A while back I suggested a bike run for a nights camping at Glencoe. Not many folk were available, so Ben and I planned on heading away on the bikes and arranged to meet HB and Kirtsen in Glencoe. One night turned into two, with a Friday night stay at Faithir and Maw's hoose they'd got at Achiltibuie, which turned into three nights when Ferg said he was up for coming along.
I met up with Ben at his gaff for bacon rolls and coffee, aye, his treat. Food eaten, shits shat and pishes taken we headed off. The forecast was for changeable weather on the run up but in my eternally optimist outlook I declared that it would be fine and we headed north to Thurso.
About three miles from Ben's we were fucking drenched. Abso fucking lutely soaked. It fucking hosed it doon, but never mind, it was still warm and we were on holiday. We carried on up the A9, stopping at Perth for fuel and again at Inverness for some soup in the wee cafe in Tiso's. We stopped in here last year and they had the best mushroom soup I had ever tasted and guess what? It was back on the menu! It might not look it but this is phenomenal soup. I took a photo on my phone with instagram (mind and add me.)
The further north we headed the stronger the westerly wind became, at some points we were getting chucked around like a sock in Aidan's tent, but we still enjoyed the road up. I love the stretch of the A9 that leaves Helmsdale over The Ord and on to the Berridale Braes, but it looks like that the twist and turns may be ironed out in future to make the road a bit safer.
It might look like a bad shite but it tastes awesome.
Ben.
Trumpet and GS on Berridale.
We arrived at Thurso where Ferg, Lynne and two giant dogs welcomed us into their hoose (well I got a bit lost but I blame Ferg's shite directions) and the night was spent eating, drinking and racing bikes on the playstation. After a good nights sleep in one of Ferg's many bedrooms I scrubbed my baws in the shower and enjoyed a grand breakfast Lynne had prepared for us. Being the social media whore I am I tried to document this the best I could using Twitter and Instagram, but I could only kill so much time. Then the waiting began.
Ferg is infamous for the time it takes him to get his shit together, and he had to pack his bike.
We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Eventually Ferg's shit was packed and Lynne waved us off. We sped along the A836, swooping our way along to Tongue where we stopped for a quick juice and I managed to get a "I Love Tongue" sticker for my pannier on the new GS. Crossing the Kyle of Tongue the A838 becomes the A838 and slims down to singletrack road around the spectacular Loch Eriboll. The wind from the day before had picked up and were were fucking hammered, at on point while stuck behind a couple of motorhomes fucking about in the road I thought I was going to be blown over, and I was fairing better than Ben and Ferg. At one stage Ben was afraid that he was going to get sucked off!
We carried on passing some stunning beaches. Even with the strong wind it was warm and with the white sands and blue seas I could have pretended to be abroad, plus we had it mostly to ourselves. It's a fucking good job everyone thinks it's always pishing with rain or riddled with midges in the North of Scotland or every cunt and his dog would be here. Thank fuck for golf courses.
At Cocoa Mountain, at Balnakeil, just outside Durness we stopped for some fucking tremendous hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant and hummed and hawed over whether to take the A894, the faster road to Lochinver or the more scenic, single track B869 via Drumbeg. This time the faster roads won, purely because Ferg hadn't ridden them before. I forgot how much I enjoy this road. The A894 is up and down swooping back and forth from Laxford Bridge though Scourie and Kylesku before joining the A837 to Lochinver. Don't believe all the shite written in bike magazines, this is one of our best roads here in Scotland and it was fucking awesome fun riding it even with the wind and the occasional twat in a motorhome/caravan.
We followed the road from Lochinver to Achiltibue, one of my most favorite places in the world. The Lochinver to Achiltibuie road is a tight, winding singletrack jobbie with amazing view of Suilven, Stac Polaidh, Canisp and the other big hills of the area and its another must do road if you're touring Scotland.
We arrived at Achiltibuie (well just roond the corner in Reiff) where we'd be staying with Maw and Faithir in their hoose, but instead of going straight there we nipped into the Summer Isle Hotel for a pint of beer, braw!
At Reiff Maw had food on for us, Faither supplied the beers and Roli the dog supplied the entertainment. That night we headed to the local Ceilidh where we watched the dancing and had plenty laughs and beers. The music was supplied by just two folk who between them done a great cover of Dirty Superstition by Stevie Wonder which was some impressive shit!
Read Ferg's account of the trip here.
Ferg is infamous for the time it takes him to get his shit together, and he had to pack his bike.
We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Eventually Ferg's shit was packed and Lynne waved us off. We sped along the A836, swooping our way along to Tongue where we stopped for a quick juice and I managed to get a "I Love Tongue" sticker for my pannier on the new GS. Crossing the Kyle of Tongue the A838 becomes the A838 and slims down to singletrack road around the spectacular Loch Eriboll. The wind from the day before had picked up and were were fucking hammered, at on point while stuck behind a couple of motorhomes fucking about in the road I thought I was going to be blown over, and I was fairing better than Ben and Ferg. At one stage Ben was afraid that he was going to get sucked off!
We carried on passing some stunning beaches. Even with the strong wind it was warm and with the white sands and blue seas I could have pretended to be abroad, plus we had it mostly to ourselves. It's a fucking good job everyone thinks it's always pishing with rain or riddled with midges in the North of Scotland or every cunt and his dog would be here. Thank fuck for golf courses.
At Cocoa Mountain, at Balnakeil, just outside Durness we stopped for some fucking tremendous hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant and hummed and hawed over whether to take the A894, the faster road to Lochinver or the more scenic, single track B869 via Drumbeg. This time the faster roads won, purely because Ferg hadn't ridden them before. I forgot how much I enjoy this road. The A894 is up and down swooping back and forth from Laxford Bridge though Scourie and Kylesku before joining the A837 to Lochinver. Don't believe all the shite written in bike magazines, this is one of our best roads here in Scotland and it was fucking awesome fun riding it even with the wind and the occasional twat in a motorhome/caravan.
We followed the road from Lochinver to Achiltibue, one of my most favorite places in the world. The Lochinver to Achiltibuie road is a tight, winding singletrack jobbie with amazing view of Suilven, Stac Polaidh, Canisp and the other big hills of the area and its another must do road if you're touring Scotland.
We arrived at Achiltibuie (well just roond the corner in Reiff) where we'd be staying with Maw and Faithir in their hoose, but instead of going straight there we nipped into the Summer Isle Hotel for a pint of beer, braw!
At Reiff Maw had food on for us, Faither supplied the beers and Roli the dog supplied the entertainment. That night we headed to the local Ceilidh where we watched the dancing and had plenty laughs and beers. The music was supplied by just two folk who between them done a great cover of Dirty Superstition by Stevie Wonder which was some impressive shit!
Ferg
Damn, that a full ass pen.
Still got a very big space in my heart for my old bike.
Ferg Packed.
We waited.
Lynne was impressed by Ferg's preperation.
"I didnae dae it that way. Yer dain it wrong. Yer a prick. Etc etc"
Stopping at Tongue.
A fucking modern art masterpiece.
Aye, its braw up north.
At Cocoa Mountain
The view out oor bedroom window.
Ben freshens up.
Sunset from Achiltibuie.
Faithir enjoys the sunset. Despite the look on his puss.
Posing bastard.
Ferg and Roli. Old room mates.
Maw enjoys the ceilidh.
GS and the Trumpet
See! Telt ye! Fucking posing bastard.
Leaving Achiltibuie is always a sad affair for me, but leave we must as we needed to get to Glemcoe where we'd meet up with HB, Kirsten, Kelly and Rob. Glencoe is an awesome place but compared to places like Achiltibuie it is seriously busy, the roads are heaving and there are people everywhere. We had a relatively traffic free run down the side of Loch Ness, always an enjoyable blast snaking towards Fort William only interrupted by the occasional boat on the canal. Fort William to Glencoe was a fucking nightmare though, the road was jammed with caravans and busses, luckily it was only 10 miles or so till we were at the Red Squirrel Campsite and pitching up. It was a wee bit drizzly but still nice and warm, beers were drunk and HB, Ferg and I got our BBQ going while the rest of us went to the Clachaig for some scran. Frank and Dave, two other bikers, joined us by the fire/BBQ for a while and caught up with us later on at the pub. We also met with a group of Weejies (Glaswegians) who were up on a stag do. During a break in the music the band were playing I taught the stags the game of "Damnbusters." I'll only give the rules and demonstration up if I get enough requests, but it involves me shoving money up my arse.
We had a fucking great night in the Clachaig, the only downside was it ended too early!
The bikes at the Red Squirrel
HB at the Red Squirrel
The Crazy Bus
Ferg having a monster pish on the way to the boozer.
Ben was happy to be back in the Clachaig
No really, he was.
Kelly
Rob
This haunts me when I sleep. Captions in the comments section.
Rob and Ferg by the fire.
We woke to great weather, Kelly and Rob had a breakfast barbie by the river on the campsite and the rest of us got a fry up at the Glencoe Cafe. Ferg followed us down the road for a few miles before turning back and following his trails up Glencoe and the banks of Loch Ness to Caithness and we headed south and east to the Winton where we finished up with a juice before watching Andy Murray win Wimbledon.
Packing up for home.
Quality!
Brian out celebrating. I dunno what he's celebrating though. He doesn't give two fucks about Andy Murray. He doesn't even know what tennis is.
Read Ferg's account of the trip here.
