E2E - Day 15 - 15th August – 63.32 miles
Mette and I continued our conversation over breakfast the next morning. However, we both had a busy day ahead of us. This was the first day of her Great Glen walk and I still had many miles to ride to reach the northern-most extremity of mainland UK. We said our goodbyes in front of the house. Out came her camera and I waited while bike and rider were snapped. I sincerely hope it doesn’t make it into any Danish magazines. It was 8.30 as I rode off down the gravel drive and back to the main road beside Loch Ness. I’ve since learned by e mail that Mette wasn’t at all impressed by the Edinburgh Tattoo but that she’s soon to go on another assignment trekking around Mount Blanc.
My next way-point was Drumnadrochit. For the last few days, I’d actually been sticking to the CTC recommended route but, at this point it parted company with the Loch and headed almost due north to wend its way on smaller A and B roads right up to the north coast then east through Thurso and on to John O’Groats. This looked like a long and rather circuitous route, not to mention a hilly option. I’d been musing over this in the evenings for some time. The alternative was to carry on heading east to Inverness, pick up the A9 on the other side of the City, follow it, and the A99, up the coast to Wick and then finally on to John O’Groats. At least it looked simpler that way. However, in the CTC End to End pack, which I’d downloaded prior to leaving home, it talked about avoiding the A9 at all costs because of the traffic. Not that riding with the trucks and buses particularly bothers me, but it is nice to tootle along in the peace and quiet sometimes.
I still hadn’t completely made my mind up when I reached the outskirts of Drmnadrochit. As I rode in, it occurred to me that this was the weekend; the freight traffic would no doubt be lighter. Mind made up, I continued eastwards along the Loch which gradually narrowed to become the River Ness and, in effect, the top part of the Caledonian Canal, allowing boat navigation from west to east coast, Fort William to Inverness. On the outskirts of Inverness, the traffic was unexpectedly backed up. As rode up to the front of the queue I could see red lights flashing and guessed it was some sort of gates at a crossing. I reached the head of the line just in time to see the barriers come down closing the road and a large swing bridge being opened to the canal. We waited a few minutes while the mast of a medium-sized sailing boat passed sedately across in front of us, the bridge carrying the road gradually swung back into place, the sirens sounded and the barriers lifted allowing traffic to flow again.
Soon after this an opportunity to bypass the City came up on the left by way of a sign indicating ‘A9 North’, and a glance in that direction showed the high, wide span of a bridge way in the distance which, from the map, could only be the main road crossing the inner end of the Moray Firth. I needed some cash so carried on into the Centre and soon located a bank with a hole in the wall. As pleasant as Inverness is, apart from replenishing my wallet, I had no other reason to linger. As usual, there was a dearth of signs catering for through traffic but it’s a relatively small place and, knowing that all I had to do was turn left, I soon found myself on a surprisingly busy dual carriageway heading north. Before long the gradient started to rise sharply, taking the A9 up to the bridge I’d seen earlier. Then followed the most frightening fifteen minutes of the whole journey.
A very strong westerly was gusting off the land and out to sea, being ‘funnelled’ up the Firth. The nearer one got to the bridge, the stronger the gusts. I’m a great believer in cyclists being integrated with the rest of the traffic and find most cycle lanes to be a hindrance rather than a help but, mercifully, in this case, the bridge boasted a completely segregated cycleway, fenced off from the main road, similar to what I ‘d encountered across the Avon Gorge and River Severn. It had a wire fence on the outside too so that there was no danger of falling into the water far below. A fully laden bicycle can, in many circumstances, be a stable machine to ride but, in a cross wind, it behaves a bit like a sail. Each bluster seemed more fierce than the last. The tarmac was perfectly wide enough for normal conditions but I was in constant danger of being blown into the fence on either side in the unpredictable eddies, or simply blown over. My heart was in my mouth all the way across. I really don’t know how I stayed atop the bike. For some strange reason, it never did occur to me to get off and walk – simple soul that I am!
As the bridge gradually descended down to the southern end of Black Isle, the cycle lane lost its fencing on either side but remained segregated from the other traffic for another two or three miles. It then disappeared off into the trees. Thinking that it might continue parallel to the A9, I stayed on it, only for it to peter out into a muddy farm track after a few hundred yards. “Typical well thought out cycle facility” I mumbled to myself and headed back to the main road to join the rest of the traffic. Luckily, the fast duel carriageway only lasted for another three or four miles. At a roundabout roughly half way across Black Isle, the road split, the A835 going north-westerly, while my route, the A9, continued north. The traffic was much lighter now and, in spite of the wind, it became a pleasant ride again.
A glance at the map made me apprehensive again though. Not far ahead, at the northern side of Black Isle, the A9 crosses the Cromarty Firth. I was dreading a repeat performance of a short time ago. As the expanse of the Firth came into view, I was much relieved to see that, instead of a bridge, the road crossed on a sort of built-up causeway. As I rode over, because of the lack of height, the wind was only marginally stronger than on the normal road.
As I carried on along the northern shore of Cromarty Firth, I gave some thought as to where to stay that night. A camp site was marked on the map on the southern side of Dornoch Firth, three or four miles north of Tain. That became my target for the day. I stopped at a café on the main road near Invergordon, ostensibly for tea and a snack but, as it was early afternoon by this time and the food looked tasty, I decided to go for a large meal. That way, with a few snacks, I needn’t bother cooking in the evening.
A very heavy shower sprung up from nowhere as soon as I left the café. I stopped and put my jacket on but it didn’t last long. It didn’t bode well for a dry night’s camp though. The road leaves the coast after Invergordon and turns inland with a consequent climb, but relatively gradual in this case. The constant west wind had veered round to a more northerly direction by now and made for slow going, even more so after Tain as the road also curved round to the north-west. More short sharp showers were blowing through on the wind too.
I’d just about had enough for the day as I approached the junction were the camp site should be. The A9 does an abrupt right turn at this point and heads due north across the Dornoch Firth on another low but built-up causeway. The little tent symbol on a sign pointing straight ahead confirmed the camp site’s existence and, within a hundred yards or so, I was pulling off the road into a well manicured caravan park. The office was near the entrance with the rest of the site occupying a long narrow strip of land sandwiched between two very thick leylandii hedges. Static caravans were arranged neatly in rows on either side of a central driveway, followed by a few tourers, with the empty tent area beyond. The young lass in the office – with yet another English accent north of the border – took my money, explained where the shower and toilet block was situated and told me to pitch were I wanted but to give her let he know where I’d chosen.
Short, sharp showers were still blowing through every half hour or so but the strength of the wind meant that the ground was relatively dry. I selected a space on the opposite side to the road; “quieter there” I surmised. The hedges on either side of the site gave some protection, however, it was still somewhat difficult threading the one flexi tent pole into its sleeve in the flysheet and getting it pegged out. That done, the rest is easy. The inner compartment simply hangs inside the fly and is pegged out, which of course can now be done out of the weather. I was on my knees doing just that when I got the shock of my life. A tremendous noise, seemingly from the western end of the camp site, became apparent. It sounded like one of the gusts of wind had developed into a prairie-style tornado and was about to blow straight through. “This is Scotland” I thought. “It can’t be.” Then the ground beneath my knees physically shook. “Earthquake – no, impossible.” This all happened in a few seconds. Then it dawned on me what had just gone on. The map confirmed that on the opposite side of the site to the road, was a railway line, literally a few yards from where I was kneeling, on the other side of the hedge. A train had just rattled by. I subsequently discovered that it was one of the four trains a day on the single track line between Wick and Inverness. A mundane, everyday occurrence but, when you’ve no idea that a train is imminent, or indeed that you’re anywhere near a railway, a rather traumatic experience.
The wind dried my towel in minutes after my shower as I got the stove going next to hedge and made a welcome brew. Soon I was safely ensconced in the tent and settling into the nightly camp site routine. Surprisingly, there was enough of a signal to allow e mail checking. This done, a quick scribble in my note pad by way of a log and out with the map to see what tomorrow would bring. I still had a long way to go but, depending on the hills, I might be able to make Wick. Maximum two more days and the ride would be over. The wind was still gusting strongly but the showers were by now less frequent. I was comforted by the knowledge that my little Saunders Spacepacker tent could withstand pretty substantial gales. With that thought, I fell asleep.