Biking in Scotland - what’s it really like?

Two BikeBus passengers wrote descriptions of their cycling holiday; they both biked in the same area, but at different times so they never met. The first, Linda Mackavage, is a very fit young American woman; the second, Jim McCarthy is in his fifties, lives in Edinburgh, and is the author of two books on Scottish natural history.
    They show that whatever age or gender you might be, riding a bike in Scotland is something you’ll never forget! I should mention that the routes they biked are a bit further and hillier than is typical and they had more wet days than is usual. Main Index

Linda Mackavage

The Highlands of Scotland

“These Hielands of ours, as we ca’ them, gentlemen, are but a wild kind of warld by themsells, full of heights and howes, woods, caverns, lochs, rivers, and mountains, that it wad tire the very deevil’s wings to fly to the tap ‘o them.” So wrote Sir Walter Scott in the classic tale of Rob Roy, the legendary 17th century hero/outlaw of the Scottish Highlands.
    The Scottish Highlands surely are as described by Sir Walter. My ten days of biking were fantastic and I surely needed my devils wings (ie granny gear) on some of the hills I encountered!

My special memories of biking in Scotland: Mountains covered in dense pine forests, blooming rhodendrons as tall as trees, and hills, hills, and more hills....(our ride sheets would read something like this: at .7 mile begin steep climb, at mile 4.6 climb intensifies, mile 6.8 begin descenttttt): there were also the shorter even steeper grades. Only on the 20%s did I think ‘do I want to push this bike up this hill and the answer was yes. But I did ride down some 20’s and that was awesome..... I thought I was going to smoke my brakes!
    Biking along numerous sparkling lochs (lakes) including Loch Ness (sorry no monster); visiting centuries old ancient castles steeped in history of intrigue and bloody massacre. Sheep sheep everywhere; cows in the road; and the cattle gridsssss (if you went over them fast enough they weren’t too bad.... only minor shake, rattle, but luckily no roll).
    And the roads - not really too rough but not exactly a smooth go, many were wide enough for one car only with ‘passing places’; most were through remote glens alongside lochs or rivers tumbling down to meet them. Days of sun, then a shower, then sun; the day of biking 64 miles in the pouring rain....
    Actually it wasn’t too bad once you were wet as long as you kept warm; then there was the drizzly 75 mile day..... luckily the whiskey distillery with the free samples of Scotch was only a mile from our hotel because I came out of there feeling nooo pain. The whole place even smelled intoxicating and sooo good.
    Incredibly beautiful inns..... especially: my chest high four poster canopy bed and the huge mirrored bath tub at the Cluney Inn; the drying room where we hung our wet clothes to dry (really a convenient feature but did get a wee bit smelly).
    The food..... great breakfasts that usually consisted of cereals, porridge, meusli, eggs, sausage, ham, bacon, poached smoked haddie (haddock, my favorite), kippers (little salty fish), haggis (you really don’t want to hear this but it’s sheep stomach and oatmeal), and some kind of blood pudding (no comment); the seven course dinner at Castle McDonald; food stops where I devoured raisin pancakes and scones; all the strange flavored potato chips (shrimp, chicken, haggis). The definite devoid of pretzels (there’s a market opportunity there for Bachmans or Billy’s); tea and scones served in the library at the Cluney Inn.
    Other memories: sunset at around 11pm, and daylight sometime around 3am; cool weather; the triple-by-pass day with three major climbs; biking on the ‘other’ side of the roads; our great guide, Chip from Timberline of Colorado, who organised the whole adventure; Harry from Edinburgh and his incredible BikeBus; my fellow travellers; and oh yes, mustn’t forget the bagpipers in their kilts! Main Index

Unlike Linda, Jim McCarthy didn’t book on to a Timberline tour, but camped. Jim has been on BikeBus trips in the past but on this occasion he used a train to get to the start, and carried all his gear with him.

Ardnamurchan - Where the Sun sets Later

Sitting an otherwise completely empty coach of the 5.00am London to Fort William sleeper, the bike having been loaded aboard, I had a delightful sense of calm and virtue - the calm that comes from starting on a journey but with no action or decisions to take for the next five hours - the virtue of being awake at near dawn when the rest of the world seemed asleep.
    The first passengers from the sleeping cars are rubbing their eyes and yawning as they drift into the restaurant car. By Rannoch Station, one of the most remote railway halts in Europe, two fine red deer stags are grazing contentedly by the railwayside.
    Waiting for the little ferry across Loch Linnhe I have my bike tied up to the rail beside two others belonging to a Dutch couple I will keep encountering over the next few days. The ride along the shores of the loch southward is idylic - virtually no traffic, the sun increasingly breaking through the clouds, the views across to Ben Nevis and the hilly eastern shore heart-stopping. Frequently the silence of the green roadside is interupted by the sound of rushing water cascading below the road from the crags above, and tumbling through wooded ravines into the loch.
    The car ferry at Corran changes things, debouching its load of vehicles every half hour. The Dutch and I keep leap-frogging each other, with their fine new touring bikes, but although fit they are not used to steep hills with heavily loaded machines. We share dried fruit and information.
    They are on an organised pre-booked tour, so must keep to a schedule. In the little township of Strontian I direct them to Lochview cottage - while I scout for a suitable camping spot.
    About a mile out of town a sheltered stretch of shore means I have to use rocks as a substitute for tent pegs which refuse to penetrate the gravel. There is the usual incompetent first night struggle, working out the geometry of poles, flysheet etc.
    I meet up with the Dutch couple in the local hotel where we share drinks and pub grub. Back at the tent we finish my whisky and set the world to rights watching a fine sunset against a dramatic backdrop of loch and purple hills, all changing colour and texture by the minute.
    Just after dawn I am awakened by an odd and repeated slapping sound from the loch and tentatively poke my head out. In the glassy stillness of the early morning silence a seal is obviously delighting in hearing the echoing sound of his own tail as he flaps it on the loch surface, doing mini-somersaults to see if the effect is the same from the other direction - it has to be for fun!
    The light starts early, and with the morning midges it encourages me to make an early start, surprising the elegant russet roe deer by the roadside, which desperately tried to break through the fence when it became aware that the silent bike had a man on top.
    Some ten miles on, Salen hotel provided a very satisfying late breakfast - and surprise, surprise, the Dutch couple arrive for their morning coffee. After me boasting about the availability of my books in tourist offices, they tease me about their absence in Strontian.
    The stretch towards the western end of the peninsula provides fine views and the road is varied by its twists and frequent hills - a great cycling experience but rain convinced me that camping would not be pleasureable and I was grateful for the hot showers and drying space of a good B&B.
    After the ferry crossing to Tobermory my spirits were lifted by a teasing Dutch voice from a head poking round the corner to say hello - my companions on their day off in town had spotted the bike and we agreed to meet for eats later.
    The bike ride to Craignure was uneventful and I amused myself after dinner by going to the local Isle of Mull Hotel where the tour buses were lined up outside, and inside solemn elderly couples regarded each other gloomily over small drinks in a vast impersonal lounge - waiting for Calum and Dougie (fiddle and accordion) to appear. I retreated for an early night.
    The problem of an early breakfast was resolved by the local shopkeeper kindly phoning the nearest B&B who agreed to provide. I was greeted by an unshaven and bleary eyed Londoner, who, from certificates all around the wall, had in his time been a teacher of ballroom and latin-american dance - not the first thing one associates with running a B&B on a Scottish Island. He invited me to name my price for a very complete Scottish breakfast. A pleasant ferry trip in bright sunshine to Oban to catch my early afternoon train nicely rounded off the trip.
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