An account of a cycle trip through Scotland.
(September 6-11, 1997)
Click here for a (very approximate) map of our trip - it's the
fat red line!
Rest your mouse over the photos to see their description.
Arriving in Carlisle on Saturday morning, Andy is still shaking his
head at my not having swapped my 'chunky' tyres for thin ones.
Nevertheless, with the cycle computer on 3617, we set off from outside the
train station with wheels and minds humming.
Past the castle and over the river, we leave the city behind us as we head into the surrounding farmland. It soon starts drizzling and Andy dons his waterproof; I have to borrow his spare, as, well-prepared to the last, I have not brought one. The rain is not too bad though, and we make excellent progress through the country lanes before taking a huge dogleg through Longtown in order to avoid the busy motorway. I remember eating some chips here on the way to visit a friend who had moved in to the nearby Buddhist monastery; he is about to become a monk. Outside Longtown, Andy points at the innocuous-looking Army base and tells me that it is a storage depot for nuclear weapons.
Soon we approach Gretna and stop for a cheesy photo by the 'Scotland
Welcomes You' sign at the roadside. 
A few hundred yards over the border, the 'Old Smithy', where English
elopers were traditionally married, now plays host to scores of
scone-scoffing tourists. There is even a spanking new tour bus with
Hungarian number plates. On the way out of the village, a sign announces
that the old post office shop, which looks far more genuine than the
smithy, is holding a closing-down sale, unable to compete with the new
supermarket.
We crack on towards Annan, Andy remarking how the proportion of ugly pebble-dashing on houses seems to increase dramatically as soon as you cross the Scottish border. At one point, the route takes us right down onto the windswept beach, and I come a cropper down the side of a muddy sand dune; Andy is a little way ahead and I don't tell him of my fall. Just offshore, a tangled maze of wire indicates a salmon farm.
Annan is a surprisingly busy market town. Deciding to stop for lunch, we buy some cheese slices and bread buns from a supermarket. Sitting outside to eat them, we observe the monument in the town square, covered in tributes to Princess Diana, whose funeral took place just a couple of hours ago; passers-by stop and reflect in front of the pile of flowers. I wonder whether the same scenes would be taking place in the staunchly nationalist north and north-west of Scotland.
We set off again into the drizzle. As usual, I have brought far too much luggage in my panniers, including a full set of camera equipment and tripod; I am starting to feel the 60km we have come. My handlebars have also started creaking irritatingly, and halfway to Dumfries Andy helps me to tighten the bar grip. We pass a couple of interesting-looking castles but Andy says we should keep going. This minor disagreement leads to a discussion about the way that we have our cycle computers set up: his is running continually, whereas mine stops when we halt. I opine that this indicates different attitudes to cycle touring: his average will drop whenever we stop, thus discouraging breaks, whereas my system allows for a more relaxed attitude. Andy is not convinced.
Further on, the tiny hamlet of Ruthwell boasts the site of the first National Savings bank, the brainchild of a 19th-century resident. It is closed but we have the feeling we haven't missed much...
Dumfries is the regional capital, and we have to dodge through some heavy rush-hour traffic to reach an acquaintance's house in the town centre. Unfortunately, he is not in, and, as time is getting on, we decide not to wait; I later find out that he had completely forgotten about our visit.
Outside Dumfries, we pass a stinking chemical works next to a row of workers' cottages. I remark to Andy that nothing would make me live in them. A car full of shouting youths overtakes us, honking, on a bend. I give them a two-fingered salute, and then think better of it; luckily, we turn off onto a tiny lane just after the bend.
Several miles further on, we pass through our second Longtown of the day. After 6 hours on the road, I am starting to flag, and my knee is giving me some gyp (I damaged it the previous weekend when I did my final training ride, 180km in a day, also on my chunky tyres!). But Andy, resourceful as ever, whips out a bar of chocolate-covered Kendal Mint Cake and I am suddenly Superman! We press on to take advantage of the rush of energy while it lasts, and, in the gathering dusk, finally reach our destination, the interestingly-named Haugh of Urr. We struggle up the last hill of the day to get to our guesthouse.
By this point our minds have stopped humming but our armpits have taken up the task. Two quick showers later, we head down for a pub meal over a deep philosophical discussion about the state of society. A few beers later, we merrily ride back up the hill. Andy goes to watch the recorded coverage of Diana's funeral but I am not interested and crash out, asleep almost instantly.
The next morning we leave the 'official' and break off onto the
'alternate' route which we will follow for most of the day. Getting an
early start on the circuitous route towards Loch Ken, we arrive there
after a couple of hours. But tragedy! Our cycle map shows an old railway
bridge across the lake with the words 'Route requires to cross Loch Ken.
Permission to use route under negotiation - please do not jeopardise these
negotiations'; we had taken this to mean that we should merely be
sensitive when crossing the bridge, but the high locked gate tells its own
story. The long thin shape of Loch Ken means that the 100 metres across
the bridge will take us 40 km if we have to go all the way round instead.
Sod that for a lark! We have just started lowering our bikes down the side
of the bridge and then hauling them up the ramparts on the other side of
the gate when a second tragedy strikes, as a Land Rover crawls across the
bridge from the other side! The woman in it, who turned out to be one of
those owning the bridge, had not seen us but was crossing by sheer bad
luck at the same time as us.....
Our piteous begging fails to move her, and we are forced to bring our
bikes back before she comes through the gate, relocks it behind her and
drives off. But do her dire warnings deter us? Not a bit, and 10 minutes
later we are crossing the rickety viaduct, peering cautiously around us
for gamekeepers with blunderbusses. A couple of fisherman drift by in a
rowing-boat, looking surprised to see us.
We now start a long off-road section through the Forest of Galloway, although it turns out to be fairly easy dirt road rather than the track we had been expecting. Eventually the road comes out near a large hydroelectric dam fed by crystal-clear streams, incongruous in their concrete channels amongst the heather. We consider riding along the top of the dam but can't be bothered,and turn onto a 2-metre-wide road, tarmaced, incredibly, for several km through the forest, which is just starting to turn to the colours of autumn. The tarmac ends near an outdoor centre and a wide track curves upwards just as it starts to drizzle. The next hour is something of a struggle into the wind, but Andy, twice as fit as me, is not troubled. At least there is some compensation in the view of remote Loch Dee's chiaroscuroed surface under the scudding rainclouds.
Eventually the track starts descending and we break off onto a steep muddy path through dense forest, slithering over tree roots and trying not to topple into the stream that borders the path. We stop to eat the lunch that our B&B prepared for us - the cheese and pickle doorsteps are very welcome!
Pressing on, we reach a roadhead at Loch Trool and look forward to the long descent to the tourist centre. Of course, we should have known that it wouldn't be that easy, and we sweat up a series of very short but incredibly steep rises just past the impressive stone turrets of Glen Trool Lodge. Eventually we reach the tourist centre and are surprised to find the cafe open. Sipping a hot chocolate, we read the displays on the wall, proudly detailing the battles that took place near here centuries ago, when Robert the Bruce's motley band of warriors routed a vastly superior English army. When paying for our drinks we try to speak like Scots, but the owner is not fooled, possibly because we ordered them in English accents.
The road climbs steadily northwards from here and gradually shrinks to a
meandering single lane, despite being a 'through' route. We pass a quarry
truck and Andy clambers onto its massive tyres, King of the Castlepillar.
I am getting pretty exhausted by now, and I envy Andy's 3 kg of gear on
his bike; I have a good 4 times that much, and resolve that, one way or
another, I won't be lugging so much tomorrow.
Eventually we reach the end of the hills (or so I hope) and speed down a long switchback route into a chequered fieldy valley. But more hills await and another hour over wild moortops lies between us and the final descent into Maybole, passing a huge stone monument on an outcrop on the outskirts of the town. We reach our accomodation in an impressive townhouse and I collapse onto the bed, completely shagged afer 115 km.
After 40 winks, I lounge around and watch a bit of TV, catching half an hour of a fascinating documentary aerial trip around the Orkneys; I had never realised quite how long the history of those islands was, and wonder whether I will be able to snatch a couple of days there from Inverness. But I put it to the back of my mind, as we are still at least 400km from the end of our journey... Our landlady is very friendly and Andy and I chat about her marathon trophies which line the shelves; she still does the Isle of Arran half-marathon every year.
In the evening we wander down into town; Maybole is no great shakes but pleasant enough. Andy checks in with his missus while I wait outside the phone box. After a pub meal and a couple of beers we head back and crash out.
Following through my resolution, I package up half my gear and post it on to Inverness (another £10 down the Swannee) before we leave Maybole. On the way out, we see the local 'castle' in the centre of town, and have a good laugh because even it has not escaped pebble-dashing.
We head northwards to Ayr, the 25km run remarkable only for ye olde
'London 400 miles' marker we pass outside an abandoned garage. Ayr seems
like a pleasant enough place as we trundle along the seafront, a wide
empty beach and choppy leaden sea separating us from the Isle of Arran
looming a few k's offshore. We dog-leg round the busy city centre and
pause for a photo on a lovely old cobbled bridge.
The next 10km are on fairly busy roads past Prestwick Airport, whose terminal is incongruously less than 100m from the beach. I amuse myself by imagining the unlikely spectacle of fat American tourists in Bermuda shorts streaming out of the airport straight onto the sand, as we pass Ardrossan, the ferry port for Arran. We parallel a railway line, and I decide that I should try and get up to Arran with my bike one day.
Further along, Troon tourist information office take the best part of an hour to confirm that the Renfrew ferry is running; this will save us a 15km diversion through central Glasgow (which would probably have taken less than an hour). We grab some mediocre pastries from a bakery and press on.
The roads get narrower and narrower until finally we switch onto a cycle path which our map assures us runs all the way to central Glasgow, some 40km distant. It was clearly once a railway and is quite smooth; we are soon maintaining 40 kph. Andy gets a couple of action shots of yours truly as we ride.
We turn off the cycle path into the small grey town of Lochwinnoch to find somewhere for a late lunch, but are dismayed to see only a minimarket and a 'greasy spoon'. Andy goes for a scout around while I wait on the corner; after a few minutes he returns and points out that I am standing outside a coffee-shop! Shaking our heads, we enter to find a great little café/art gallery; marvellous landscape photographs by a local man watch us as we stuff our faces on several rounds of homemade soup and chocolate cake. Luverley!
Regretfully quitting this peaceful oasis, we press on into increasingly greyer and industrialised landscapes. The cycle path becomes tarmaced and we whizz northwards, pausing only by some multicoloured abstract sculptures. We leave the path (and the map) in Paisley and, after getting briefly lost, follow our noses through busy rush-hour traffic and across a badly-buckled bridge to the Renfrew ferry, which is just pulling in as we arrive. We chat to the friendly ferryman and a local teacher (also on a bike) on the 60-second crossing of the River Clyde.
Picking up the cycle route on the north side of the Clyde, we cycle through drab industrial estates and shopping centres in Clydebank, Glasgow's western suburb; eventually these give way to pleasanter canals, whose towpaths we follow under the Erskine Bridge, towering at least 100m above our heads. A marina full of yachts flashing in the late afternoon sun appears around a bend, and we are in a different, more open world as we approach the river's estuary. Dumbarton is the gateway to the Atlantic, surveyed by a castle breathtakingly perched on a sheer outcrop near the harbour; we admire it from a distance but do not stop.
The last leg of the day's journey takes us up along the River Leven towards Loch Lomond; we are flagging as our destination approaches, but stop briefly by a bunch of ragged flowers tied to a railing and imagine what tragedy must have taken place in the rapids below. I later find out that in fact a local girl was murdered on this spot.
At long last we roll into Balloch (a one-horse town if ever there was one) and find our B&B, which has some trouble accomodating our bikes; eventually we have to put them in the tiny garden shed, standing on their back wheels. We dine at a nearby Indian restaurant and retire early as is now our custom.
The B&B was pretty poor compared to the previous two, but then I was too knackered to notice. We start the day's exertions in glorious sunshine, with a great view of the southern end of Loch Lomond. The route starts curving eastwards towards Drymen through low hills and meadows, including some good downhills. A diversion through a forest gets us slightly lost, and we pass a surreal red Chinese-style pagoda just off the road- maybe we're more lost than we think. Eventually we roll into Aberfoyle and stop on a bench for a drink, watching a coach disgorge its cargo of elderly tourists to totter down the main street; despite the blinding sunshine, there is already a nip in the air and I imagine that Scotland's short tourist season will soon be drawing to a close. I spot the first long-distance cyclist we have seen on the whole route, but he seems a bit surly when I try talking to him. We never see him, or indeed any other cycle tourist, again.
Aberfoyle is right at the base of the famous Trossachs, and we are soon
struggling up wide forestry tracks to the summit. Or some of us are
struggling. Never mind, a long descent awaits on the other side, and,
whizzing along, I enjoy the views of remote forests and lakes during the
smooth sections of track where my eyes are not jiggling out of their
sockets. We stop for a couple of minutes and photos at a viewpoint, beyond
which the track rises and falls in steep curves for several km before
rejoining the road; hitting a pothole, my water bottle jumps out of its
cage, and it is fully 100m before I can come to a stop to go back and
retrieve it.
We cycle the next few km through beautiful scenery along Loch Venachar and go through some more woods (my trip distance breaking the 400km mark!), before arriving in Callander, where Andy stops to collect some clean clothes he had sent on ahead. I am pretty tired, and, noticing a tour coach from Newcastle, consider bribing the driver to take me home. A busking bagpiper's wails compete with the chatter of throngs of tourists as we have a late lunch in a café and discuss whether to stop at Killin, 40 km away, or press on to Kenmore, 60 km away. Our decision is made for us when we can only contact a B&B in the latter, and we dally no longer in Callander as time is getting on.
Lunch has revived me somewhat and I perk up for the next couple of hours. A smooth ex-railway heads up into the distance, the sun burning out of a blue sky. We parallel Loch Lubnaig but, despite my protestations, turn off the route and onto the main road at Strathtyre to avoid a 5-km dog-leg past Rob Roy's grave. The next 15km are on the busy main road but we just stick our heads down and keep pedalling uphill, past the spectacular Glenogle railway viaduct clinging to the mountainside above us.
Reaching the top of the incline, we leave the main road to take a
diversion through a forestry plantation, but get lost and end up cycling
up and down over hillocks covered in mud and thick heather. Quite fun
actually - and the run down a steep gravel track into Killin is well worth
it!
Killin is a great little place, but I am flagging so we stop at the
hotel for a swift pint to rejuvenate the spirits (or dull the
saddle-soreness, depending how you look at it). I scramble over the rocks
to take some photos of the rocky rapids by the bridge, glinting in the
bright low-angle sun. We pop into the tourist office and kick ourselves
when they tell us that the Glenogle viaduct actually carries a cycle path!
We set off on the last leg of the day along Loch Tay. High up on the
remote eastern side of the lake, we can look down on the busy A-road
traffic on the other side; there is barely one car every 5 minutes over
here, so I try some action photography, cycling hands-free behind Andy as
we whizz down a hill. 
As the sun starts dropping fast, I decide to stop for a bit, and Andy
cycles on. I sit on a rock and take in the view of the sun on the lake,
reflecting through the masses of dandelions. It is very quiet. Sadly, the
sun disappears behind a mountain before it goes red, so I start off after
15 minutes' halt. It seems strange to be cycling alone now, even for a few
km. I turn a corner and a flock of pheasant scatter noisily into the
hedges. Passing Acharn Outdoor Centre, I stop in the gathering dusk to
look at the lake again, smooth as glass, but it is getting cold so I keep
going into Kenmore.
In Kenmore (population about 100) I spend 15 minutes trying to find our
guesthouse, getting some odd looks when I ask passers-by for the Old
Police Station. I marvel at how people all over the world are incapable of
giving directions in their own neighbourhood, but then I suppose that they
use different names for things, or don't use names at all. I eventually
find the guesthouse, having gone past it 3 times, and greet Andy who is
freshly showered and looking much better than my stinking state.
After my own shower we walk up the road to the caravan park for a meal, scorning the 4-star hotel restaurant (well, actually it was for guests only). Afterwards we have a couple of beers in a peculiar pub behind the hotel; rough-looking local people mix with a few German backpackers in the stone-floored, high-ceilinged single room that looks like it was once a barn. Dogs yap and snarl as the locals play cards, and we plan the next day's route before heading off to bed.
We leave Kenmore and the official route once again, having decided to cut out the next 50 km which follow an A-road through boring tourist towns. We marvel that the route organisers have not thought of the diversion we have designed, which seems an infinitely better choice. Andy has not of course told me of the half-dozen large hills on the road, but even so I am glad we branched out as I look at the spectacular rolling scenery. A sign in a field warns of the dangers of deer on the road, and there! A red buck with classic antlers peers at us warily from over a rise. I am distressed to find that the field is part of a deer farm and wonder if this is why the buck was wary of humans. Eventually we arrive in Tummel Bridge, and I am mystified by a huge cubical cream sandstone building until I hear the whirring inside and realise that it is a hydroelectric power station, apparently one of the first in Britain. Andy tells me how Queen Victoria adored this area, often travelling over from her country estate at Balmoral, some 100 km to the north-east.
After a short stop, we crack on to the tiny settlement of Trinafour, over another couple of semi-vertical hills. It too has a hydro power station, although we are at a loss as to who will be using the power in this mostly empty valley. Then a garage rescue truck passes us, emblazoned with its home-base of Trinafour. What next- a brass band? I consider the possibility that there is a secret underground city below the moors.
We break off onto one of the many surviving sections of General Wade's Military Road, named after the Englishman who laid these arrow-straight tracks for the English Army's use in subduing rebellious Scots. I have difficulty imagining a huge army travelling this narrow thread, but it is tarmaced and after crossing high moors for several km, we rejoin the A-road and the official route. Not for long!
We don't bother turning onto the major road (20km of thundering container
trucks to the next town), but instead cross it and take off onto
an 'alternate route' between some huge forbidding dark-brown patches - on
the map that is! But the track winds upwards quite slowly, while all
around us appear our first Grampian peaks. Crossing a small stream, we
stop for some photos performing various childish poses on the wooden
bridge. After an hour we come upon Sronphadruig Lodge, and peer into the
obviously disused but not yet tumbledown building and outhouses. I idly
consider starting up an outdoor centre and hostel for walkers. Just past
the Lodge we ride up a bank to find a huge loch with spectacular sheer
screes on the far side; the track narrows to a muddy path which forces
occasional dismounts. We pause for some chocolate and consider a swim in
the lake, but in the end just enjoy the remote view and pure silence
until a cyclist on a day trip passes, coming the other way. We press on
after a brief chat. Suddenly I hear a strange noise behind me but before I
can turn my head a screaming grey fighter plane blurs past barely 50m
above our heads. So much for the silence!
We run out of lake soon afterwards, as the path widens to a track again. Gaick Lodge appears, this time well-kept and with a car in front of it. On cue, the tarmac appears and we start a long 10km descent on the tiny twisting route. A shooting party is silhouetted on the skyline above their parked Land Rovers; the pops echo along the valley. Andy and I seriously consider letting the air out of their tyres but fear we may end up on the wrong end of a shotgun.
We know we are approaching the road again when we pass some pebble-dashed houses amongst the trees, and indeed turn onto it a couple of k's later at Tromie Bridge. Once more, we are on the quiet road to the east of the main highway, and over the next 15km we see very little sign of civilisation; on our left there is nothing but the swamps of Strathspey. Amazingly, a public bus (which must be something of a rarity in these parts) is carefully crossing the narrow stone bridge at Feshiebridge and we have to clear our bikes off the road to let it pass.
At long last, we turn onto the highway and roll into Aviemore, Scotland's premier ski resort; the ski shops look bizzare in the late-summer-afternoon haze. Andy remembers a place he has stayed before and we are surprised to find it still has vacancies; in fact, the landlady puts us up in a plush 'family room' for the normal price.
After showering, we wander down Aviemore's main street, busy in the falling dusk. We drop in on a nice little bike shop, housed in what must have once been someone's garden shed but none the worse for it. The Aussie assistant is very friendly and helps us plan our way out of town the next morning. I buy a new bottle cage as one of mine snapped earlier in the day. Andy tries to book his bike on the train back from Inverness to Newcastle but the trains he wanted are fully booked for bikes. Cursing, he decides to take his luck when we arrive in Inverness.
Finding a pub, we have a good meal as we disgustedly discuss the way that there are only 3 bikes allowed per train in Britain, a poor showing compared to Continental countries, especially as most guards' compartments go half-empty - we've seen them! We finish up with a few beers at the Winking Owl, apparently heaving in the ski season but just comfortable at this time of year.
We have a relatively leisurely start (10:00) the next day, as we have left ourselves only 60km for the last day. The thought of an easy day helps alleviate some of my severe saddle-soreness as I climb aboard my trusty silver steed for the last time.
We leave town northwards on another dotted 'alternate' route, but end up having to climb over fences and through prickly hedges as there is little sign of a path. Eventually we come to a forest track which winds past eerily bare, dessicated trees. Another turn brings us to an isolated cottage which must be one of the most surreal sights I have ever seen, its garden full of shop-window dummies in odd poses and dressed in period costumes, and garishly coloured playground rides blinding against the drab trees. The scene is a bit scary; I wonder whether I am hallucinating, half-expecting the Mad Hatter to suddenly pop out of a burrow. Luckily, the sight of a stile with a sign saying 'Boat of Garten' reminds me that this is still the real world.
A couple of k's more and we arrive in the latter village, whose only claim
to fame is the terminus of a tourist steam-train line from Aviemore. We
down a quick orange juice in the shop and press on to Carrbridge,
whose crumbling eponymous bridge makes up in steepness of its arch what it
lacks in length. I want a photo of myself and my bike on the top, but
chicken out when I see the 'dangerous bridge' sign, and content myself
with getting Andy to shoot me halfway up it instead.
At this point we split up, as I have not managed to convince Andy to
divert eastwards to Cawdor Castle, and he heads off up the official route.
I fortify myself with a couple of pastries from the Spar shop (awarded
'Best Spar service in Scotland 1994') and turn east. After a couple of k's
of B-road I turn northwards again onto a long, straight road across
desolate, exhilarating moorland. It is fully 20 km before I see a house,
and only 4 cars pass me in that hour. I come to a crossroads and guess left, then head towards Cawdor, crossing the romantically-named Dulsie Bridge (apparently a haunt of star-crossed lovers in days gone by).
Cawdor Castle is my first and only 'tourist' sight on the whole trip, and I enjoy an hour's wander round the stately home, reputed to be featured in Shakespeare's "MacBeth". There are some old bone-shaker bikes in the kitchen, and I thanks my lucky stars I'm not travelling on one of them! The hidden trapdoor, leading to a dungeon with no exit, is also pretty cool!
I press on for the last 20 km or so into Inverness, passing an amazing red stone railway viaduct, and pausing briefly at the Culloden battlefield site, where Bonnie Prince Charlie's men were slaughtered by the English; the purple heather and tiny gravestones are very affecting under a grey leaden sky.
Traffic lights! Cashpoints! Marks and Spencer! I haven't seen such signs of civilisation for 6 days, and it's amazing how little I've missed them. After getting embarrassingly lost, I roll down to our B&B and meet up with Andy again - he has been in Inverness for several hours and had a good nap, lucky sod. I check my cycle computer and find it on 4285 (that's a 668 km trip, maths buffs!). We have a look round the town and go for our last meal together. It's a bit sad to be at the end of the trip, but we have a good banter anyway, and though we disagree about the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, we enjoy our beer anyway...
I barely stir as the alarm goes off at 6:00 am. Andy staggers out of bed and sets off for the station to try and catch the first train south, hoping it will have room for his bike. He doesn't return, so I assume he has made it.
I enjoy an unusually leisurely breakfast in the B&B, though I get some strange glances from the other guests, who are mostly lovey-dovey couples. I get the feeling that my cycle shorts don't fit in, so I check out and head for the Student Hostel, which is a great spot overlooking the river. I settle in to enjoy a couple of days relaxation - after a trip like that, my weary body needs a holiday!
Why not e-mail me with your own comments?
You can also visit the new Cycle 'n' Sleep website.
If you have come to this page via a direct link, why not visit my full website?