I found myself alone. The streets of London dark and still. Shaking, weary and astonished that only a mere 8kms into our journey my cycling companion and I were already split.
Dave Kerr had forgotten an essential item that would not only enhance his overall cycling style, but be necessary to combat the sun rays we were bound to bask in. As we know, they are so commonly found in the north west highlands at this time of year. His Ray Bans.
Once reunited somewhere near Hyde park we made the 6.04am train to Scotland. Having to put up with our Glaswegian neighbours on the train describing our cycling attire as pretentious (I’m not sure they even knew what the word meant), the journey finally began on a platform made of gravel in a sleepy village – Garelochhead.
Cable ties purchased (necessary for any cycling adventure) we set off up the first steep hill of our trip. I put my head down and pushed and pulled at every peddle stroke to keep as near to Dave as possible. Realisation set in that this would not be an easy tour.
Within the first hour we had in fact already experienced rain, sunshine and mechanical issues. Or maybe we just both needed a lesson on changing gears correctly.
200kms into our trip, the wind had battered us, the hills had worn us down and the lack of any form of civilisation had forced us to wild camp in the middle of nowhere. Or so one may think looking out of our tent to the north. Whereas, in fact, looking out to the south there was the soothing lights and smell of a petrol station a distant 6 meters over the road.
The night was neither quiet nor restful. Wind hit us from every direction. Dave braved the elements from hour to hour. Securing our tent with any large rocks he could find, whilst I quaked in my cocoon hoping my body mass would keep the tent from flying away. The wind never let up, the night never seemed to end.
The rain had at least cleared by dawn, but now it was time to steer our laden bikes to a place known as Stromeferry (there’s no ferry).
The descent was a navigational nightmare. Barely reaching above 12kmh, regularly being pushed onto the other side of the road and tackling the wind buffer from lorries and cars we were happy to reach a beautiful Scandinavian style house for a dry nights sleep.
Finding it a challenge to leave a home only a designer could dream of and a cat called Pompette. (I thought we were in the highlands! Where was McFluffy?) we set off back in the rain.
Over the next few days, Dave mastered the art of cycling up Britain’s highest pass (Bealach na Ba) in gale force winds, I learnt how to curse a bike for not moving when it’s wheels are round and that’s what they’re built to do and we could happily consume a packet of Orkney Oat Cakes for a light snack.
With Durness (our furthest point north) ebbing closer and closer each day we had fully come to terms with the weather, bikes, gear and terrain. Or so we thought. Slowly pedalling around a corner I was hit by a gust of wind… only strong enough to push me onto the other side of the road (nothing new) until a cheeky sideswipe forced me 90 degrees and gently placed me parallel with the tarmac. I have to say much smoother than the tarmac in London with not a graze or scuff in sight.
Not long after did the wind befriend me… initially thinking it was Dave, gently pushing us up and over a rather large hill. This then opened out to the most glorious descent, including hairpins that you could see before riding them and long open stretches to admire the view. But not before long it was back. Not to get me, Dave. Wanting a photograph of Dave crossing a bridge sounds easy, and in fact was. However, upon Daves return I soon discovered it was a rather terrifying ordeal and he himself had witnessed the evils of the wind first hand. To the extent that 10mins later Dave decided to fall off his bike from an almost standstill speed as if to tell the wind not to even try. Of course I just laughed and continued to cycle on by.
Durness – the beach! Who knew that even on a storm bearing day a beach could look so beautiful. A dry night ready for what was forecast to be a wet day!
Morning had arrived, the rain was steady, fortunately not pelting it down. Fed, watered and packed up we headed down south to Altnarharra. We made good progress this day so decided to push on down to Lairg. From this point on, civilisation was returning, coffee shops were emerging and thoughts of the finish line became more realistic. We even managed to fit in a trip to a distillery.
Inverness arrived on a wonderfully sunny morning along with an unexpected very very near crash. Very. Having not crossed a roundabout for 13 days Dave decided to take a strange approach (garmins fault) and nearly ended up under a van. And by nearly I mean millimetres. Luckily we both made it and were soon enough sitting in the barber shop. Where else would you want to be at the end of a two week adventure!
Stats:
Total distance: 853.80
Meters climbed: 10,019
Punctures: 2 (both me)
New tyres: 2 (both me)
Broken pannier rack: 1 (Dave)
Cable ties used: 23 (all Dave to fix said pannier rack)
Tent pegs lost: 0 #winning
Stags seen: 5
Finally, a special thanks to Alex for kindly lending Dave his bike.
