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.