Aftershock!

Post Script.

Twelve hours after leaving John o'Groats, we arrived back home in West Yorkshire. The equivalent distance had taken us nine days to cycle. In all, we spent 108 hours in the saddle, over 16 days, and cycled 976 miles. Giving an average speed of 9mph, average distance per day of 61 miles, and an average time in the saddle of 6hrs 45min per day.

The next day, Matthew was in school to get his ‘A’ level results, which were a very impressive A,B,C,C.

Whilst trying to remember one of the places we passed through on Leg 3, I decided to import Garmin’s track log for that day into the Route Planning software. I was tickled to see all the little loops and whorls that we made from time to time, especially where we wiggly-wee-d-in-Wellington.

Did I mention that we promised Georgina that we would get a puppy when we returned home? We thought this might be a good goal to focus on to take her mind off the pain. Well, virtually before we'd unpacked, the hunt was on, and we now have a very lively 10-week old Springer Spaniel named 'Molly'.

Back to work, and all that remains is to collect the sponsorship from my colleagues. The people in my department have generously promised over £600 pounds, and my employers, HBOS will add £500 to that through the "Matched Funds" scheme. When we get all the money in, we’ll publish a final total.

"And what of the Rapunzels?" I hear you ask. Well, I'm afraid we must leave that story up in the air, so to speak. "Does that leave the door open for a sequel?" you may ask. No way man, no sirree bob! The opportunities for conversation are a bit limiting (in fact we hardly talk any more). Let's face it they're a little, how to put this tactfully, 'one-dimensional'. To be fair to Rapunzel, way back in January, at the start of this saga she did provide the answer: as I left the shower-room pondering in which direction we should do the ride, North-to-South, or South-to-North, she simply said "Going Up". Sound advice indeed.

Finally, it's time to thank all those people who have contributed in some way to this event. The list is huge: friends, family, colleagues, complete strangers we met along the way, the campsites who waived their fees, organisations who provided cash, comestibles and services free of charge, all those patient lorry drivers. And of course, advice, support, and help of a practical nature from those who have been there, done that, got the blisters to prove it. Matthew and Jonathan of course, but above all, thank you Jacky for sacrificing three weeks of your summer holiday for the both of us.

14/08/07

Tuesday 14th August 2007. Leg 16: Helmsdale to John o’Groats.

Woken at 3.00 a.m., not by rain, but by a lorry, to the realisation that we’re in a field next to the A9 in the far North of Scotland. What for? What on earth for? It all comes back to me, before I doze of again for another 4 hours.

A beautiful, still, cloudless morning to start our final leg.

Dropped off at Helmsdale, for a 9:50 set-off. We’re in good spirits as we tackle the climb out of Helmsdale. We know we can do it. However, it’s a stinker of an ascent topping out at 700 feet.

To add insult to injury, there’s another similar climb out of Berriedale, to 500 feet. This is taking the smiles off our faces a bit.

The support team are there on one of the climbs, watching us winch our way up towards them. Then we say goodbye to them until noon, when they’ve got the bacon butties going at a place which used to be Castle Hill Filling Station. The petrol pump originates from the pre-decimalisation days of Gallons, with prices in Shillings and Pence. (Pounds not shown on the dial, as you could fill most cars’ tanks for mere shillings).

We’re in Gunn country, with Dunbeath, birthplace of Neil M.Gunn (I betray my ignorance), and Latheron, home of the clan Gunn heritage centre. Dad used to say that our family were entitled to wear the Gunn tartan. Don’t know which particular branch of our forebears that was.

A little further on, a dilapidated hotel, long ceased trading, “TH GU ST HOUS ”. Obviously built in the immediate post-war years during the national ‘E’ shortage. (The government had already enforced the use of sans serif typefaces in the press, to conserve printers’ ink: a restriction which was removed when sweet-rationing ended in 1953).

Half past one: stop to meet the van at Lybster. I love these place names. There’s Lybster, Occumster, and my favourite Badlipster (sounds like some sort of insult – don’t trust him, he’s a Badlipster). Then there’s Haster and Thrumster (or is that Hamster and Thruster?) Absolutely no truth in the rumour that Marc Boland wrote Jeepster during a tour of these parts in the late 60’s.

Now we’re passing “The Hill o’ Many Stanes” – does exactly what it says on the tin.

Lots of oats in evidence in the fields along the roadside.

This is a multi-buzzarded area (including one example dead by the roadside).

Up the A99, the last road in Britain. The weather – ye couldnae ask for better, Captain, very slightly marred by a cool S.E. which is chilly on the downhill sections.

Wick 15:30. Lovely loos – well kept for Viking territory. Sat by the river with Matt and Jon. Leave at 15:45. Most incongruous thing we see next is a huge matrix sign on the other side of the road, presumably to remind the tourists from the Faroe Isles to drive on the left.

Loo stop at Keiss, where a RAF Tornado flies low over the township. “Only” 10 miles to go, now. This is where those jokes about South to North being the hard way as it’s all up hill seem to ring true. I kid on to Georgina that I can’t go any further.

About this time, a thought comes into my head “Wouldn’t it be a cool thing to take the punk attitude, stop 3 miles short of John o’Groats, throw the bikes into the nearest burn, and say “Can’t be arsed!”

Song for today “This is The End.” by the Doors.

Final downhill into John o’Groats is a tremendous relief. Great views of the Orkneys lying out there offshore. Finally coast into the car park to see Jacky, Matthew and Jonathan, next to the van. Photos, both official and unofficial are taken. Chips from a hot food stall. We pose for a photo of us opening a bottle of Landlord. Georgina shivering in a cool easterly, waiting for the photographer. Me impervious to the cold (well not really). We see recumbent rider. He arrived one hour before us. Buy the Tee-shirt, sign the book, and look unsuccessfully for an entry from Mr. Robinson’s party. (We later found out that they did complete the ride).

Then, blow me, Jonathan and Georgina have only wandered off for a walk down by the ocean, and he’s only gone and proposed to her, and she’s only gone and accepted. Ta da!!!! Then they’ve only gone and come back to show us the ring. Well, what a year this is turning out to be! Of course, we were sort of expecting this sooner or later, but what a place to pop the question! How romantic!

Then Jacky tells us that we’re not staying on the campsite, as I’d thought. Instead, as a surprise, she’s booked us all in at the Seaview Hotel. Ahh, luxury. Of course a bottle of bubbly had to be drunk with the meal, but the Taylor’s Landlord we’d drunk earlier is IMHO “The Champagne of the North”.

“Mr. King, how do you feel, now you’ve completed the challenge?”

“Well, My knees are twingeing a bit: I think that when we get home, I may need a session with my knee specialist, “Patella Guru”. In fact, I’ve got Thumbshift thumb, Broken Bandaged Bum, Twistgrip wrist, Bulgin’ thighs, Dustin Eyes, Po’ knees, and old ankle gone cobbly an’ all. However, I will now draw a discreet veil over my “Anus Horribilis”.

“Finally, Mr. King, any advice for anyone thinking of taking up the challenge (apart from the obvious DON’T)”

“Yes, remember you are not cycling to John o’Groats, you’re patiently reeling it in, like a fish on a very long line. The secret is to keep pedalling, and it will come to you. Eventually”.

I rest my **se.


Distance covered: 52.6 miles
Moving time: 05:35
Average speed: 9.4 mph
Maximum speed: 27.7 mph.

13/08/07

Monday 13th August 2007. Leg 15: Inverness to Brora + 10.

Day 15 in the Big Brother household, and Pete’s writin’ ees diaree. Th’other housemates are asleep……

Jacky has reversed the motorhome somewhat too close to a Silver Birch. Consequently, I have fulfilled a childhood ambition to sleep in a tree-house. Let me tell you that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Creaks and groans have kept me awake for most of the night.

Spent time last night trying to re-plan the final day, but now think my original route was OK, so we’ll stick with that. Today’s route has now shifted onto the A9 for the bulk of the way, which makes it shorter, easier cycling. We hope to push on beyond Brora camp-site, before being collected and taken back to the campsite. This will shorten the final day.

Matthew and Jonathan have driven up from Yorkshire to support us for the final two legs. They actually arrived in Inverness about 3.30 this morning, and have slept in the car not far from the campsite. They come a-knocking at 7.30 a.m. for breakfast. Good to see them again.

It’s a dull morning, and a bit breezy.

We head off from the campsite, wiggling our way through Inverness. This is where we see our first road sign for JoG – just 120 miles to go!. And soon we’re on the bridge north of town, crossing the Moray Firth. A strong side-wind on the bridge and it’s spotting onto rain, keeping our speed low as we timidly wobble along the footway high above the Moray Firth. Next, we’re enjoying good fast cycle path, which dives away from the A9, and finishes abruptly after about a mile. Bah, humbug!

Me: “Time to light the third boiler, don’t you think, Georgina!”

G: “but papa, don’t you think there may be ice-bergs around in these Northern latitudes?”

Me: “I do feel you’re being over-cautious, my daughter. This is the month of August, and the newspapers will be anxious for a story.”

By the time we reach the Cromarty Firth, we cross the long bridge with heavy ice-cold rain driving into out left ears, and lots of spray from passing lorries.

It’s a relief to get to Skiach services for a rendezvous, although we had been hoping to get further by this time. We’re both starving. We have our second Breakfast here. It’s just turned afternoon.

We haven’t managed to avoid the showers like yesterday. Definitely a different kind of rain. A more cunning rain, that sneaks up behind you, dowses you, and runs away giggling like a child with a “Super-Soaker” water pistol.

The A9 is an interesting road. On the older stretches, you can play “Bisect the Cat’s Eye”. A real test of skill, this: if you’re not accurate, you get a jolt from the cast iron chair in which the Cat’s Eye sits. A game for the newer stretches is “Rumble-strip yodelling”. You can probably work out what this involves. No particular talent is required for it, but it helps if the nerve endings in your backside have already been deadened by 800 miles of conditioning.

We’ve turned North-East, so the wind is behind us now. Suddenly, I hit a big bump, and one hook of my right pannier dislodges, causing it to swing forward into my heel. No sooner have I started to brake and shout “Stopping!”, than a further bump dislodges the pannier and dumps it in the road. Luckily the following traffic avoids it, before I can run back to retrieve it. No damage done (sandwiches possibly a bit boffed). Note to self: double check pannier is properly locked on in future).

Soon, we’re cracking on again. Georgina lets me know, she needs the loo, so I tell her not to fret, that we should be in Golspie within a quarter of an hour.

Then it happened. Puncture number two. Following G. down the hard shoulder, a big bang as I hit something hard, and my tyre’s flat in seconds. This turned out to be a pinch-puncture – two little snake-bite holes in the tube, but no damage to the tyre - (now I do regret letting air out of the tyres a few days ago). Blow number two: I get the spare out, and it’s for a 700c wheel (road bike size). A brand new tube, sold in the wrong box, by the looks of things. This will not do. I will have to use the old repair outfit by the roadside. Which I do, and it seems to be effective.

Every cloud has a silver lining, though, because the man outside whose house we have punctured, on seeing our helmets bobbing about, comes out and asks us what we’re doing. On hearing that we’re doing LE-JoG for the MS Society, he promptly reaches for the back pocket, and makes a £20 donation. Yay! Makes all that hassle worth while!

Cakes and coffee at Harry Gow’s café at Tain, As we’re leaving at ten to three, a recumbent trike goes past. He’s flying a large “Skull-and-Crossbones” pennant, and looking quite business-like. We think he, too, may be heading for John o’Groats.

Out of Tain, we cross our last major stretch of water, the Dornoch Firth, keeping our eyes open for ‘growlers’.

Paninis with the road crew in ‘Trawlers’, Golspie at half-five.

Then we set off again, passing a sign-post for ‘Doll’ Minutes later, we pass another signpost for ‘Doll’, then we pass a third identical signpost. How quaint.

Now we’re ‘Beyond the Valley of the Dolls’, heading for Brora, and yes, we’re so fired up we go on another 10 miles to Helmsdale, where Jacky picks us up. Today, we have run before a 20 knot Sou’Wester, which has been much appreciated, despite the rain which accompanied it.

Back on the campsite, it transpires the recumbent guy is there too. His support vehicle is a classic VeeDub campervan. He is riding an Optima trike, which is slow up hills, but very fast down.

I mention that we have seen a remarkable number of cars with ‘FO’ plates. This keeps us bemused for a while. (I think it was Jonathan who suggested Faroe Isles, which turned out to be correct when I checked later on t’Internet).


Distance covered: 70.2 miles
Moving time: 06:50
Average speed: 10.3 mph
Maximum speed: 24.8 mph.

12/08/07

Sunday 12th August 2007. Leg 14: Glen Nevis to Inverness.

Woken at 2.40 a.m. by heavy rain on roof of van. This seemed to continue all night, until we dragged ourselves wearily out of bed. The rain seemed especially heavy, now. Georgina quipped “At least it’s a different type of rain from yesterday. This is Full-on rain.” Then it stopped.

Ben Nevis has his head in cloud (probably as usual).

Have latterly taken to using Garmin with the route navigation feature switched off. The route is so obvious (A82 etc). This may save him a few needless calculations, and hence conserve battery power.

After yesterday’s soaking Brooks has taken on a new shape – a perfect cast of my big-end. Interesting point to note, my butt is asymmetrical, as witnessed by the larger indentation on the Brooks’ left flank. The big question: which is cause and which effect? i.e. Have I conferred my asymmetry on Brooks, or has he made me that way?

Georgina’s luggage took a good soaking yesterday. Her flat-topped carrier developed a puddle, which very quickly penetrated to the interior. This has prompted a clear-out and declutter, which has removed dozens of minor ointments, unguents, and lotions. This has resulted in a reduction in weight of approximately 50%.

Road to Spean Bridge, lots of Harebells, and very interesting array of errant wheel-trims (rough road surfaces hereabouts). Grumpy farmer in a field, with a scythe. P’raps he’s bringing in the bracken. Did nobody suggest there’s more of a living to be had in harvesting wheel-trims?

Spean Bridge is reached by 11, and first meeting with Jacky’s “Bistro Bus” near the Commando Memorial. A quick photo stop, then we’re off again, to meet up again further down the road, near Invergloy at noon. We’re heading up the Great Glen, for Loch Ness, but this is next to one of the lesser lochs, Loch Lochy. Bacon butties are again on the menu. She should start a franchise or summat. Jacky’s Rolling Chuck Wagon & Bike Hire. All done in a corporate style: white van with spare Red Bike on the back. Georgina is a bit off-colour, for which she is taking Diocalm, but I do believe she’s going to manage a butty.

Through Glengarrie, after which the hat is not named.

Jacky’s Chuck Wagon becomes Jacky’s Rolling Shelter on the next sighting as we just happen to rendezvous as a heavy rain shower makes it’s presence felt around 2 o’clock. This happens again at 3 o’clock.

Verdict on A82 up the Great Glen:
Hillier than expected. Most motorists very patient, with the odd pillock who thinks we shouldn’t get in his way. If you’re expecting to catch a glimpse of Nessie, then forget it, as the vegetation is way to high to see anything Lochside.

Weather: a mixture of sun and heavy showers. Once more, we have a tail-wind (the wind blowin’ up me and up the canyon, ‘sfar as I can see.) By the time we got to Urquhart Castle, I passed up the opportunity of a photo-stop.

Fiddlers Café in Drumndadrochit for cakes and drinks. Another downpour. Somehow “Drookit in Drumnadrochit” hasn’t quite got the same evocative ring as say “Sleepless in Seattle” or “Going Loco down in Acupulco”.

On the outskirts of Inverness a B&B called “The Old Manse B&B”. The “e” was obscured by vegetation, so I was sorely tempted to stay the night there and let Georgina continue the journey to the campsite without me.

Made it to the campsite at 7 p.m. (not bad going, obviously wind assistance is a contributory factor). But again my proposed route up the other (traffic free) side of Loch Ness has been abandoned in favour of the A82, and I am disappointed that I didn’t have the nerve to hold out for that. It just might have been a better route.

Phil McCone (I’m not making this up), the Scots Ice Cream man tinkles his way round the campsite, his jingle playing the Happy Wanderer “Fol-de-ree, fol-de-rah” etc. Very appropriate for outdoor types.

I didn’t like the shower here, the cubicle was long, narrow, dark, and somewhat coffin-like. I now sympathise with race-horses who baulk when being led into the starting gate.

And so, before bedtime, it’s Sudoku for the support team, Sudocrem for the riders’ bums.


Distance covered: 66.2 miles
Moving time: 06:35
Average speed: 10.0 mph
Maximum speed: 26.8 mph.

11/08/07

Saturday 11th August 2007. Leg 13: Loch Awe to Glen Nevis.

Woken at 3.40 a.m. by heavy rain on roof of van. Wet start at 9:45.

It was hereabouts that the Burton expedition ran into heavy rain in deepest equatorial Glencoe, and it looks the same fate is going to befall us. This rain may just tickle your face, but it is persistent, and continuous, and a soaking is guaranteed.

Jacky drops us back at Loch Awe, so that we can continue from where we left off.

Up the Pass of Brander, past the campsite we’ve just stayed at, and onto Taynuilt and the Connel Bridge in the wet.

A little up the road, a dead hedgehog, perfectly formed. Probable cause of death: drowning.

Jacky is parked near Benderloch, doing a good impersonation of a road-side cafe. Cycling gloves are wrung out, before tucking into hot coffee and bacon butties - very nice! Noon – time to push on, weather still wetting us.

Georgina: “Now I understand why people wear those ludicrous ponchos.”

Me: “In my day, they were called ‘Cycle Capes’ “

This starts me off whistling the theme tune to “The Greatest Cape”

Georgina mentions that her gear change indicator windows are steaming up. I look down at mine, and they’re the same. Mr. Shimano, surely you get weather like this in Japan? I would have thought leak-proof gear changer windows would be essential. Anyway, the only thing that’s leak-proof around here is our skin, and we’re soaked through to it.

As we navigate round the coast road to North Ballachulish, snacks are taken in various bus shelters, mainly to keep the saddles of the bikes dry (we already couldn’t get much wetter). Suddenly, we recognise the Pap of Glencoe in the misty distance. Joining the road from Glencoe at the Ballachulish bridge, the traffic level is starting to increase. (It’s been comparatively quiet since Bute.) Now we’re back on the main route to Fort William, and points North and West.

A couple of very near misses from motorists who don’t seem to be aware of the width of their cars. Also one of the continental tourists in a left hand drive car, clearly comes close enough for us to read his satnav. At least the rain has abated. Approaching Fort William, we are under the trees. This confuses Garmin, who now says we at an altitude of -3 feet. I know we’ve been under water for most of the day, but under Loch Linnhe is taking things a bit far.

On the last few miles into Fort William, we take to the pavement, as we are fed up of tourist coaches bearing down on us. Toilet stop in Fort William, before the final 2 miles into Glen Nevis campsite, which is reached at 17:50. Ben Nevis is well shrouded, only the lower flanks are in view

Georgina, despite (or maybe because of) the weather, has really been in winning mood today, with lots of quips. The hills haven’t been too demanding, the distance not excessive, and the rain has mercifully kept us cool.

The showers at Glen Nevis campsite are simply to die for, my dear. Not only do they have a plentiful supply of hot water, feeding the showerhead via a simple mixer valve arrangement, but also ample dry area, which is raised above the tray. A splash panel efficiently ensures that very little water gets onto the floor area. Shelf, seat and hooks for all the clothing and washing tackle you need. And a music system playing Capercaillie! AND a SQUEEGEE in every cubicle for removing the odd splash which does overstep the mark!!!

But the best thing about them is – get this – when you use them, TIME STANDS STILL! Yes, you can luxuriate for as long as you wish in the deliciously hot aqueous flow, dry yourself at a leisurely pace, and when you emerge from the cubicle no time whatsoever has elapsed in the outside world.

“How do you know this?” I hear you ask. Well, my proof is that tonight. as I entered the cubicle, I passed a young Nordic type who was combing his flowing blond locks, while regarding himself admiringly in the mirror. On emerging from my delightfully long and invigorating shower, the exact same person was engaged in the exact same activity, seemingly no nearer to taming the wayward hair.

I looked at my watch, it read 18:47. (Just wish I had checked it on the way in, that would have clinched it).

The day is rounded off with a lovely meal in the Glen Nevis restaurant. World Dryer Corporation model XA5 482 in the toilet. Seems to do what is says on the tin. Jacky tells me that Tony Wilson (of Factory records, the Hacienda, Joy Division etc) has died. Shame – he was a hero of my second childhood. And so to bed.


Distance covered: 57.8 miles
Moving time: 05:58
Average speed: 9.7 mph
Maximum speed: 25.0 mph.

10/08/07

Friday 10th August 2007. Leg 12: Glendaruel to Loch Awe.

Woken at 3.30 a.m. by heavy rain on roof of van. Damp morning. Apply midge repellent, get sheets signed at reception. Lady at campsite chips in some sponsorship, as does a man in the queue for the shop. Lots of helpful advice and encouragement, including a suggestion of using the Otter Ferry. Have to pass up on this, because it’s a bit too much south-west for us, and will add some miles, even though it may avoid some hill-climbing. Besides, we’ve already dropped our original planned stay at Inverary in favour of pushing on to Bridge of Awe campsite. I’m getting a bit punch-drunk with all this re-planning.

Today we have three major long ascents in front of us. (800 feet up the A896 out of Glendaruel, 400 feet up the A815 away from the east side of Loch Fyne, and the 700 feet pull up the A819 through Glen Aray out of Inverary).

Before we set off I have a little grumble about the sugar-free grapefruit concentrate which has been purchased. Georgina says she likes it. I complain I can taste Aspartame. It is becoming increasingly difficult to find a soft drink which doesn’t contain it. Nobody in the drinks industry asked me if I wanted it. I object to Aspartame on three counts: (1) I don’t like the taste (2) I’m not convinced it’s safe (OK, so sugar rots your teeth, well at least that’s a known side effect) (3) I want sugar when I’m cycling. Sugar is energy.

Arrange with Jacky to meet at Strachur around lunch-time. Then we’re off at 9:40. Steaming up the A896, it’s my specs which are steaming up. Weather is still dull, but picking up after the rain.

On the long climb, discuss with Georgina whether I should wash the hot damp sweat-pads of my helmet in a nearby burn. She predicts the result will be steam emanating from the vents in my helmet, so I abandon that idea. I recognise Angelica along the roadside. Reminds me of when we were in Iceland, we were told the tale of the Norse outlaw who survived over winter, living in a hole in the ground and eating the roots of the Angelica plant. He’d have had a feast here.

Just before Strachur, Georgina complains that something’s not right with her bike. This is when we notice her rear tyre is a little soft. Is it a puncture? Maybe when I let that air out of the tyres a few days ago, I didn’t tighten the valve properly. Let’s pump the tyre up to see if that helps. Is there such a thing as ‘False Puncture Syndrome’?

Lunch at a small tea-room in Strachur. Georgina plumps for the Full Scottish, while I order a panini. G. fresh from her Environmental Science degree course, comments sotto voce on the waste-water disposal arrangements, and EU directives and the like. Well the meal was nice.

On departing the tea-rooms at 12.40, we watch Jacky sail off into the distance, turn to our bikes, and the realisation hits us “It is a puncture”.

It’s off with the wheel, out with the tube. No sign of anything penetrating the tyre carcass, but there’s this little crease in the tube, due to it being a wide tube in a narrow tyre. The tube has been crammed into the tyre by yours truly, and finally fatigued along the crease after some 600 miles. Letting air out of the tyre probably didn’t help as it’s allowed the tube to flex more, and contributed to the problem. In with a fresh tube (of the correct cross-section) and we’re back on our way. I’m a bit annoyed with myself that this has happened, partially due to the fact that this bike was a substitute for the Moulton, which I decided at the last minute to leave at home.

A car passes by in the opposite direction near Loch Fyne, with a beep and a wolf-whistle at Georgina. Yes, a wolf-whistling car. How strange.

Loch Fyne Oyster bar at 15:00 hours. Loch Fyne Oyster-catchers.

Inverary 16:00 hours (33 miles done). Bag of chips each and an Ice Cream for me.

On the last big pull up Glen Aray, a Freelander passes us at speed with the noise of Grabthar’s hammer coming from under the bonnet. Georgina and I look at each other and remark “That was loud”.

This puts me in mind of my Dad’s work colleague, Stan Borthwick. Stan came from North of the Border, and his standard diagnosis of any car mechanical malady would be “It’s yer tappets, Bill”. Not only was this invariably wrong, but also dad’s name was not “Bill”. Dad could put up with the inaccurate appellation “Bill”, but it was a major source of irritation when Dad was trying unsuccessfully to start his umpteenth-hand Renault Dauphine with the umpteenth swing of the starter handle, (a) that he (Stan) was there offering advice even though he knew nothing about car mechanics, and (b) that he (Dad) knew that he (Stan) knew nothing about car mechanics, but (c) that he (Dad) also new nothing about car mechanics, and so was not only (c.1) powerless to get the car started, but moreover (c.2) powerless to tell him (Stan) that he (Stan) was talking utter drivel. Even if it had been “Yer tappets, Bill”, neither Dad nor Stan would have had the faintest idea what to do with them, (a) where to find them, and (b) once found, whether to (i) tighten them, (ii) loosen them, (iii) grease them, (iv) de-grease them, or (v) hit them with a large hammer. Stan might just as well have claimed “It’s Yer Beryllium spheres, Bill”, for all the good it would have done. But I digress.

On this occasion Stan’s standard diagnosis is very close to the truth, for the whole of the top end of this Freelander’s engine is in terminal melt-down. And so it transpires that a few minutes later, we come upon the now-quiet Freelander in a layby, with the bonnet up, and the driver asking us if we’ve got any water, ‘cos his engine is (or has just been) on fire! There is another car parked nearby. The two occupants have got out, and the lady passenger is giving the Freelander driver a small bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice to throw on the engine (what a waste). The flames are out by now, but what a smell of oil and caramelised orange juice! We donate some water from my camelback, and after determining that his engine has probably imploded due to being driven without oil, we leave him to the recovery services. Ho hum, one less 4x4 on the road.

Jacky picked us up at Loch Awe village at 17:00 and took us to the campsite at Bridge of Awe. We had done enough for the day, with all those climbs.


Distance covered: 51.0 miles
Moving time: 06:04
Average speed: 8.4 mph
Maximum speed: 26.0 mph.

Day 13 09/08/07

Thursday 9th August 2007. Leg 11: Tarbolton to Glendaruel.

So this is Middlemuir Caravan park. We are parked on a slight slope. More ‘Titanic’ parallels, this time it’s the crockery, which seems to want to slide from the shelves at the slightest opportunity.

Off at 09:15, into a bright and apparently windless day. Not a cloud on the horizon.

Second breakfast at Monkton Lodge services near Prestwick Airport. Muffins, cappuccino, J2O. Hanging on the wall, an empty box, labelled “Take-Away Menu” causes to me to pause a while and ponder.

Swarms of tiny black flies hit us on the A77. Keep your mouth shut.

Then onto the A78, where “The Great White Whiskerless One” stares impassively as we pass (see Finn McCool, Leg 9).

Negotiating the roads round Irvine, there was much more broken glass to be seen on the roadside. Every morning before we set out, I make sure I check the tyres for embedded sharp objects. Note to self: extra vigilance require when checking tomorrow.

Meet Jacky at Tesco Irvine, 11:30. The hugest tower of Pringles I have ever seen is there. Is it in the guidebooks? Very tasty paninis in the café, surrounded by happy-looking pre-school kiddies being fed (Tesco – very little whelps). Left after a very long stay of about an hour.

Up the A78, very hot on the ascents, with a few short stops along the way to try and get some shade for Georgina. Some like it hot. She does not.

Then we’re on the flat coastal run to Wemyss Bay (meeting J. in a layby North of Largs). My eye was caught by a Hillman Imp in pristine condition, just south of the ferry terminal. Boarded the 16:45 ferry, together with white van lady, yay!

At Rothesay, Jacky pushes on towards the ferry off Bute to Colintraive. We stop for a bit a snap, and the weather has suddenly gone overcast. Fancied an Ice Cream, but we felt our delicate Sassenach pallets might not be up to Irn Bru flavour, not helped by the chip-fat smell emanating from the shop. We headed for Rhubodach (Rubber Duck?) to follow Jacky’s tyre-tracks to the ferry. Georgina’s verdict on Rothesay: “like a cross between Tobermory and Morecambe, but without the nice ice cream.”

Just rolled down to the ferry, up the ramp and off it went. (Good of them to wait for us).

9 miles North, arrived at campsite around 20:00, via the back road up the Glen. Consequently nearly couldn’t find the campsite. But we asked at a nearby cottage. Owls in evidence in the trees, and quite a few midges too. Jacky had prepared a hearty meal Further re-planning ensued, to capitalise on the miles gained from yesterday’s sacrifice of the rest day.

A few spots of rain, followed by overnight rain.

The insect scores:
Midges: few – black flies: infinity.
Couple of buzzards and the odd heron spotted along the route.

(Thoughts as I drift off to sleep: Am I imagining it, or is the Brooks a tad less uncomfortable today? Could be down to better road services. Georgina has been very tolerant of the few bad calls I’ve made today on the navigation front. Perhaps we are finally gelling together as a team. Is this Glenda Jackson? No Glendaruel Zzz…)


Distance covered: 63.2 miles
Moving time: 06:48
Average speed: 9.3 mph
Maximum speed: 28.0 mph.