‘Hae ye nae got proper waterproofs?’ he asked, when he saw what we were wearing.
‘No, unfortunately not. Just bin liners,’ said Ben.
‘Yoo'd better ride canny in those. Two people ur killed everyday on these roods. Yoo'll be gonnae home in a feckin' body bag.’
As we left the lay-by the weather closed in completely. An impenetrable blanket of fog had fallen onto the mountainside, cocooning us in its damp, cold flesh. Our route book described this part of the road as follows…
‘On a fine summer’s day this is a beautiful ride... But when it’s misty, wet and windy the crags close in, and a headwind can make this section tough going.’
This was definitely an understatement. The bagpipe player’s words were haunting me.
‘Two people ur killed everyday on these roods. Yoo'll be gonnae home in a feckin' body bag,’ I said out loud, in my bad Scottish accent. It sounded more Jamaican.
‘I know. What the hell did he have to say that for? Thanks, Sandy, for scaring the shit out of us,’ said Ben.
‘He probably had a point, though. Look at us! We couldn’t be more dangerously dressed if we tried. Maybe we should push our bikes for a bit, just until the fog clears.’
‘That sounds good to me. I hate sharing a road with these stupid coaches and motorbikes anyway.’
There was very little room to safely walk on the edge of the road, so we wheeled our bikes along the verge which was extremely boggy and uneven.
After about half an hour we could make out what appeared to be a set of traffic-lights through the mist. The steep mountain road was being repaired and was down to one lane. The traffic was filtered as a result, and oncoming traffic was forced to wait at the lights. A workman stepped out from his cabin when he saw us approaching.
‘Are you heading down to Glencoe?’ he asked. Ben looked to me, as he never had any idea where we were going.
‘Yes, we are,’ I said.
‘I can’t let you go down like that, I’m afraid. The visibility is too bad and it would be dangerous.’
‘OK, no problem. We’ll just push our bikes down then if that’s ok?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that either. The road is too narrow and cars wouldn’t be able to see you, even if you were walking.’
‘What can we do then?’
‘If you hang around for ten minutes, I’ll give you a lift down the mountain in the van.’
‘Brilliant. Thanks mate,’ said Ben excitedly.
‘Sorry to be awkward,’ I said, ‘But we’re cycling from Land’s End to John O’Groats and, I know this sounds petty, but if we got a lift with you then I would feel like we’ve cheated as we haven’t technically cycled the whole way.’
‘Oh, George, stop being such a stickler. It’s only a couple of miles, and we don’t really have any choice,’ said Ben.
‘No, no, he’s right,’ said the workman. ‘I can see that it would feel like cheating to get a lift. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll radio down to the guys at the bottom, and in a minute we’ll stop the traffic in both directions while you cycle down. Let me just go and get you a couple of high-vis vests too, just in case. You look ridiculous like that. Just hand them to the guys at the bottom when you get there.’
‘THIS IS AMAZING!’ I shouted, as we descended down the mountain with the road to ourselves.
‘Yeah, but it would have been even more amazing in the back of a warm van,’ said Ben.
‘Would you not have felt bad doing that?’
‘No. Not in the slightest. Although, it is pretty cool them closing an entire mountain for us.’
‘If only they could close the next 200 miles of road for us, too.’
It only took a few minutes to reach the bottom, but already the traffic was backed up at the lights as far as we could see. We handed in our vests to the man in the cabin and cycled off, followed by the glare of many frustrated motorists.
During our descent, I remembered that The Falcon’s brakes were completely inoperative in the wet. The last time we had cycled in wet weather was in Dumfries and I had ended up sliding into the back of a car. I had somehow forgotten this fact, and carried on as if they would fix themselves.
On those treacherous roads, my inability to stop could have resulted in me taking a detour over one of the many precipices. The wind, mist and rain were relentless, and it was a challenge just to keep the bikes on the road. That, and the added threat of the menacing traffic, made cycling on this stretch of road particularly dangerous.
‘This is stupid,’ said Ben, ‘let’s just walk again.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said, dismounting in a split second. It was 4pm and I had become slightly concerned that we wouldn’t make it to any civilisation before dark.
‘How far is it until the nearest town or village?’ asked Ben.
‘A few more miles… probably,’ I responded vaguely.
Every inch of our bodies was sodden, and for the first time on the trip, we started to feel the cold. Even when the weather had been cold before, we had maintained a good body temperature whilst cycling. Walking had allowed our circulation and heart-rates to slow down and our bodies were suffering at the hands of the weather. I immediately regretted being so disparaging towards the three pairs of gloves mentioned in our guide book's sample kit list. Just one pair of gloves would have made a big difference.
We walked for several miles with no sense of our surroundings whatsoever. The fog was so thick that we couldn’t even see the other side of the road, let alone what lay ahead of us. Then, emerging from the fog, a sign appeared.
Glencoe Visitor Centre
It was like an oasis in the desert. Only without the sand, certainly without the sun, and with lots more rain.
‘Please be open, please be open, please be open,’ we repeated, as we walked up the long drive to the visitor centre. There wasn’t anything in particular that we thought the visitor centre could do for us to ease our situation, but the idea of being indoors and warm was all that we desired.
It was open.
‘They’ve got a café!’ said Ben. ‘I wonder if they’ll heat our microwave meals up for us.’ It was nearly 5pm and we hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
The kitchen was being manned by a man named Paul, a smiley, bearded gentleman with huge glasses. He was wearing a badge that said ‘Visitor Centre Manager’, so he seemed like the right person to ask. We told him our story, and he smiled and nodded away enthusiastically.
‘Yes, that’s not a problem to heat up your meals,’ he said. ‘You both look like you could do with a hot chocolate, too.’
It really was the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted; thick, overly sweet hot chocolate, topped with cream, marshmallows and a flake. I think you probably need to spend hours walking in the wind and rain, dressed only in a pair of shorts and a bin bag to fully appreciate it, but it’s definitely worth sampling, if you are ever in the area.
The Londis microwaveable spaghetti Bolognese wasn’t too bad either. Again, I think our enjoyment of this was partly due to the circumstances.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt as miserable as I did half an hour ago,’ said Ben after a while.
‘Yes, it was pretty grim,’ I said. ‘At least we’re dry now and it’s not far to go today.’
‘That’s the problem, though. Today isn’t the end of the bike ride. We’ve still got hundreds of miles to go until John O’Groats and I just want it to be over.’
‘Are you not enjoying it at all?’
‘No. It’s horrendous. I keep thinking how I could be at home sitting on the sofa, drinking tea whenever I like, going to the cinema, going to the pub. The only thing getting me through this is knowing that each day means we’re another day closer to finishing.’
‘Just imagine the sense of achievement we’ll feel when we’ve finished.’
‘I used to think that, but now I don’t see the point. I mean is it really worth all the effort?’
‘I’m having great
fun. Of course I’m looking forward to finishing, too, but I’m really enjoying each day. Today has been horrible, admittedly, but most of it has been good. Besides, we’ve been to the cinema and pub, and drank plenty of tea since we’ve been on the road.’
Ben gave a huge sigh. He had shown moments of frustration before, but this was the first true sign of dejection. I hoped that it was nothing that a place to sleep and a change of weather couldn’t fix.
We stayed in the café for as long as we could, but Paul eventually encouraged us to leave as he was closing up. We spent a few minutes trying to dry our clothes under the hand-dryers in the toilet, and then braved it back outside.
It was still raining outside, but the fog was clearing and the sun was fighting to break through the clouds. Ben looked thoroughly depressed as he pulled the already wet bin liner over his head and climbed aboard The Horse. Out of context, that last sentence would sound very strange.
‘Cheer up, mate. It’s downhill all the way to Glencoe,’ I said.
‘Yeah right. I’ve heard that one before.’
‘It is, I promise you. It’s only a couple of miles.’
‘Is that where we’re going to stay tonight?’
‘It’s up to you. We can try and find somewhere there, or it’s another 15 miles along the banks of a loch to Fort William, which is much bigger. It’ll be flat all the way.’
‘We’ll see. I’ll let you know when we get to Glencoe.’
Ben pedalled like a man possessed, and we reached Glencoe in no time.
‘What do you want to do, Ben? This is Glencoe. We can stop here if you like.’
‘No. Let’s keep going. The further we go, the closer we get to finishing.’ This was a first. Things were clearly worse than I thought.
The A82 crosses Loch Leven just after the village of Ballachulish and then follows the edge of Loch Linnhe all the way to Fort William. The road was still incredibly busy, but the cycling was easy and the views were striking.
Fort William is the largest town in the Highlands with 10,000 inhabitants (I assume they have rounded that figure to the nearest thousand). The city of Inverness is the only larger settlement.
Fort William describes itself as ‘the Outdoor Capital of the UK,’ due to the huge number of tourists who use the town as a base for climbing, hiking and mountain biking in the surrounding mountains. Despite its relative grandeur in Highland terms, the town centre is relatively modest and the main street had a distinct lack of high-street chains, which made for a welcome change.
We asked an old lady who was standing in a shop doorway if she knew of anywhere cheap to stay.
‘Ye coods try th' Bank Street Lodge. It’s halfway up towards Glen Nevis.’
‘HALFWAY UP BEN NEVIS?’ I shouted, after mishearing her.
‘Ack noooo. Up towards Glen Nevis. It’s nae far.’
The Bank Street Lodge sits on a steep side-road, not far from the centre of Fort William. The reception was staffed by a no-nonsense lady in her sixties.
‘Sae ye want somewhaur tae sleep an' yoo'll dae some jobs in return?’ she said, as though it was a request she had heard many times before. ‘Yoo'll hae tae hang oan fur a minute while ah phone th' owner.’
‘I've got some wee jimmies haur who want tae bide at th' lodge tonecht fur free... Ye explain it tae 'er,’ she said, thrusting the phone towards me.
‘Errrr... hello... yes... errr... my friend and I are looking for somewhere to stay tonight, for free, as part of a challenge that we’re doing. We’re happy to do any odd jobs that you need doing; cleaning, washing, decorating... ’ I said.
‘And this is a charity bike ride, is it?’ asked the well-spoken lady on the other end of the phone.
‘Well no, not exactly. We travelling from Land’s End to John O’Groats without spending any money and we’re trying to prove how nice the people of Britain are.’
She gave a half-hearted laugh.
‘And you have made it all the way to Fort William from Land’s End without spending any money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you now. I’m sure we can sort something out for you. Pass me back to Tootie and I’ll have a chat with her.’
‘Uh huh... ok... ay... ok... ha ha... uh huh,’ said Tootie, as she continued the conversation with the owner.
We watched on, trying to work out what they were talking about.
‘Ok,’ said Tootie, after hanging up the phone, ‘Ah can lit ye sleep in a bunk in one of th’ dormitory rooms. In return, she would like ye tae clean out uir dryin' room which is under th' buildin', an' clear up aw th' fag butts frae in th' front ay th' hostel. Diz 'at soond awe rite?’
‘Sounds like a great deal. Thank you,’ I said.
Tootie showed us to a nice room with two sets of bunk beds. It was unoccupied, and she said it was unlikely that she would need to put anyone else in with us.
We collected a bucket, dustpan, mop, cloths, bin bags and a couple of brushes, and Tootie showed us to the drying room, which was located in an underground car park area. It was used by customers and staff to hang wet hiking gear and to store ski equipment.
We spent about an hour removing the mats, sweeping it out, bagging up rubbish and giving it a general tidy. It then took another 20 minutes to pick up hundreds of cigarette butts that lined the road outside the hostel entrance. I have a feeling that a high-proportion of these were Tootie’s.
During the cleaning we got talking to a chef who worked in a posh restaurant just down the road from the hostel. He was fascinated to hear all about our adventure and was keen to help us out.
‘I can’t offer to feed you tonight, I’m afraid, because we’re so busy, but I’ll make you up a packed lunch in the morning if you fancy it.’ We hadn’t even asked him for anything, and already the following day’s lunch was taken care of.
‘What shall we do about food tonight?’ asked Ben when we were back in our room.
‘We’ve still got those Londis tuna pasta bakes.’
‘Ughh, I don’t think I can face one of those. I fancy fish and chips.’
‘You make me laugh. We’ve got two perfectly decent microwave meals, yet you still want to go out and try and blag fish and chips.’
‘Yeah, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. I would like fish and chips, too. Let’s go.’
Twenty minutes later we were back at the hostel with two portions of haddock and chips. We had got lucky at a takeaway on the main street. The manager wasn’t in, and the girl behind the counter handed over two fish suppers without any hesitation.
We ate in the communal lounge area where the only other people were three young Chinese students who were all immersed in guidebooks about Scotland.
After we had finished dinner, Ben decided - for no known reason - to make a scrabble set out of a couple of bits of paper, which he tore into lots of individual letters. Ben had always seen himself as an expert scrabble player due to the amount of time he spent playing the game on set during his acting jobs. This is not a result of him having a particularly wide vocabulary, but simply because he had memorised all of the possible two letter words.
He was infuriating to play against. At one point he simply added the letter ‘X’ to score 50 points with the word ‘Xi’ in two directions. I had to sit through an hour of his smug face as he piled on the points with a series of two letter words that he had no idea to the meaning of. Xi is the 14th letter of the Greek alphabet, in case you were wondering.
Ben then got talking to the Chinese students. They were in Scotland as part of a two month tour of Europe. The conversation soon became an in-depth discussion about the advantages and disadvantages of communism in modern China. I didn’t have the knowledge or mental willingness to take part, so slunk off to bed and left them to it.
Day 17 - The hunt for Nessie
Fort William to Beauly - 63 miles
After the brutality of the previous day’s cycling I slept for nine hours straight. B
en’s sleep was somewhat shorter after his lengthy late-night communism tutorial with the Chinese students.
Breakfast, on the other hand, was not one of my most memorable; a Londis tuna pasta bake cooked in the hostel’s microwave. They were already two days past their use-by date, but we didn’t have the heart to throw them out, or the desire to take them both with us. On our way out, Tootie - who seemed to be on a 24-hour shift - gave us the packed lunches that the chef had promised us.
The A82 was much friendlier once the fog had cleared. The bank-holidaymakers were all still asleep, and so the road was almost deserted.
A few miles north of Fort William we passed a sign for the Nevis Range, which is one of Scotland’s main ski areas. Seeing as we were passing, we decided to call in and take a look. We regretted this decision instantly, once we realised that it was actually a mile-long uphill graft away from the main road.
I had always been very sceptical about Scottish ski resorts. I imagined them being little hills with a couple of rickety drag-lifts transporting people the 15 metres to the top of the slope. At the Nevis Range I was shocked to see several chairlifts, and an actual gondola. Not the ‘just one Cornetto’ type that you find in Venice, but a proper cable-car that stretched up the mountain as far as we could see.
In the winter, it carries hundreds of skiers and snowboarders, and in the summer it transports hikers and mountain-bikers to the top.
‘Let’s see if we can get a free trip up the mountain. It might be fun to check out the view,’ I suggested.
‘What would be the point in that?’ asked Ben.
‘I don’t know. I just thought it would be nice to try and do these things while we’re here. It’s unlikely we’ll be passing through here again anytime soon.’
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 27