Moor to Sea

Plans were hatched in February to ride the full Moor to Sea route inspired by a Gravel sportive  which we couldn't make. April would be balmy and we would cruise the North York Moors under sunny skies. Fast forward to late April and we were sitting on the M62 in gridlock, the temperature according to Volkswagen a measly 5 degrees C. It was early, it was bound to get warmer later in the day, wasn't it?

A late arrival in Pickering and we headed off down the main road towards Scarborough, fortunately we soon left the lorries and sales reps to their missions turning off to loop round and up into Dalby Forest. An old unsurfaced road led up into the forest where we ignored the twin temptations of the red route and the Bike Barn. Forest tracks led up and round to the north end of Dalby where we followed minor lanes to Fylingdales Moor.  There was no sign of the massive satellite dishes that are a major feature of the moor, instead a thick coat of damp cloud hugged the moors obscuring our path over the moor. It felt cold up here and flakes of snow started to fall as we rolled along the wide stony track, we were all thinking the same thought; "I hope I don't puncture up here". Someone had a twisted sense of humour as within minutes we were huddled at the side of the trail removing a wheel and installing a new tube in a snowstorm. Everything seems to take longer in the cold and we were all cooling down rapidly. The snow was fat and damp, typical UK snow - no use for skiing, just designed to make you very cold, very quickly.

Puncture sorted and we rode on, shivering now with blood beating a hasty retreat to core organs leaving hands and feet numb. What had started out as a casual day ride was in danger of turning into a Mountain Rescue call out, none of us were dressed for a day of below zero temperatures and snow; sunny intervals and eight degrees C had been forecast. The snow covered track led down a steep hill into a wooded valley, I was now thinking that the only way this could get worse was if I fell off and ripped my clothes. I attempted to feather the brakes with my numb hands as useless as a pair of spoons and somehow I made it down the hill past a car park whilst considering escape options.

I set off up the hill on the far side of the valley to hear a shout, I looked over my shoulder to see Saul heading towards a coach parked up in the car park. I turned round and free wheeled down as the coach door opened and Saul, Tom and Andrew climbed up into the coach. I joined them in the coach, quickly shedding sodden gloved, coat and helmet in an attempt to warm up. We hung around on the coach for more than thirty minutes desperately seeking common ground in our conversation with the driver. After all we might have to get off if the chat died!
Blood slowly returned to our extremities and eventually we needed to get going again. Thanking the coach driver who had saved us from exposure and hypothermia we unenthusiastically donned soggy gloves, got back on the bikes and pedalled up the hill.

A few miles later and I glimpsed the distinctive silhouette of Whitby Abbey on a cliff several miles away, not far now until lunch I thought. I pulled over to the side of the road at the top of the next climb to wait for my fellow riders. Several minutes later and no-one had showed up so I rode back to find Tom with a snapped chain, fortunately he had a spare link and we were moving again within ten minutes. The route now detoured off on a five mile loop into Whitby but we decided to cut this section of the route out as we were now an hour or so behind schedule. We headed right instead, down to the steep terminus of Robin Hoods Bay. As always the village was bustling with tourists, we sought out veggie friendly fare initially in a chippy but settling on a pie shop perched high over the stream running through the village. This was not up there with our brightest plans for lunch, the food was fine but setting off up the steep hill out of the village was not, cafe stops should not be followed by 20% gradient hills.

The next twenty miles followed an old railway line to Scarborough, undulating gently along the cliff top this gorse lined corridor which had once witnessed steam trains full of seaside day trippers soon had us rolling into the town where we stopped for a play at the pump track. After all, you're never to old to ride a pump track, are you?

The easy section was over and we climbed out of Scarborough back up towards the moors. A particularly muddy section saw me going over the bars, the slick Panaracer tyres on my Cannondale Slate defeated by their nemesis: off camber mud. We briefly followed the route the Tour de Yorkshire would take a couple of days later, locals were busy hanging out bunting and yellow bicycles once again adorned hedgerows and front gardens. A couple of steep hills later and we were once again on top of the moorland and rolling into the top end of Dalby Forest. From here we rolled downhill and retraced our tyre tracks into Pickering, grateful to have made it back without emergency.

Hebridean Trailer tour

In May 2016 I was part of a group of four who toured the Outer Hebrides on hardtail mountain bikes towing BOB trailers, this is an account of that trip.

Day 1

Lefty and BOB at Oban ferry terminal

After a long journey north by van I was relieved to be setting sail from Oban on the Cal Mac ferry to Barra, the town had been hectic with Friday afternoon traffic and the tranquility of Barra seemed a world away. Steaming out past Tobermory and into the Minch the seas built to a good swell in the strong wind and the ship listed to port. As it corkscrewed through the waves I wondered whether we'd find a pile of cars and campervans below decks on arrival.
Every few waves a plume of spray would billow up and over the bow of the ferry washing the salty residue of an earlier rough crossing from the lounge portholes. Those passengers who were brave enough to attempt to walk round the ship staggered like the dregs emerging from a Stornoway nightspot. Through the spray we saw stunning views of the islands of Rhum, Eigg and Muck which slowly gave way to the classic vista of the Black Cuilin from Loch Scavaig. Eventually we spied the rugged hills of Barra and Vatersay emerging over the horizon, the ship rounded a headland and we entered the sheltered harbour of Castlebay on the east side of Barra with its castle keeping watch over the haven. We disembarked to the former herring port and headed north west to our camp site into a stiff headwind.

After a meal at the Castlebay Hotel a few hours later we rode south to the Isle of Vatersay and were rewarded by a sunset reminiscent of the closing scene from the horror film The Wickerman. The fat burning solar ball absorbed without trace into the Atlantic as we crossed the causeway onto the island. As the sky turned from orange to blue, purple and finally darkest blue we speculated on the distance to the next landfall heading west; Newfoundland.

Barra Airport

 

Day 2

An early start to catch our first ferry from Barra, unfortunately our schedule proved optimistic as it turned out that twenty minutes was not long enough to break camp. It wasn't a big deal, a later ferry would be fine and we now had time to explore north Barra. A meander through dune lined lanes led over a moor to the airport, the only one in the rock ramp led  from the road to the beach and we rode across the runway to the terminal building. Not a soul to be seen at the terminal but the sun was making its presence felt so a lie down in the dunes to listen to the birdsong and drink in the tranquility was a luxury not often enjoyed whilst out on the bike. A spin up to the northerly end of the road and it was time to board the ferry to Eriskay. We shared the busy ferry with three football teams and several cars full of shrubs headed for a church plant sale. On disembarking we lugged our trailers up the climb out of the port and past the brightly painted sheds and houses of Eriskay to descend to a long causeway marking the approach to South Uist. After a cafe stop to refuel on coffee and carrot cake at the south end of the island we ventured on to the Machair Trail, a sandy track weaving close the the beach up the west side of the island.

Heading north into a stiff headwind we alternated between admiring the white sandy beaches stretching on for miles to our left and the hills to our right. After a few miles we strayed on to the beach and rode just beyond the reach of the incoming waves. Eventually the beach gave way to stone and rock so it was time to head back inland on to the Machair trail. Pushing our bikes up through the dunes we noticed a sheep lying on its back, initially it seemed dead but a waving leg suggested otherwise. The sheep had a hoof stuck in the fence, it seemed weak and could have been stuck for several days. I grabbed the stuck hoof, fortunately the wire hadn't cut the hoof or leg and I prised the wire out and put the sheep on its feet. It wasn't happy, nostrils foaming and unable to balance we fed it some water and left it hoping it would rest and recover. 

The next few miles were slow going, deep sand sucked the energy from our cranks, trailers digging in and making subtle changes in direction near impossible. The Machair gave way to grass, gravel and on reaching tarmac it was like the brakes had been taken off, we rolled free again.

The head wind and missed early ferry had put us behind schedule so we slogged out a few more miles on the main road and called it a day in the village of Linaclate at the south end of Benbecula. 

Day 3

A day of tarmac; we spun away putting in steady miles northward to the hum of a rumbling bearing on one of the BOB trailers. Benbecula gave way to North Uist by way of several boulder lined causeways. North Uist was unremarkable bar the abandoned cars and houses which were had been  a persistent theme of the southernmost Outer Hebrides. The scrap industry was literally dead and buried in a shallow grave out here.

A singletrack road across the centre of the island climbed past piles of cut peat to the dizzying height of forty two metres only to descend down through a valley where birders stood with large lenses hoping to catch a glimpse of the golden eagle that had been spotted earlier in the day. More single track road and a causeway led north east to the ferry terminal on Berneray but not before we'd stopped to fix a mechanical problem on an electric bike which was in danger of ruining a couple's touring holiday

The ferry to Harris passed beautiful islands as it felt its way through the notoriously difficult sound of Harris but my fellow riders were all asleep after a quayside lunch of bread and hummous. Harris was big and rugged after the flatlands of The southern islands. The sight of mountains with their heads in the clouds was most welcome as was the wide sandy beach where we joined the kite surfers playing on the beach. Finding out way off the beach was tougher and required a push up through the dunes and across a field to teach the main road. Further up the loch we turned off this road onto a track which summited a pass to drop through a quarry and back to the road. We were nearly there, a few more miles past past smoking chimneys and we arrived at our hostel looking out over the Minch.

Harris estuary

Quarry on Harris

Golden sand on Harris

Day 4

Monday dawned and breakfast was had in the reflection of the sun shimmering over the Minch. Soon after we headed off to Tarbert by way of a path that occasionally disappeared only to reappear a hundred metres later. We stocked up on essential provisions in Tarbert as there weren't any shops or cafes on today's route; I chose oatcakes, smoked salmon, hummous and chocolate, others opted for pittas, chocolate bars and Muller rice. A brief pull up out of Tarbert and we set off up the Postman's Walk. This was the only route over land to the hamlet of Rhenigeadal until the locals finally got their own road in 1989. The climb to the top of the hill was technical at times but gave no warning of the descent that would face us. Two puncture repairs later and we rolled off over the top down to the classic zig-zagging descent that this route was notorious for, at times it seemed unfeasible that it was impossible to get round the tight, technical switch backs but when you did get one right it was a fantastic feeling. Brake levers were frantically feathered in the quest for grip whilst gravity sucked us down the steep grassy lower slopes to the rocky beach.

A quick tot up confirmed we'd all made it although a couple of tyres had sustained cuts on the way down. A brief carry up and we were happily contouring along the steep sided cliff towards Rhenigeadal.
    
Out of the valley and some road miles were put in to reach the second trail of the day, a long Land Rover track leading up a valley to a pass where I was surprised by an enormous bird of prey taking off to circle overhead. Dark brown wings with a patch of golden feathers, this was a golden eagle - one of the rarest native birds in the UK and a real privilege to experience in this landscape. A fast stony descent and long slog of a grassy climb took us up to the 1150 feet from where we descended rapidly to a long track leading down the Glen past the hide were visitors waited patiently for a golden eagle to pass. 
One last trail finishing with a fast grassy descent and lochside path capped the day of nicely; 6886 feet of climbing over 48 miles.

Day 5

The day started bright but rain was forecast so we were eager get started. Andrew and I had booked sea kayaks for an hour before we would head off to catch the Uig ferry. Out on the sea loch we paddled out into the swell in search of wildlife; we found very little until I heard a snorting sound behind me and turned to see the nostrils, whiskers and eyes of a seal grabbing a breath before diving again for fish. We saw very little else bar some terns and gulls, it was time to get the ferry anyway so we landed the kayaks and pedalled off to Uig just as the rain started to come down. By the time we landed in Uig rain had set in and the ride from Uig to Sligachan via the Quirang was no fun at all, the road to Portree stretched on as far as we could see whilst the mountains his under a thick misty cloak. Eventually we reached Portree where some hot food lifted spirits for the final few miles. As we neared Sligachan The thick scent of gorse bloom welcomed us to the Cuillin, the rain stopped and there was even a patch of blue sky over the Red Peak. Balance restored, I looked forward to sampling a couple of peaty drams at the Sligachan Hotel.
 
 

Day 6

Rain on the tent woke me at 4, I turned over and drifted off again. It was still raining at 5 so I cancelled my 6.15am alarm, intended for an early morning ride in the direction of the Cuillin, I didn't fancy getting wetter than necessary and the trail would be hard going in the rain. The thirty  miles to the ferry were wet and fast, we averaged nearly seventeen mph towing the trailers and were at Armadale in good time for the Mallaig sailing. The last section into Armadale was pure sensory delight, the scent of broom in bloom, gorse, wild garlic and bluebells a real treat. The Mallaig crossing was quick and once in the town we found some lunch at a chippy, the haggis and chips tasted good; more so eaten in the fresh air on Mallaig platform watching the steam special manoeuvring around in the station. The sun emerged and we basked in welcome rays.
      
Tents pitched and trailers parked at a campsite near Arisaig, I headed off with Saul to ride the singletrack from Morar to Tarbet on the shores of loch Nevis. A fast road start led up the west shore of Loch Morar to the start of the trail, initially it meandered lochside through oak woodland, bracken fronds under the trees and verdant grass seeking light under the virgin oak leaves. The trail soon took a left turn up over a minor headland, sharp boulders and tight turns made this a technical challenge and our speed dropped off as we dismounted to get past the toughest sections. Technical sections alternated with faster sweeping grassy parts where speed could be picked up. Eventually we arrived at a large white house on the shores of Loch Morar where we headed left up and over a small pass on a Land Rover track to the hamlet of Tarbet. I spent 10 minutes repairing the tyre I'd ripped on the descent into Tarbet whilst chatting to a farmer. Disappointingly Knoydart remained elusive under cloud across the bay to the north so we spun back up the hill and down to return on the lochside singletrack. Happily the trail flowed much better in this direction, seemingly impossible rocky sections were rolled clean and boots were rarely dabbed. In no time we arrived back at the campsite to get cleaned up for tea, 

Day 7

Today's weather was forecast to be wet from mid morning so we were keen to get going towards Strontian. Some farm tracks near Arisaig made a welcome change from busy roads and we were soon donning full waterproofs and heading towards Gleneig on Loch Ailort. The rain became heavy and we were all pleased to stop at a cafe in Acharacle after 30 miles. The remaining 12 miles to Strontian were undulating and occasionally not unlike being in the midst of an Atlantic storm at sea, such was the strength of the south easterly headwind. Soon enough though we arrived at the campsite where I lit a fire in the communal area's wood burner and relaxed  for the rest of the afternoon. Some days it's good to do nothing.

Day 8

Rain on the fly sheet of the tent woke me again at 4 and by 4.45am I was getting up to ride the last leg of our trip down to Fishnish for the Oban ferry. An easy spin through Strontian and round the head of Loch Sunart led to a tough 850 ft climb from the side of the loch over a pass and eventually down to the Fishnish ferry terminal. We saw more deer on this 20 mile section of road over the moors south through Ardnamurchan than we had during the entire rest of the week; it had been worth the early start. As we dropped down from the high moor the scenery changed from peat moorland to lush woodland, rhododendron, broom and flowering gorse. After ninety minutes we arrived at Fishnish for the first ferry of the day, the second was another short crossing into Oban where we returned to the van and celebrated the end of a great week on the bikes. 

Gear used

• Cannondale F29er Lefty bike
• BOB Ibex single wheel trailer
• MSR Hubba Hubba 2 man tent
• Trangia stove
• OMM waterproofs