When The Juju Isn't Good

You know how some people are superstitious? Well I'm not one of them. Don't walk under ladders? Well duh, there's a higher probability that something above will fall on you, and that's if you don't knock the ladder over. All that stuff about bad luck running in three's? A couple of bad things happen and you'll look for the third, it's known as confirmation bias. So if something bad happens I try not to let it phase me, I don't start looking for more bad stuff and I definitely don't use it as an excuse to dodge a 24 hour bike ride. Good, I'm glad we got that straight.

Where's all this going then?

Big rides take lots of preparation so they tend to get pencilled in early in the year and the last weekend in June had been picked long ago to ride the GT24. The GT24 is a point to point ride from the Riverside Museum on Glasgow dockside to South Kessock slipway near Inverness via the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way. Approximately 170 miles and around 17000 feet of ascent, a big day out by anyone's standards. I planned to ride it with my riding partner Saul who was up for the challenge. The week beforehand was spent laying out and packing equipment, getting to grips with a new GPS and preparing bikes.

All set at Glasgow riverside

A Friday night post work dash by van up to Glasgow saw Saul and I installed in a Premier Inn at Milngavie for an early start on Saturday. Unfortunately Saul had caught the wheel arch of his van on a neighbour's car at home before we left on Friday night but our thoughts were on the challenge ahead of us, no time to dwell on a minor scrape to the van. Saturday morning arrived and we discovered a flat tyre on the van, not the end of the world, just a minor inconvenience. Changing the wheel delayed us by thirty minutes but we were still riding by 8.30am, I did remark to Saul "let's hope these things don't come in threes".

Group selfie. We were photobombed

Ride progress from the dockside to Milngavie was initially slow, the surprisingly scenic route followed cycle ways through a wooded valleys where locals were being instructed as part of some sort of boot camp course. The path split often as our route wound its way from the Clyde towards the hills so frequent maps checks were required as we did our best to stay on course.

From Milngavie we were able to use the GPS and we were soon clear of Glasgow, riding in the sunshine alongside a lochan flanked by rhododendron bushes in bloom towards the distant highlands. The views were great, it was warm and so far the going had been good, a disused railway, minor roads and forest tracks led towards Conic Hill on the shores of Loch Lomond. This was the first proper climb of the day and the path was busy with walkers and runners so upward progress was often interrupted. The terrain became trickier here as well, big rock steps prevented the trail from being washed away and made the ascent more challenging, we hadn't yet met any other riders and I was glad that I wasn't on my gravel bike with its skinnier tyres and minimal suspension.

Mount Conic

We stopped at the top of Conic Hill to admire the view over Loch Lomond whilst I attempted to sort out the indexing on my gears, it had become really poor over the last few miles and I couldn't work out why. We did the best we could and it seemed ok without me on the bike. Time for a big descent down to the Loch, the rock steps need restraint if we were to stay puncture free and avoid delays. There were too many walkers about anyway to pick up much speed, many of whom seeming slightly incredulous as we rode down the rocky steps towards the forested shoreline of the Loch.  I had moved right off the steps onto the grass when I saw Saul go over his handlebars and land on the steps before bouncing to a halt off two more granite steps. I winced, but he got up, straightened his handlebars and looked to be about to ride on before thinking better of it. I ditched my bike and crossed the steps to check he was ok. A moment was needed to work out the damage. With adrenaline coursing through veins it was often a few minutes before all injuries were reckoned. Saul's helmet had fortunately protected his head but he felt nauseous and had double vision which suggested that his injuries were more serious than we initially thought. 

The walkers we had passed further up the hill slowly came past and I took in the view whilst Saul waited for his vision to settle. After fifteen minutes or so he was clear to continue however steps were walked and progress was much steadier. We carried the bikes over a narrow gate from the steep grassy hill and descended into a pretty pine woodland on the shores of the Loch. I could tell from the pace that Saul wasn't right and we stopped in a loch side car park were Ibuprofin was administered. Another twenty minutes passed and it was becoming obvious that a change of plan was needed, he agreed that he wasn't in any condition to be riding further today. Whilst an ambulance wasn't required I needed to get his van so I set off back to Glasgow. 

Five miles later and an unfamiliar grating sound from the rear of the bike was starting to worry me. It sounded like carbon fibre on carbon fibre and the back end of the bike felt vague. The chain was also jumping off every time I stood up to pedal and I was starting to get irritated with these mechanical problems. I stopped and tried to work out what was going on. Problem number one was a slow puncture which I pumped up and hoped that the tubeless tyre sealant would seal. The rear mech looked to be badly aligned and I was confused about why this was, the bike had been fine only forty miles ago and it wasn't like I had fallen off or hit the rear mech in the meantime. Regardless, I had a van to fetch so I pressed on as the chorus of mechanical destruction grew louder with every revolution. Of course the tyre went soft again and after a few more miles I was forced to stop and install an inner tube. It was only when I removed the wheel that I noticed the rear cassette was loose on the freewheel. Mental cogs whirred and realised that the freewheel condition was terminal, if I went easy on it I might make it to the Clyde, jump up and down on it and I would have no chance. Inner tube installed and I chose a route following the busy A81 into Glasgow. The bike was now changing gear twice a pedal stroke which was frustrating but I focused on getting the van and ignored the cacophony from the back of the bike. 

The high rise flats of north Glasgow eventually came into view followed by the river Clyde snaking its way towards the wide open spaces of Argyll and Bute. Downhill to the riverside and I arrived at the van which was quickly packed up so I could head back to Lock Lomond for Saul.

I reflected back on the day's problems, in many ways it was good that I'd turned back when I did or we'd have been in a much less accessible spot on the isolated east shore of Lock Lomond when mechanical disaster struck. Accidents happen off road and without their threat what we do would be much less exciting. We'd both ride another day, but maybe I'd be carrying a horseshoe next time.

Day of the Roses: 231 Sunny ones

Big mile day dreams blossomed though the early days of June as notions of a home - west coast - east coast - home via the dales in a day evolved into a main road dodging route. Having plugged options into Google maps it turned out that my plans were optimistic, there was no way I was going to ride 340 miles on Sunday and be back in a fit state for work in Monday. I was keen to ride the "Way of the Roses" Sustrans route partly because following a way marked route would make navigation much simpler but also because it would be an interesting and picturesque route through the Dales.

Sunday dawn arrived early, the dog was desperate to be let out so I was up earlier than intended at 4.30am, a bucket of muesli and some toast set me up for the first few miles. Unfortunately it was a false start as I had to return home after the first mile when I remembered that I hadn't oiled my chain, there was no way I was riding 200+ miles with a dry squeaky chain.

The start of a big ride is always filled with apprehension, will I puncture? What will break? Do I have enough food? Am I riding too fast? Too slow? What if??? It fades soon enough, and spinning up the Calder Valley at 6am on a Sunday morning all I saw were shift workers, taxis and lost souls in the grey murk.

Bright patches emerged through the the cloud as I descended into Cliviger and by the time I reached the ornate buildings of Padiham town centre I had the sun on my back. I followed familiar roads to Lancaster, this was a popular audaxing route and the miles passed quickly through the scenic Trough of Bowland. Spinning past fresh hedgerows on quiet lanes the gentle whirring of freshly oiled gears was only interrupted by the calls of lambs, skylarks and the occasional curlew.

Zen-ness was shattered as I rode into Lancaster, past the old prison and the Ashton memorial, over the river Lune and out to Morecambe. White van man was alive and full of useful insights on the main road here, apparently roads aren't for bicycles. A useful dose of adrenaline had me speeding towards the end of the road. Morecambe-on-the-mud was passable in the bright sunlight, I reckoned it would be pretty depressing on a damp, grey January day. Bingo, tired cafes, and mobility specialists added to the impression of a seaside town on the wane.

A couple of photos at the sea front and I was off on the Way of the Roses, navigation back in Lancaster was complicated by the number of cycle routes on the riverside path but the quality of the traffic free paths was excellent, a world apart from the paths in Huddersfield.

From Lancaster I rolled alongside the riverside on a tree lined former railway line to the Crook of Lune where several pannier laden touring bikes were leant against a wooden shed from which coffee was being served. A couple of brief climbs on a narrow lane flanked by wide open fields led up the Lune valley to Hornby. From here it was more narrow undulating lanes bypassing Bentham and eventually dropping into Clapham, right to Austwick and Settle where sustenance was sought. I stopped in the centre at Ye Olde Naked Man cafe for freshly made pastries and a sandwich.
The cloudless sky meant it was now 22 degrees C, hardly hot but more than warm enough on the climbs. I sat outside the cafe to eat an egg roll only to be joined by some chain smoking bikers dissecting the morning's overtaking manoeuvres and the latest offerings from the 'big 4' in Japan, it sounded dull but then gear ratios and carbon bling probably had equally minimal appeal to the passer-by and I'd spent plenty of time discussing their minutiae. A sportive was passing through the centre of Settle and watching the stragglers provided some entertainment, their route took them up the steepest hill out of Settle, a hill that I was soon grinding up with a bunch of riders who'd run out of energy. They zig-zagged to and fro up the hill in their granny gears denying the reality of the gradient.  I was rewarded by a croissant from my back pocket on the following descent as I free wheeled down lanes lined with butter cups and cow parsley in bloom.  This was the best of the Dales, bypassing Grassington and through Appletreewick where I stopped to have a chat with Mick Collins who was enjoying a pint in the sun, it wasn't the first time I'd bumped into Mick miles from home, last time it was on the finish line for Battle on the Beach at Pembrey. Tempted as I was to have a pint I was only half way and I wanted to get home before dark so I rode off up the lane towards Stump Cross caverns and climbed to the highest point of the ride at Greenhowe. There were copious warnings about the descent to Pateley Bridge in the route description, yes it was a tad knarly in places but I was paced by a BMW 1200GS motorcycle so speed through the tight, chipping littered bends was limited anyway. I stopped for a coffee in Pateley Bridge, I needed to check the map and fancied sitting in the shade for twenty minutes after the the climbs of the last thirty miles. I was served in the cafe by a guy in his 50's wearing a Saxon T shirt whilst his wife berated him across the courtyard where I was sitting. Too old to Rock n' Roll, too young to die...

From Pateley Bridge I climbed to Brimham rocks which were busy with day trippers, this was the last proper climb of the day and from here it was downhill all the way to Ripon. Nearing Ripon the route turned into fountains Abbey and onto the main road through the estate which was closed to cars. The estate road was absolutely straight passing the various buildings of the estate, all built in their own unique style until the twin towers of Ripon cathedral were in sight straight ahead. The road lined up perfectly with the cathedral several miles away, the gatehouse archway at the end of the drive a frame for the City of Ripon.

From Ripon the route was very flat, quiet lanes to Boroughbridge and York before changing direction out of York and on to the path alongside the A64. This led into Tadcaster where the lack of bridge brought me to a halt whilst I wondered how I was going to get across the river Wharfe. A quick scout about and I found a temporary pedestrian bridge to ride across, on the far side I was told off by a kid on a BMX for not dismounting! From here I was on famaliar ground, Rothwell, Wakefield, Grange Moor, a quick stop to untangle another rider's chain and I was climbing Scar lane back to home. I felt like another 100 miles would be OK so that will need putting to the test soon with a true coast to coast!

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