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Andrew Black is an Englishman living in Portland, Oregon, who is famous for starting up Team Bag Balm, and riding a gleaming gold Air Friday. Submitted March 2007 for the Cycle Oregon/Homecoming Story Contest. June 2005. I'm not really sure why Cape Wrath became destination for cyclists, but it has been one since 1949, when cycling journalist Rex Coley founded the Cape Wrath Fellowship. Perhaps the magic of the Cape comes from the eleven miles of road from Keoldale to Cape Wrath, which can be accessed only by a passenger ferry, and are thus inaccessible to motorists ... An EasyJet flight from the South of England to Glasgow (£10 extra for the bike), was followed by a hurried stop at a friend's house in Paisley. There I assembled my Bike Friday, packed my panniers, and deposited my bike's suitcase for the duration. I was soon on a late morning train to Inverness. Late was the word: the train missed its connection in Perth by two minutes, and Scotrail had a dozen of us driven from Perth to Inverness in a fleet of Taxis! If I had not able to fold my bike into the back of the Taxi, I would probably have missed a day of my vacation. NCN 1 (National Cycle Network Route 1) heads North from Inverness across the elegant Kessock Bridge and through a complex network of narrow lanes. My destination for the week was Cape Wrath, the most north-westerly part of mainland Britain. My tour was based on one logged by Peter Knottley, a man I had thought of as a "Professional Cycle Tourist", in the 1960s or early 1970s. Peter had lived (modestly) by leading tours and writing about cycling; with his quiet charm, his calm approach to life, and his living illustration that happiness had little to do with accumulating "stuff", Peter had had an influence on me, and on those around me, greater than that of many people with more sound and fury. Peter was also an early advocate of small-wheeled bikes; he was a friend of Alex Moulton and rode a Moulton cycle from England to Istanbul. Peter had passed away earlier that year, and I had conceived of this ride as a sort of living memorial to him. Peter had also ridden north from Inverness, although in his day it required a ferry ride to reach North Kessock. We both rode through Digwall and by delightful lanes overlooking Cromarty Firth I headed towards my destination for the night, a wonderful B&B in Stittenham, where a road that the locals call "The Struie" climbs out from Alness "up and over" to Bonar Bridge. The following morning, fortified by porridge and eggs, I made short work of the rest of the climb and was soon enjoying a sweeping descent back to the tidewater of Dornoch Firth, and thence by Carbisdale Castle to Lairg. Forewarned about the shortage of provisions, I had eaten a cheese toastie in Lairg, and 35 miles later as I tried to spot Peter's campsite by Loch Stack, I was promising myself fish and chips in Laxford Bridge. Here I learned an important lesson in Highland geography: a name on the map does not a town make. There is no chip shop in Laxford Bridge, nor any other kind of shop, nor a cafe, nor, as far as I could see, a house. Eventually, sustained by tea and scones at the Richonich Hotel, I was ready to tackle the last 15 miles to Durness, where the Lazy Crofter Bunkhouse would be my base for two nights. |
Nowadays a minibus service carries tourists from the ferry to the cape, but when I arrived there by bike, the minibus was just leaving, and I had the place to myself. In the past the lighthouse keeper would take photographs of visiting cyclists, but now the lighthouse is automated, and I was alone with the birds and the swirling mist. Those eleven miles across the Cape make up one of the worst "roads" that I have ever ridden. Two wheel ruts paved with disintegrating tar and packed stone zig-zag across the headland, dipping to cross three valleys and a Ministry of Defense firing range, and requiring in places mountain-bike handling skills. The 28mm tires and the suspension beam on my Air Friday made it all ridable, if a little more exciting than I had expected. The following day started with a damp morning ride to the Kylestrome Bridge (replacing the ferry that Peter had used); the rain stopped while I ate my bread and cheese on the old ferry dock at Kylesku. My next destination was the tea garden in Drumbeg; if this had existed in Peter's time, I'm sure that he would have sought it out, for Peter was a great connoisseur of Cyclists' Teashops. Drumbeg is only about 10 miles from the main A894, but those 10 miles are a continual series of hills as the road climbs out of one bay and drops almost immediately into the next. The maximum gradient measured on my cyclometer/altimeter was 31%, even though the road signs indicated "only" 25%. Progress was slow, but we rode every inch. The hostel at Achmelvich Beach provided a welcome haven that night, and the next day saw me in Ullapool, one of the prettiest towns in the Highlands. In addition to the Stornaway Ferry, many fishing craft use the busy harbour, and the streets behind are well-supplied with businesses catering to visitors. There I found a tourist office, and booked my next night's accommodation at a small hotel in Glen Urquhart, a little way up the Glen from Drumnadrochit on Loch Ness. After a ride under glowering skies up to and along the shore of Loch Glascarnoch, I was able to turn off the main road towards Marybank and the Muir of Ord, where I visited the Glen Ord distillery. The whiskey produced here is made from the waters of the Allt Fionnaidh or "White Burn", the outflow of two mountain lochs that mingle and provide a mixture of peat and limestone-tainted water for the copper stills. I rode South to Beauly Priory; the priory was founded by French monks in 1230, and the name Beauly is supposed to come from the French "beau lieu", meaning "beautiful place"; this town has doubtless changed a lot since then, but is still charming. There are two obvious routes to Glen Urquhart, but a little way out of Beauly I find a third road through Eskadale. A few houses dot the roadside; in an hour's riding on a smooth single-track road two cars pass me. On the left hand the varied greens of the woods overhang the road; on the right the River Glass wanders across its flood plain, the tinkling of the waters mingling with the bleating of uncounted lambs. Two fishermen in chest-waders work the stream; otherwise, I have the whole valley to myself, an idyllic slice of heaven on earth that would by itself have been reason enough to take this trip. Andrew Black, Portland OR, Air Friday |
