The Last Day - Glencarron to Inverness (57 miles)

I had the hostel to myself in the morning, and I lingered awhile before eventually setting off. There had been snow on the higher ground overnight, and it was cold, but there was a tailwind, and it made for a pleasant finish.

Another sunny day in Scotland, looking west down Glen Carron


On the last cruise into Inverness, I think I had a gauge of how wet things had been. Even the munro-baggers at the hostel had commented upon it, as had the locals, but everywhere you go, locals always say "it was much nicer last week". Some of the local roads around Marybank and Muir of Fairbank were closed owing to flooding, and the water level of the rivers was noticeably high. When I finally stopped to camp, and even when I was in Inverness writing up my journal, my fingers were still crinkly from the wet, and I was slowly regaining the sensation in my fingertips.

I enjoyed arriving at Inverness, meeting the shock of towns and urbanisation which was such a change from the Highlands. I tried to buy some bacon in Beauly, but the butcher's was a great disappointment. What sort of butcher's shop is it that doesn't sell bacon by the slice? He didn't seem to appreciate that touring cyclists have to consider the weight of everything, and I couldn't afford to carry half a pound of bacon when all I wanted was a couple of slices for breakfast the next day. I eventually bought a few slices at a supermarket, and cooked the lot while the soft snow fell around me on Saturday morning. I treated myself to a book (Moods of Future Joys by Alastair Humphries) and read it while eating some fish and chips in Inverness. It gave me a great wanderlust, and I indulged myself in vague plans and pipedreams the next day while I was on the train through the snowy Cairngorms.

One thing I love about being on the road is how priorities change; the details of the outside world such as units of time greater than a day, dates and events lose their importance. The sharp contrast between being wet and dry, and how precious such things as warmth and dryness and shelter are. There was also the feeling of being close to the rhythms of the world; there were some glorious moments of freshness after a rain shower had passe and the sun shone, and I could smell the sap rising in the trees, the clean scent of the world on the cusp of spring.

I commented to one of the Munro-baggers that I was rather tied to the roads, but I think that is a failing of adventurousness on my part, so I resolved that I would remedy that in future, and follow the tracks and trails, or be less bothered about leaving my bike behind. There was a track marked through the Cuillin Hills on Skye, that would do the trick..

Cycle-touring is addictive.

Day 6 - Portree to Glencarron (68 miles)

My first thought in the morning was to congratulate myself upon the choice of staying at the hostel. I had woken in the middle of the night to the sound of the rain and wind, and it hadn't let up all night.

I'd left my bike in a shed behind the hostel. The rain of the last few days had been unkind to it, as it was now streaked with dirt, and the chain sounded horrible when I pedalled away. Mental note: must carry chain lubricant in future.

I was thinking about visiting the Talisker distillery, since I probably had time, but I made the mistake of heading south instead of directly west. That meant I would have to turn west from Sligachan. But the wind was howling again, and after battling sidewinds along the A87, I took the turning at Sligachan, pedalled a few hundred yards uphill into the headwind and the sleet, and decided against it. I'd had enough. I was defeated, and it was time to head back to the mainland.

Of course, that meant I had the wind behind me, and what a wind it was! I'll never forget the feeling of going 25 miles uphill as I left Sligachan, bouncing across the puddles and potholes. It was a sadly brief experience, and when the road turned south, it was a sidewind again. Near Sconser, as I was struggling to keep upright and away from the verge, I saw a vision on a bike approaching. It was another touring bike, and the rider was an old bloke wearing a bright yellow poncho. I'd imagine it kept him dry, but it must have been murder in that wind. Without making eye contact, he veered across the road towards me and rode off along a side road which went around the edge of the loch and back to Broadford. It was signposted "alternative scenic route to Broadford". In my mind, I replaced "scenic" with "horribly exposed". I did wonder if he knew something I didn't, but from his choice of dress and the way he had ridden across me to take the side road, I surmised that he wasn't In The Know. I stayed on the main road, and hoped that the hills would protect me from the worst of the wind. Sadly, they didn't, but I had a fine time amongst the hills anyway.




For my final, glorious sprint off the island, I had the wind behind me almost the whole way, and the sun even came out. I was racing the bin wagon; the driver gave a honk or a thumbs-up each time he passed me or I passed him, and I waved my cap at him in farewell as he passed for the final time, just before the bridge. Crossing the bridge, the grill at the side shook and rattled terribly in the wind, and my eye was drawn to the choppy waters beneath, where I could see the wind whipping the spray off the tops of the waves, creating white ghost-like shapes moving over the surface. That made the speed of the wind visible, but I shouldn't have needed that sort of guide, since every time I rode through a puddle, the spray from my rear wheel overtook me and landed on my face. It was unreal.

The only sour note was when I stopped to take some photos looking towards the mainland, and as I was getting my camera out, I saw the man with the poncho coming down the road, I prepared my cheesiest grin and called "Alright" as he approached. All he could manage was a surly "I caught you up" before he was off again, pedalling furiously towards Broadford. Miserable git. I had to stop myself from letting down his tyres when I saw his bike outside the Co-Op in Broadford.

On the advice of one of the canoeists I'd spoken to a couple of nights earlier, I visited the village of Plockton, which was a convenient place to stop and try to dry off after another shower zipped across and dumped its load. The hail stung, but at least it was moving quickly and was soon gone. Plockton was an odd place, remarkably calm after the exciting weather I had been encountering, and lined with what appeared to be palm trees. It had a run-down, weather-worn look, a charming place to spend a couple of hours' wandering. Apparently it was used for some locations in the Wicker Man, which didn't surprise me. Though I didn't manage to dry out as well as I'd hoped, a pint at the Plockton Inn and a change of socks perked me up. By then, those socks and a spare t-shirt were the only dry clothes I had with me, and I would have had to strip off three or four layers to get the benefit of the t-shirt.

I thought I may as well get as far as I reasonably could, and reckoned it was about 70 miles or so to Inverness. There was a hostel in Plockton, and looking at the map, there was a campsite at the other side of Loch Carron, then nothing for nearly 40 miles. I rode on anyway, thinking that I could pitch at the side of the road if it came to it.

The road from Plockton is worth describing, since it was such a contrast to the barrenness of Skye. I was riding amongst trees again, which clung to the cliff face, while the road dipped out to the coast, with great rocky crags rearing to my right and glimpses of the islands in the distance and the mountains on the other side of Loch Carron, before delving back amongst the trees. Trees also provide good shelter from wind and rain, which I appreciated greatly. It was hilly, though, and in a very steep, sharply up-and-down way which was unlike the main roads that I had been using for most of the week.

The hilly theme continued on the A890, where, annoyingly, I couldn't use my lowest gears for the steepest climb of the week, a half-mile grind at 14%. I did get up it, and I reached 40 mph on the downhill, which would have been more if I had managed to zip up my jacket. It got a bit flappy. That road was also memorable for a tunnel, where I screamed wordlessly while I went through, and listened to the echoes. Well, it had to be done.

As I approached the junction at Stratchcarron where I had to choose whether to turn for the campsite (5 miles in the wrong direction) or try to get as far as I could, I saw a very welcome sign advertising Gerry's Achnashellach Lodge, only 13 kilometres away. That'll do, I decided.

There was some late rain and rainbows as I rode up Glencarron, surrounded by towering Munros. The kind of landscape that draws Munro-baggers, which, in fact, the hostel was crammed with. It was a very strange place, that hostel, more of a mountaineers' lodge where people would turn up, sleep, sort things out in the morning and then go again than the hotel-style which I had encountered the last few nights. I arrived at the hostel and disturbed Gerry himself from his sleep (he apparently sleeps between 2 and 8 pm), and made myself something to eat while chatting to the other hostellers. There was a group of mountaineers staying from Nottingham University, and since they had been there for the whole week with no-one else staying, they had rather made it their own. Gerry seemed quite self-conscious of the impression they were giving to me, since he came around tidying and telling the lads to put their rubbish away. I had a good few hours conversing with them before I went to bed. They were talking about being out of the door at 6 o'clock the next morning. I was in bed before them, and they were up long, long before I emerged.

Day 5 – Kilmore to Portree (76 miles)

While in Mallaig, I had booked ahead at the Flora McDonald Hostel, and for the price of a standard room, I was lucky enough to have a private room to myself. One of the advantages of hostelling at this time of year was that there were few others daft enough to be out, so in three nights' hostelling out of four, I had a room to myself. None was as luxurious as the one at the Flora MacDonald, though, with an en suite bathroom and a TV.

I had my earliest start of the week - on the road by 8.30 ish. It was calm, warm, sunny, and I could see more of the mainland from the island than I had seen of the mainland the day before. As I rode along the A851, a couple of lads who had been staying at the hostel beeped and waved as they drove past. They were sea canoeists, paddling around the coasts of the island, and the thought of fighting against the waves and wind for a whole day made me glad to be on a bike.

Knock Castle


The road clung to the coast for about ten miles, and the bulk of the island protected me from the headwind which had been my lot the whole way from Perth. I picked up the headwind again when the road turned inland up a long drag, where I had my first ducking of the day. The rain tended to follow the same pattern, where blue skies gave way to grey, then came the first tendrils of rain, gentle enough that you might be tempted to ignore it, and I did ignore it the first couple of times, and by the time I realised how heavy the rain was, it was past time to put on my jacket and gloves (or take off my jeans if I was wearing them), and I was wet through, or at least unpleasantly damp. By now, I recognised the signs of rain, so I had my jeans off before the worst of the rain came in.

Broadford was a disappointment – there was very little there, and after my fruitless search for a cafe, I decided to go self-catering for a while, so I stocked up at the Co-Op (I developed a taste for Co-Op brand Melton Mowbray-style pork pies in particular), and sat at the picnic bench outside the tourist information office. I was back there again the next day, and I'm not sure what the staff made of a scruffy touring cyclist with a camping knife tucking into bread and inch-thick slabs of cheese inbetween rain showers.

The island was stunning, if not what I expected. I wasn't wholly aware of it until I arrived, but I had been expecting a lush green paradise of deep, tree-lined valleys and towering crags, rather like the Lake District. But Skye is barren. The main island road, the A87, curves around the stark Cuillin Hills, which resemble a moonscape, bare rock and scrub grass above the cold waters of the loch. While I was riding alongside the loch, I could see a couple of HGVs grinding up the long climb at the centre of the island, without even a tree to block my view, only the rain and murk. Water poured off the hillsides in impromptu waterfalls which were gone the next day.

After climbing the gentle, but typically long, slope I had another soaking on the descent into Sligachan. By then, I was inured to the conditions, so I didn’t even stop at the Sligachan Hotel, location of a famous yearly running race up Black Cuillin. I wanted to get as far as I could that day, and the weather looked clearer up ahead.

The new and old bridges at Sligachan


Marsco and the Red Hills


After I took the turning onto the A863, the conditions for cycling were the best I had all week. The road was hilly with long sweeping curves, and finally a view of the Atlantic past the rocks and breakers. It was only a pity that it didn't hug the coast too closely at the southern end, though it did at the northern end, after the turning to the Talisker distillery. I nearly went to visit the distillery, but I was determined to fit as much cycling into the day while the weather was relatively fine. I saw a couple of lads riding in the other direction, and felt terribly overdressed, since they were casually pootling along in jeans and t-shirts, compared to my approach of skin-tight lycra. I spoke to them later, since we were staying at the same hostel in Portree, and they said it was the third day they had been on the island, and it was the first time they had been out of Portree, so foul had the weather been.

All aboard the Justice Bus!


Finally, after four and a half days of slogging into a headwind, when I turned eastwards near Dunvegan and crossed the bulk of the island, the wind became a tailwind, wafting me to Portree, and my bed for the night at the Portree Independent Backpackers. The headwind had become a noise that I couldn't until it stopped, and when it did stop, for a few miles it felt as though I was floating.

There was a group of French students staying at the hostel, who were a little stand-offish, but two of them were the same lads I'd seen earlier in the day cycling to the Talisker distillery, and while I was cooking my beans on toast, they told me how unhappy they were with their teachers who had organised the trip. I think their expectations of Skye had been similar to mine, except more so, and they were having difficulty with the cold climate and the isolation. They were moving to Edinburgh the next day, though, which would be more to their tastes. They gave me the impression that the local pubs were a bit insular, as I found out when I had a pint in the Tongadale Hotel, but only the one, since it was full of surly blokes chewing down fish and chips and complaining about the weather.

Day 4 – Rain in Mallaig (15 miles)

It was raining when I finally emerged from my tent, it was raining when I struck camp and rode the last 10 miles to Mallaig. It was a constant drizzle which didn’t let up all day. At least the wind had dropped. I hadn’t had the energy to dig out my stove and cook breakfast, so I asked at the shop where I bought some supposedly waterproof gloves if there was a cafe where I could get some breakfast. She suggested the Fisherman’s Mission. Perfect. I shared the place with a few locals and a few trawlermen. We chuckled at each others’ approaches to the rain, me clad in close-fitting multiple layers, them in huge yellow galoshes and so’westers.

I had made a slight mistake with the ferry – they were still operating the winter timetable, which meant only two ferries a day from Mallaig to Skye, at 08.15 and 16.15. The earlier ferry had departed while I was still lazing in my tent, so I had a day to waste in rainy Mallaig. What else could I do? I bought a paper, went to the pub, and watched the rain run down the street to the harbour.

Day 3 - Glencoe to Invercambie (57 miles)

Sunshine and showers was the mood of the day. I had to endure a few more miles on the A82, then a short hop across the swift-moving Corran Narrows to the west side of Loch Linnhe and a quiet trot along the loch. After the intensity of the previous day and the speed of the A82, it was here that I seemed to really lose my connection with the workaday world and drift into touring time, pausing to admire the waterfalls and rowing boats, and dig out my Trangia for a roadside cup of coffee. It seemed like a long way until I reached the A830 and returned to the world.

If there was a purpose to this trip, the A830 was it, since my reading that it had finally been upgraded from a notorious single track road in January was the prompt which I needed to ride in this area again. I remember sitting wide-eyed in the back of a car and being enervated by the views of gloriously craggy mountains at the same time that I was horrified by the drivers, especially an articulated wagon whose driver was not prepared to wait for our broken-down Fiesta to pass first. Sensibly, my dad decided that the ditch was the best place to be.

I should have stopped at Glenfinnan - I was quite hungry, and would have welcomed a cup of coffee and a snack. I could also see the weather moving in, and a half hour or so at a cheesy cafe while it passed would have been fine. Mostly, though, I should have stopped because it was the last shelter for 14 miles. On the climb away from Glenfinnan, a huge hailstorm moved across and I suffered through the hail and the howling, biting winds. At least there was none of the lightning which usually accompanies hail showers around there, according to the locals. I stopped at the Locailort Hotel, the next available hostelry, and rewarded myself with a pint of beer and a venison burger (the first and only time I’ve eaten venison) while I chatted to the landlord and the slightly eccentric Spanish chef. I won’t relate his theory of how those without TVs are bound to go mad. He cooked a very fine burger, so I’m prepared to make some allowances.

I was impressed with the new road from Lochailort to Maillaig, as one always is when riding on fresh, smooth and sweet tarmac, as opposed to the potholed nightmares which are usually the cyclist's lot. There was even an optional cycle path, which I tended to use for the stretches when I waslimping uphill, returning to the roads to avoid having to stop at the junctions, and to swoop downhill, around the gorgeous bends where the road dips in and out of the little bays along the coastline. Here, near where I camped, I stopped in the middle of the road and looked around. The sea and rocks and islands were to my left, crags and mountains to my right, and the road ribboned between them. I thought to myself "Where am I and how did I get here?" as if I was cycling through some otherland, disconnected from the mundane world.



My campsite, near Invercambie, was probably not the best choice, since it was next to the shore, and completely exposed to the wind. I tried to pay at the farmhouse, but when there was no answer, I decided simply to pitch my tent. With the wind, this was a struggle, but I managed in the end. Boiling water was more of an issue, since the wind played havoc with the flame on my meths stove. In the end, I gave up, chewed down a few mouthfuls of half-cooked cous cous and a cup of lukewarm coffee, with my emergency snack bar to take the edge off the hunger.

I went to clean my teeth It was too cold to shower (the water bottle on my bike froze overnight), and I took this photo of the sunset over Rum and Eigg as I scurried from the toilet block back to my tent.



I cocooned myself in my sleeping bag, listened to radio 4 on my wind-up radio, and didn't emerge for another 12 hours.

Day 2 - Loch Tay to Glencoe (53.5 miles)

I felt more like a snail than ever today. I had crammed all the heavy winter camping gear I owned or could borrow into the four panniers on my bike, not to mention a couple of books to read on the trains, and a pair of jeans for off-bike activities. I wasn't especially concerned about weight, and I had managed OK on the first day without full use of my gears. I did, however, take five minutes to fettle my gears into something like working order before the off. The westerly winds continued, so I lingered for a while around the Falls of Dochart to put off the grind I knew was coming.



I ploughed along the A85 to Crianlarich into a relentless headwind and some persistent rain, which wasn't the most inspiriting ten miles I'll ever cycle. I had a late breakfast of sausages, eggs, beans and bacon at the Crianlarich station tea room and was slightly relieved to see that there were no trains going to Fort William until much later in the day. At least I resisted that temptation.

At that point I rode onto the A82 the West Highland motorway, which always guarantees interest. The rain held off for a while as I passed through tacky Tyndrum, where I picked up a tailwind (hurrah!), with a few additional sidewards gusts as I rode through Bridge of Orchy. This heralded a huge squally shower. I paused to take a photo once it was past.




Here's how I was actually riding along. Full guerilla mode - head down, glasses on, buff up, earphones in, cap on, peak down.



Past Black Mount, there's a slight incline as Rannoch Moor opens up to the right and the road turns more north-westerly. Here, the wind became a sidewind. Damn. My first hint of how bad it was going to be was when the wind caught me so viciously that I was forced across the road and nearly into the oncoming traffic before I managed to wrench the bike back onto course. Low-riders and sidewinds are an evil combination. A fellow Peugeot (car) coming the other way had the sense to slow down, which is more than some drivers did.

A tandem caught me up around here - a pair of lads who were riding End to End. Chapeau! Possibly it wasn’t the best time of year to set off on such a trip, but we agreed they had been lucky with the weather up until then. It lifted my spirits at such a grim, frightening point to ride with them for a couple of miles until they dropped me (they were fortunate enough to have a support van carrying their kit from place to place, so they didn't have any luggage to carry, unlike me), and the stoker made me laugh by letting out the most hilarious yelps as they tacked across the road with the winds. I didn’t envy him that seat - the poor sod can't have known whether he was going north, south, east or west. I watched them press on, with another 30 miles to travel to Fort William, and decided that I would stop at Glencoe. It was one of the few occasions in my life when I've thought that being on a bike was such a ridiculous, dangerous place to be. A couple of times when the wind caught me and pushed me across the road, I thought of what would happen if I did that at the same time a car was hooning past me at 100 mph, and shuddered. At least I'd been along the road before and knew that it was just a few more miles to the turning and the fine beer at the Clachaig Inn. The poor sods on the tandem were pushing into the unknown, and going much further.

There's no shelter at all along most of this road, and the rain and wind were howling in, so even the nearest peaks appeared as only dim shapes, vague giants behind the mist and murk. A huge gust blew directly into my face and I lost my balance, toppling into the verge. No damage done to me or my bike, but my nerves were shot, and I took shelter at the only available place, behind the bulk of a JCB, to gather myself.

I felt better after that, and I caught up with the tandem lads, who had taken shelter inside a passing 4x4 (I don't know whether it was a support vehicle or a good samaritan). I'll admit to the slightly shameful truth that it heartened me to see that they'd stopped, while I was toughing it out... I hope they saw me wave as I passed, because that was the only instance where I took a hand off my bars. Neither of the pairs of gloves I had with me were quite as warm or waterproof as I had hoped, so my hands were numb with cold, and moulded by the wind and rain into the shape of claws gripping my handlebars. I did have doubts about the state of my hands and my ability to brake, steer, hold a pint of beer...

Going down the pass, the traffic improved - the wind didn't, but at least it was a headwind - and I rode carefully until I reached the side road to Glencoe village. At the Clachaig Inn, the beer did wonders for my recovery, as did the prospect of spending the night in a hostel and drying out.

The Clachaig is also a hotel, so I asked at reception if they had any rooms available, thinking that I might be able to haggle them down to twenty quid on an inclement night in March when they were unlikely to get any more custom. The receptionist's opening gambit to a bedraggled cyclist was £62, so I decided they didn’t want the likes of me, and didn't bother to take the negotiations any further. The youth hostel had secure bike parking (well, a shed), cheery staff, the best drying room I have ever used, and a pleasant three-quarters of a mile walk back to the Clachaig. Nor was it much more expensive than the nearby campsite (the sign saying “metered showers” on top of pitch fees put me right off).

After a meal, some more beer, some pool, some chat with the other customers, and updating my diary, I strolled back to the hostel by starlight. I remember waking in the night and hearing the wind howl against the glass. I smiled in the darkness, and I was glad that I was indoors and dry, and would be dressing in dry kit in the morning. That thought made the coughing snorts and snores of the bloke in the adjoining bunk much more bearable. I slept well.

53.5 miles at an average (moving) speed of 9.9 mph, which tells its own story. It was wild. But I had a sense of accomplishment, and a strange feeling of wonder at the simple joys of a hot shower, cold beer and dry clothes.

Day 1 - Perth to Loch Tay (56 miles)

I was on an early (8 am) train to Edinburgh, and thanks to a very quick connection at Waverley, I spent less than five minutes there before I caught the train to Perth. I rolled out of Perth station at about 12 noon, pausing only to admire the nicotine-yellow colour scheme.


I had, of course, forgotten a few things, so I nipped to Morrison's to collect a hat, water, phone credit and bananas. They didn't sell hats and nor did JJB, but I finally found something appropriate and cheap - if not respectable - in TK Maxx. Which was where I suffered the second false start, realising that I had chucked my £20 PAYG voucher into the bin at Morrison's. I dashed back and found it in the rubbish next to the packaging from my bananas, only slightly mussed by a discarded strawberry milkshake. I studiously avoided eye contact with the lady smoking next to the bin while I credited my phone and checked in at home.

Then I was away. The sun was out and, though I was heading west into the headwind, I felt good. I was becoming accustomed to the feel of my fully-laden bike and even filtered past a quarter mile of stationary traffic in Perth. I followed a back road to Crieff which was pleasant to ride, a gentle introduction to Scotland through quiet lowland farms. There was a long downhill into Crieff, and plenty of cyclists on the road, all of us enjoying the sunshine.

I missed my turning at Crieff and ended up riding along the A85, which was fine. With a bike weighed down by loads of heavy winter gear and into the wind, I wasn't going quickly, but I wasn't bothered. The singletrack road at the south side of Loch Earn was quite lovely, especially when there were so many people camping, fishing and playing with fires. There seemed to be a campfire every ten yards. One lad asked me why I had so much kit with me when it was so warm. I couldn't be arsed to explain that I was out for the whole week and had to prepare for the worst, so I grinned and told him my panniers were crammed with beer.

I was half-tempted to stop there, but judging by the sun (I didn't bother taking a watch, and I rarely knew the time during the whole week I was there), it was early yet, and I wanted to get over the Glen Ogle trail, which follows the course of one of the old railway lines. I'd left the Landranger map at home to save some weight, and marked the rail trail onto a laminated map, but that blew out of my pocket somewhere in Perth. It wasn't marked on the other map I carried, and though I saw a trail, it was behind a fence which was too high to lift my bike over. Rather than carry on in the wrong direction, I thought "Sod it", freewheeled downhill into Lochearnhead, and rode over the A85. My gears needed some fettling, as the front mech wasn't reaching the granny ring and the rear mech wasn't reaching the largest cog, so I was limited to the 12 highest gears. I didn’t prove to be a problem, as the Glen Ogle climb was long, steady and never steep; I enjoyed it, despite the galling sight away to my left of the viaduct which I would have ridden over had I found the beginning of the trail.

At the top, I joined the trail for a fun blast down to Killin, bouncing along rough tractor tracks and ignoring the Sustrans warnings about the steepness of the hill. It was a pity about the gates, and the narrow barriers which appear to be part of the design. Negotiating those at speed with my panniers jiggling on the low riders was tricky at first, then annoying as I realised I could have travelled much quicker on the road. But I had the path to myself, apart from a heavily wooded section where I rounded the corner and startled a couple of deer which stared for a while as my tyres crunched along the gravel, and scarpered once I was thirty yards or so away.

After a quick wash at a pub, I camped in the woods at the south side of Loch Tay. Wild camping is legal in Scotland but illegal in England, where it's a slightly furtive activity, and I was a bit taken aback by how brazen the Scots were about it. My native caution wouldn't let me start a fire, so I had a perfectly satisfying, if unadventurous, meal of cous-cous with a cup of coffee prepared upon my meths stove.

Introduction

The daft rules at work dictated that I had to take so many days' holiday before the beginning of April. So I took the last full week in March, to take advantage of the longer days, and hopefully the weather would tend more towards early spring than late winter.

Why Scotland? Well, in part it was the extravagance and daftness of cycle-camping in Scotland in March which appealed to me, especially since I was laying my plans in the heart of the coldest winter the UK has experienced for decades (according to the newspapers, anyway). And while riding through Scotland during a ride from Land's End to John O'Groats last year, I had promised myself, as I sat on the train drawing away from Inverness, that I would be back there soon.

However, the main spur was the news that the A830 from Glenfinnan to Mallaig had finally been upgraded from a notorious singletrack road. As a kid, I had sat in the back seat of our battered family car while we drove along this road, and shivered with fear while huge juggernauts bore down upon us. I still remember the crushing disappointment when we reached Mallaig and the ferry to Skye had been cancelled owing to the weather. That was in the late 1980s, before the bridge between Skye and the mainland at Kyle of Lochalsh had been completed, so there was no alternative except to turn around and return the way we had come. I had never been to Skye, and it was an itch that needed to be scratched.

So, I had Skye as a destination and a few days' meandering through the Highlands on either side of it. That was quite enough planning. I had a bike, a destination, a tent, a list of hostels en route. What more did I need?