10 February: Lochaline to Glenuig

A cold night and I pinch the duvet that would have been my cousin Liz’s, had she joined me.

Gentle rain as I emerge from my room.

Yoga on the common room floor.

Fay arrives as I am finishing my meditation.

She makes coffee for the community wood-chopping day.

Through the kitchen window I watch a buzzard sitting on a nearby tree.

I set off. 

This size 14 model is wearing underwear, Mum‘s thermals, second pair of thermals, waterproof trousers, Gore-Tex over trousers, hari warmer, wool base, Dad’s red micro fleece, my ancient, thick Lowe Alpine fleece, Paramo shell, hi viz vest. Oh, and silk liner gloves – strangely, they are all I need on my hands.

Don’t talk to me about layering! 😂

It turns out to be exactly what I need.

The rain eases off, shades of grey cloud merging into the thin snow on the tops. I enjoy the luxury of having the whole day to do a 4-hour ride.

Smooth, empty road. I am the only cyclist in Scotland.

I reflect on my numerous attempts to live in this country: university applications discounted in favour of Newcastle, a failed job application for a Glasgow publisher, an unsuccessful bid for an Edinburgh flat in 2017. And blame my parents for initiating my obsessive love for the place. 😁

Beautiful views of woodland bordering the Aline river. Note to self: explore Rajoy Hills wildlife reserve next time.

And then a stretch of bare, dour, treeless landscape, the road above the river. I have a northeastern headwind to push against and I wonder if my battery will sustain the 43 mile trip. You wouldn’t want to get into trouble on this lonesome road, with only an occasional isolated farmhouse skulking at the base of the hills, and occasional flurries of traffic, presumably the result of a ferry docking into Lochaline.

Eventually, the road switches to the east and descends rapidly to Loch Sunart. I pause to admire the glorious view and then bomb down, clocking 52 km/h, the wind chill taking away any heat that I’ve built up on the climb up.

A stag watches me reach for my camera before disappearing into the woods; a heron contemplates the loch and then takes to the air. On one side a dripping, oozing, moss-clad bank; birch and oak lining the loch the other side. Copious views through the trees.

At Strontian the café is full of locals who greet each other warmly before tucking in to their soup, and bacon and egg rolls. No need to lock my bike, they say, this is Strontian. I ask about the connection between Strontian and the element, strontium (proclaimed at the entrance to the village). I am confused by the answer, which includes a reference to splitting the atom, carcinogenic radon, complete with a chimney in the local school to pump it out. 😱 “No one has ever got cancer.” Really? I am also given directions to a rock up the hill. If I push a silver coin through the hole in it the fairies will grant my wish. But only if I’m pure of heart. Not if I’m a greenie. 😂

I cycle west along  Loch Sunart, rolling up and down, protected from the wind. 

But the road then departs north from the loch and the wind picks up again. I look at my battery gauge. It’s going to be a bit tight. 

From Acharacle there are views towards what must be Ben Resipol. It reminds me of Patagonia. (If I ignore the rhododendrons that have taken hold.) Disappointingly, the café recommended to me from the Strontian folk is closed. 

I peddle onwards and upwards, enjoying a fantastic descent into Kinlochmoidart. 62 km/h this time. Only possible because of the creamy smoothness of the tarmac. Loch Moidart is captivating. and I relax as I am close to my destination and the battery is holding.

The scarcity of accommodation has forced me up market. I pamper myself with a night in the Glenuig Inn, in a sumptuous room with en suite bathroom that actually has a bath. I had intended to explore the area in the remaining hours of daylight. But, after a long and very hot soak, the full effect of my ride is upon me and I can barely drag myself to the bed, before crashing out. 

Later, as I place my food order, my hostess asks me if I’m going to the village hall to hear the band. Uf. We will see. 

One of the biddies propping up the bar persuades me that it’s an opportunity not to be missed. I then get scooped up by someone driving the short distance. The hall is packed and the swing band are good easy listening. I dive in, inviting myself to a table. I don’t know what kind of profiles I was expecting, but certainly not two specialist doctors who divide their time between London, and hospital bases in Inverness, Fort William, and Skye. The other couple head up the local ocean-rowing club, a sport which only started 14 years ago. They have property in the south – so are also split-siters. All four of them live in the next village along the road. Strange world.

I leave mid evening as I am pooped, and then discover what it’s like walking a loch-side track without a torch. Shuffle shuffle. I manage not to fall in.