Goin' Back Home

Load the bus and back along the coast, we call in at Nairn for a fantastic breakfast laid on by friends of Rod (who isn't?) from Barford.

The weather's the best we've had in Scotland and it's difficult to get back in the bus, but go we do, arriving back at Barford at 11:00.

So, job done.

Thanks to many people, but especially Scott for originating the project, Rod for being my riding buddy and helping me through the tough times, Alan for providing and driving the bus and supplying boundless good cheer, and to everyone else for sponsoring me and providing encouragement over the past six months.

Day 11: Carbisdale - John O'Groats

Nearly there!

By now I'm convinced I can do it physically and mentally. So my new big fear is having an unforced crash, or injuring myself getting down from a bunk bed or climbing over a gate for a spot of 'quantitative easing'.

We take a path beside the railway and a metal bridge to reach the road, only to set off in the wrong direction...

Then it's on to Lairg, billed as 'The Crossroads of the Highlands'. Have they ever seen Adam, Jill & Co. I wonder...

Ever northwards on the A 836, and ever more remote. The main traffic is Dutch and French tourists, plus farmers towing trailers full of fleeces.

Turning right at Altnaharra it's a great ride along Loch Naver and on to Bettyhill, being passed on the way by a blur we feel must have been Rob. Steve joins us for a while, then surges ahead, just as we enter another deluge.

As always, there's only one answer to the 'stop or press on?' question, and I begin to fantasise about a pie emporium at Bettyhill, on the north coast. When we arrive it's beautiful sure enough, but the only food is at the village shop, a great disappointment. The ride along the coast is hard - very little flat, and I'm now riding for a finish, with great support from Alan, who shepherds us past the spookily deserted Dounreay atomic power station.

Thurso arrives as a great relief, 22 miles from the finish. Rod has done some scouting, and leads me to a street with two chippies facing each other. Basic research leads us to chose Sandra's, a bizarre establishment, but a real find, despite the fact that Sandra appears to have a beard.

Keen to sample the haute cuisine of the region, I order haggis, with a deep-fried Mars bar for desert. When in Rome...actually it's just what the doctor ordered, full of calories and strangely different to a normal Mars bar.

Suitably fuelled, the final ride is a pleasure, though the ten-mile excursion to Dunnet Head, the most northerly point in Britain, is ruled out. Calling at Canisbay youth hostel, our final stop-over, we meet up with the rest of the group, don our CRUK T-shirts and then crazily race each other to John O' Groats.

Not the most lively place, the tourist signpost has gone home with the photographer by the time we arrive, so we find suitable photographic locations and snap away.

Rod, Tach and I celebrate quietly with bubbly, Leffe and Guinness.

110 miles in 9.5 hours.

1,025 miles altogether.....

Day 10: Fort Augustus - Carbisdale

Another great start to a day, riding alongside Loch Ness, though with more hills than you'd expect as the land rises quickly away from the shore.

At Milton we eschew the charms of the Loch Ness Monster Centre, cutting inland up the A833 to Dingwall. All purveyors of deep fried potato products in the town being shut for the day, we visit the Tesco cafe.


We follow the Cromarty Firth, then cut inland at Alness, through the hills to the breathtakingly beautiful Dornoch Firth.

Our overnight is a hostel at Carbisdale Castle, an Edwardian pile that's the jewel in SYHA's crown.

A short day, but it doesn't feel like it. 74 miles in 6.5 hours.

Day 9: Inveraray - Fort Augustus

We climb immediately into Glen Aray, around Loch Awe and through the Pass of Brander, with its waterfalls and hydroelectric power stations. The scenery is spectacular - this is why we took the longer route!

Then Rod crashes when he clips the edge of the tarmac, and is shaken up for several minutes. A cafe stop at Bendelock and he's back to normal, and we push ahead alongside Loch Linnhe (part of the Great Glen fault line) to Fort William, and the promise of a chip shop. Sure enough, we refuel in the square and continue north-west along Loch Lochy to reach our next stop at Fort Augustus, at the southern tip of Loch Ness.

On the way we stop off to pay our respects at the Commando Memorial, which puts our minor discomfort into perspective. Rod (whose father had been a Commando) selects the most technically incompetent Dutch tourist he can find to take a photo of us...it would have been quicker to commission a painting.

The hostel caters mainly for 20-something Australian and American tourist parties, and there's a bizzare 'Tartan Toga' theme for the evening. Rod and I decline, more interested in the macaroni cheese I'm preparing, but Tach enters into the spirit of things...

106 miles in 9.25 hours.

Day 8: Ayr - Inveraray

Another early start and I'm in good nick, hitting a smooth rhythm on the A77 as it loops around Prestwick Airport and northwards past Troon. It's a dual carriageway, but traffic's light at this hour.

We reach the coast at Ardrossan, but it's a far cry from Wish You Were Here. Battered caravans litter the roadside, in a different league from the sleek motor homes seen in Rock.

Needing fuel, we spot a suitable establishment in Fairlie - Michelle's Fast Food. I handle the translation for Rod, and we spend some pleasant minutes dispatching a 'breakfast in a box', including black pudding and a potato waffle that looks like a deep-fried napkin.

The Scottish Sun informs us that this summer has three times the normal rainfall, and, true to form, we're immediately riding through a raincloud. Getting used to the 'underwater cycling' experience, we reach Western Ferries at Gourock, to cross the Clyde estuary.

They clearly feel sorry for a couple of drowned rats, and issue concessionary tickets. No longer pedalling I'm now getting cold again, so head for the only warm place on the ship. But there's only so long you can hang around the gents before arousing suspicion....

Spirits are raised as we disembark at Hunter's Quay and find a roadside cafe. The difference in ambiance north of the Clyde is remarkable...this is scenic tourist territory, and we forget our damp misery as we ride beside lochs to reach our next overnight at Inveraray youth hostel.

The room is tiny, and we take it in turns to change (and to breathe out...) There's a notice saying no-one below the age of seven to use the upper bunk - but they're the only ones who can get up there! As Rod had taken the sofabed in the Travelodges I go aloft, and work out a technique for de-bunking, which essentially involves falling with my palms against the wall opposite and sliding down. I'd like to apologise to the occupants of room 6 for any lack of sleep they may have experienced.

83 miles in 7 hours.

Day 7: Carlisle - Ayr

To catch up, Rod and I head out early in the morning on the bus back to Plumpton. It's a bad sign when Rod's tyre blows out after a few yards, and matters get worse when we re-enter Carlisle.

I'm suffering badly from bruised and chafed hands, so have taken to wearing two pairs of riding gloves to reduce the discomfort. I'm also keen to avoid the vibration caused by rough road surfaces, like that now on the A6. I swear the 'Temporary Road Surface' sign was left behind by the Romans....

So naturally when I see a stretch of smooth pavement I head for it, only the angle's too acute and I'm soon collecting my own impression of the aforementioned Temporary Road Surface in my leg. Luckily the bike's relatively undamaged, my wounds aren't as bad as they look, and we meet others back at the Travelodge.

Taking the A7 northwards I'm reminded that there's a fair bit of England between Carlisle and Scotland. John joins us at the border, having slept in again, this time at his aunt's, and used local knowledge to take a service road alongside the M74.

Westwards now to Dumfries, flat featureless landscape not improved by constant drizzle. We meet up, and I heed John's dietary advice at lunch, going for the carbs of macaroni cheese and a raspberry milkshake with ice cream.

Forcing ourselves out into the rain again we take the A79 and B729 out of Dumfries, to Moniave. Then up into the forested hills to the west, where we are joined by Our Leader, who reaches the summit first, then disappears from sight. As does everything shortly after, as the heavens open during our descent. I'd shelter if there was any suitable refuge, but this is a remote place and I'm soon soaked through, so carry on and wait for Rod at the bottom of the descent.

Joining the A713 wet, cold and tired, a sign showing a further 36 miles to Ayr does nothing to raise spirits. Rod and I are growing increasingly concerned about the whereabouts of Our Leader, especially as there's no answer from his phone. Hypothermia is a real possibility in these conditions.

We dig deep and slog it out along awful roads to the River Doon, which the road now follows, and I go into evening riding mood, when everything seems better. I've worked out that I'm OK when soaked as long as I keep moving, because my sodden clothes work as a crude wet suit. Now the proper cycling clothes worn by the more experienced riders start to make sense.

We meet Alan in the bus at the A77, out looking for Our Leader, with a worried Angus. Reaching the Ayr Travelodge with no sighting, Rod calls the police, only for Our Leader to appear minutes later, claiming to have diverted to give the Western House Hotel a piece of his mind over a booking cock-up.

112 miles in 10 hours.

As I soak my tired and battered legs it's all I can do not to fall asleep in the bath.

Day 6: Clitheroe - Carlisle

Steve and Rob fly pass the window at Slaidburn, having already ridden from Clitheroe. The bus drops the rest of 'the B Team' back at Clitheroe after more than an hour's hanging around while the non-riding element breakfasts at leisure.......

It's climbing all the way to Clitheroe, and I find I have legs of jelly, a temperature and a cold sweat. Apparently, there's been a bug going round... Fortunately I also have a loo roll in my bike bag.....

I resort to pushing the bike as much as riding it in the beautiful but hilly terrain. In fact, I'm on and off more often than Katie Price's knickers.

Rod kindly stays with me, and I welcome the sanctuary of the stationary minibus, where I put on extra clothing to keep warm, and take Anadin and Diocalm, which looks and smells like a dishwasher tablet, but does the job of 'capping the well', as a BP spokesman would say. Our Leader suggests I join him in the bus for the rest of the day, which is meant well, but is all the motivation I need, and I'm back in the saddle seconds later.

It's great - and relatively unknown - countryside around Bowland Forest, and Rod gets many photos as I struggle up the inclines. Eventually we reach Kirkby Lonsdale, where the others lunch, but I can't face anything but the odd energy bar, concious of the need to re-fuel somehow.

With our schedule there's simply no time to take time out, so we agree on damage limitation, to see how far we can get during hours of daylight, even at reduced pace. Rod reminds me that the only feeling worse than riding in discomfort is the feeling of quitting.

At Kendal we pick up the A6 again and gradually I get back into it, happy to be going north and on a good road. I'm drinking plenty of fluid, and it seems to be doing the job of flushing out the system. I'm no longer thinking of Hughie and Ruth...

We climb over Spap, and reward ourselves with an alfresco fish & chips in Shap village, though I don't tempt fate, and avoid the curry sauce.

Feeling good now in the evening sun, and we press on through Penrith to Plumpton, where we call it a day as the light's fading, 10 miles short of Carlisle. Given the circumstances, 79 miles in 8 hours' riding represents a good recovery.