argay to altguish by bike

We started early that morning, about six o'clock I remember. We were soon heading north on the A9, sharing the main north road with an endless stream of freight lorries and fraught private vehicles, it would be the drivers who were fraught. The A9 can be like that and usually is. After an uneventful three hours or so we were on the Kessock Bridge at Inverness, then over the Beauly Firth and onto the Black Isle. It is neither an island nor black. It is in fact a peninsula and it is thought the 'black' reference was due to it not retaining snow cover as long as the surrounding land and hence it looked black against the white of the snow. An old wives tale, who knows? The Black Isle however was once known as Ardmeanach; gaelic in origin and from the gaelic word ard, meaning height and maniach meaning monk. It seems that derived from an ancient religious building on high ground near Mulbuie.

We were soon over the spine of Ardmeanach and crossing the causeway to the 'mainland' at Ardullie where, with breakfast beckoning, we stopped at the relatively new visitor's centre and coffee shop. It is worth a stop.

It is after ten o,clock before we emerge into a cold day and continue our journey. We detour over the Struie Hill road, thus missing out Alness, Invergordon and Tain and also cutting the corner off the Portmahomack peninsula. There is an interesting phenomenon on the Struie Hill road, similar to the so called electric brae in Ayrshire. At one short bit of the road you think you are travelling uphill, yet if you stop the car and don't apply the brakes, the car seems to gently run uphill. It obviously doesn't, the whole effect being an optical allusion brought about by the angle of the roadsurface to the surrounding land. The views over the Dornoch Firth from the north side of the Struie Hill road are spectacular. So, get your camera out and stop at the viewpoint, you will not be disappointed.

Before leaving the Struie, let me tell you a wee story. A long time ago I travelled to the top of the hill, from the Edderton side, in a Bren Gun Carrier. 

ours was not as big as this

That is a square metal box running on 'tracks' like a tank or bulldozer. I believe it was referred to as a 'universal carrier' and was an armoured military vehicle designed between the two world wars to carry troops and equipment and in particular, weapons. It was also used as a machine gun platform, hence the nickname, 'bren gun carrier'. Production of this vehicle, certainly in the UK, ceased in 1960. In it's time it was reputedly the most produced armoured fighting vehicle in history. Steering as far as I could see, certainly in the one in which I travelled, was achieved by pulling in two brake levers, thus sending the vehicle into a shuddering and violent turn to one side or the other. Using that method my trusty colleague and driver weaved an uncomfortable path up through the steep hillside to the very top. You might wonder why I was taking this trip. Well, it had nothing to do with warfare or transportation of weapons, it was far more mundane. Our job that day was to take a barrel of creosote to the top of the Struie Hill then paint the wooden hut that sits atop the hill. It is no ordinary hut and is, or was, used to house the sophisticated electronics needed to run the radio mast on the hill. In fact to this very day a radio mast still adorns the summit. When our messy task was at an end we sat beside the newly creosoted hut and had our lunch whilst taking in the breathtaking view over the Dornoch Firth. It was then I heard the sound of chattering voices getting ever nearer. Despite looking all over the hill I saw not a living soul. As the voices got even louder I was beginning to wonder about my eyesight. Then I saw the source of the chattering. A huge skien of grey lag geese to the north winging up the Firth and lower than my lofty perch. It was a wonderful sound and still is. I can never hear chattering geese now without recalling that wonderful day on the Struie Hill and also recalling the Dylan song, 'lay down your weary tune'.

Ardgay is soon behind and we head west on the delightful minor road that leads down Strathcarron to where it changes from a tarred road to a cart track that leads all the way through the mountains to Ullapool. That is for another day. We turn left at The Craigs and are soon at our road end beside Glencalvie Lodge. A quick change of gear, bikes out the car and off again south along the cart track in Glen Calvie. After four kilometres or so, just below the fine looking modern house at Diebidale, we ditch the bikes, have a quick snack and head up a stalkers track that wends up the north flank of Carn Chuinneag, our mountain destination for that day. It is a cold day with a grey covering of high cloud. The track leads almost to the summit so routefinding and walking is a dawdle. Like many corbetts this one sits apart from the other, bigger mountains thus making for expansive and spectacular views. 

carn chuinneag over diebidale

On looking down we see that the track we cycled up is seen to swing east, just where we left our bikes and meander like the silver track of a snail for miles into Easter Ross somewhere in the direction of Alness. Ben Wyvis to the south west looks within touching distance. Over to the west one can pick out the Ben Dearg hills and more. We have lunch in this lofty perch whilst debating what we see. Retracing our bootprints back to the bikes is easy, as is the cycle back to the car. A nice outing, well so far.

At the car I pack two panniers and a tent onto my bike. Dave drives off back the road and up the Ullapool road to Atlguish Inn where he would meet up with some Auld Gits at the bunkhouse for a couple of days hillwalking. I would join them in a couple of days. I set off solo, west past Alladale Lodge then south west down Gleann Mor to my 'campsite' for the night at Deanich Lodge, about nine miles ahead. My cycle down the glen was uneventful and very pleasant. The track, obviously well used, provided a good off road cycle route. In the early part, at the Alladale Lodge end, one cannot help notice the work going on to erect miles upon miles of seriously high and strong fencing. It tracks straight up steep hillsides and can be seen in some bits arching along ridges on the skyline. Just like some of the great walls built across mountains in Victorian times. I also read a couple of notices that inform me a 'zoo' licence has been applied for. I am reminded that the landowner has an idea, a plan, to return some 'extinct' wild animals to these parts. Wolves and Lynx, if my memory serves me well. Not sure about the tent if that goes ahead.

north east along gleann mor

window overlooking river

I come upon a lovely wee fisher's shelter built into a bank of Abhainn a' Ghlinne Mhoir, the river I am following down the glen. Trouble has been taken to build the banking up round three sides and put turfs over the roof. It is unlocked so I use it as my brew up and dinner stop. The shelter hangs right over the river and that wall is completely glazed. What a wonderful spot. 

As I continue down the glen the sun is lowering and the evening views in the glen are stunning. I have to gingerly circumnavigate a herd of highland cattle, complete with calves. They were not interested in this lone cyclist in there midst as I sped on. The half a dozen garrion ponies around the next bend seem more interested, however, apart from two who would not move from the track, all was well and Deanish Lodge hove into view around a buttress to my left. 

deanish lodge is to left beyond bridge

 I would soon be cosy in my tent, so I thought.

The area I thought would make a good pitch was already bristling full of about a dozen large tents. Obviously an organised group. I saw a couple of land rover type vehicles parked near the lodge. Undaunted I cycled on and found a less then satisfactory spot about four hundred metres further on. I then set about getting my tent erected. It was about eight thirty by then and I was looking forward to my cosy sleeping bag. Then I saw the lone ranger, or was it the 'born leader' striding with purposeful gait through the tent village, heading directly for my solo tent. He was not carrying a friendly mug of steaming hot chocolate for me. I smelled a rat.

The encounter went like this;

Born leader, 'Good evening, I see you are going to camp here. The access laws make that legal.' I have an educational party of young people in and I am responsible for their safety and you have just arrived from nowhere.'

I look about for my tent peg mallet, knowing I do not have one, but just trying to give me something to think about before responding.

Tired traveller, 'I have not arrived from nowhere I know exactly from whence I came. What is your expectation of this conversation?'

Before I go into what he replied, I would like any poor sole reading this to know something. I already knew what he was about to say, hence my unsuccessful search for a tent peg mallet I didn't even have with me.

Born leader, 'As I am responsible for the safety of the young people and I don't know anything about you and with the issue of pedophiles, I have to be careful.'

Tired (angry) traveller (now wishing he had found a tent peg mallet), 'Oh, I thought you came over to apologise in advance for any noise that might keep me awake or in case some of your young people fling my bike in the river, as a prank, not meaning any malice. You know I think the best thing you could do, in terms of keeping people safe, would be to go back to your billet and make them all a cup of tea.'

Born leader then wandered off and Tired traveller got into sleeping bag and soon was fast asleep, dreaming about Born leader on stag (army expression for lookout) for the rest of the night making sure I stayed in my tent. Dolt.

What is this stupid fucking world coming to?

It was my intention to climb a couple of hills next day, however my slumbers were interrupted about six in the morning by the feint pitter patter of raindrops on the tent. A lovely noise. A peek outside found a glowering grey cover hiding all the hills. I breakfasted inside the tent and listened as the pitter patter got stronger. By eight it was a full scale downpour that looked set for the day. Decision made. Abandon the stupid hill idea and get down the glen. Packing up a tent and loading gear into panniers with the rain bouncing of everything and attempting to keep everything dry is not easy. In fact it is not even possible. Bike and I are as one in our misery as we splash down into Strath Vaiche. Visibility is limited in the clag and downpour. Soon I am on a long downhill section and all I can think about is, 'I'll have to cycle back up here some day.' On I splash for about eight kilometres. Halfway along Loch Vaiche, at Lubachlaggan I pull of the track and eat the second sitting of my breakfast. The rain has eased by now so I decide to tackle Beinn a' Chaisteil from that point. It is a steep grind up by the south west ridge. By the time the ground eases a bit, the rain is back with a vengeance and the wind is howling. I cannot see much and as I have left my map safely stowed in my waterproof bike pannier, which is still attached to my bike, I am mapless. Hapless some would argue. I bail out. A' Chaisteil will have to wait on the pleasure of my company. 

The track out onto the main Ullapool road, some eight or nine kilometres away, is again uneventful and quite enjoyable as the rain stops and the clouds open to allow a glimpse of blue sky. A further three kilometres on the Ullapool road to the Altguish is easy.

I hang my wet gear in the drying room luxuriate in a hot shower then head to the bar, no map required. The Auld Gits will eventually find me. You need not know anymore.