E2E - Day 13 - 13th August – 51.57 miles
I rode out of Inveraray at just after 8 am. The hill that I’d been dreading from the day before turned out to be a bit of an optical illusion. It did indeed look near vertical when it first came into view, as it had done the afternoon before but, once closer, its true gradient became apparent. The mountains towering above on either side added to the impression of steepness but it wasn’t half as bad as I’d expected. In fact within a short distance the road made quite a sharp right hand bend and levelled off somewhat before continuing up Glen Aray. Having said that, the eight or so miles over to Loch Awe weren’t an easy ride; undulating would be a generous way to describe them.
The day now developed into a repeat of the previous one. A long beat northwards, bringing me nearer my final destination, followed by an equally long push against the wind westwards around the next expanse of water, then north again and so on. Frustrating. One couldn’t fault the scenery though, it was stunning. Although overcast, surprisingly, it was dry. The TV weather forecast that morning was for two days of rain, the second being more certain. Finger’s crossed.
Once rounding the top end of Loch Awe, I was on the A85, a cross-country trunk road heading for Oban, which is a main ferry port for the Western Isles. Consequently, truck traffic was heavier than I’d been used to for the last few days. Nowhere near as dense as a similar road further south in England, but enough to disturb the relative peace that I’d grown accustomed to. From the shores of Loch Awe, the road ran along side a river of the same name and down towards Loch Etive, then on to Connel, my next way-point, where I’d decided to stop for tea and a snack.
Looking out for a suitable place for refreshments as I entered Connel, I noticed the word café at the bottom of a large sign at the entrance to a doctor’s surgery on the opposite side of the road and pulled into the car park. The building appeared to be typical of such places housing a modern multi practice GPs’ surgery with integral pharmacy, but no indication that it also housed a cafeteria. I left the car park and investigated the large house next door. Nothing there – just an ordinary private dwelling. I went back to the car park entrance and checked the sign again. My eyes hadn’t deceived me, it plainly included the word ‘café’ at the bottom. I asked someone leaving the building. “Yes, there is a café in the surgery” and “yes, it is open for non patients”. Once inside it was obvious; half a dozen small tables with chairs in the corner of the waiting area with a small counter behind them. The WRVS staff were helpful and friendly and the home-made scones and tea delicious. “I’ve see this set-up in hospitals but never in a GP surgery” I remarked. They admitted that it was unusual but that it worked very well, although mostly patronised by patients and other locals. Passing trade was unusual. I’m not surprised as the car park was full. What a brilliant idea – we should be doing it in England.
At Connel the road took a wide sweep round and doubled back to take me northwards again, up onto a bridge over the entrance to Loch Etive. Now on the A828, I’d lost most of the truckers, only to be replaced by caravanners, who I often find more of a problem. Townee drivers, who aren’t much good at the best of times, certainly unused to winding Scottish roads, and pulling their prized chunks of aluminium behind them probably for the first time since Easter, simply don’t know what they’re doing. Car owners who tow trailers and caravans should be subjected to a supplementary driving test, with their licenses suitably annotated on passing. They’re one of the drawbacks of doing such a ride at the height of the season.
As I made my way around Ardmucknish Bay, Loch Creran, the Lynn of Lorn and Loch Linnhe heading towards Fort William, another height of season problem again became apparent – ‘no vacancy’ signs everywhere. I hadn’t passed a single B & B without one. I probably could’ve made Fort William but surmised that accommodation there would be harder to find than back in Largs, if at all, so it would be better to do my fifty or so miles and find somewhere in a less populated area. One camp site was marked on the map in about the right place but it never materialised. Although still no rain, the sky was dark and foreboding, so I wanted to be under a roof for the night.
An impressive looking sign came up in the middle of nowhere indicating the Stewart Hotel a mile distant. “Looks promising” I thought and kept an eye out for further indications. Sure enough, about a mile up the road, a further sign showed that the hotel was along a badly maintained drive, across a rusty broken-down cattle grid and disappearing up into the trees. I pushed my bike across the grid, mounted again and continued through the conifers on the broken tarmac. A few hundred yards and round a bend I came to a large country house with an equally large modern annex built onto one end, both looking decidedly the worse for wear. There was an old car parked in front of the house but no other signs of life.
A knock at the door and a push on the bell were followed by silence. The door was unlocked so I went inside, entering what must have once been a rather grand hallway, with the dining room off to one side and the lounge and bar area to the other. Shouts of “hello” simply echoed through the building; it was like the Marie Celeste. The tables in the rather seedy lounge were still covered with empty glasses and food crumbs from the night before, and this was the middle of the afternoon. Eventually I was able to hear noises of someone working coming from a corridor leading off to the annex. Soon afterwards a youngish be-suited Indian man (I later discovered to be Bangladeshi) entered the lounge. He’d evidently been carrying out chambermaid duties in the bedrooms and was startled to see someone else in the building.
He quickly regained his composure and, in answer to my query regarding a room for the night, went into an, oh so familiar to me, Indian Sub-continent routine. It consisted of consulting the hotel ledger with a self-important flourish, telling me about the coach party due in that evening, and that, should one be available, my room wouldn’t be ready till five o’clock. He went on to say that the room would cost me £80 but that this entitled me to a 25% discount on my evening meal. This pseudo-bureaucratic behaviour is just so typical. The Indians learned it from us Brits back in the days of the Raj, but they’ve really perfected the art and far surpassed their teachers. The price was way over the top. I would’ve expected such an amount when the place was a ‘proper’ country house hotel, but not in its present state. Nevertheless, accommodation was difficult to come by, so I accepted.
I offloaded the bike putting the panniers in the corner of the lounge, unpacked my mini laptop and sat down to see if I could get a signal and check my e mails. “No problem, we have wifi” said my Asian host, on one of his infrequent flits through the lounge. After a while, a middle-aged woman accompanied by her elderly mother turned up and, like me, found their way to the lounge. I suggested they wait and that ‘management’ would appear soon. Sure enough he did and subjected them to the same charade. Pretty soon the three of us were seated on some of the lounge’s ample easy-chairs and, as we discussed the strangeness of our situation, the ‘Faulty Towers’ comparison arose almost simultaneously, along with rather incredulous chuckles at the goings on.
A while later, ‘management’ entered the lounge and, rather grandly, announced that my room was ready and gave me the key. To be fair to him, he did help carry my panniers down the adjoining corridor into the annex and up to my first floor room. ‘Dilapidated’ would best describe it. The wardrobe door was hanging off; the television looked to be designed by John Logie Baird; the shower delivered a lukewarm dribble; the plastic guttering had parted company with its downpipe outside the window. I subsequently found it hard to avoid the tops of the springs which could be felt through the large double mattress. The list is endless. I made myself as comfortable as possible then headed back to the main building to hunt up some grub.
Mein Host was behind the bar. At first he wouldn’t hear of dinner being served before eight o’clock but, with a bit of persuasion, relented and agreed to “as soon as possible”. For want of something better to do, I ordered half a pint of Guinness and perched on a bar stool. The manager, receptionist, chambermaid and now barman had a moment to spare as he served my drink and seemed to soften his tone a little. He related that, along with his Bangladeshi business partner, who appeared in the bar moments later, had purchased the place a couple of seasons ago and, according to him, business was good. As if on queue, the coach load of Germans arrived and he scuttled off to continue his reception duties. However, it was a large mini bus - if that’s not a contradiction in terms - with about fourteen passengers in all, and most of them couples. Not exactly enough to fill the annex to capacity. I ordered poached salmon off the over-priced menu and waited.
One manager ushered me through to the dining room at just after seven and the other served the mediocre dish of tasteless salmon and over-cooked vegetables. The Bangladeshi two, plus a rather vacant-looking Scottish cook who I spied at breakfast in the morning, were the only members of the hotel staff that I saw. I have a sneaking suspicion that that is all there was! I dined and went to bed.