Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

  Day 18 - Whisky tastings and llama farms

  Beauly to Berriedale - 79 miles

  The closer we got to John O’Groats, the greater the sense of enthusiasm we woke with each morning. For the majority of the journey, our first thoughts on waking would be of mild fear and anticipation of the day that lay ahead. These thoughts turned more towards excitement, as we felt the finish line getting closer.

  Iain gave us a delicious bowl of porridge for breakfast and we acquired an out-of-date quiche from one of the nearby shops before setting off.

  Just after leaving Beauly the route turned right and we climbed the road up to a ridge. The sky was black as far as the horizon, and we could see the haze of torrential rain in the distance ahead of us. The weather gods were on our side, because for the next 20 miles a massive tailwind propelled us, and the clouds, so that we fortunately never crossed paths.

  We joined the A9 and crossed Cromarty Firth via the Cromarty bridge – built in 1982, bridge fact fans – and then diverted onto minor roads through the villages of Evanton and Alness. We passed alongside beautiful evergreen forests with the road still fresh from a battering by the rain.

  After Alness, the road followed the coast along Cromarty Firth for several miles. The terrain was perfectly flat, and the wind so strong that even when we stopped pedalling it had the force to propel us along. We continued as far as the village of Milton where we turned inland again. Here we had an option to either follow the A9 to Tain, or take the ‘shorter route,’ as I described it to Ben.

  ‘Definitely the shorter route. That’s a no-brainer,’ he said, taking the bait. I had neglected to mention to him that the shorter router was significantly hillier.

  ‘This is hell,’ he said, as we panted up a road through thick woodland. ‘I bet the A-road was dead flat.’

  ‘No. It’s just as hilly as this,’ I lied, ‘but with much more traffic.’

  We then had a nice long downhill into the town of Tain. We didn’t stop, as we had a more appealing destination in mind a couple of miles further on; the Glenmorangie whisky distillery.

  I have never been a fan of whisky. In fact, I would even go as far as saying that I hate the stuff. It always seemed to be the drink of choice towards the end of a long drinking session in my late teens. Ever since, the slightest taste takes me back to the feeling of wanting to spew my guts out. Still, when in Scotland…

  Glenmorangie has been the best selling single-malt in Scotland since 1983. About 10 million bottles are produced each year. Not all of these are drunk in Scotland, however. A couple of bottles are sent elsewhere.

  The distillery itself is a beautiful old building sitting just off the A9 on the banks of the Dornoch Firth. We hid our bikes in a bush in the car park, and walked down to the distillery. The lady in the gift shop explained that they ran hourly tours of the distillery and the cellars, followed by a tasting session. On this occasion she was happy to waive the admission fee, on the basis that we seemed like ‘a couple of decent guys’.

  ‘The next tour doesn’t start for another 30 minutes, so maybe you would like to join in with the tasting session for the tour that has just finished,’ she suggested.

  We sat in a room with about ten other people – mostly Americans – and tried a series of different whiskies that were described with terms such as earthy, oaky, grassy and cerealy.

  ‘What does the aftertaste of this one remind you of?’ said the lady.

  ‘Vomit,’ I said under my breath.

  ‘Caramel,’ said Ben.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘It has definite caramel undertones, and hints of woodchip and oak.’

  ‘You brown nose,’ I said to Ben. ‘Do you really like this stuff?’

  ‘Yeah, I love it. Don’t you?’

  ‘No. It’s rank.’

  ‘Some people like to have a drop of water with theirs,’ she then said, passing around a jug of water.

  ‘Do you have any Coke?’ I asked, only half jokingly. The room erupted in laughter, and I went along with it as though I was a comic genius, rather than a whisky heathen. ‘Ha ha, whisky and Coke,’ I laughed. ‘As if!’

  To be fair to Glenmorangie, their whisky was definitely the least offensive that I had ever tasted. I would not go as far as saying that I enjoyed it, but it didn’t make me gag and I managed to finish each of the three shots.

  ‘Do we really have to go on the tour?’ whispered Ben. ‘I bet it will be really boring. I only wanted to do the tasting.’

  ‘Yeah, it would be rude if we left now. We might as well do the tour. It might be fun.’

  We met the other tour group – again, mostly Americans – at the designated spot with their guide Sandra.

  The tour was actually fascinating and well worth doing. We were guided through all of the different stages of whisky production, which, although seemingly complex, still use the same basic processes that have been used for hundreds of years.

  The distillery looked like something out of a sci-fi film, with giant cauldrons (I think that’s the technical name) of fermenting ‘stuff’. The odours that emanated around the room were completely overpowering, but not unpleasant.

  At one point, Sandra opened the hatch on top of one of the cauldrons and we were told to put our head inside and take a proper sniff. Ben went first and put his entire head in and inhaled deeply. He gave a loud cough into the cauldron and emerged gasping for air with his eyes streaming.

  ‘Oh my god. I wasn’t expecting that,’ he spluttered.

  ‘It certainly clears your sinuses, doesn’t it?’ said Sandra. ‘Who’s next? There’s no need to put your head in as far as Ben did.’

  I was next up, and, after copying Ben, my eyes were streaming and I was coughing and spluttering too. It was how I imagine snorting a line of wasabi would feel. The rest of the group decided against having a go.

  This particular batch of Glenmorangie single malt is best avoided. It contains traces of our spit.

  The highlight of the tour was a visit to the cellars, in which thousands of barrels are stacked up until they are ready to be bottled. Every single element of the process is considered an influencing factor on the product, such as the natural spring water that is used from the nearby spring, to the type and age of the wooden barrels, to the sea air and the temperature. I felt guilty that I had entertained the thought of ruining all of this with a splash of Coke.

  ‘Ok, now you can all come and take part in a tasting of some of our whiskies,’ said Sandra at the end of the tour.

  ‘Thanks, but we already did one before this tour,’ I whispered to her.

  ‘Lucky you. You might as well come and do another one.’

  We duly obliged. It would have been rude not to. Besides, we had both become fascinated by studying the different people in the group. They were a very strange bunch. One particular bloke took notes on a little notepad the entire way round, and then asked Sandra very specific questions at the end, referring back in his notebook to how Glenmorangie was different to the other distilleries he had been to. His wife could not have looked more depressed the entire time.

  We got talking to Bruce and Anne - a couple from Vermont, USA. They too were whisky enthusiasts, but not as hardcore as the freaky notepad guy.

  ‘I’ve been to Vermont,’ I said, to try and impress them.

  ‘Really? Where did you go?’ said Bruce.

  ‘Errr, the Ben & Jerry’s factory,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, Ben and Jerry’s is about the only thing that brings people to Vermont.’

  We sat through another tasting session, and talked with Bruce and Anne about their vacation. They were spending three weeks in Scotland, hiking, eating and drinking.

  ‘This is our address,’ said Anne, ‘if you are ever in Vermont again, make sure you stop by.’

  Sandra, the guide, then presented Ben and me with a rare bottle of Truffle Oak Reserve single malt whisky - one of only 800 bottles produced.

  ‘What’s this for?’ asked Ben. ‘We don’t deserv
e this’

  ‘Yes you do. It’s our gesture of goodwill. You can either enjoy it during your trip, or save it to celebrate with afterwards.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you. We better not have any more today otherwise we’ll never make it to John O’Groats,’ I said.

  My rucksack was completely full, and there was no room in Ben’s bag as it still contained the complete picnic set he had carried since Cornwall. After a bit of effort, we managed to strap the valuable boxed bottle of whisky to the back of The Horse, and we wobbled off with heavier bikes and lighter heads.

  I’m not sure if it was the whisky or the weather, but the next few miles were incredibly tough going. We crossed the Dornoch Bridge which straddles the Dornoch Firth, and the wind had turned dramatically and was now blowing against us, as well as across from the left. This meant that not only did we have to fight against it just to move ourselves forward, but we also had to lean into it to avoid being blown under the wheels of the many passing articulated lorries.

  We pushed our bikes for a large section of the bridge because we didn’t want our trip to come to an abrupt end so close to the finish, and also because it was as quick to walk as cycle.

  I’m sure Dornoch Firth would be very beautiful on a nice day, but the wind had turned it into a wild, intimidating body of water and we were glad to reach the other side. If the name ‘Dornoch’ sounds familiar to you, it is probably because it is the location of Skibo Castle where Madonna and Guy Ritchie married in 2000.

  We continued uphill for a while before descending to a causeway across Loch Fleet, which forms part of a 19,000 acre wildlife conservation area that is a popular spot for birdwatchers.

  The village of Golspie (population 1650) was a heaving metropolis compared to most of the places we had passed through that day. Places such as Evelix, Poles and Culmaily looked significant on the map, but often boasted one house, and sometimes not even that. Golspie even had a shop.

  The whisky had clouded our minds and we had forgotten about food. It was nearly 5pm and we hadn’t eaten anything since our porridge at the Caledonian.

  The young cashier of the shop – a pretty Scottish-born Asian girl – gave us a bunch of bananas, which would have seen us through the rest of the day if it had come to it. In that remote part of Scotland, we didn’t know when we would eat again.

  It was too early for us to stop for the day in Golspie, as we would have been left with over 70 miles to complete on the final day. Just beyond the village we passed the spectacular looking Dunrobin Castle. I say ‘spectacular’ because I have just seen pictures of it on the internet. I don’t remember being able to see much of it from the road, though. Our route book said that it is ‘well worth a stop’, but I didn’t read this until we were several miles beyond.

  The wind had died down and the rain clouds were out of sight, which left us with some pleasant cycling for the rest of the day. Fuelled by the bananas we made good progress, cycling another 20 miles through the town of Brora and on to the village of Helmsdale.

  It was 6.30pm by the time we reached Helmsdale, and we had to decide whether to call it a day or push onto the next village of Berriedale, another ten miles further on.

  ‘I think we should try and get to Berriedale today. It’ll be 10 miles that we don’t have to do tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘I knew you were going to say that,’ said Ben. ‘But what happens if we can’t find anywhere in Berry Vale?’

  ‘Berriedale.’

  ‘Whatever. What happens if we can’t find anywhere there? Shouldn’t we look for somewhere here first? This place looks fairly big. There are B&Bs, a pub. I think we could find somewhere easily.’

  ‘We probably would, but I’m sure we’ll find somewhere in Berriedale, too. It looks as big as this place on the map.’

  ‘Ten miles, you say?’

  ‘Yeah. The other thing is there is a massive hill for the next 4 ½ miles, which would mean that if we stayed here we would have to do that first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘But if we do it now, it means that we have to do it NOW! Either way it’s crap.’

  ‘But if we get it over and done with now, then we’ll have just 43 miles left tomorrow, and it will all be fairly flat and easy.’

  ‘Fine! If it shuts you up, let’s get it over and done with. But if we end up homeless tonight then I’m going to fucking kill you.’

  The hill was every bit as gruelling as our route book suggested, and Ben moaned every bit as much as I thought he would. We left the coast behind as we crawled slowly up into the hills. By ‘crawled’ I mean that we cycled slowly. Things had not got that bad.

  The descent into the village of Berriedale was one of the steepest we experienced on the entire trip. Those doing the route from north to south would have this to tackle on their first day.

  Just before we reached the village, I managed to come to a stop using my feet in the gravel of a lay-by. Ben screeched to a halt behind me.

  ‘What did you stop for?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you see the gates to that house back there?’

  ‘No. What was special about them?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I couldn’t see the actual house, but it looked quite important.’

  ‘So what?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Well, it’s our last night. Maybe we should try to stay somewhere really special?’

  ‘I like your thinking.’

  The sign on the gateway to Langwell House was modest enough - there was nothing to indicate that it was a hotel or guest house - but there was something about the driveway that stretched out of sight into the woods that gave a hint that it was more than just an average semi, and it made us want to find out more.

  We pushed our bikes down the wooded driveway. I’m not sure why, but it felt more polite to walk, rather than cycle down someone’s drive. We turned a corner expecting to see the house in front of us, but instead the drive continued. The road then emerged from the woods and was suddenly clinging to the side of a deep valley, with a river flowing peacefully at the bottom.

  ‘What the hell is this place?’ asked Ben.

  ‘It’s like we’ve ended up in Narnia or something.’

  ‘Is it just me, or is it all a little bit creepy?’

  ‘I’m glad you said that. I’m shitting myself.’

  There was no evidence of human habitation anywhere. One minute we had been on the outskirts of a village, and the next we had ventured into another world. We got on our bikes. Not because we were scared, you understand, but because we had been walking for ten minutes and still not reached the house.

  The drive continued for what felt like several miles and we eventually saw the house; a fairly humble building, considering its location. It was a beautiful white farmhouse sat in a prime spot on the hillside, with views stretching across the wooded valley and out to sea.

  We began to walk up towards the house when we heard the roar of an engine, and a quad bike came shrieking down the track towards us. A man dressed in army camouflage trousers, a wax jacket and a flat cap climbed off and then reached for his shotgun from the back of the quad.

  A huge Alsatian ran salivating and barking down from the house and stood beside him.

  ‘Can ah help ye?’ he said with an angry glare. Being confronted in the middle of nowhere by a man with a gun, and a dog with an apparent lust for blood, was not the most welcoming of greetings I had ever had.

  ‘I’m really sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘We’ve travelled the length of Great Britain without spending a single penny. Everything we own has been acquired along the way including all of our food and accommodation. Tonight is our last night, and we saw this place and thought it would be fitting to end our journey somewhere really special.’

  The man’s face remained as stern as before, and he still held on tight to the shotgun.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Ben. ‘Would there be any chance at all of us sleeping here tonight? We’re happy to do some work in return.’

  He paused.

>   ‘Nae. That willnae be possible.’

  ‘Oh, ok,’ said Ben. ‘Are you the owner?’

  ‘Nae, aam th' gamekeeper.’

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to the owner?’

  ‘Nae. That willnae be possible.’

  ‘We’re kind of a bit stranded,’ added Ben. ‘It’s almost dark and we’re in the middle of nowhere and we’ve got nowhere to stay.’

  ‘Ah cannae help ye,’ said the man.

  ‘Would it not be possible to have a quick chat with the owner? Maybe they have an outhouse we could sleep in?’ I said, beginning to sound a bit desperate.

  ‘Nae. i’m gonnae hae tae ask ye tae leave now.’ With that, we got back on our bikes and followed the long driveway back to Berriedale. The gamekeeper appeared behind us on his quad for the last section, and shadowed us to make sure that we left the property.

  Berriedale was nowhere near as big as I had promised Ben. In fact, the term ‘village’ would be very generous. It was 8.30pm and completely dark. We knocked on the door of the house with lights on. Despite a car being parked outside and the flickering of a TV visible through the curtains there was no answer.

  ‘Should we knock again?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s a bit late and they obviously don’t want to answer.’

  ‘Let’s try the next house then.’

  ‘I think we should keep going.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t like knocking on people’s doors late in the evening like this. It feels wrong.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not bloody ideal, but we don’t really have much choice, do we? If you had stopped being so stubborn and looked for somewhere in that last place then we wouldn’t have this problem.’

  ‘Well hindsight is a wonderful thing isn’t it?’

  ‘So is foresight, and it was pretty obvious this was going to happen.’