Thoughts and Thanks by Dougal and Norman

So: lessons? It seems virtually necessary to have a support vehicle: I know some people do it without, but I don’t know how. We are very grateful indeed to John, Maggie, Helen and Angus for doing this. Specialised cycling equipment may still make you look like a pillock, but it does have a point. The goggles mean that you don’t have to spend a day in A&E getting bits of insects taken out of your eye. The lycra clothing is reasonably warm, and dries quickly on you, so you don’t have to sit around in wet clothes. And of course, the padded shorts. Well, obviously.

Finally, getting a good touring bike or road bike makes all the difference: sorry, Lance, but it is about the bike.
And of course very many thanks to Norman for being so patient with not just me, but the entire anarchic Hutchison family. And for being an excellent person to ride with.

Extra bit, contributed by Norman

SOME REFLECTIONS

Since we completed the ride, many people have asked me what I enjoyed the most. The highlights were many and varied. Here are a few of my thoughts on the subject.

I particularly remember Cornwall, for its’ coastline, and for the hedgerows, which back in June, were a tapestry of spring flowers. The fantastic weather, of course, made a big difference. Another memorable day was spent in the Forest of Bowland, and on into the eastern edge of the Yorkshire Dales, around Sedbergh, in the company of Helen’s two sisters Kate and Liz, and Liz’s husband Hugh. That occasion also happened to be my birthday. Each day brought something different, but for me, the prize for the best scenery must go to the Scottish Highlands. Nothing can quite compare for sheer scale and sense of wilderness. Even the Scottish weather can be forgiven.

There were other highlights too, of a more culinary nature. Cornwall, not surprisingly, makes the best pasties. We also became quite the connoisseurs of buttered scones. We had plain, fruit, cheese, and treacle. I cannot pick an outright winner, but it’s not a good idea to ride up a mountain if you’ve just eaten a treacle one. There was also some pretty good Millionaire Shortbread. Dougal by the way has a serious habit. We both agree however, that none of it matches up to the stuff that Iris Storey makes. There were, of course some disappointments. I searched in vain for Herring in Oatmeal, and it would have been nice to have seen kippers on at least one Scottish breakfast menu. On a more positive note, the Haggis I had was excellent.

The award for the best English Youth Hostel must go to Boscastle, not only for its location, but mostly for the warm welcome we received from the warden there. The best Scottish hostel for me, although not for all of our party, (but that’s another story) was the one at Tongue, again for the warmth of the welcome and the personal touches. Carbisdale Castle easily takes the honour for the grandest, but somehow lacked the personal touch.

Best bike shop? Well not really a bike shop, but the man at Wheely Wonderful Cycling, who repaired Dougal’s bike and then refused to take any payment, deserves a wheely special thank you.

Extra special prizes should go to everyone who assisted us. To friends and family, who provided us with accommodation. To John Storey and my sister Maggie, who provided logistics for stage one, and to Helen and Angus, who did likewise for stage two. A special mention here for the nurse at Bristol Royal Infirmary, who bravely applied the dressing to my wound. Thank you to you all, we could not have done it without you.

More special appreciation for everyone who made a contribution to Dementia UK, our charity cause. I know that Monica Greenwood would like to join me in thanking you all.

One last acknowledgment, a big thank you to Dougal, for suggesting the whole escapade in the first place, for doing most of the organising, and for being thoroughly good company.

Finally I’ve gathered a few statistics. We covered about eleven hundred miles, at an average of about fifty five miles per day. We started and finished more or less at sea level. In between we ascended a total height of around seventy three thousand feet, or to put it another way, about two and a half Everests! During the entire trip we miraculously had not a single puncture, and only the one significant mechanical breakdown. Oh yes, I fell off my bike twice, I can’t speak for Dougal.

Day 10: Thurso to Dunnet Head (oh and John o’ Groats, if you insist).

No kippers for breakfast in the hotel, but breakfast otherwise good.

We had managed to hire a bike for Angus in Thurso so’s he could do the last bit, after some help from Isobel (thanks). The internet reckoned that the nearest bike rental was in Huntly (173 miles away), but may we recommend The Bike Shop, High Street, Thurso? It turned out to be a real baptism of fire for him. The weather forecast again predicted Gales, again correctly. I suppose we are approaching the Equinox. The wind was blowing mainly from the side, which made everything a bit hairy. Norman reckoned that his tyres were actually being blown sideways over the wet road surface in some places. Dougal’s and Angus’s were a bit grippier but even then there were problems: you’d lean over to compensate, and then it would drop, leaving you heading for the ditch. Or you’d come past the end of a building which provided some shelter, and then get caught and blown out into the middle. It was a relief to turn off towards Dunnet Head, but our problems were only beginning.

We had a little bit of shelter about till we passed the little hamlet of Crossroads, where my mother was born. After this the quite steep hills heading towards the point were made much steeper by the wind howling in our faces: I had visions of being caught by a gust and sailing back to Inverness, whence Norman would probably demand I did it all again. We made it to the lighthouse, the most northerly point on the British mainland, took the photographs (note white horses in the background), had a quick look round and fled. The journey back was a different country: downhill, wind behind us, very pleasant. On the rest of the journey to John o’ Groats, the wind seemed to have veered round a bit, so that at some stages we could actually take our feet off the pedals and be pushed along.

Eventually we made it to J o’G, and it was really splendid to have our welcoming committee of Helen taking a picture of us as we arrived. Groups of cyclists seemed to be arriving regularly. Every 15 minutes there would be a cheer as (say) Ukrainian Nationalists for Watford Home for Tired Squirrels rolled up. One man even seemed to arrive about four times, possibly considering that his initial welcome was insufficient.

We had our photograph taken in front of the sign. While we were doing this, some people got off a coach and told us to hurry up. When this injunction, for some reason, failed, they tried to stand beside us while we were having our picture taken. At this point Helen swung into action. ‘Do you realise,’ she thundered, ‘that these people have cycled all the way from Land’s End for charity, and they want to get the picture right?’ They slunk off. I was ever so proud of her.

I should point out again that J o’G is a complete fake, a bogus sham, a counterfeit, an impostor, a charlatan, a fraud, a con, a con-trick, a rip-off, a pretender. It’s not the Northest point. That’s Dunnet Head. Well, you all knew that by now. It’s also not the North-Westest (Cape Wrath), or the North Eastest (Duncansby Head). J o’G was extremely tacky, though probably not any worse than Land’s End, which I suppose is also something of a fake, being not the Southest point (don’t start me). It has been described as the ugliest town in Scotland, though I wouldn’t call it a town, and any what about Sh-tts?

"Surrounded by a clutter of timber huts, caravans, Portakabins and untended landscaping, its fingers should point to the North Pole, London, New York and so forth, but instead one enterprising local 'photographer' sticks two up at passing tourists by affixing the missing signage for an £18 fee." The Scotsman.

The wind had got up again and it was pretty cold. Helen went back with Norman and the bikes as the cold was getting to her tooth, and Angus and I came back on a nice warm comfortable bus. The journey at last over, we drove out to Thurso Cemetery to look at the new stone at the site where my mother’s ashes are laid, and have a short time of reflection.

Today the support team (just Helen) visited the Castle of Mey, where the Queen Mum used to live. Angus was on the ride of course!

Day 9: Tongue to Thurso

Norman and I leave quite early, having separately both told the Warden how excellent the hostel is. After this he rather blots his copybook by being extraordinarily rude to Helen and Angus. What is it with these people? A little politeness would be no bad thing.

The weather has taken a turn for the worse, with the forecast saying succinctly Gales. And it’s right. The morning is definitely our worst day so far: we had thought that at least the wind would be behind us, but it’s mainly northerly. The combination of a lot of steep hills, rain, and winds coming from all directions mean that we are tired by Bettyhill, and there’s still a long way to go to Thurso. In Bettyhill we are very tempted by hot meat pies sold in the shop, but decide that it’s too early and leave it till lunch time. Of course we never see a whiff of a meat pie all the rest of the day. We stop for a bite of lunch at Melvich, and by the time we set off again, the sun has started shining, the wind has dropped a bit, and the roads are definitely flatter, so we bowl into Thurso feeling just fine.

As a celebration, we decide to put up in what is said to be the best hotel in town, but find it quite disappointing. It’s shabby, the carpets are stained, our room is small, and the window is cracked. This is not the first time we’ve been disappointed by hotels in Thurso. Anyway, we’re invited to an evening meal with Isobel (distant relation) and Norman (nb, different Norman) and have a delightful evening. What talented people!

Today the support team followed behind and took a trip to Bettyhill, where they had lunch in a cafe and then explored the local beach, where a beached whale had been spied by them many a year ago.

Day 8: Carbisdale Castle to Tongue

The next morning dawns windy and rainy, so windy in fact that wind catches our route map which Norman has left under his helmet, and blows it away. By the time I’m able to get across to it, it has taken off, and is sailing away already half way to Tongue. Doesn’t matter too much- there’s not a lot of choice of roads around these parts.

The rain is coming (heavily) in short spells, so we wait till one stops and then set off, though we know it’ll not be long till it start again. It’s here that the cycling stuff shows its strengths: it gets wet, it dries, it gets wet again, and it dries, and so on. The road takes us through some impressive scenery, with the mountains of the North West Highlands on either side. Norman hasn’t seen this area before and is very impressed. The weather up here is definitely bleak, and there is actually some snow at the side of the road, almost certainly recent. By the time we reach Tongue, the wind has really got up, and I’m getting quite nervous about either being blown into the middle of the road, or off the road by reaction when the wind drops.

The Hostel at Tongue is delightful, probably the best we’ve seen. It’s situated right on the sea shore, so possible to walk along the beach, though it’s too late and getting dark by the time we think of it. Our room is comfortable and we have a splendid view of the hills. Again, we meet more End-to-Enders including one lady who’s doing it on her own, hostelling or camping. Blimey. We find it difficult enough even with our excellent back-up team.

Today the back up team went for a walk around Carbisdale Castle grounds in the morning and then to Tain to the Glenmorangie (pronounced like orangey rather than Jumanji) distillery in the afternoon to learn about the Whiskey creation process.

Day 7: Inverness to Carbisdale Castle

The scenery changes again to the flat shores of the River Ness. Equally beautiful, and you can see the mountains to the North blue in the distance. The roads are still quiet, and what traffic there is, is generally very considerate and doesn’t get too impatient about having to stick behind a couple of cyclists while we toil uphill.

At Dingwall, we manage to get off the main road onto a smaller side road, but soon find that this means a lot of climbing. This seems to be the pattern- side roads are safer and prettier, but a lot hillier. We pedal along for what seems to be an astonishingly long distance. It all seems quite bleak, empty, no habitations, no people, virtually no cars, and I begin to wonder how much longer there is as I push one pedal in front of the other. After a while I’m considerably bucked to discover that we’ve unknowingly taken a shortcut, and are actually much further on than I thought. Just as well, really, as it very soon starts to rain.

After a bit we stop and have lunch at a View Point, though it’s not much of a view today since it’s raining so heavily you can’t really see anything. At last I’m beginning to see the point of at least some of the cycling gear. The shorts might look like something Baden Powell might have worn when he went clubbing, but they very quickly dry on you.

After this, the road goes downhill, and after a few more miles, we finally find ourselves in what was to be one of the trip highlights, Carbisdale Castle Youth Hostel (sic). The castle is every bit as amazing as the pictures suggest. There’s a long hall with classical/vaguely erotic statues, which seem all to have finger marks where guests are photographed touching.

It also has a large drying room, and Norman and I stand there for about 20 minutes to warm up. We get a splendid room and an excellent dinner in the impressive dining room, overlooked by a portrait of King Haakon of Norway. As we near the far North, the place is increasingly filling up with End-to Enders. I reckon that at least half of the guests were doing this in one direction or the other. This seems to be one of the main factors keeping hostels going by this time.

Today the support team explored Inverness, then turned the Sat Nav off and got lost. Then turned it back on again.

Day 6: Fort William to Inverness

We set off along the A82. Delighted to see that there is a cycle track along the side of the road, but this soon stops, and we are back on the road itself.

Fortunately doing it on a Sunday morning means that there isn’t a lot of traffic, so by keeping to the white line marked bit, we seem to be safe enough. Nevertheless we are pleased enough to turn off at Fort Augustus, and go along the South/East side of Loch Ness. Boy, is this scenery (see previous comments about scenery and climbing hills). It beats Tak Ma Doon, the previous record holder, into a cocked hat. Even Norman has to take a couple of breathers.

We bowl along by a delightful little loch, and after one final exhausting climb, we find ourselves at a spectacular view point. This is at 400 metres, over 1300 feet, so probably the highest point in the whole trip. We have our lunch in the sun (and wind!), and then, noticing that clouds are coming, we push on. There’s a spectacular downhill stretch, all straight so we don’t need to worry about blind corners, so we really let go.

We soon reach Whitebridge, our target for the night. The local red telephone kiosk is not too useful as it takes neither coins nor cards. (What else is there? Would it take a cheque, perhaps?) We can’t get a mobile signal either, so we push on. The road by the Loch is enchanting, and it has a good surface, so we push on, and eventually make Inverness. That’s quite a day by my standards anyway- 63 miles. Inverness is a beautiful city, but awfully full of drunks.

The support team join us, and we make it back to our B&B. A bit difficult to find- in this part of the world a lot of quite separated properties have the same postcode. It’s excellent- the hostess even makes us egg and chips for £2.50.

The support team spent the day visiting Ben Nevis Range, just outside Fort William. They took a Gondola (ski-lift) up the side of the mountain and watched a downhill mountain bike event on a world cup downhill track (pelting down 2/3 of Ben Nevis in average times of 5 minutes...mad). It keeps the hospital in FW, which was going to close, in business during the summer months.

Day 5: Tyndrum to Fort William

This is quite a long day’s ride, through Glencoe and by Rannoch Moor, recently featured on TV as one of the remotest part of Britain.

We used to camp there when I was in the Scouts. The scenery is spectacular, but you can tend to go off scenery if it means you have to cycle up it. Also, the valley lies East to West and the prevailing East wind gets funnelled down the road, so that as a previous End-to-Ender put it, you can find yourself having to pedal downhill. Hard work anyway.

We arrive in Fort William early afternoon, where there’s a street party on. I’m surprised how attractive it all looks, till I realise I’m confusing it with Inverness (qv). We go up to the surprisingly nice Backpackers Hostel, and wait for the logistics team to arrive. Again, our B&B could have been better- I know it’s useful money in the area, but people could make a bit more effort. There are two cycling events, a Duathlon, and a downhill mountain biking challenge.