E2E - Day 14 - 14th August – 55.5 miles
As soon as I awoke I looked out of the window and was astonished to find that it was still dry. The weather forecasts aren’t normally this inaccurate. “Will it be possible to squeeze a few rain free hours out of the day?” I mused as I packed my panniers and made a cup of tea. Management had decreed the night before that breakfast wouldn’t be available till 8.45 but, with a bit of badgering, had grudgingly relented to “possibly a little earlier.” The present lack of rain made me even more determined to bring the hour forward.
The dining room was empty at 7.30 but I could hear noises coming from the kitchen. The rather gormless cook was making ready with pots and pans. I asked if I could have an early breakfast; “anything will do” I added. He smiled broadly and nodded vigorously, but I got the impression that he didn’t exactly comprehend what he was agreeing to. I retired to the dining room to await events. Almost immediately a group of six men dressed in working clothes came bustling in, like me, intent on securing an early breakfast. We sat together. They all had North-eastern English accents and were part of an off-shore team trying to locate the break in an underwater telephone cable laying on the bed of one of the lochs. Short of anywhere else to stay, they’d booked in the night before, arriving after I’d retired. Without prompting from me, Faulty Towers came up in the conversation again. Hot on the heals of the workers, the Germans arrived in the dining room. True to form, they’re not given to laying in bed in the mornings.
Management had no choice but to ‘pull their collective fingers out’ and very soon, two Bangladeshis and the Scottish cook were trying to take orders and ferry plates of bacon and eggs out to the hungry guests. Pragmatism set in on our table. We all chorused “over here” whatever combination of bacon, egg, sausage and toast was called out. Consequently, we were all fed and soon out of the way, leaving the Germans to argue about who had ordered what.
I paid the £80 for my room and breakfast by credit card the afternoon before and no one had sought payment for the evening meal. With chaos reigning in the kitchen, nobody was staffing the hotel reception as I lugged my panniers out to load up the bike. Had I been asked for further money, I’m sure I’d have refused. They’d had enough out of me; it just wasn’t worth it.
Some might view the above description of the goings on at Hotel Stewart as somewhat prejudiced, even racist maybe. I’ve cycled right round the Bay of Bengal from the Indian border to Chittagong and found, with one exception, the Bangladeshis to be wonderful people. They live in a beautiful country and, although very poor, extend typical Islamic hospitality to foreigners. I had a great time. I’ve met many Bangladeshis in UK too, having lived in Bradford and, latterly, Manchester. All have been enterprising, hard-working and, above all, honest. It is easy to see what is going on at the Stewart. My surmise is that they’ve bought for a song what was once a high class country house hotel but fallen on hard times, and are trying to restore it to its former glory. In the meantime, they’re running it on a shoestring but charging top end prices. I’m typing this log back home post ride and I’ve checked out their web site. Double rooms are listed at £50 for the high season. The operation they are currently running is ‘enterprising’, they are demonstrably ‘hard-working’ but ‘honest’ I’m not so sure about. In fact the operation is a total rip-off!
Large wet spots were occasionally falling from the sky as I loaded up the bike and by 8.15, as I pedalled down the hill away from the hotel, the long-awaited rain was falling properly. Within half an hour I’d reached a point where Loch Leven joins Loch Linnhe. Here the road made a long sweeping double back, went up over a bridge and put me on the A82 heading directly to Fort William. I was tempted to linger in the town but it’s a place I’d visited a number of times before and, with only 18 miles on the clock, the urge to carry on was much stronger. I was at the western end of the Great Glen which continues north-easterly in an almost straight line to Inverness on the Eastern seaboard of Scotland. I had a real sense that I was getting nearer my final destination. Save for twists and turns in the road, from now on, I was heading in the right direction; no more meandering around going towards all points of the compass.
From Fort William the road veers up hill a little away from the water heading for Spean Bridge, on the river of that name. With 27 miles done, and nothing much in the way of settlements for miles after that, I decided to stop for some refreshments. I was pleasantly surprised to see a Little Chef sign on the way into town. I hadn’t realised that they operated in Scotland, this being the first I’d come across. The food is nothing special but, save for a shot period back in the early nineties when they had a policy of turning away cyclists, I’ve always found them to be welcoming. It was before eleven o’clock and they were still serving from the breakfast menu which had porridge on it; something I’d never sampled in a Little Chef. Very nice it was too; thick and stodgy with lashings of honey melting in from the top. I knew I wouldn’t need to stop for the rest of the day’s ride. The meet ‘n greet/check out area in these establishments normally has a small stock of gifts, trinkets and sundry other items, among which was baseball cap with a large peak and ‘Scotland’ plus a thistle emblazoned on it. I’d left mine back in the B & B at Sanquhar and the relentless cold rain was giving me a a slight headache. I added this to the bill for the porridge and tea and got back on the road.
I’d been wearing my top-of-the-range, rather expensive Endura cycling jacket all morning and it was certainly doing its job; keeping my inner core warm and, apart from the unavoidable condensation from sweating, my trunk dry. A few miles after Spean Bridge the weather did cause a minor bike problem though. I was riding at a steady 12-13 mph but, on glancing down at the bike computer, noticed a big fat zero where the speed readout should be. I knew instantly what the problem was. It’d happened in times gone by, with either rain like this or in very fine mist/clouds when riding at high altitudes. Moisture gets in between the computer and its handlebar mount, shorting out the contacts bringing the signal up from the sensor on the forks. Fortunately, I was carrying a small can of WD40, a very efficient water repellent. It was difficult to do a proper job in the rain but, by leaning over the handlebars, I was able slide the computer away from its mount, wipe of the excess water with my handkerchief, apply a quick spray and replace it sufficiently quickly to cure the problem. I’m not very diligent when it comes to routine maintenance but, with winter just around the corner, I must remember to do this every few weeks and prevent the problem in the first place. It could just be that this ride is a couple of miles longer than I actually recorded.
The A82 gradually made its way back down to the water’s edge and ran along side Loch Lochy (I’ve always thought this to be a rather unimaginative name – all the others are so poetic or evocative). It then crossed the water and swept northwards for a short distance to take in Invergarry, before heading back to the northern shore of Loch Oich (that’s better!) and along to the Caledonian Canal. I toyed with the idea of taking the Canal path but in the end opted to stay on the road. The former would have been more picturesque but full of walkers, whilst the latter, probably longer, but much less muddy and no doubt smoother. In spite of the rain, Fort Augustus, at the other end of this stretch of the Canal, was jam packed with tourists. All I was aware of as I rode through was a sea of multi-coloured umbrellas and every imaginable type of rain wear. Some unprepared souls had improvised with plastic bin bags, heads and arms poking out through slits. It was far too crowded for me to consider stopping.
The road now continued along the northern shore of the most famous loch in Scotland, but the only monster in sight was the continuing weather. The miles were clocking up and my thoughts turned to where to stop for the night. A really long day could possibly take me on to Drumnadrochit, or even Inverness, but I’d had enough rain for one day and wanted to get out of it. ‘No Vacancy’ signs had been hanging outside every B & B establishment I’d seen that day. Invermoriston was the next sizeable settlement so I decided to try my luck there.
The most prominent building in the village was the Glen Moriston Hotel. “Let’s not mess about” I thought “I’ll try there”. As expected – full. The English landlord suggested I try some B & Bs further up the road. A couple of hundred yards past the Hotel were two B & B signs next to each other, with steep steps leading up to the respective houses. One had the usual attachment, the other didn’t. It was difficult to get my bike off the road but I left it half standing, half laying against the rocks in the hillside and quickly ascended the steps to see if there really was a room available. Yes, I was in luck. Hayley, the young landlady from East Yorkshire, had one twin room left. A bit more expensive but I didn’t hesitate. “Nothing could be as bad as last night” I thought. With accommodation secured, I trod gingerly back down the slippery steps to the main road. It would have been very difficult to negotiate the way up with a bike, impossible with it loaded, so, as directed, I rode off to find the vehicular access to the house which was via a gravelled drive further on.
Hayley’s B & B was well equipped for cyclists, with a covered area for bikes and a place to hang wet clothes. However, she didn’t provide evening meals but by the time I’d showered, changed, checked my e mails and come back downstairs, she’d booked me a table for the six o’clock sitting at the Glen Moriston Hotel. “I’d have dinner out of the way in time to listen to the Archers” I thought. Little did I know!
In the bar of the Glen Moriston before dinner, I met Neil, Hayley’s husband, also from East Yorkshire but apparently with Scottish ancestry. He’s now a local gas fitter. I later saw his blue British Gas van outside the house. He’d nipped down the hill to put up the ‘no vacancies’ sign just after my arrival, then onto the Hotel for a pint. “Out from under my feet” Hayley had said as I was leaving. There was only one person in the bar with a Scottish accent. Most of the customers were Italian, German or from other parts of Europe. The landlord was from Manchester and ideally suited to the job. He effortlessly kept all nationalities entertained with his banter whilst taking orders and dispensing beverages. Only a few locals were left in the Glen; nearly all the permanent residents were from south of the border.
Six o’clock arrived and those booked in were ushered through to the dining room. Seated at a small table adjacent to mine, was another lone diner, a rather handsome woman of a ‘certain age’. As we scanned our menus, she leaned over and asked for my help with one of the items. How does one describe a ‘parcel of lamb’ to a non native English speaker?
To cut a very long story short, Mette Marie Hansen was from Denmark. A journalist and travel writer, she had been commissioned to walk the last section of the Great Glen Way and write about it for a Danish travel magazine, then move on to Edinburgh and do the same for the Tattoo. This was one of those rare serendipitous occasions when one meets someone with a similar take on just about everything; philosophy, politics, environmental issues, quality of life; we ran the whole gambit and put the world to rights to our mutual satisfaction. The conversation spilled over into the next sitting; I hadn’t noticed. We retired to the bar and continued. It transpired that we were staying in the same B & B and it was late evening by the time we shared my umbrella back to our abode, struggled with the key in an unlocked door and said good night. A rare evening indeed. Luckily, Mette’s English was good enough to facilitate such discussions. If it had been down to my Danish, we’d have nodded to one another and gone our separate ways. Without doubt, the best evening of the trip so far; it certainly made up for the night before.