ate seabirds rather than fish.) Gordon suggested a 3 km nearby coastal walk which rather enjoyed but it would have gone better with hiking boots.

Portree is deep tourist country. This point can be deduced from the 28 B&Bs, 4 self-catering cottages, 1 guesthouse, 1 hotel and 1 hostel I counted between the Aros Centre and my hostel! It has been a fairly prosperous for centuries judging by the buildings. So far, I have heard people speaking French, Chinese, German, Gaelic and probably Italian.

While it has been windy to the point that I have been wearing my rain pants over my trousers for warmth, it hasn't been raining very much. Furthermore, the forecast is for much better weather tomorrow. In some respects, I have been very lucky in having the gale happen on a rest day. A "gale-lic" holiday if you will.

On the best laid plans of mice and men

Yesterday dawned fairly brightly. As I had plenty of time, I poked my nose into the crofter's market opposite the hostel. At that point all I could buy were cupcakes or scented candles.

I rolled along under darkening skies, stopping to change to a yellow lens on my glasses and to photograph the crossing to North Uist. The Uists and Benecula were one island during the last ice age. They are still one island at low tide, but in the interest of avoiding Egyptian crossings, causeways have been built between the islands. Also the sand doesn't lend itself to motor vehicles.

The man from South Uist on the ferry had told me that the islands were undeveloped from a tourist perspective. For that matter, I had the feeling the islands' economy has a long way to go in general. The largest town I saw had little in the way of shops and no pub that I could see!  I didn't think it was legal to have a town with no pub in the UK! ;-)  Most of the houses appeared to date from after WW II. From various bits and pieces of information, my take is that the place was bloody poor until the postwar socialist era when crofters were given decent homes by the government. The houses are very spread out.

It began to sprinkle as I crossed to North Uist. I made a detour to have lunch at the Westford Inn, the island's only pub. It was in a Georgian building (one of the few old buildings still in use). Along the way, I stopped at the ruins of the Trinity Temple (Celtic church circa 12th century.)

My rough plan had been to have a good lunch as supper would be late. I therefore indulged in "Cockles cooked in cider with bacon and leeks.) I am not sure what I expected. What I got amounted to a tasty variation on the theme of moules-frites. A person next to me was thinking about ordering monkfish. I couldn't help making a joke to the effect that a large monkfish is called an abbottfish!

Going past a smokehouse, noticed a pile of peat ready for use. For some reason, the road to Lochmaddy was double tracked the whole way, unlike the haphazard mix of single and double track I had seen up until then. Furthermore, this road had few houses off of it. It was mostly moor and peat bog. I stopped to see a Stone Age tomb. Afterwards, it began to rain in earnest. Really nasty stuff especially with the wind from the South-West. The wind got me to Lochmaddy with hours to spare before the 1630 sailing of the ferry to Uig. My first action was to head to the CalMac office to make sure the ferry was running! As I explained to man behind the desk, it is one thing to be delayed by a cancelled ferry. It would be far worse if you only find at the last minute.

I split my time between in Lochmaddy between their museum/cultural centre which was a step up from the usual as it dealt with prehistoric times rather than the contents of grannies' cupboards, having a half of cider in the Lochmaddy hotel and fretting in the ferry office as the weather was getting worse. I chatted with a man who would have offered me a lift to Portree from Uig had his car not already been filled with five people and their bikes! I have seen a lot of bikes carried on cars and vans. Most interesting are the rear bike racks that include brake lights. I find it very good idea.

A couple arrived on two tandem bikes with young boys on the rear seats. I took pity on them as unlike me they had to deal with blame assignment and whining. I later spoke with them. It turned out their car was waiting for them in Uig.

My plan had been to ride the 26 km between Uig and Portree after arriving on the ferry at 1815. However, the weather delayed our arrival by about 30 minutes. I turned on my rear blinky light and set off up the hill out of Uig. I didn't get very far. After the climb, the road emerged into the open and the full force of the wind and the rain hit me in the face. Thankfully the sheep didn't (that was a local's joke). I hemmed and hawed then turned around and made for the Uig Hotel to ask the desk clerk if he could arrange a taxi for me and my bike to Portree. He did so but informed me the taxi would have to come from Portree, so it would be twenty minutes or more. My response was: "Well, that gives me time to have a pint!" And walked over to the bar.

In contrast to the Uists, Skye is well developed for tourists. The Portree Independent Hostel (next door to the Scottish Youth Hostel) was full but thankfully I had a reservation and Gordon the manager signed me in, told me where to park Leonardo and suggested a restaurant.

I was wiped and very glad I had opted for the taxi. In fact, my only regret was not having opted for it sooner! One telling statistic about  yesterday is that I changed my socks five times.

On the repercussions of moving Leonardo at 3:45 AM

Shifting Leonardo around at 3:45 in the morning was a right royal pain in the arse. Not only did it interrupt my sleep, but it also made it harder for me to get to sleep as there was the anxiety of anticipation. Together with the motion of the train and my relatively poor ability to get to sleep, I got very little sleep either before or after Edinburgh. Once the train reached the Highlands, the ride quality diminished as the rails became shorter and were no longer welded together. At least, that is my theory. Suffice it to say, I spent the following day in a sleep deprived daze.

When I finally gave up trying to sleep, we were well to the North of Loch Lomond. I ate breakfast crossing Ranoch Moor. Well before arriving in Fort William, I gathered up my stuff from my room to move it to the baggage car where Leonardo waited.

The Jacobite steam train was waiting in Fort William, being the only other train in the station. (There are only two platforms.) Although the Caledonian Sleeper belongs to another company, I suspect the two companies have a friendly agreement to coordinate arrival and departure times.

The Lancashire Fusilier steam locomotive was surrounded by fans and photographers both on the platform and from across the tracks over a fence. Some lucky people got to stand in the cab between the times when one of the firemen had to shovel coal into grate. After about fifteen minutes, whistles were blown and the Jacobite set off in a flurry of steam.

While waiting for the conventional diesel service (which was less than a quarter of the cost and would allow bike reservations), I shopped for lunch and munchies at the supermarket located next to the station and chatted with three successive pairs of cycle tourists from one each from Poland, the Netherlands and France! One of the latter two pairs mentioned their troubles finding accommodation which had led them to having to take a train to Ranoch. This made me feel I had been wise to reserve everything in June!

The train to Mallaig arrived about twenty minutes late and was rather crowded. Getting both Leonardo and my bags on was made trickier by people standing around vaguely in the doorways. I nabbed a seat facing forwards in a four seat section with three people on a day trip to Mallaig from Glasgow. They were wondering just where the train was so I was able to help them by whipping out my road maps!

The West Highland Line rightfully earns its place as one of the Great Train Journeys of the World. I am not going to elaborate further.

I will say that I had to get my pre-paid tickets for myself and Leonardo printed in Didcot. Of the six stubs, exactly none was asked for by ScotRail. Possibly, I missed something.

Mallaig was familiar to me and had relatively few distractions to to offer while I waited for the ferry to Lochboisdale. There was a small museum which while interesting couldn't keep my attention for long. At the Calmac ferry office, I thought about writing a blog entry only to find the battery was very low on the iPhone. I used their plug just below an RNLI donation box. I dumped much of my small change into it. (This was done partly to rid myself of the bulk of pennies and tuppences.)

The ferry was the Lord of the Isles. It towered over the lesser ferries serving the Isle of Skye. It also had a very nice set of lounges. As it was a bit early for supper, I thought about finding a nice stretch of couch where I might lie down for a toes-up. I wondered if this was really allowed for a little while until I saw other people doing so. It did me good to close my eyes.

Supper was a cold peppered smoked fillet of mackerel. How that isn't a kipper eludes me.

Late in the crossing, I was sampling Calmac's "malt of the month" (14 year old Oban) to which the bartender had added too of a back. I sat next to a chap from South Uist. He lived as a contractor slash civil engineer Inverness but was going home for a family function. We fell to chatting and out of puckish malice I decided I would tell him about the Construction Workers' Holiday in Quebec. He was horrified at the notion!

The Lochboisdale Hotel is so close to the ferry terminal that I didn't bother getting on Leonardo! It was warm welcoming place.  The only downside was the discovery that I had managed to mislay my yellow sweat cap between the top deck of the Lord of the Isles and my room at the hotel. I went back to the ferry to look but had no luck. After a lovely shower, I collapsed into a well-deserved sleep.

The place mats in the breakfast room featured cartoonish depictions of sheep with pun based caption, mostly involving the word "ewe". My favourite was one of a sheep driving a donkey cart with an "L" plate displayed with the caption "Form-ewe-la 1"!

After a careful repacking of my clobber and an intense sweep of the room which produced a packet of Dutch prescription medication, I began my trek. It was a shade anti-climatic. For one thing, it was always going to be a short day. Also, it was a day which alternated between cloud, rain and sun. Not to mention all three at once. ;-) In hindsight, I should made a detour South to Eriksay and the wreck of the S.S. Politician made famous by Compton Mackenzie in "Whiskey Galore".  The route weaved around rocks and lochans (small lochs) on the rolling machair (wet, grassy seaside plain with low silica content in the soil) which made for easy cycling despite the frequent single track road but assisted by a tailwind.

Anyway, despite a museum, a scenic detour and waiting too long lunch, I got to the Nunton House Hostel on Benbecula by three. I don't how far I rode today as I had neglected to zero my bike computer.

After a shower, laundry and brief toes up, I wandered over to a nearby beach. There was a wet-suited trio standing about waist deep in the surf. Despite having talked to one of them, I am unclear as to the purpose of the exercise. It may have been boogie-boarding. I saw a grey seal observing the trio.  Good first day on the whole.

As a random note, I assume I will have transfer Leonardo again on the Caledonian Sleeper from Inverness to London. Thankfully, if memory serves, it leaves Edinburgh about midnight which is a better time to be awake than 3:45 AM.

On having to move Leonardo from one end of the Caledonian Sleeper to the other at 3:45 AM

Isn't that what railway porters are for? ;-)

On a warm welcome to England

In hindsight, I should have taken a taxi to the airport as the effort of dragging the bike and the duffle to the 747 bus via the Metro left me drenched in sweat. When I got into the airport, the first thing I did was change into a clean T-shirt.

Checking my luggage into British Airways went very smoothly.  Likewise, the flight went well, partly because I flew premium economy which meant lots of lovely legroom.

There was quite a wait to get through Customs. While waiting, I saw a sign which said there was some sort of accelerated access program for select Commonwealth countries (e.g. Canada, New Zealand). However, I would have had to apply before leaving.

Getting to Didcot from Heathrow involved two changes of train. The second of which involved going up and down stairs at Harlington and Hayes, elevators being a work in progress. I was very grateful to a fellow passenger who spontaneously offered to carry my duffle across.

I phoned Elly to let her know I was on the train to Didcot. I then turned on "The slow train" by Flanders and Swann and relaxed.

Elly is taking a couple of weeks off and is therefore able to be a wonderful host not only to me but Dan, her daughter Caddy's German boyfriend, who due to an unfortunate turn of events needed shelter on very short notice. Colin, Elly's husband, has been very welcoming in his somewhat silly South Wales bloke-ish way. Needless to say, Bella and Bridie are happy to have another body to Mooch from.

Yesterday, Elly drove me to see Izzy and John in Bromyard. They now live in a fairly nice home. John is very reduced in his faculties though his spirit still shines through. Izzy is reduced in mobility though seemed very peppy. Elly, Izzy and I had lunch in a pub dating from roughly the 17th century. Afterwards, Elly drove me back to Didcot via many smaller towns and villages where she lived as a child. While doing so, she gave her version of her parents histories. The most significant point being that Izzy has difficulty maintaining the cheery facade she had shown us for long.

When we got back, I assembled Leonardo and took a test run down to the station to pick up pre-ordered tickets. Afterwards, I sorted the twenty-odd stubs into baggies for each trip!  

Today, I did laundry and chatted with Elly and others. I have just sorted and packed so I am about to leap into action any second now and catch the train to London.

On where I am

Waiting for a train in Heathrow. Luggage and Leonardo are with me.

On how "it all makes work for the working men to do"

I am assuming most of my readers will get the reference to Flanders and Swann in the title of this post. For those of you who don't, click on the link.  This entry is about preparations afoot for the trip to Scotland. One of those preparations was to make sure I could listen to "Slow Train" written and performed by the afore-mentionned duo. My original plan had been to upload my Mother's copy of the Complete Flanders and Swann onto iTunes but this proved impractical. I ended up taking the high road and bought it through iTunes. "Slow train" is a lament for the small British railway stations closed in the 1960's. I find the rhythm of it resonates with that of British railway trains, particularly the slower services. I suspect it is hardly an accident but then I am no musicologist and Donald Swann was.

My plan was to prep Leonardo and box him on Sunday. I started by spraying off the crud from the Défi Métropolitain and letting him dry. Once dry, I started to clean the chain via the oil and rag technique. Unfortunately, I soon realised there was more crud in the chain than was likely to be removed via the afore-mentioned technique. I therefore moved on to the MEC chain cleaner gadget and degreasing liquid technique which involves spraying the bike again to remove any degreasing liquid. I then oiled and wipe down the chain.

Prior to Sunday, I had acquired not one but two bike boxes from a nearby bike shop. Unfortunately, neither one was really large enough for Leonardo who, as an XL sized touring bike, is at the top end of the bike size range. Okay, plan B.: go to Via Rail to see if they will sell me one.  The answer was no as they no longer have bike boxes as their baggage cars now have bike hooks.  Good for Via Rail, bad for my needs.  Plan C.: go to the bus station.  The bus company was happy to sell me one. As I was walking back to the Metro with it, I saw someone had dumped one on the sidewalk! I am not sure if it was there when I was going in! I was too short of time (and energy in the current heat *) to to go return the one I had bought or bring the other one home as well as the one I had paid for.

Between my tendency towards sloth and the Fantasia Festival, I have not had the time to finish packing Leonardo.  As my flight is late on Sunday, I think I have more than enough time.

I will be flying on British Airways. They sent me an e-mail earlier this week asking me to pre-check a few things. One of them was my menu preferences on the flight back from the UK. The meal choices offered were very British in two different ways.  The first option was for "Fillet of British beef".  How appropriate, given that one of the many French nicknames (and/or insults) for the Brits is "Les Rosbifs" (i.e. "The Roast Beefs")  The other was "Chicken Tikka Massala" which was possibly invented in Glasgow by derivation from more "authentic" Indian cuisine.  I view Indian cuisine (or at least a good section thereof) as part of the repertoire of British cuisine to the point that several years ago I gave my sister a copy of " 50 Great Curries of India" by Camellia Panjabi with the dedication "If you are going to marry a Brit, you should know how to cook the national dish."  This was a mild distortion of the truth as Mark is from Jersey and not from Great Britain, but one which I think both Alice and Mark accepted in good humour. ;-)

And to think, in a week, I will be on a train heading for Scotland.

* For the last week or so, it has been fairly hot and humid here in Montreal. In fact, I am almost looking forwards to the cool of the Highlands. Note to self: check the projected weather forecasts for Scotland.

On planning for my trip to Scotland and thoughts resulting from it

Well, I have done the bulk of the organising, planning and above all booking for my trip to the North of Scotland. This held a variety of surprises and frustrations. Margo will doubtless think I over prepared out of worry and wimpiness  ;-) and I agree with her to an extent but not so far as actually changing my plans! For one thing, there were a fair number of places I couldn't stay as there was no room at the B&B and the hotels were an arm and a leg. (One of the latter's website seemed to indicate that salmon fishing rights were included in the price! Grandpa might have liked that, but Granny would have shuddered at the price.) The worst bit for this is on the Northern stretch of the West Coast of the mainland between Ullapool and Cape Wrath. I was unable to find suitable accommodation, so instead I will travel inland via Lairg. Actually, this route will be somewhat shorter and definitely flatter. It also uses part of the  National Cycle Network's Route 1 and is also the recommended route in the Lonely Planet's Cycling Britain version of Land's End to John O'Groats (hereafter referred to as "LE JOG").  The Highlands of Scotland is no place to be caught without a dry bed for the night and if it is this hard to find beds now, imagine what it would be like in August.

Where will I be? South Uist, Benbecula, North Uist, Skye, Lewis and Harris, Ullapool, Lairg, Kyle of Tongue, Thurso, the Orkneys and John O'Groats not to mention various points in between. The penultimate destination has been on my wish list for nearly twenty years if I am not mistaken. More precisely, Skara Brae. If my memory is correct, in September 1996, while flying back from a historical research trip to Edinburgh on a British Airways 747, I saw a tourism documentary about Scotland (which I thought would have been better if shown on a flight going to the UK) which mentioned it. The neolithic site sounded fascinating and stuck in my memory as something worth seeing. While I have been to Scotland three times since (two of them documented in this blog), I was never close enough to be able to go. So this time, I have made a point to include Skara Brae (and Orkney) in the itinerary of the present trip.

ScotRail, like all British railway companies in my experience, has a very welcoming bicycle policy by Canadian standards. (Sorry Via Rail, but you could learn a lot from the Brits.) Bicycles can be taken on all trains free of charge, up the space limitations. Obviously, this varies from service to service, and on some services, the company recommends making a bike reservation. This is all very well, except that you can't make a bike reservation online unlike some other train companies. So I have had to make a couple of phone calls to the U.K. in order to book both my self and Leonardo, on various Highland train services. The one that particularly stressed me was from Thurso to Inverness as there are "only" four services a day and given that Thurso is the end of the line for LE JOG cyclists, I was worried that it might be saturated by returning cyclists in the same way that it is hard to find a bike box in St John's, NL in August. In the end, it all worked out and both Leonardo and myself have tickets on the particular train I wanted to be on.

The 1996 trip to Scotland came up a different way this weekend as just before that trip, I had bought an oversized (XXXL) T-Shirt to sleep in. It has been used of and on ever since and probably on three continents. As it's use is seasonal, it has survived. However, I noticed this weekend that it had worn through in some places and given it's age, it is now destined for the rag shelf. Today, I set out on a quest to find a replacement which was oddly difficult. However, having found a replacement, I was returning along the Lachine Canal where I stopped for a mid-afternoon pint at the Terrasse St-Ambroise. As today was a hot, sunny, Sunday, it was packed with people, mostly cyclists, many of the MAMIL subspecies. I was struck by how much this:

 resembled this. Life imitating art.

On what people do for fun....in the rain

On the 29th of May, Pappy, Mummy (despite her left arm being in a cast due to colliding with another cyclist going around a 90 degree blind corner), Annie S. and myself went in the Défi Métropolitain which this year took in the Greater Mirabel Area, including Kanesatake and Oka. The forecast had been for hot and muggy weather, so I made sure Mummy had Gatorade in her only water bottle. Quite frankly it was a dodgy day for weather which began with light rain, followed by heavy rain, followed by gradual clearing and intense sunshine. Net result: Sun burn as I took too long before applying sunscreen. My performance was substandard to me. In fact, nearing the end of the day, I stopped at an intersection to consult my map. An encadreuse was directing cyclists as it was a junction point between various routes for various distances. As a surprising number of cyclists in the Défis are relatively clueless, she took it upon herself to inform me that one route was no longer being supervised (though I could use it) whilst the other one, the shorter one was.  I took this as a sign and opted for the shorter route. Net result: 5 hours, 9 minutes and 51 seconds of cycling, 117.01 km covered at an average rate of 22.6 km/h with a maximum speed of 54.6 km/h.

Last Sunday was the Tour de l'Île. As I did last year, I participated as a volunteer mobile bike mechanic, a.k.a. a Bénévélo Méchano. This means I do the regular 50 km Tour de l'Île on closed streets rather than the 60 or 100 km which takes place mostly on regular streets and bike paths. This is very much to my liking as on the years I did the longer Tour de l'Île's I found that it was taking me to places I had already been to which weren't terribly interesting compared to the neighbourhoods the regular version visited. Also, I missed the pleasure of the closed-off streets.

On the other hand, the Parents are less blasé about Montreal bike paths. Also, Mummy has issues with sharing closed-off streets with hordes of cyclists. I wonder if she needs a refresher-type course about how to ride safely. I seem to recall Margo talking about having taking a such a course after she broke her collar bone.

Anyway, I set off early to the start to pick up my T-shirt, spare inner tubes, lunch and those of my friend Jean-Philippe at Parc Lafontaine, before riding to Jean-Philippe's for breakfast in company of Marie-France (his significant other), Chloé (their daughter) and Maxime (Jean-Philippe's nephew).  Chloé was born very prematurely, and while she has had two birthdays (if I have it right), she is still too small to go along on the Tour de l'Île, even in a bike trailer.  Anyway, J.-P., Maxime and I went to the start on Parc Avenue and waited by the side for our start time.

 At the start there were some people dressed as pro-cyclists with only the handlebars of bikes and fake calves and thighs. This inspired me to clown around with my pump as if it were warrior's weapon.

 Our pumps were out as many participants don't have pumps at home and so come to the Tour with under inflated tires. We are only too happy to inflate them at the start partly as it keeps us busy and partly because it means they won't have a problem later. As I was under-employed, I got involved in the clowns' joke and offered to inflate their non-existent tires! One of them accepted and as J.-P. filmed me on his cellphone, he got me to "inflate" his oversized calves! 

 It started to sprinkle as we started and after turning onto Pine Avenue, we stopped to put on rain jackets. I was surprised by Marie-France carrying Chloé in a backwrap. I guess she and J.-P. had arranged for her to be there.

As I was going down Berri in the left hand lane, a woman wiped out in the right hand lane. I stopped and went across traffic to see if I could help out. As it turned out, a first-aid Bénévélo was already on the scene, so my assistance was mainly to direct traffic away from the accident. After a few minutes, my services were no longer needed. As I rode down, I came across another accident only a few hundred meters further down on the other side of the lane! I attribute the cause of both accidents to potholes and speed generated by the downhills. At the corner of de Maisonneuve, I assisted some pedestrians across Berri, then just beyond, I saw an ambulance crew at work. The person they were assisting wasn't a cyclist. To be honest, he had the look of a bum. However, his neck was in a brace so he might have sustained potential injury being struck by or dodging a cyclist.

The Tour went over the Jacques Cartier Bridge this year. I wasn't impressed by the number of people pushing their bikes up it, nor with the one stopping on the edge of the relatively narrow space. There were better ways of handling the situation. Over the course of the day, I had to ask a number of cyclists who had stopped to find better locations to wait. I really think Vélo-Québec can do a better job of educating cyclists about how to behave.

Longueil was pretty much a disappointment as the route had evidently been chosen to avoid annoying suburban residents rather than giving cyclists nice places to see. The roads were mostly through industrial parks, including the Pratt & Whitney plant where they make such things as PT6 turboprop engines.

Somewhere in there, I was asked by an East Asian couple to adjust her seat as it was clearly too low. While I did the job, it came out that her bike had been bought the day before at Canadian Tire. As I worked, I told them about getting the seat adjusted by an expert when I bought my touring bike. This did not reassure them. I tried to explain the nuances of macro adjustment such as what I was doing, versus micro adjustment by an expert. I don't think they really understood, but I saw them about 20 kms later doing fine, so I think I helped them. While I was working for the Asian lady, a "stationary" volunteer asked if I would tighten the seat on his bike!

The rain was picking up, so at the Longueil Campus of the Unversité de Sherbrooke, I stopped under a building overhang to don full rain gear (pants, spats and gloves). Going back across the bridge, I came across a medical-issue case being attended to motorcycle riding assistance. I don't know if it was a fall or other medical issue that caused the intervention.

Once back on the Island of Montreal, I stopped for chocolate milk. Around that time, it really began to pour. The Tour headed East to the Olympic Stadium where I stopped under its eves to eat lunch. By this time, I was starting to offer "survival" type advice, as in "don't be ashamed to stop or ask for help". While the rain was relatively warm and there wasn't much wind, I was getting a bit concerned for the well-being of the less-well equipped members of the public. In fact, just after lunch, I had a longish discussion with some participants about how much further it was. This was made trickier by the fact that I had left my map at home! Thankfully, I have a pretty good map memory, and was able to tell them that from that point, the route was more or less heading back to the start. I felt this was a good time for people to decide to opt out as we were within bowshot of the Metro.

A few kilometers further on, I stopped to inquire of some inquire of some African-Canadian cyclists if they need help as they were busy examining the tire of one of their bikes. As it turned out, it was deflated. They were a bit hesitant about asking for help even though I explained more than once that it was my job to help them! The hub skewer was secured with a pentagonal Allen bolt. I wasn't sure if I could take it off, but they asked me to just re-inflate the tire, which I did.  A few kilometers further on, I found them again dealing with the same tire issue.  I decided it was time to change the inner tube and managed to unfasten the skewer using a vice grip I had tossed into my backpack at the last minute.  I tried to diplomatically suggest to them that they should ride with a pentagonal Allen key. It then came out that the bike was a rental. I replaced the Schrader valved inner tube (which had been badly installed) with a Presta valved one (as that was what I had). They were very grateful and insisted on taking a picture with me.

Rain began to alternate between deceptive lulls and windy monsoon-type downpours. I was very glad to reach the end so I could head home to a hot bath and some single-malt. I felt I had earned it. As I turned into my street, I saw Pappy putting bikes on the back of the car. He and Mummy had got there a few minutes earlier.

I was a bit surprised they didn't take advantage of my shower before heading off to North Hatley. However, as this meant I could have a bath right away, I didn't argue the point. More fools, they.

Actually, more fools the lot of us as the last two Vélo-Québec events have had less than enjoyable weather. There is a third event on Saturday and the forecast isn't looking great. If it doesn't improve, I am half-tempted to give the Défi de Lanaudière a pass.

On the first true biking of the season and why it is so late.

Winter hung on hard in Montreal this year, or so it feels.  Non-trivial amounts of snow have fallen this month, including 10 or 15 cm of snow on the 5th which contributed to a car accident I was ear-witness to. I had just crossed the street from the Metro station coming home from work late, when I heard a loud crunch behind me. I turned to see that a car had hit a light pole at the intersection I had just crossed. I ran back about 50 feet to lend any assistance I could. There was a black car with a schmucked grill against the post and beige one at an odd angle.  The driver of the black car got out holding his left forearm in his right hand. He was in a state of shock likely both from the impact and emotional distress of seeing his car which I gathered from his anguished wails was his pride and joy.  (It was a B-Class Mercedes and he didn't look all that rich.) I didn't witness anything useful though I gathered he had swerved to avoid the beige car and ended up hitting the lamppost. At least two other passers-by called 911 as some others and myself tried to calm and comfort him. As the event took place within sight of a firestation, the firemen where the first to arrive. Heck, if they had walked they would have arrived more quickly owing to the road geometry.  Thankfully, the driver of the black car was the only person requiring medical attention. Even then, I suspect that shock was the major issue.  After the police arrived, I gave my statement to the effect that I had only heard the accident and that I felt the driver was in a state of shock and was given the okay to leave.

Getting to the point of this post, I had dropped Floria die Fleddermoose off at my usual bikeshop on the 2nd and only got her back this morning.  Even then, as I rode off, I realised I had forgotten to bring my lock with me so my first excursion involved a detour back home to get it.  One of the things, the shop did was to put on some new bar tape, which I must admit had been needed. However, I had already had some tape at home that I was intending to put on myself.  Then again, I hadn't mentionned this to the people at the bike shop. Actually, to be honest, I had forgotten about that project during the winter. I only remembered when I saw the brand new bar tape. Anyway, I biked around Downtown shopping for birthday presents for the Agéd Parental Units, some of them have biking uses.  After returning home, I dozed and then biked to James' for a barbecued supper with his family and various guests.

On coincidences of March cyclists

Chris (or Margo) wrote the following comment to my previous post:
 
"There are quite a few cyclists about in the slushy streets of Oslo in early March. Some are commuters; others are delivering takeaway in special back packs or strapped to carriers. One such outfit is called "Foodora", the name being a combo of "food" in English and "dora" which means "door" in Norwegian. And in the bike department of sports shops there are rows of studded tires for sale.  We are spoiled wimps in Vancouver!"

Therefore, when I walked out of the Alexis Nihon Plaza, I was surprised to this this bicycle attached to a traffic sign that I have often patronized in a like manner.

As you may observe, Foodora is also in Montreal as well as Oslo. Furthermore, it still isn't proper biking weather in Montreal. At least by my "wimpy" standards, e.g. there can`t be snow on the ground.