Norfolk - the Lost County -April and May 2017

I should be working for the English Tourist Board!

On the pretext of visiting an aged Aunt we arranged a cycling holiday in Norfolk.  An array of possible routes opened up when we began to consult our cycling book.  As Noel Coward memorably penned, ‘’Very flat, Norfolk.’  We decided to start with the flattest route possible, and therefore made our way to Ely.  Until now, I had thought that Noel Coward was the only quotable source about the county, but it seems that Kazuo Ishiguro, in ‘Never let me go’, now has the monopoly.  One of his characters, on learning that Norfolk is the ‘lost county’, forever envisages it as the place where things that are lost are sent.

Despite three memorable years in a University not far to the south, I had never visited Ely.  Bicycles were excellent in Cambridge for local journeys, but the weight, size and reliability of the machine that I jettisoned at the end of my time there did not encourage trips further.  I did once nobly cycle some enormous distance in the middle of the night to return a lost contact lens to a girlfriend in St Neots, and had she lived in Ely it might have enriched the experience.  I know that strictly speaking, Ely is still in Cambridgeshire, but having come this far from Dorset it feels like Norfolk.  We stayed at The Old Hall, just outside, with a fine distant view of the cathedral (‘The Ship of the Fens’), and the family in ownership turned out to have had a contemporary of our friend Xerxes at the King’s School, Ely in the 1960s.  School photographs in the upstairs corridors proved the point.  The weather was dreary, but we made use of the time to visit the cathedral.  Ely council is surprisingly generous in allowing free parking, which certainly encourages one to visit.  We were just in time to experience most of the Evensong service, including a superb setting of the Magnificat by Charles Wood.  The choristers sang beautifully, and having processed out at the end of the service they disappeared immediately, no doubt to do prep or to get supper or both.  We were left with the conductor of the choir, who despite his charming appearance during the service declared himself too busy to show us the medieval wall painting of the martyrdom of King Edmund (shot with arrows by the Viking invaders). There were two rather large lady vergers or canons or something who also disappeared, if that is not a contradiction in terms.  But we admired the magnificent Octagon (built after the Norman tower collapsed in the 1320s) and the general ambience of one of our finest and oldest cathedrals.  Building of the present cathedral commenced in about 1071 after the defeat of Hereward the Wake in 1070, and took just over a hundred years.  Ely is full of pleasant walks through the cathedral precincts and by the river Ouse and we then enjoyed an excellent dinner at a country pub, the Anchor Inn at Sutton Gault.

Evensong, Ely Cathedral

Ely Cathedral, from the South

The following morning we cycled into Ely and then commenced our circular ride through the Fens.  It’s strange how on a circular route the wind can always seem against you, but I only counted a real back wind for about five miles of the 47 we covered.  Our route lay out to the North West via Coveney, and sadly we passed the Anchor Inn at a time in the morning when only desperate alcoholics would have ventured in for another drink.  I can vouch for their strong ale though, sampled the previous evening, which is memorably called ‘Azzaparrot’.  Apart from the fertile black soils of the area, the most striking geographical feature is the arrow straight parallel course of the Old Bedford river and the New Bedford river, otherwise known as the hundred foot drain.  This latter channel was engineered in the mid 17^th Century by Dutch engineers to drain the frequently flooded land.  It runs for about twenty miles, with few crossings.  The huge levees on each side mean that one is cycling some two metres below sea level.  Recrossing of the channels is achieved at Welney, a small village marked by its two bridges and the excellent Lamb and Flag pub.  There is a feature on the ‘Fen Skaters of Welney’ on the wall.  In the 1890s, the Fenmen, particularly the Smart family, rivalled the Dutch speed skaters, and became world champions.  This was before anyone had bothered with figure skating.  Charles Causley’s poem ‘A Ballad for Katharine of Aragon’ which carries the line, ‘As I walked down by the river, down by the frozen fen…’ keeps popping into my mind.  Even though it is about the fens at Peterborough cathedral where Catherine (usual spelling but not Causley’s) is buried.  The pub ambience is cosy, the home made pork crackling pieces are the local ‘naughty but nice’, and the beer is excellent (Elgoods’ Cambridge Bitter).  Above the welcome open fire is a magnificent case containing a 36lb pike which was caught locally in 1957.

Although we weren’t ‘down by the frozen fen’ it was still somewhat chilly and we were reluctant to leave, but completed the ride back to Ely, loaded the car, and drove to the north Norfolk coast.  This is a large county and it takes an hour and a half to reach the inaccurately named Cley-next-the-Sea.

We were booked into the Cley Windmill, which is a charismatic spot, though the wheel room is achievable only by ladder and is undoubtedly best booked by young athletic people.  We had to take what was available and were billeted in the Longhouse next door.  The prices are comparable with London, and reflect what the owners can ask for a romantic location on the north Norfolk coast.  When we leave two days later it is noticeable that ‘Essex Man’ with his shiny new white Lexus RX is paying with fistfuls of notes, so perhaps the black economy extends here and offers Norfolk hoteliers some benefits.  An interesting local couple whom we meet the following evening at the excellent Cley Windmill dinner (duck spring rolls, hake, chocolate tartlet) explain the frequency of Dutch gabling and red brick houses of the area as the ballast brought back by boat in return from the wealthy wool trade with Holland in former centuries.  They also provide a footnote on Essex man: don’t equip yourself with too smart an outboard motor on your boat.  Weekends see night time raids from Essex, with chainsaws used to take out motor and transom on your boat, and the whole lot is on a container from Felixstowe to the continent before you can say ‘Honda 4 Stroke’.  The footpath to Cley beach passes by the windmill, but it’s another mile more or less to the sandbanks of the coast from this point.

Cley Windmill

Our first evening is scheduled for our special meal of the trip.  We dine at Morston Hall Hotel, not too far away, in the restaurant run under the aegis of Galton Blakiston.  The menu speaks for itself.  The cost is enormous, but as always on these occasions, we remind ourselves that we almost never eat out, and that for Lindsay, with her professional hat on, this is ‘research’, though sadly HMRC do not accept this.  But let me advise you – if you do want fantastic food, perhaps not as elaborate as Galton’s, but cooked by a former trainee of his, Daniel Smith, then visit the ‘Ingham Swan’ near Sea Palling, where we ate on our last night.  The bill was about 40% of that of the Morston Hall Hotel, and we certainly didn’t feel short changed foodwise.

Scallops with Norfolk asparagus, Ingham Swan

A great experience.  And next day we needed it.  Lindsay decided we had to visit Brancaster, and it’s a long cycle ride from Cley, especially if you want to avoid the A149, the coast road.

On this day, the coastal highlight was Blakeney, which is smaller and has a more intimate feel than Wells-next-the Sea, which although attractive, is more touristy.  From Wells, a track leads through the coastal belt to the Holkham Hall estate, which we cycle through.  Holkham Hall is an example of the 18^th century’s taste for Palladian style architecture, and is on the grand scale.  From the south side of the estate, a country road leads into the unremarkable little village of Burnham Thorpe, which despite the fact that it is some miles from the sea is known as the birthplace of Lord Nelson.  Thence to Burnham Market and so to Brancaster, which is rather disappointing.  It’s mainly known for its golf club, the Royal West Norfolk.  After many inland miles we find our way back to Cley, visiting the beautiful church of North Creake, with its superb hammer-beam roof, on the way.  North Norfolk is adorned with magnificent churches which were built in the days of tithes to the church from the very successful East Anglian wool trade.

Blakeney

From Cley we move on towards the area of the Broads, reed fringed stretches of open water formed by the rivers Ant, Bure, and Yare.  There are relatively few places where one can get close to the Broads on the road, but we do our best, and the vistas remind one of scenes from the jigsaws of childhood.  Wroxham is a little overcrowded and touristy, but there is a lovely picnic spot near the Norfolk Broads Yacht Club on Wroxham Broad, and the White Lion at Neatishead is a good lunchtime stopover.  The most beautiful section of our ride however is near the beginning.  Southeast of the town of Aylsham is Buxton, where we leave the car in the Bure Valley Railway Walk car park.  Soon after leaving this spot with its charming little steam train, we cross the Bure at Brampton on a beautiful old bridge.  Flights of bluebells in the trees, cowslip meadows, and a glistening stream make this a lovely spot.

Bure Valley Railway

Our final night in Norfolk is spent at Dairy Barns, Lound Farm.  The cost is less than half the price we have spent elsewhere, and it represents excellent value.  On our last day, we do another circular ride around the coast at Sea Palling, Horsey, and past Horsey Mere, Heigham Sound, and Hickling Broad.  A chance exploration takes us to How Hill House, and the beautiful grounds stretching down to the river Ant, again, a locale with scenes reminiscent of Constable and the huge skies of Suffolk.  This was certainly the highlight of our final day, and reminds one that if prepared for the English weather, ‘Staycation’ can be a great option for a holiday.

Sailing on Horsey Mere

The River Ant at How Hill House

Boardman Mill - a 'skeleton' mill

A Hardyesque Experience in East Devon

December Devon Cycling – a Hardyesque experience.

Every proper rural pub needs a rustic, a habitué of the tavern who is always there to make oblique remarks and to give advice that you never really needed.  So it was in December in a remote village in East Devon: the houses thatched, the economy agricultural, and rough roads running red with mud in the rain.  Just as Mark Clark in Hardy’s ‘Far From The Madding Crowd’ was ‘a genial and pleasant gentleman, whom to meet anywhere in your travels was to know, to know was to drink with, and to drink with was, unfortunately, to pay for’, there was a local who was keen to recharge his glass with the excellent Otter beer and converse.  Having introduced me to the landlord’s parrot, Captain, and displayed some of his teeth, he was of a mind to know my business.  I explained that we were embarking on a bicycle ride in East Devon, with a somewhat challenging hilly circular route.  ‘Are you goin’ to Spreyton’, he enquired.  Yes, I did believe that we were passing through there, and indeed I had heard of Old Uncle Tom Cobley.  ‘He’s buried in the churchyard there you know.’  I confessed I had not been aware of the last resting place of Uncle Tom.  I explained that we were starting off by heading north to Copplestone and then on to Morchant Bishop, thence to North Tawton, and thus to Spreyton.  He stared at me in disbelief.  ‘You don’ wan’ ter go that way’ he advised.  I tried to explain the validity of a circular riding route, but he was adamantly against it.  ‘To get to Spreyton you ought to go to Colebrook and then up to North Down, or maybe up to Copplestone but then down through Hillerton’.  I nodded assent.  I felt sure that he was about to suggest abandoning the bikes altogether in order to get to the hostelry which he assured me was equipped with excellent beer with all possible speed.  The next day was unfortunately a Monday, with weather that explained why the grass was so green.  Having drawn a blank with The Fountain in North Tawton, we arrived at the Uncle Tom Cobley Tavern to find that it was also closed at lunchtime on a Monday.  It is a sign of the 21^st Century that many rural pubs fail to open on a Monday lunchtime, and in our cycling routes guide, which dates from the 1990s, many directions such as ‘At the Fox Inn turn left’ are completely redundant, the pub having closed, and if one is lucky there might be a residual rusty oblong of metal gently swinging from the front wall to indicate what the original purpose of the bijou thatched cottage might have been.  The farms with their lowing livestock en route seemed Hardyesque; only the mud-spattered modern machinery giving the lie to my belief that we were not undertaking this journey 150 years earlier.  But it seemed refreshing to know that rural England still existed.

500 Words

The above was going to be an entry in the Telegraph ‘Just Back’ 500 word travel writing competition but it seems that this is in abeyance, so it forms the core of a short description of two days’ cycling in East Devon.  On our first day, we reached Ottery St Mary from Poole and started cycling at 12 midday.  The weather could not have been more different.  It was icy, clear, with a low sun against bright blue sky.  Through country lanes and villages with names like Tipton St John, we gradually made our way towards the estuary of the Exe, which was shrouded in fog, skirted through Exmouth and on to the more attractive and upmarket Budleigh Salterton.  Thence generally parallel with the tranquil River Otter back northwards to Ottery St Mary again.  We felt after this very short break that we had actually done something a little different to pre-Christmas shopping, eating, drinking, and writing Christmas cards, but the website of the Tom Cobley Tavern does look appealing, so perhaps one day we will be back.  The 30 mile bike ride felt more like 50 though, and the ‘rolling hills west of Crediton’ as advertised in the book resulted in two and a half thousand feet of climbing!  Most of my friends who have accomplished the Land’s End to John O’ Groats ride have stated that Scotland has nothing on Devon for difficulty!

The River Otter looking south

The River Otter looking north 

Sunset, Otter Valley

'And the moon rose over an open field' seems an appropriate quotation to end this post on...

RALPH FIENNES AT READING GAOL

A trip to Reading.

Exhausted by the labour of love which was my blog about the North Coast 500, I've rarely felt the need to immortalise anything since, despite a great experience at the Tour de France in Normandy (watching Cav pull on the Maillot Jaune was very special), and some decent Craic in County Clare and West Cork.  But this weekend was something which I want to record - irrespective of whether anyone reads it.

I have to admit I was dubious when Lindsay announced that she had managed to get one ticket to hear Ralph Fiennes read 'De Profundis' in the very prison in which Oscar Wilde wrote it.  'Do you know how long it is?'  I asked.  About 5 hours she replied.  In the event, she could not go.  It was something of an endurance test for all concerned, not least Mr Fiennes.  Here is how it was:

The chapel is how one imagines it to be.  High ceilinged, painted wooden beams, slightly longer than wide, high leaded light windows.  Like the windows in the cells, it is not really possible to see anything but what Oscar called 'That little tent of blue, the sky'.  There are about 180 small wooden chapel chairs.  Fiennes is sitting, dressed seemingly in prison uniform, on a dais.  On further perusal of the programme it turns out that this is a sculpture by Jean-Michel Pancin.  The dais has the exact depth and width of one of the cells.  Mounted at the back is an old prison door, which turns out to be Wilde's.  This is the extent of the sculpture.  On the table in front of the reader is a large volume, the collected works of Oscar Wilde, and a glass of water.  Fiennes reads from a manuscript in loose leaf.  He wears reading glasses.  On closer inspection, he is wearing a charcoal/black jacket, a black shirt, and rather ill fitting jeans which are of a very dark blue colour.  There is a sort of prison garb appearance to it, whether intended or not.  He looks careworn and older than his 53 years.

He starts to read.  His voice is conversational, and one has to strain to hear.  On reflection, it would be impossible to 'produce' the voice in an actor's declamatory style over the four and a half hours which it takes him to read 'De Profundis'. Much of the letter has a conversational tone to it.  Only when one hears the whole letter read continuously (with two short breaks) can one appreciate the differences of style and content within it.

You can study the details much more fully elsewhere.  The letter is to his nemesis and young lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, known as Bosie.  In parts it is extremely painful to hear.  The rejection of Wilde by Bosie (he never visited him, never wrote to him) was complete, and extraordinarily painful for Oscar.  Fiennes reads for an hour and half.  This first section details the numerous occasions of Oscar's generosity to one who was clearly intellectually inferior, but who was vain and indulged by all including his family.  Dates, places (Goring, Hove, Oxford, Tite Street, the Savoy, the Cafe Royal, Willis's), people, times, accounts, specific menus and vintages of champagne are all detailed, with Bosie sponging shamelessly off Wilde.  Having recently seen 'The Deep Blue Sea' again, one can't help but bewail, 'But why didn't you leave him?'  Despite his childish behaviour Bosie must have had some fatal charm for Wilde.  And indeed Wilde did try to leave him (or so he says) many a time.  Wilde points out that Bosie gave no consideration for his need for peace and isolation to work.  While together he produced nothing.  He indulged him by allowing him to translate Salome (which Wilde originally wrote in French) and clearly Bosie's attempts at literature and poetry were terrible.

In the next section, lasting about one a quarter hours, Wilde's imagination takes a completely different tack, and he becomes philosophical, arrogant, and penitent, in quick succession.  His penitence however seems not to be for the things he has done, more a sense of self pity.  At times his tone is unpleasant and superior.  He views himself as the artist in literature of his age - a sort of vessel through which genius can flow.  In fact, his genius he asserts, is an excuse for any lack of morality.  There is a very long section in which he discusses Jesus Christ and appears to stand in relation to him as the epitome of the romantic artist.  (This section is somewhat hard to follow, and indeed, hard to take.)

Finally, he returns to specifics, the awful experience of his bankruptcy, the fact that his royalties will have to go to pay the enormous legal bills of his lover's father, the unpleasant Marquis of Queensberry.  The details of his downfall are piteous to hear, the complete estrangement from his wife and his children, and his ridicule to all.  For example we hear about his transfer to Reading from London, where, manacled to a policeman he was kept standing in the rain on Clapham Common station, laughed at by an increasingly large crowd.

At the end, he views his two years in prison as a catharsis, a making of him as a better person, not because of his punishment, but because he bore it.  It is clear at the end that he hoped to see Bosie, though his other friends were the only ones who remained with him when he sought exile in Paris.  Apart from De Profundis (not his original name for the letter), the only work he wrote after prison was the Ballad of Reading Gaol.

When Ralph Fiennes finished reading many of us were in tears.  His nearest approach to not being able to go on came within about 15 to 20 minutes before the end.  The relief and release of tension was palpable.  We all stood and applauded.  If was clear that Ralph Fiennes could say nothing more.  He put his hand over his heart, bowed very slightly, and then stood still.  Then he walked to the back of the dais and left the room.


Here are some images from the day:

Oscar Wilde's Cell

His first few books, other than the bible and book of common prayer

Reading Gaol - it was in use from 1844 to 2013

The dais, or 'sculpture' by Jean-Michel Pancin

An engraving from the mid 19th century.  The ancient abbey is in the foreground

A view today, the central tower seen from behind the Abbey ruins

Ralph Fiennes approaches the end of his four and a half hour stint.  Wilde's cell door is in the background

Fiennes leaves the stage to a standing ovation

The North Coast 500

THE NORTH COAST 500 – The Tour d’Écosse

See: https://www.northcoast500.com/interactive-map.aspx

Yes, it all seemed very straightforward, apart from the Bealach na Ba (the Pass of the Cattle), the highest tarmac road in Britain.  Ellie Harrison (TV’s Countryfile presenter) blonde curls flying prettily in the breeze, cycled up the Bealach to talk to a loonie who had cycled the whole 500 miles non-stop.  But if she could do this, then surely I could?  It was the Countryfile programme which sold it to me.  It seemed to be made up of remote Scottish roads with no traffic, perfect terrain for bicycles, idyllic mountainscapes, tranquil lochs, and views of the sea at every turn.

Overview of the NC500

When my father retired, he took three weeks off and walked in the Highlands, climbing several Munros every day.  So this trip seemed to have a certain symmetry about it, including the fact that it passed through Helmsdale, the village that my Grandfather came from, and where my Great-grandfather was a blacksmith, at the beginning of the 20^th Century.  My wife was initially a little dubious, but subsequently flung herself into research for the project with gusto.  But if you are considering the ride, be warned.  Because:

1.      The NC500 is not a ‘new’ route.  It is just a collation of many roads which ultimately lead you around the coast of the north of Scotland starting and finishing in Inverness.

2.      It was dreamed up by the inhabitants of a rather dismal looking shed at the end of the docks at Wick which looks particularly grim on a wet Friday morning in mid May.  They call themselves the ‘North Highland Initiative’.  They obviously don’t start work before 9 (I was there at 8.45).

3.      All of the roads are metalled roads, i.e. tarmac.  But the quality of most of them is poor – those little chippings that stick up from the remainder of the dwindling layer of tarmac create substantial friction, thus slowing you down and increasing the level of work in pedalling.  In fact, the only good roads have signs saying ‘Constructed with EU funding’ on them.  No wonder Scotland want to stay in the EU – at least until they get their roads fixed.

4.      The idea of off the beaten track routes populated only by cheery cyclists and merry hikers is very far from the truth.  Unbeknown to me, and also possibly Countryfile, the North Highland Initiative has been busy trumpeting this ‘new route’ to every motorbike, camping, and car touring magazine within reach.  Hordes of heavy duty motorbikes, foreign tourists, and camper vans appear around every turn.

5.      And don’t be fooled that these are small roads.  A high proportion of them are A roads with correspondingly large traffic volumes, and most of the route back down the Eastern side of North Scotland follows the extremely busy A9, where traffic moves at very high speeds, and thundering Tesco lorries roar by, emptied of exotic groceries in Wick.

6.      Part of the appeal of Scotland lies in the fact that it is unspoiled – with wonderful scenery and a low population density.  But this means that accommodation can be difficult to find.  One B&B or hotel may be 15 miles or so away from the next.  If that means the difference between a hilly 35 miles and an endurance sapping 50, then your journey is inevitably going to take longer.  We were reasonably fit, but both in our 60s, and for at least a part of the trip we needed to carry all our gear in our panniers.  We averaged 36 miles per day, with distances ranging from 24 to 52 miles.  This large spread was largely due to the wide variations in accommodation distances.  The North Highland Initiative should be extremely grateful to the cyclists who follow the route, because they are likely to take ten days to two weeks to complete it, thus spending substantially more money than someone on a motorbike who might do it in three or four days, or a campervan who is unlikely to spend very much at all!

7.      If you plan to do the ride after the end of May, you will have the Scottish midges to put up with.  This tiny insect, Culicoides impunctatus, can make life very unpleasant through the Scottish summer.

8.      Finally, you may have to put up with the weather...

But if you do decide to do the route, you will have an experience which you will never forget...

Although this is a blog, and I’m going to post some routes and photos, there is in fact very little to say other than the feeling of elation on completing the NC500 bears comparison with many other achievements, like running a marathon for instance.  You will (hopefully) have seen Scotland at its best...

Before the Strava maps, I would just like to pay tribute to Dr John McLaren (aka Edinburgh John to us).  When I first posited this trip and asked whether he could support us part of the way he jumped at the opportunity.  ‘But won’t you get bored?’  I asked.  ‘Not at all’, he replied.  ‘I’ll bring my walking boots, my golf clubs, my fishing rod, and my bagpipes.  ‘There’ll be plenty to do.’  Shall I book some accommodation for you?’  I asked.  ‘Not at all’, he replied.  I’ll bring the camper van, and if my wife won’t let me take it, I’ll bring a tent.  There is free right of camping in Scotland, you know’, he added.  I did not know this but the Scottish Land Reform Act of 2003 established a free right of access to most of the Scottish wilderness (see http://www.outdooraccess-scotland.com/The-Act-and-the-Code/Legal).

So John carried most of our big bags during the first week, and it was only during the second week, in fact from Durness onwards, that we were on our own.

So here goes!  Enjoy the journey...

Day 1  Muir of Ord to Achnasheen

We started at Muir of Ord, the first village on the circuit north of Inverness.  We drove from Edinburgh (just over three hours) and started in the early afternoon of Sunday 8^th May.  Coming down into Inverness in the car we encountered a classic East coast Haar (dense cold sea mist), but within an hour of pedalling from Muir of Ord we were in bright sunshine, which continued for an entire week.  Most of the time thereafter we cycled in shorts.  We could not have asked for better luck at the start of this trip.

Overdressed in Muir of Ord - apprehension and uncertainty

Rogie Falls - River Conon

A pleasant picnic spot by the River Bran

Day 2  Achnasheen to Ardarroch

Silent observers in Ledgowan Lodge

Day 2.  After a night in the large but pleasant Ledgowan Lodge Hotel, the slightly sepulchral feel enhanced by the watching heads of numerous stags, most of which seem to have been shot in the 1920s by somebody with a double-barrelled name, and have thus outlasted their assassin by a good length of time, it was time to set out in sunshine.  The cuckoo was calling at every turn, and we saw the deer making for the high pasture as we pedalled along.  An easy ride on the A890, not too busy, with spectacular scenery and the Kyle of Lochalsh railway following beside.  Made a mental note to take this rail journey one day.  Coffee at the Loch Carron Golf Club, which welcomes visitors, then a hill up and over to Loch Kishorn and a lunch at the Kishorn Seafood Bar.  This is the only place to eat, so it was necessary to pick up our evening meal here as well before it closed at 5pm.  Into the tiny hamlet of Ardarroch, where we stayed (B&B) at the Old Schoolhouse with a lovely lady called Julia (see Air BnB).  Spectacular views down the loch to the Cuillins of Skye

The A890 in Strath Bran.  Relatively quiet and lovely in the sunshine.

Deer heading for the high pastures after pillaging the garden of a deserted cottage

Loch Dughaill

The Black Cuillin of Skye from Ardarroch, looking down Loch Kishorn

Day 3  Ardarroch to Shieldaig

Day 3.  The big one.  We took it very easy on the first two days in order to be fresh for the climb over the famous Bealach na Ba, and the ensuing up and down ride around the Applecross peninsula to Shieldaig on Loch Torridon.  We thought this would be the toughest day of our tour, but there were at least two harder days to come.  Spectacular weather and lots of encouragement from cars, motor bikes, and other cyclists on the Bealach.  Great feeling of elation as we were greeted by Edinburgh John at the top, playing his bagpipes, and creating a mini traffic jam as many foreign tourists stopped to photograph him.  Elation heightened by a five or six mile downhill run to the lovely Applecross Inn, with a pint of Suilven bitter and scallops for lunch.  More great views of the Cuillins, covered with snow as we trekked around the peninsula.  Another very friendly B&B with a lady called Sarah high above the pretty harbourside village of Shieldaig in a house called Cnoc Gaoithe, which apparently means ‘place of the winds’.

Don't say you haven't been warned!

The first mile is pretty easy

Then it gets steadily steeper and leads up into the hairpins around the corner

Fabulous views back down the glaciated hanging valley

The steepest bit is back down below here.  Pretty easy to the top now.

Day 4  Shieldaig to Gairloch (Badachro)

Day 4.  Another dazzling day.  Into a strong easterly wind and a bit up and down until reaching Torridon where we pass underneath Liathach (‘The Grey One’), and on past Beinn Eighe to Kinlochewe.  Thoroughly recommend the Whistle Stop Cafe here, unmistakably garish in green and yellow.  Now, on turning to cycle northwest along Loch Maree the wind is behind us.  Stopping short of Gairloch we turn along the south banks of Loch Gairloch to reach the Shieldaig Lodge Hotel, an impressive pile in the Scottish Baronial style with a magnificent view over the water.  EJ drives us to Redpoint, with its fine views of Raasay, Skye, and the Outer Hebrides, cuckoos and skylarks sounding in the evening air.  Back via the Badachro Inn, situated on the shore of a cove, for excellent pints of Bealach na Ba and An Teallach.  The theme here is very fishing and shooting oriented.  Copies of the Shooting Times lie on the table – sample articles ‘How to achieve Crow control’ and ‘Bunnies in the Border’ (and how to shoot them!).  Short cycling socks today equals sunburnt ankles – not enough sunscreen.

Upper Loch Torridon

Cycling past Liathach looking back to Loch Torridon

The glen passing Beinn Eighe

Incredible.  More sunscreen needed.

View of Skye

The Torridon hills and Ben Eighe looking sourtheast from the road to Red Point

Highly recommended beers in the Badachro Inn

Location, location, location...

The whisky collection at Shieldaig Lodge Hotel

Day 5  Gairloch to Dundonnell

Day 5.  ‘Another shitty day in paradise’ as they say in California.  How long can this amazing weather last?  A bit of a puncheur day in the saddle, with many short tough ascents and one or two long ones.  In only 34 miles we do 3408ft of climbing.  Through Poolewe where the river is in fact Loch Maree emptying into the sea loch of Loch Ewe.  At Gruinard Bay, a cold and strong north wind comes in and for the first time it feels chilly.  The ominous island (scene of the anthrax experiments in 1942) is easily visible offshore.  Further round into Little Loch Broom however, the breeze is gone and it is blisteringly hot again.  There are two significant climbs here before getting over the headland to Badcaul.  The viewpoint overlooking the deserted sealoch of Loch Ewe is surmounted by a plaque commemorating the Arctic Convoys of WWII, the ships here once so dense you could walk across the loch on them.  As one seaman said, explaining the isolation: ‘After 6 months you start talking to yourself; after 12 months you start talking to the sheep; after 18 months they start talking back to you.’

The Dundonnell Hotel sits underneath An Teallach near the head of this loch.  Despite, or perhaps because of its lack of pretension, the hotel is full, mostly of bikers, with around 30 or so very expensive looking machines outside.  These are such impressive machines that unsurprisingly, the average age of the owners is at least 45 or more – MABOMBS – Middle Aged Blokes On Motor Bikes.  The food is good, the beer flows, and there is much talk of electronic braking systems and BMW versus Honda.  I eat a ‘Black Venison’ burger, minced venison and black pudding.  They’re busy here; no wonder the hanging baskets outside are all full of plastic flowers.

The river at Poolewe

Loch Ewe

Gruinard Bay

Lunch stop overlooking Little Loch Broom, Beinn Ghobhlach and to the left Coigach

At Dundonnell

Day 6  Dundonnell to Ullapool

Day 6.  This is Friday the 13^th.  It starts cloudy and breezy.  The first and only real work of today’s ride is the long steady climb out of Dundonnell on the A832 from sea level to the 1100ft high pass over to the Corrieshalloch gorge, where the Droma river tumbles between 60m high cliffs down towards Loch Broom.  This is a relic of the last ice age and was formed by meltwater from the glaciers.  Descending towards the gorge is cold on the legs – our beautiful weather has made us accustomed to shorts.  Then we join the A835, the main road from Inverness to Ullapool.  The weather steadily improves as we now journey northwest again towards Ullapool, a major port and centre for fisheries surveillance in the northern Highlands.  This is a short ride, so in the afternoon we all pile into the camper van and drive to the other side of Loch Broom to walk in the sunshine opposite Ullapool.  After dinner in the Seaforth (excellent; we couldn’t get in to the highly recommended Arch) Edinburgh John insists we must go to see sunset over the Summer Isles.  This is a long drive around the mountain ridge of Coigach where eventually we do see the Summer Isles and watch the sun set over the Isle of Lewis from the tiny hamlet of Reiff.  There is a freezing cold northerly wind.  Back to the most luxurious B&B we have struck, a beautifully restored house called Westlea Guest House.  Strongly recommended.

Corrieshalloch Gorge

Looking up Loch Broom to Ullapool

Unusual road sign

Westlea Guest House

Wall design, public building, Ullapool

The Summer Isles at dusk, looking south from near Altandhu

Day 7  Ullapool to Lochinver

Day 7.  I’ve written in my diary that this is ‘probably our most beautiful ride.’  But here we decided to deviate from the official route.  The NC500 just follows the A835, but having seen the beauty of the glen behind Coigach as it winds past two beautiful lochs and under the distinctive shape of Stac Pollaidh mountain, we decide on what you might call the ‘back road’ to Lochinver.  This involves retracing our steps, or rather pedal strokes, to the road which leads to Achiltibuie.  Cycling down towards the turn off the A835, the cuckoo, which has once again been the musical accompaniment to our rides, flies from an adjacent tree, straight down the road just in front of me.  An unusual sighting.  We pass Cul Beag and then Stac Pollaidh.  Past the second remote loch the road winds up northwards towards Lochinver.  Cold as we breast the hills into the strong northerly wind but hot in the valleys.  Finally we pass through a delightful little glen, with primroses growing on every hand, a burn gurgling in the sunlight through the middle, descend slightly, and reach the sea at Enard Bay.  The inlets are small, filled with sparkling waters and eider ducks, with little islets offshore.  Lunch break with John and Glenys in the layby at Inverkirkaig and on to Lochinver.  The driveway up to the Inver Lodge hotel is the steepest climb of the day’s trip.  Suilven, a spectacular heap of bare Torridon sandstone peeks up from the surrounding moorland.  Its shape is due to its nunatak (qv) existence during the ice age, while the ice sheets scraped the sides below the peak into steep sided cliffs.

Inver Lodge Hotel is a remarkably expensive hotel for the northwest of Scotland, but it does boast a Chez Roux restaurant, managed by Albert Roux, though M. Roux does not seem to visit that often.  In keeping with its price there are numerous staff floating around who are all very welcoming and helpful.  They mostly seem to come from Eastern Europe and Portugal...  The food is indeed excellent, including some Roux signature dishes – cheese soufflé, quenelles of cod, lemon tart.  The rooms are very comfortable.  The architecture is perhaps best described as Scottish Brutalist style, but the elevated view over Lochinver is fine.

We'll keep a welcome in the hillsides... (sorry, wrong country, but glad they're pleased to see me)

The view in Coigach towards Stac Pollaidh

Stac Pollaidh above Loch Lurgainn

Stac Pollaidh from the northwest

Tarmac in front, great views in the mirror

Sparkling sunshine at Enard Bay

Suilven peeps up behind the lochan at Lochinver

Day 8  Lochinver to Scourie (Badcall Bay)

Day 8.  There is a change in the weather today.  The wind remains northerly and cold.  The skies are more cloudy, and there are some light showers of rain, making the campsites at Clachtoll and Stoer look somewhat unappealing.  The route is out towards the point of Stoer to the northwest, and then northeast towards Kylesku and its beautiful Arup designed bridge over the sealochs, opened by the Queen in 1984.  The up and down nature of the coast road is probably the toughest of the entire trip (though I find I have written this several times).  Nonetheless, through Drumbeg there are multiple ascents along the south side of Edrachillis Bay.  The steepest gradient is 25% and we have to get off and walk, pushing our bikes up the hill.  At the northern end of the Kylesku bridge is a memorial to the XIIth miniature submarine flotilla, based here in 1943.

In the wildness of Assynt, looking back from above the bridge, the landscape is severe and forbidding.  There are no other roads in this area.  The interest for me is that there is family legend that our branch of the McLeods left the Hebrides and found their way to Sutherlandshire, gradually moving eastwards through Assynt until they reached the North Sea coast at Helmsdale, the town of my immediate family.

Cycling northwest again towards Scourie, over undulating low ridges and hills of bare stone and moorland, with lochans between, we reach Scourie, or at least Badcall Bay, to the pleasant spot of the Eddrachillis Hotel, under recent new management.  This is a comfortable little hotel in a magnificent location.  I hope they do well.  The evening is fine but colder.  John and Glenys are billeted in our friend Bridget’s converted church next door, and we enjoy aperitifs beside a log fire.

Suilven from the northwest

Distant view of Assynt

Day 9  Scourie to Durness

Day 9.  Now the weather has really changed.  It’s not disastrous from the rain point of view, just the odd light shower, but the skies are filled with grey scudding cloud, and as we head northeast to reach the north coast at Durness, the wind is in our face and forecast easterly and strong for our pedal of the 100 odd miles along the north coast to John O’ Groats.  Apart from a steep hill out of Scourie and another out of Laxford Bridge, this is one of our very easy days – not too far, because there is no accommodation further on for many a mile.  So there is time to visit the remarkable Cocoa Mountain cafe in Durness – a must for chocaholics.  There is also a pleasant walk out to the headland in the afternoon, to watch sheep (inevitably), but also fulmars, plovers, hoodie crows and oystercatchers.   The long inlet of the Kyle of Durness is a wonderful unspoilt estuary.  Our last night with John and Glenys.  They take us on a surprise visit to Smoo cave and we eat at the Smoo Cave Hotel (Orkney Ales and scallops).

Heading towards Laxford Bridge

Glaciated valley near Laxford Bridge

The north coast of Scotlan, near Durness

Smoo Cave

Smoo Cave

The fantastic Kyle of Durness

Glenys, John, Lindsay, me.  Thank you to the support team.  Smoo Cave inlet

Day 10  Durness to Bettyhill

Day 10.  Probably the toughest of the entire trip.  Oh, sorry, did I say that before?  From now on we have all of our kit in our panniers.  Winding out of Durness, an unremarkable house boasts a plaque commemorating the visits of John Lennon in the 1940s and 50s, sent during the summer to relations by his Aunt Mimi.  The beautiful Loch Eriboll is not looking its best, but at least we are sheltered from the wind, which hits as we go out from Hope and rise up into true Flow Country heading to the Kyle of Tongue.  Ben Hope is shrouded in cloud, so we cannot see this most northerly Munro.  The Kyle of Tongue is another beautiful inlet with views towards Ben Hope and Ben Loyal and a great descent to an attractive low lying bridge over the estuary.  Finally to Bettyhill, where we find our comfortable, slightly rundown hotel, and enjoy the view over the fantastic beach where some hardy surfers are still going at it in the broad daylight at 9pm.  Sadly the food is not too special.  Fish cakes with salmon, haddock and prawn do not contain prawn and very little fish.  ‘Seasonal vegetables and new potatoes’ are peas and chips.  The lamb shank is inspissated and inedible.  The waitress agrees and we are not charged.

EJ claims our bags are too heavy

The spectacular beaches of Scotland's north coast

Old chalk kilns on Loch Eriboll

Kyle of Tongue looking towards Ben Hope

Day 11  Bettyhill to Mey

Day 11.  Probably the toughest of the entire trip.  Hmmm...  We are cycling into a steady wind of at least Force 6 strength.  Including the detour to the most northerly point on the Scottish mainland at Dunnet Head (58deg40min N), and the overall distance is about 52 miles.  It’s grey and the undulating and rather featureless moorland seems a world away from the spectacular west coast in the sunshine.  The receptionist at Bettyhill Hotel is a cyclist, and says that the first 18 miles are the worst.  He’s right, it does undulate until one reaches the county boundary sign for Caithness and then it’s rather flat with a welcome break in Thurso, we break for lunch in Cafe Cardosi, an unpretentious place in the main street which ‘does what it says on the tin.’  Caithness fields are marked with the unusual feature of flat boundary stones, looking like slates, planted along the edges.  The grazing becomes greener, richer, and there are now sheep and cattle.  At Armadale, Thornton’s Farm proudly boasts ‘Sheep Farm of the Year 2015’.  Our destination for the night is the Castle Arms Hotel, run by a formidable but welcoming lady called Jean.  Excellent Orkney beers, e.g. Scapa Flow, and the meal is cullen skink, steak, beef pie, lemon posset.  Coastal waters forecast says continuing wind Force 5 to 7.

The Armadale burn looking north

Dim view of Dunnet Head

History on the label and good beer inside

Day 12  Mey to Wick

Day 12.  Not the toughest!  Breakfast at the Castle Arms Hotel is enlivened by background music of what is obviously ‘A Scottish Miscellany’.  First of all we have ‘The Song of the Clyde’, last heard on my Dad’s Kenneth McKellar LP circa 1965.  Then the Harry Lauder song ‘Just a wee Deoch an Doris’.  Strange lyrics on reflection, which we never thought to question 50 years ago: ‘There’s a wee wifie waiting, in a wee But an Ben; if you can say “it’s a braw bricht moonlicht nicht then you’re a’ right ye ken”.  Presumably a Scottish breathalyser test circa 1926.  Then we are keeping right on to the end of the road (another Harry Lauder), Westering Home, taking the Road to the Isles, and Roaming in the Gloaming.  Off we go; I wonder what happened to my parents’ collection of 78s?  It’s only 7 miles into the wind to John O’ Groats.  The windsock on the harbour is horizontal and it’s only 6 degrees C.  On southeast to Wick, which looks gloomy in the cloud, accompanied by occasional showers.  Lunch at Morag’s in the town is adequate.  We’re staying at Mackay’s Hotel, a rather commercial affair, and the food is not particularly good.  The wrong meal is brought twice.

A bleak scene but great to be here

Note the windsock.  Orkneys in the background

It's a hard life and he doesn't get much for those crabs and lobsters

Cycling up the hill away from John O' Groats

Day 13  Wick to Helmsdale and around Helmsdale

Day 13.  Take a turn around Old Pulteney, the old area of Wick near the harbour.  A hot spot in the 1860s with numerous taverns, brothels, and a harbour so full of the herring boats that you could walk across the water without a bridge.  Now it needs some regeneration, but down at the harbour I do find the offices, well, shed, of the North Highland Initiative.  Now we’re on the A9 and remarkably into the wind again which seems to have backed to the southeast.  Through little villages with names like Ulbster, Thrumster, Lybster.  Berriedale Braes is a long and severe climb, but we reach Helmsdale in bright sunshine.  Strangely the lovely building which is the Navidale House hotel doesn’t open until 4pm.  This old fishing lodge, previously a hunting lodge of the Dukes of Sutherland, was superseded when the local estates began to arrange their own accommodation.  It’s now run by a chap from the south (Blisworth in Northamptonshire), whose wife is an award winning chef (we agree).  So there is plenty of time to search for my heritage in the town.  The only trace we find is Uncle Johnny from the 1930s, who ran an electricity company, and so family legend has it, sold out to the National Grid and drank the proceeds.  He’s listed in the local trades archive.  Helmsdale is markedly improved from my last visit some 50 years ago; a fine museum; a fine statue to the dispossessed of the ‘Highland Clearances’, and an attractive little harbour.  The river of course is prime salmon fishing territory.

A gloomy Wick harbour.  In the 1860s this was full of skaffies

This gives some idea of Wick Harbour in the 19th Century - the busiest herring port in Scotland

Approaching Helmsdale on the A9

The Emigrants - a striking memorial to the dispossessed of the Highland Clearances

The bridge and the river, Helmsdale

Helmsdale Harbour

The small course and tiny clubhouse where my father learned to play in the 1920s

Day 14  Helmsdale to Tain with detour along the Dornoch Firth

Day 14.  We are the only guests at the hotel, though late tonight some musicians who have come up to play with the reclusive pop star Edwyn Collins (A Girl Like You) in his recording studio at Navidale are expected.  Some of them appear at breakfast, looking somewhat the worse for inspirational enhancing substances.  On south.  The A9 takes us to Brora, through the rain, and we break in Poppy’s Cafe, a welcome stop, in the middle of Golspie. After rounding Loch Fleet on the A9, we depart from the official route for a longer but much more attractive journey through Skelbo, watching the eider duck and shelduck into Dornoch where it really rains hard, and Harry Gow’s cafe by the cathedral is a very good stop for lunch.  Out to the fantastically located Royal Dornoch Golf Club with its views over the Dornoch Firth.  A little road out through Cuthill allows us to stay off the A9 until the bridge over the Firth.  On our route today, the infamous statue to the Duke of Sutherland atop Beinn Bhraggie above Golspie dominates the landscape.  A key figure in the Highland Clearances, George Granville Leveson-Gower, first Duke of Sutherland, has ‘his back to the lands from which he drove his people and his face towards the sea to which he condemned them’.

But light relief.  There is an open weekend at the Glen Morangie distillery in Tain.  Pipe band, free cheeses, seafood, ice creams, and crucially, whisky.  Excellent tasting of ‘The Signet’, Glen Morangie’s flagship whisky.  Fortunately our hotel is not far away...

Dornoch Cathedral

What to do in Dornoch when it rains

The statue to the Duke of Sutherland on Beinn Bhraggie

Royal Dornoch Golf Club

The Dornoch Firth

Glen Morangie's finest whisky

and matching Cadillac

Day 15  Tain to Muir of Ord with detour onto the Black Isle, North Kessock, and the Beauly Firth

Day 15.  The Morangie House hotel is, like so many Highland hotels, a little tired.  It seems to be owned by Swallow Hotels of Preston who clearly aren’t putting funds in to make it top notch.  But the staff members are friendly and helpful, and the food is fine.  From Tain we decide to follow a Sustrans route to avoid as much as we possibly can of the A9, until we have to join it to cross the bridge over the Cromarty Firth.  The A9 remains a huge drawback to cycling the NC500.  The poor road surface in many places means the noise of the passing cars and lorries is deafening, and many of them exceed the speed limit.  I lost count of the number of cars who think it’s acceptable to cross a double white line at high speed if they are only overtaking a bike.  But on our little road along the Cromarty Firth we enjoy beautiful sunshine and lovely views, including oil platforms being prepared for sea, and the deep water port at Invergordon where a large German cruise ship is moored.  All ashore for the Highlands, the odd distillery and Dunrobin Castle.  Onto the Black Isle where we detour around just for the fun of it, and also to take the tiny road over to Munlochy and thence to North Kessock so we can perambulate along the Beauly Firth on tiny roads to wend our way back to Muir of Ord, and our final night in the excellent Dower House.  A spectacular shower of hail greets us as we cycle along the Firth, but it’s gone in an instant the sunshine afterwards is wonderful giving us a final view of Scotland’s beauty.  Super food and a farewell meal with our friends Kevin and Heather Jennings.  In the morning we will load the bikes and drive all 630 odd miles back to Poole.  We’ve certainly taken our time to do this route – many others will do it much more quickly, but it was an amazing experience.  Our route comprised 540 miles and 38,000 ft of climbing.  But any journey that’s attractive is worth doing – slowly.  Over to you...

The unusual Kildary Kirk, Cromarty Firth

Cromarty Firth panorama, looking at the Black Isle

Cromarty Firth

On the Black Isle

Final view, Beauly Firth after the hailstorm

Back where we started, the Dower House, Muir of Ord