On a dawdling day

Today was also a designated rest day with only 40 klicks on the card, getting ready for tomorrow's 100 km push to Inverness. As 40 km is nothing of a distance, I dawdled over breakfast chatting with a German cyclist, then rolled on to Kyleakin where I strolled over to the ruins of Castle Moil and perused an otter based museum partly in memory of Gavin Maxwell, author of Ring of Bright Water.

I then walked Leonardo over the Skye Bridge. I tried writing a parody version of the Skye Boat song, of the name the Skye Bridge Song as the locals are still miffed about the way the bridge tolls and related matters. My efforts were hampered by my lack of knowledge of the original lyrics.

I visited the railway museum in Kyle of Lochlash before having a lunch of cold smoked salmon and salad.

Next came a visit to Eilean Donan, a 1920's folly castle/hunting lodge built on the foundations of a castle last used by the Spanish(!) in 1719 during Jacobite unrest and subsequently blown up by the Royal Navy by the captain of HMS Entreprise. This castle has been featured in many second-rate big-budget movies, including Elisabeth the Golden Age, The World is Not Enough and the wretched Braveheart. The place is actually very interesting, though in truth, it represents wealth at an excessive level. It reminds me of a private castle in Spain that Margo, Chris and I had a peak at courtesy of its maintenance man. When Margo asked who owned it, the man shrugged, smiled and rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the symbol of money.

Through some rain, I continued up Loch Duich passing a deer and then stopping to photograph some shaggy and impressively horned feral goats that were grazing on the shoreline next to some penned llamas.

The hostel tonight is in Ratagan, a hamlet of no great significance to my knowledge but great beauty. The name is the same as that voiced by Vincent Price in "The Great Mouse Detective". Price is said to have enjoyed the role immensely, though this probably part promotional hoopla.

On a dodgy tire

I got up early yesterday and successfully caught the early ferry to Kinloach. After I paid for my ticket, I realised I'd forgotten to return my hostel room key. As the hostel was only a stone's throw from the ferry terminal in Tobermory, I asked one of the ferry employees if he would be so kind as to hand it back after the return trip. He accepted readily.

The road out of Kinloach was a long climb punctuated by working Land Rovers belonging to the Ardnancham Estates with border collies in the back. A few times, a pair of them heading in opposite directions would stop at a passing place for a confab. I was reminded of a passage from one of the Wingfield plays which described the situation as meaning "the meeting is called to order." There was also a considerable herd of red deer stags, along the wild and woolly road. (Yes, there were also sheep.)

A number of the hamlets along the single track road seemed to surrounded by deer proof fencing and deer grates. I wonder if North Hatley might benefit from this idea. ;-)

A little after Salen, I had a flat on my rear tire. Investigating the cause, I noticed there was a tear or near tear in the side wall quite close to the bead and approximately at the location of the hole in the inner tube. This is the same tire that gave me grief in Australia, and one I suspect has manufacturing issues, as the front one hasn't given me any problems. I put a tire boot over the problem area and put I a new inner tube. This seemed to work in that I didn't have another flat but going down a hill, I could feel Leonardo wasn't rolling as smoothly as he should. In short, I lost confidence in that tire.

I rolled on a bit gingerly in sunshine so warm I stripped to bike shorts and a short sleeved jersey. I stopped for a lunch of cullen skink in Glenuig where a couple of cyclists had the same idea. We chatted a fair bit, before they left ahead of me. Once I finished my smoked haddock and potato soup, I rolled on beside the gorgeous Loch Ailort.

On account of the dodgy tire, I contemplated catching a train to Mallaig from Polnish. So I looked in at an unstaffed station. As I would have had to wait a couple of hours, I gave it a miss. Besides, I'd just joined the A830 which has recently been done up a treat thanks to EU funds.

Beside the road was a cairn marking the spot from whence Bonnie Prince Charlie hightailed it off to France. Grandpa was of the opinion that BPC was a bloody fool. Having studied Scottish history, I am inclined to agree. You can call me a Whig.

Mallaig is fairly compact so finding my hostel should have been easier. However it wasn't. I think they should look into advertising.

More predictably but also annoyingly, Mallaig didn't have a bike shop. A little Interneting revealed a bike hire place that did repairs in Broadford on Skye and proper bike shops in Fort William.  Today was supposed to be a rest day with only a ferry boat ride to Skye and a 16 mile ride to Broadford. Looking into ferry and train schedules, I worked out I would able to take train to Fort William, buy a tire and get back to Mallaig in time for a ferry to Skye.

Owing to issues with ScotRail's bike policies, I left Leonardo and several bags in Mallaig before catching the train on the utterly spectacular West Highland Line. I chatted most of the way with a Glaswegian cyclist on his way home.

In Fort William, began my search at the handy Alpine Bikes store. Unfortunately, they are mostly mostly concerned with mountain bikes and were sold out of tires of a suitable size. They pointed me in the direction of Nevis Cycles a mile or so up the road. As time was a trifle short, I phoned ahead to confirm the presence of tires, then caught a cab. The chap at shop had anticipated my arrival and had a suitable tire out for my perusal. It met my specifications with ease so after buying it and a replacement inner tube, I made my way back to the train station and caught the train back to Mallaig.

I gathered up Leonardo and my bags before heading to the ferry terminal where I could find open space to make the tire swap. When I examined the old tire, having removed the tire boot, I found that there was a distinct hole very near the bead. I therefore very glad I now have a new tire.

I took the ferry to Armadale. Some twit in a Peugeot estate wagon left their alarm on. The motion of the ferry kept setting it off. Had I a brick, I'd have heaved it into his windshield.

The road to Broadford took me up over some windswept moors. The old road ran along side the current one. A man was road skiing along accompanied by a black dog.

As I neared to Broadford, I saw the lights of a police car and a police officer in a high-viz vest standing in the road. Thankfully, all it was was that there was a car commercial being filmed (possibly for Porsche) and the road was being temporarily closed off. After less time than it took to pull on my soft shell jacket, it was over and I could ride on to Broadford.

On wild and woolly roads

I had planned to catch the first ferry to Mull this morning but ended up missing it by about 3 minutes. This meant I had to wait more than an hour for the next one.

While waiting, I watched a shore excursion landing from a small cruise ship in Zodiacs. A little while later, I was mistaken for a crew member on account of my high-viz vest. This is the third time this trip this sort of mistake has been made. The second was when some thought I was a postman on account of the colours of my panniers.

I stopped for a light lunch of a cheese toastie and scone at a B&B cum restaurant in Pennyghael. While I ate, I saw a middle-aged couple arrive on sturdy touring bikes. Something about their appearance made me think they were Dutch. They came in to the small dining room and asked if I minded if they joined me at the only table (of two) that had empty chairs. I invited them to join me. As it turned out, they were Dutch and were near the end of an island hopping trip. As they had come the way I was planning on going, I asked them about the road to Tobermory. They said it was beautiful but that she had lost her bike computer along the way. I offered to keep an eye out for it and she typed in her email address into my iPhone.

he route was extremely beautiful going over a craggy pass, followed by a twisty, open descent that led to a section jammed between Loch Na Keal and the cliffs forming the base of Ben More. The single track road had little traffic but lots of sheep. These needed to be approached with a certain caution lest they panic and run over a cliff and fall into the sea!

It was a wild and wooly road. It was also quite beautiful.

On Iona

I caught the early CalMac ferry to Mull, Craignure if you wish to be precise. This involved getting at 6:30 in the morning and having breakfast on the ferry. It was cloudy with patches of rain as I started along the single track road to Fionphart. I made poor time between stops for traffic and to change in and out of raingear. Coming out of a pass, there was a rainbow. As I tried to zoom in with my digital camera, I found the zoom wasn't working. Blast.

On the plus side, the rainbow was the start of some gorgeous weather. Lots of sun.

"Foreign" cars aren't allow on Iona. Consequently, I was the fastest thing on Iona's  one paved road. This was a welcome reversal of the normal situation, only spoilt by the fact that some of the tourists could be a little slow on the uptake about what a bike bell ringing meant.

I made my way to the hostel at the northern end of the island where I stashed most of my panniers and went to visit the abbey founded by Saint Columba in about 513 or so. I need to check my dates but people have been talking about the " anniversary". The celtic abbey itself did not survive the Vikings (and neither did a significant number of monks some of whom were slaughtered in the nearby Martyrs' Bay.) The extant building is an early 20th century restoration of 14th century Augustinian abbey.

There is, alas, precious little to connect with Celtic church aside from some ornate stone crosses. The most interesting of these fell over several times in the 20th century alone and is now indoors with a reproduction outdoors. The modern carvers reproduced the considerable erosion on the cross. This has a logic but I would have liked to see an attempt to show what it would have looked like when it was when it was new.

I also visited the ruins of a 12th century nunnery and a cow pasture cum golf course. As I was leaving said course through a farm gate I saw a truck heading my way so I opened the gate fully to let it through much to the driver's gratitude.

On an error in map reading and its consequences

One of Murphy's laws of warfare is that battles tend to take place at night, in the rain at the junction of two or more maps. There is a similar rule in cycling, though I can't formulate right now. Certainly, it applied the day I left Arran for Campbeltown.

My main source of information for distances in Scotland were pages cut from a map book. As luck would have it, the road from Clonaig to Campbeltown was on two different pages and consequently hard to read. However, it was clear that the distance was 13 miles as it was so marked on both pages.

 

There were two female cyclists on the ferry, locals if I remember correctly. When we were landing, we had to time our crossings to avoids the waves breaking across the ramp. These waves were part of the same wind that had prevented John from giving me a lift from Arran.

After a short ride from the ferry, I came to the "main" road to Campbeltown which had a cheerful sign saying "Campbeltown 27 miles".  With a sinking heart I re-checked my maps only to find that the "13 miles" on both pages had been the distances between Clonaig and Carradale and then Carradale to Campbeltown! 

I rang John and Helen to let them know I would be late. They offered to give me a lift which I declined at that time.

I rode down the single track "B" road to Campbeltown making poor time owing any number of factors. There was a contrary wind which blew in rain in fits and starts which lead me to stop too many times to get don or doff rain gear. As well, the road twisted in and out of groves of trees and little valleys making it hard to predict on-coming traffic. 

By the time I got to Carradale, I'd had enough and rang John to ask if I might take him up on the offer of a lift. I found some shelter in the lee of a post office and pulled on another layer of wool while I waited. I was not a happy camper, but I was very glad when John and Helen arrived in their covered pickup truck.

On Arran

Arran is a popular place to bike if I am any judge, based on the evidence. To begin with, there were a pair of other cyclists on the boat train to Ardrossan from Glasgow. They were of the spandex or MAMIL (middle aged men in Lycra) variety with next to nothing in the way of gear. At the ferry terminal, they joined another group of MAMILs. There was also a couple on what appeared to be a folding tandem. They came across as day tourers.

The ferry made its journey with out incident. Midway across, it passed a sister ferry going the other way. Evidently, the run merits two ships. Incidentally, bikes travel for free on Caledonian MacBrayne. On the ferry, I snaffled a map of Arran which had advice for cyclists on it as well as advice to drivers which include how to deal with cyclists. One particular pointer is that drivers should refrain from honking at cyclists unless truly necessary (i.e. the cyclist is doing something stupid). *glares at the paternal unit*

There is an unusually strong food branding on Arran with numerous products being labelled "Arran this" or "Arran that". In no particular order, I have consumed Arran beer, cheese, ice cream, mustard, oatcakes and whiskey. The first experience of the latter was on the ferry where free samples were being offered of the Arran distillery's ten year old. I am afraid I can't recommend it. Among other things, it lacks the complexities of my beloved Springbank as well as tasting a tad of raw spirit.

As the day was young, I thought I would go to Lochranza the long way round. I stopped for lunch in Whiting Bay where I discovered that my decision was based on the dodgy conclusion that I would be able get past the construction South of Blackwaterfoot. As I backtracked, I found that the experience was different due to the change in direction. I therefore adopted the rule that all other factors being equal, if I have to ride a section of my route more than once, then I should try to ride it in the opposite direction if possible. 

After leaving Brodick for the second time, I rode beside the sea for several miles before I came across a Norse longship about to head out to sea. Seriously. There was a reproduction of Norse longship, or a least a knarr which was being prepared to be towed down the coast were it would be picked up by the Discovery Channel in order to be used in the filming of some documentary or other. I learnt this as I stopped to photograph the scene. The preparations seemed somewhat haphazard so I made the comment that they weren't going to get to L'Anse-Aux-Meadows at that rate! ;-)  I chatted for a while as preparations were made. The boat had a carved head which as per Norse tradition was detachable. At the request of the Discovery channel, the head was left behind as presumably, they had their own heads.

The road to Lochranza then took me over a dramatic and beautifully wild pass with high crags across the valley. I dropped into Lochranza's valley and rolled down past the Arran Distillery to the youth hostel. As the reception would only open in more than an hour, I rode back to the distillery to see if a tour was possible. I was in luck, I am afraid that the distillery is far too young to be interesting. In fact, if it were a human, it wouldn't be allowed to drink in the United States! The tour included both a dram of its 14 year old whisky which wasn't that much better than the 10 year old from the ferry and a dram of the cream liqueur derived from the whisky which was very good. I suggested they use it as an ice cream flavor.

Back at the youth hostel, I was assigned a room with two other cyclists. One was a neophyte who was in awe of the other who was 78 and had recently ridden 160 miles in a day that ended somewhere on Islay! That is 160 hilly miles. To put this in perspective, on my best day of biking I only covered 230 kms which translates into 143 miles and those were flat miles with the benefit of a strong tailwind.

 

I rang John in Campbeltown to enquire as to whether he could give me a lift on his yacht as the possibility had been offered previously. Owning to contrary wind and weather, as well as a malfunctioning engine, the answer was no.

That night, I had supper in the Lochranza Hotel. There was a contingent of yachtsmen from Southern England who were up for some sort of charity yachting event. They were enjoying many a pint and I asked who was the designated rower!

The next morning, I pored over my maps to work out the day's cycling. I opted for a loop around the Northern half of Arran that would take me back over the pass to Brodick and then over another pass to the West Coast of Arran along which I would return to Lochranza where I would retrieve cachéd saddle bags and catch the ferry to Cloanaig on Kintyre from where I would ride the 13 miles which separated it with Campbeltown.

As I left the youth hostel, the elder cyclist was also setting out and was grumbling about the midges. I offered him the use of my Canadian bug dope which he readily accepted.

A little before Brodick, I stopped at a folk museum to learn more about the history of Arran. I then did some shopping for the some of the local food. I also popped into a store selling outdoor equipment to see if there was anything of interest to me. I don't believe I bought anything there, but I was interested to see that products for care of waterproof clothing were displayed quite prominently. Evidently, there was a considerable market for them! 

Lunch seemed to take an inordinately long time. Partly for this reason, I narrowly missed the sailing of the ferry I had planned to take to Kintyre. I had to wait about an hour before it returned.

On the Caledonian Sleeper

I am no longer as agile as I once was. (I should probably invest some time and energy in flexibility exercises.) Consequently, I had booked a lower berth sleeper ticket. I boarded the train relatively early and proceeded to get ready for bed as the compartment was quite small, and doubtless be even smaller once the possible compartment mate showed up. In the event, he only appeared shortly before the train pulled out and then only to sign some piece of paper and to announce he had secured another compartment and therefore I had mine myself.

The train left the station in one direction and proceeded in for unknown time like this as I sought the best position under the duvet. It came to a long stop possibly to divide the train into Glasgow and Edinburgh sections. My section started moving in the other direction than it had.

I fell into a relatively fitful sleep. In the midst of a particularly strange dream which featured a knocking radiator, I was awoken by the train "host" (i.e. porter) who informed me we were an hour out of Glasgow and gave me my coffee and shortbread.

I dressed for biking and packed my panniers, taking great care to search the compartment for any misplaced items. The last time I took a sleeper to Glasgow, I lost my hat.