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DISCLAIMER: This article in no way shape or form tells of events as they actually happened...

Chapter 1 Two(ish) head north

 

One sunny day a couple of years ago three Cyclists headed out of Dunston towards Northumbria. Arth and Gaz were accompanied by another, who for the sake of anonymity we shall give the name of a soap star, Jenkins. The long slog up Askew road took its toll, and as our intrepid explorers reached the Bridge across the Tyne it became apparent that only Two of them could continue safely and with any hope of getting there the same day as they set out. As all stories have to have some suspense we shall leave it until later to say who this was...

The day was long and glorious and our two arrived tired but excited in Wooler YH. There they were greeted by a roaring pot bellied stove (well OK a warm stove but it was still too much for a hot day!). This was enough encouragement to drive them out of the comfort of the YH to find a cold drink to slake their thirsts. On returning with refreshed vocal cords they sang a celebratory song. They were greeted by a quiet warden who then proceeded to invite them and a mandolin playing American into 'his room' where there was more drink and more song....

Tired and slurring Arth and Gaz tootled off to bed, where Gaz set the tone for the holiday by gently soothing Arth to sleep with his 104 decibel snore.

 

Day 2 found us heading to cross the border, we stayed that night in Melrose which was remarkable only for being made of red stone and not being memorable at all...

Then we got all optimistic and on a high of testosterone (or beer fuddlement) we decided that we should head up to Glendevon YH a short jaunt of over 120 miles. After a while it became apparent that there was no way this was going to happen so we hitched a lift from BR (remember when there was just one train company?) We got through Edinburgh and even with this monumental cheat it was still after 8 o'clock by the time we got to the hostel. Food, Sleep, breakfast, chores and off again the next morning.

On leaving Glendevon we were to travel into a parallel universe. The destination was a big city called Crianlarich. This city is at the centre of Scotland and is of such monumental importance that it is signed from everywhere in Scotland. Not only that but in the tiny (cheap) pocket diary I carried only major cities were shown: London, Birmingham, Glasgow &... Crianlarich. All of the major trainlines in Scotland also serviced this mighty Metropolis a further sign of its significance to Scottish culture.

At last at the end of a hard days riding we approached the outskirts of the urban sprawl of Crianlarich, there was the sign for the city limits!! Cruising at touring factor 10 we thought we'll stop in a few moments to check out the directions to the Hostel....this is the weird bit...then we were out the other side. Some strange temporal warp had let us pass across Crianlarich in 2 minutes!!

 

Eventually we managed to accustom ourselves to this local temporal aberration, found the hostel by the Railway station, checked in and had some grub. Now time for a bit of entertainment, we set out down town to the Rod and Reel, the doors creaked as we pushed into the saloon, a pin dropped LOUDLY, the word DELIVERANCE came to mind and I remembered the American banjo player in Wooler. Having checked that he was not in, we ordered two pints of McEwans, drank fast and left even faster as the pianola struck up a tune.....

 

Back in the hostel we had to phone Terry partly to arrange to meet him but mainly to get some contact with the outside world and tell him where we last were sighted (just in case...). This is where the next weird bit happened. We had expected by the number of sunrises and sets that we would be meeting Terry in two nights time, and had planned our route to Strathpeffer accordingly. But we had phoned a day early! Hmmm

 

Chapter 2 In which Gaz and Arth go for the obvious choice.

 

 

A day spare, we looked at the maps there really was only one thing to do. Phone the ferry company, check the times, Skye here we come. We booked to go to Glen Nevis and then onto Skye to stay in Armadale.

Glen Nevis was good, we looked out of the hostel window onto a great mist (did you know that Ben Nevis is the misty-est place in Scotland?). But the company was good and by now the skin was pleasantly pink from the lovely weather. (Arth was heading for that annoying shade of brown that I always manage to just not do)

Leaving Glen Nevis we had 80 miles to do by 4 p.m. to make sure we were on the ferry to Armadale. By now the thighs were thunderous and the roads rose to meet our wheels, we made the ferry terminal in time to admire the train terminus, get some scotch pies and generally be tourists. I love boats and as soon as the ferry cast off I just had to burst into song. 

Arth looked on aghast as one old lady after another joined in a rousing rendition of the Skye boat song, SAGA louts at their finest, Arth made for the bar.

All too soon the boat landed and I had to say good bye to my new found friends. We went and checked into Armadale YH and had tea.

Chapter 3 "You can drive you've had too much to drink to sing"

 

Shortly after tea the warden appears and invites all and sundry down to the pub, Arth and I politely refuse and go along anyway. The warden drives a 2 CV and gives a lift to some of the throng, we walk down. We had a belter of a night, I remember being bought several pints of Guinness and buying others drink, standing around in a big circle and some girls blagging a ride on a fishing boat the next day. Then at some point after lights out, we found out that it was raining big time. The warden managed to squeeze us all into his deux cheval and, as we were singing, he drove rolling wildly up to the front of the hostel. He told us we had to be quiet for the benefit of the other hostellers. Once again my soothing decibels rang out and we slept soundly.

The next morning we are first up at 9.30, we leave without seeing anyone else, When we get to Kyleakin to catch the ferry we have a few moments to wait so we phone Terry, "you're where?, but you're supposed to be meeting me tomorrow in Strathpeffer!!", "Don't worry" I tell him, "we'll be there", and with that we were off for the boat. We spent the night at Kyle Youth Hostel which is now closed.

 

Chapter 4 Three meet up and Gaz needs a change of underpants

 

At last it is time to go to Strathpeffer, ancient spa town and place of stinky water.

The journey up to Strathpeffer was fast with us going turn and turn about to keep the pace up. The weather was scorching and I had to shade bath at lunch time as my thighs and the back of my calves were burning fast. It is good to meet up with Terry who has had a long train journey.

The next day we headed off to Carbisdale Castle. Mid way through the afternoon we are zooming along a nice rolling road, I was in front and was going down a bit of a hill which had an 's' bed at the bottom first to the right then to the left. Just at the bottom a Council tipper truck decides to come past me when there is another truck coming the other way. Behind me Arth and Terry saw me disappear under the wheels of the truck, we were in the middle of nowhere with no one to phone for help and no more traffic to stop.....

Meanwhile on the blind side of the truck Gaz's infamous "stubbornness glands" kicked in. "No bloody big truck is going to run me off the road, & I'm not going into that wall." I clung on to the handlebars and concentrated on that bit of tarmac just outside the gravelled bit and just before the verge, for a fraction of a second I could feel the bike swerve as the truck pulled me towards it, my wheels ran inside the trucks path, "I'M NOT HITTING THAT WALL!" and then it was past. I could Hear Arth and Woody shouting from behind as I stopped, new shreddies? No. Scared? YES.

When we arrived the place was breathtaking. Inside it was even more amazing, big rooms with oak panelling and an art collection with its own catalogue which you could wander around. The warden was a friendly man who used to work in a steel mill. I asked if he kept surgical spirit, coconut butter oil or sun cream.

"Why?" he asks, "Its me sunburn" I reply. He then gave me some advice which I have carried with me to this day. "In the steelmills", he says, "when we got burned, we would put the burn right next to the source of heat 'till the pain went away, it works, maybe you should try it for your sunburn?"

Expecting relief from these wise words I go and have the hottest shower I can stand, boiling water pouring over my... well never mind. Anyway out of the shower it still hurts so I stand in front of a stove in the kitchen. This was very amusing to a group of Germans who kept wandering past.

Having washed and eaten we had some time to explore so we wander around the main wood panelled hall. While Arth is admiring a particularly fine print I shouted goodbye and am gone when he turns around.

He finds me a little while later checking on the bikes (you never can tell with all these Germans knocking about..) to make sure that they are locked.

I tell him of the secret door which I noticed in wood panel. It opens onto a stair which led down to the bike cellar, great fun. We asked the warden about the nearest pub and he says you can see it but its 6 miles around the road as we are not allowed to cross the railway bridge. A short time later Arth and I sit and enjoy a few pints, and then having checked the time table make good our return to the hostel using our best "commando & don't mention the war" stealth tactics, the warden laughs as we come through the door, Oh well....

 

The next day we set off towards Helmsdale, almost straight away Terry's bike wheels start to give way (Arth and I are amazed they last this long:- so much Terry, so little bike!) As always Arth has a selection of spare spokes taped to his frame and we do running fixes throughout the day.

By the time we reach Helmsdale we need to get help as the spokes on the block side have broken and we cannot get in to replace them, Arth and Terry find a bike enthusiast who helps them fix most of it, I am abandoned at the hostel and have to sing along with the folk singers who are there.

Because the wheels were seriously bad Terry went off to find a bike shop in Thurso for a proper fix.

 

Arth had very thoughtfully got some provisions in and packed them in the side pockets of Terrys' saddlebag expecting to meet up later on, we never did.

Terry forgot the fresh fish. It was only after we had arrived home some days later to hear he was complaining of a funny smell around his house and Arth suggested a little peek in his saddle bag...

 

The last stretch north was sad without Terry, but we tagged along with a 'German Lady' we stopped to share lunch together and tales of which hostels we had been in. Arth noticed that we were beside a war memorial and whispered that "we must not mentioned the war", we tried hard but eventually let something slip as we giggled hysterically. She joined in telling us that she was actually Dutch and did not like the Germans particularly. We rode on together until John O'Groats where we seemed to part company.

 

The toughest part of the journey was also one of the most magnificent. We cycled across the top of Scotland west towards Tongue YH. As we approached the west coast the scenery became more and more rugged. The coast line was carved with deep inlets and we speculated about smuggled whiskey, rum and other such stuff. The sun beat down on us mercilessly again, the infamous marzipan turbo boost got over used and our water bottles ran dry. We stopped at a road side B&B where a lovely old couple gave us a nice refreshing drink, after inviting us to stay for the night we politely refused stating our destination and asking for a refill for our bottles, I can still remember the look of disappointment on their faces as their potential customers rode away. I cannot remember much about Tongue YH other than there were a group of Germans there, Arth and I were Knackered from our journey and so retired to bed early, once more my soothing baritone and bass snore helped Arth into a sleep that turned out to be disrupted. Shortly after we got to bed Lights out was called and the Germans came through. I continued to "drive the pigs" as it were. I was startled a short while later when my sleep was disturbed by a hand on my shoulder shaking me roughly. Arth told me later that when the Germans came into the dormitory they started off thinking it quite funny hearing this Britishman snoring away, then it dawned on them that I was set for the night, they started tutting and tossing and turning and generally fidgeting until one of them snapped and with a guttural " gott in Himmel" or some-such launched himself of the top bunk where he lay charged across the room and shook me until I stopped snoring. Satisfied with the ensuing silence he tiptoed back to his bed, climbed up and slid into his sleeping bag calling out in triumph to his friends.

 

At which point my tonsils flexed, my soft pallet dropped and the seismologists in Aberdeen University scratched their heads in wonder as I let out the mother of all snores. Apparently my German friend turned over in a huff and crammed the pillow over his head.

Chapter 5 in which Arth and Gaz do their best for European unity, and "the special relationship"

 

The options for the return journey were limited so we returned to Carbisdale. We were not too surprised to see my German friends there. Arth and I took great delight in sneaking through the 'secret door' and shouting loudly at our European friends until the game was spoiled by the warden coming in from the bike cellar when they were watching, and we were getting along so well...

We made our way down to Glencoe via Strathpeffer and Loch Lochy where we had the only day-time wet weather. As we came down the Glen a fine mizzle set in. There was a game of football going on at the end of the road, Arth reckoned that this was the best of Glencoe weather as it was just light and not coming down in buckets.

The hostel was good, and there was a fully co-ordinated, lycra clad group of Americans there taking over most of the kitchen and other available space. They were cooking Lorne Square sausage which they seemed to think was 'burgers' and were amazed at the amount of fat coming out. Arth and I talked to them only a bit and were impressed by how fit they looked and how new and impressive their kit looked.

 

The following morning the party set off up the Glen a good few minutes before us and we expected that we had seen the last of them. As luck would have it all was not as it seemed and as Arth and I got into 'steady incline gear and mode' we soon saw the first of the group appear around a corner, "good morning" we shouted cheerily as we cycled past, then we came across some more, we looked at each other and grinned as the thighs exploded with that old thunder. We passed all of them one by one, in small groups as they were stretched thinly along the glen, and at each opportunity we wished them a hearty "good morning", or "lovely day" and finally "what a nice little hill". The last of the group was clearly a keen cyclist, and he was distraught when he had to give up the chase to stay with his friends.

 

After a stay in Ardgarten we headed to Arrochar & Tarbet Station to catch the train home. We had to dash across Glasgow to catch our connection and stopping to ask directions from Queen Street to Central Station managed to pick on an ex-pat who had lived in America for the last 30 years and who proceeded to tell us his life story, without making excuses we left quickly when he turned to point out an interesting architectural feature on Sauchiehall Street,.. well what do you expect there was a bottle of brown waiting at the end of the train track!