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.