27 February: Milngavie to Bradford on Avon

Yesterday feels like a dream – Scotland this morning is familiar grey and wet. Stomach tight, nervous traveller. I put Liz and Hugh’s key through the letterbox. (As I leave they are somewhere between Scotland and Portugal.)

At Glasgow Central the train before mine is cancelled. But the 10:38 is running. Very full. I am able to get a cycle ticket to back up the dodgy email reservation that was rejected on the northbound trip. My bike is shiny, cleaned from track mud. Only 4+ hours to London. It’ll be easy to get back north. Won’t it? 

Tara Brach keeps me company. 

At Euston, the peculiar transit by bike, to get to Paddington. And smooth connections bring me home – to a damp-proofed kitchen, cross fingers, and a certain amount of chaos. Heh ho.

The Rum kids want to see my blog. I send them the link and run for the hills.

Over and out for now.

26 February: Around Milngavie

A one in 100 day: sun and blue skies! How incredibly lucky for Liz and me, and our bike ride. 

We complete a gorgeous 3-hour loop. Along the way… no shortage of potential cafés, an agreeable pit stop for lunch at Killearney, lovely Drymen, and sumptuous views of Ben Lomond and the Trossachs, photogenically snow-dusted.

Of many highlights the Pipe Track was perhaps the most spectacular, so named because… in 1848–9, a cholera outbreak in Glasgow killed over 4,000 people. The city council realised that the supply of drinking water needed to be improved. In 1855, it approved a scheme to dam and raise the level of Loch Katrine, in the Trossachs,and to pipe the water from there to a holding reservoir by Milngavie and then onwards into the city. The route to Milngavie was 41.5 km long, including 14.5 km of aqueducts. A further 21 km was tunnelled, by hand, through hard rock. See https://killearnheritage.org.uk/the-pipetrack.

The track took us along the southern skirts of the Campsie Fells, woodland alternating with pasture. Fabjous. I will struggle to give Liz a comparable experience in the South, if and when we unite for some southern cycling. But let’s see.

25 February: Arrochar to Milngavie

After weeks of looking after my liver, I give it a challenge:

Haggis for breakfast? You bet, it’s damn tasty. “Too heavy for me”, says a workmen on a neighbouring table – before resuming work on his loch-side bonfire.

A sublime bike ride along the edge of Loch Lomond, on and off the old, shore-hugging road that we would have driven along as a family in the 60s. Snowy peaks, with Ben Lomond dominating. Sunday day trip is doing everything that people do along that busy road: paddling, taking photos, looking through binoculars, barbecuing, camping.

At Balloch a nice catch-up with Brian, an old friend, visiting from Berlin. Thanks for this photo, Brian!

And then a short train leg to industrial-history significant Bowling, at the western end of the Forth and Clyde Canal. See http://www.clydewaterfront.com/clyde-heritage/bowling-harbour--old-kilpatrick 

I then hack up to Milngavie, a race against my phone running out of charge. (Yes, I do have a power pack, but it’s nice not to faff around with it.) To dear cousins, and a relaxing evening.

24 February: Rum to Arrochar

Goodbye volunteer team. Scott gives me the prize shell from his collection; Leah hands me the last banana. The two of them will be trying for Askival. The weather is sublime but still plenty of snow on the peaks (and I later learn from Leah that, because of this, they turn back just before the summit). I am envious. But I am also looking forward to the simplicity of self catering, having had my fill of packet-mix soup. It’s a good time to be leaving. 

I loiter in the otter-hide area, waiting for the ferry. The moss is vivid green today. Still no sign of the elusive Lutra lutra – or seals. Alex shows up, mid run, to farewell me. A nice gesture. He does a good job.

I look back at the island, where I walked yesterday. My relationship with the terrain has changed following the intimate knowledge borne of placing foot after foot along and down its hummocks and bogs. The castle prominent at the head of the bay; the bunkhouse concealed by trees.

Further along the coast I can trace the route the girls took for their Dibidil bothy adventure. Today the surrounding peaks – which they wouldn’t have even seen – are majestic, so different from the low cloud and rain they endured.

The next four hours are a delight as the ferry cruises around first Eigg then Muck on its way to Mallaig. I run from one side of the boat to the other, snap happy. Chatting with a passenger accompanying his lens-wielding friend on a holiday on Eigg, we reckon that we are looking at the Donegal coast far on the horizon. The Cuillen glisten, as do a host of unknown peaks in the Knoydart direction. The hills behind Arisaig and Mallaig are also enhanced by a snowy coats. Gorgeous.

Approaching Mallaig we veer into the Sound of Sleat, to access the harbour. More fabulous views.

The timing is tight. But I manage a trip to the Co-op to grab a few supplies before the train leaves. 

The views during the first couple of hours of the 4-hour journey are magical. I can’t resist taking terrible photos through the train window: Loch Eilt, Loch Eil, Loch Shiel, Ben Nevis…

Then night falls, signal drops and I am in a digital desert! 

At Arrochar the train conductor helps me unhook my bike from the “meat hook“ and I am warned that being able to do this on one’s own is a condition of travel. Oh dear. 

Arrochar Station is a short ride from the village centre, and I am relieved that my B&B is immediately visible as I coast in. The moon and stars are bright and it is perishing cold. I’m looking forward to my lochside view tomorrow morning.

23 February: Rum day 12

My last day on the island. And I have visited the high places – not a peak, but close enough, in the centre of the hilly part of the island. Now I feel I have been to Rum.

I retrace the now-familiar path to Coire Dubh, leaving my bike by the river. The path continues up to the centre of the corrie. From there, a reasonable route takes me up to the saddle north-west of Hallival. I shelter in the lee of any available rocks to dodge the hailstones.

I am close to Barkeval and I am tempted to “bag” it. But I am walking solo, with no walking poles, and visibility is coming and going. I decide to play safe, and take a break, sitting on a rock and eating some dark-orange chocolate as snowflakes flutter down. Hallival’s snowy peak on my right, a desolate scene in front of me – boulders, lochans, a smudgy horizon with indistinct views of the mainland.

I approach the descent back into the corrie and a deer track invites me to turn left and then contour around the corrie. The Sun is beginning to emerge and views are opening up, linking up the different places I have visited in the last two weeks – the bay, adjacent peninsula, nature-reserve track.

As I walk, I mull over the young ones and why we haven’t quite bonded as a group. Am I the problem? Is it age related? Perhaps it’s normal for young people not to say good morning to each other, or not share their treats when they are on a tight budget. Or to not want to formally organise cleaning and cooking.

I now know that “…” is no go in terms of texting punctuation (Madeleine rolled her eyes, as though this was the most pointless thing anyone could do) and a sentence-ending full point is apparently perceived as aggressive. This I can understand, if you consider the emotive force behind the emphatic, “Period”. But what about replying to messages – Including the offer of a celebratory drink. Do the young only bother to reply in certain instances? And then there was three of us going to Kilmory, individually, on three consecutive days. 😂 Had we all had enough of each other?

Scott has continued to withdraw, ensconced in his room – whilst maintaining friendly contact with me and Leah. A whiff of bacon in the kitchen flagging up a bacon-sandwich existence.

I know I am grossly simplifying – apologies to young friends, I am talking bollocks. But I do feel out of kilter. On the other hand, despite some perplexity, it has been a wonderful trip. And, who knows, I could be back another year.

The snowy maelstrom changes to a benignly sunny, peaceful glen. I sit and eat the rest of the chocolate bar. And the ache, the longing, I feel when I look at this watery, ephemeral paradise merges with yearning for my departed father. I have been missing him sorely.

At the western edge of the corrie, modestly proportioned Meall Breac beckons. As I walk up its gentle slopes I look west to a distinctive dome: The Black Hill. To the east, far away on the mainland, the snowy peaks of Kintail (?) are revealed. Wonderful.

The final stretch, to bring me back to my bike, is un-pathed tussocky grass. It is exhausting, and I notice I am using exactly the same muscles as walking through deep snow. I look out for deer tracks that will reduce the depth my feet sink. And it is a relief to find the original track once again. My bike is well positioned for a last dip. It is scintillatingly, exhilaratingly cold.

At the bunkhouse, the necessity of taking bags of rubbish down to the jetty, and a general clean, is an unavoidable anti-climax. But these things have to be done.

22 February: Rum day 11

I set off to Kilmory in hail. Catching up with Scott, walking up the track, I rightly guess that he is heading for his bridge. (“I just need to check a few things.”) I divert off my route to walk there with him, and have no difficulty expressing my appreciation of his craftsmanship. The bridge looks great. He shows me a photo of a plaque he has designed, with nails spelling out his name. He has drilled away the tops so that they can never be removed. The plaque itself is screwed under the bridge. It is inconceivable that it will be seen or removed. Immortality. 

I continue on my way, rain coming and going. As I approach the descent into Kilmory bay, sun illuminates the landscape. I have heart-stopping views across to Skye.

On the beach I take off my walking boots to cross the river that disgorges ever more broadly into the sea. It looks twice as wide as last time I was here. And the cold and discomfort are weirdly difficult to deal with.

I walk around to the next bay, flagged up by Alex as smaller and more secluded. On the way, lining a curiously wet depression dipping down to the sea, is a ruined hamlet. The tuft-hopping, walking boot-immersive bog experience is strenuous, and I am well heated up by the time I arrive at the second beach. Perfect for a plunge into the sea. It is easy to motivate myself: when am I next going to get the opportunity to swim with a view of the snowy Cuillen. I go in twice. And observe my body turning pink, from head to toe. I run around the beach naked. Because I can. A life-affirming and unforgettable experience.

Looking at the map I realise I know the area I am looking across to well: Elgol, Bla Bheinn and Loch Scavaig. There are memories wherever I am in Scotland. It was in a converted black house, where I was holidaying with Juan, in 2001, that news of the 9/11 attack broke. During that trip we walked along Loch Scavaig to Camasunary, and then Loch Coruisk via the infamous “bad step“. I wonder if that dodgy and terrifying navigation of a huge rock, with the very real risk of falling off into the sea, is still a feature of the path.

Before I leave Kilmory I make contact with the ranger, who has arrived in a jeep. She is part of the deer-study team. After 50 years research I wonder how much more needs to be known about this animal that is now the wrong side of the environmental debate. Although some of the results of their earlier research were used by teams on the mainland in their decisions about culling, this is not what the researchers want now as it would upset their data. 

I stop at the village shop and agonise over whether to buy 10 or 12 eggs for an omelette for supper. I could have saved myself the angst: at the bunkhouse a shipment of tinned beans and soup packet mix has arrived, courtesy of Madeleine‘s father. As Alex puts it, Madeleine can supply the Small Isles with soup for the foreseeable future. I should be grateful, but I find myself thinking, we could easily and cheaply get these things from the village shop – a case of wine, some fine cheese, and a stash of chocolate would have gone down better!