Winton Massif: Winton Massif 2014 - Close to the Edge tour.

Close to the edge. To the edge of what we've yet to establish, our sanity perhaps? Our alcohol tolerance levels maybe? Who knows, but Stage 2 is still to come maybe we'll find out then...

The official first night was to be Glenlivit on Tuesday night but Brian, Bob and myself left a couple of days early. Kinloch Hourn was a place that had caught my eye after looking for interesting places on the map I've not been to yet. Kinloch Hourn can be found at the end of twenty two or so miles of single track road. It's a dead end road. No one will ever get to Kinloch Hourn who doesn't want to be there. When I told Bob and Bri about it they were up for it, despite it being a "wild camping" destination. For those not in the know, wild camping is just camping wherever you want, which is legal in Scotland as long as you don't fuck anything up or scare any wildlife. Wild camping allows people to access and stay at some of the most beautiful places in Scotland in the comforts of their tents. The downsides is that you have to shite outside, something I do not rejoice in.
Sunday morning we arranged to meet at The Janet's. Mrs GHC was making breakfasts for anyone leaving for the trip and Brian, Bob and I were joined by Auld Brian and Route Captain. Every year someone takes on the roll of Route Captain. It's their job to try and organise the trip and anything else they want to (t shirts etc) but the also have to take a rake of slagging from the rest of us. Route Captain this year was Smillie, he'd come up with the main route and some fucking cracking t shirts but don't tell him I said that.

Breakfast at the Janets.

Bacon rolls tanned and coffees and teas drunk we were ready to go, but there was one problem, Bob was missing!
We waited..

and waited...

Fuck sake I'm getting worried now...

Will we go and find him?

brrrrrrraaaaaaa

braaaaaaa
BRAAAAAAA
BRA BRA BRA

Thank fuck, here he is.
Bob had unfortunately dropped his bike in his garage. Anyone who has dropped a GS in the past will know how much of a cunt they are to pick up, especially if you can't get proper access to lift them if you've dropped the bike in an enclosed space, like a fucking garage. Bastard.
Bob's GS was fine apart from a slightly bent crash bar, but he was sweating like a pregnant nun. As he cooled down he thundered a couple of rolls into himself and tanned some coffee.

RC Smillie and Auld Brian seeing us off.

We headed up towards Glencoe, somewhere around Stirling Bob pulled over to get his waterproofs on as we could see rain up ahead. It was a heavy shower, but it only lasted about 40 seconds. More sweaty baws for Bob. The further north we rode the better the weather got. We stopped off at the Glen Etive turnoff for a wee break before stopping again at Spean Bridge for some lunch in the cafe and to stock up on supplies for later on. We even managed to fit in a load of peat for a fire that evening.

A few miles after Invergarry you'll find the turn off to Kinloch Hourn. It starts out as a nice single track road. there's not much of a view as there's lots of Rhododendron at each side of the road, but this soon opens out and you get a good view along the side of the lochs. There's a big fuck off dam and a few miles after that the road goes mental. It swoops between rocks and up and over wee bridges and blind corners. At the end of it there is the loch, Loch Hourn (surprise, surprise) a farm building and the wee camping area. The Gamekeeper comes and collects £1 from each person camping. I tried to offer him a wee dram, but he couldn't be tempted.

We got the tents up and started gathering some fire wood. I was pretty surprised when a car turned up and an older couple started setting up camp. I hadn't expected to see anyone else while we were there. We got speaking to them and the lady asked me if we'd ever stayed there before and what we thought of the place. I told her it was our first time here and I thought the place was great, the only down side was that I wasn't looking forwards to having to shite outside. "Oh, don't worry about that. There's a toilet in the outbuilding by the farmhouse. It's open all the time. Just remember some loo roll."

RESULT!! Al fresco shiting avoided!

We got a fire going to get rid of the midges, got some beers open and shot the shit till bedtime.

Kinloch Hourn

Opening my tent the next morning showed another nice day. We ate breakfast and each took turns in taking the bikes round to the farmhouse to make a deposit in their toilet. There's also a wee cafe that runs out the farmhouse but I was unsure if it was open.

We packed all our shit up and got going. I had my gopro on and took a wee video to show how mental the road is. We came across a couple of cars on some of the tightest bits. The first guy seemed a bit unsure of reversing back to a passing place and I think he twatted his car off a rock.

Kinloch Hourn morning

Bob goes for a shite.

The road from Kinloch Hourn.

We headed back to Invergarry then up the side of Loch Ness to Drumnadrochit where we turned off for Cannich, tonight's destination. The section of the A82 that runs up the side of Loch Ness can be a stonking road but more often than not it's congested with caravans and big fuck off tour buses. Today was no different although, thanks to the traffic being stopped, we managed to get a short twisty section where we could open the taps a wee bit. The only other hold up was the locks at Fort Augustus which get boats up and down the Caledonian Canal. We stopped in Fort Augustus for a few bits and bobs too. I had forgotten my toothbrush and deodorant and I didn't want to risk the shop at Cannich not having either.

Cannich Campsite is a nice place, quite family orientated but we weren't put off by any over zealous warden types. There's a cafe on site and a wee campers room in case the weather goes bad. We walked round to the shop and got some supplies then sat about the site. Ben and Faithir were joining us today and just as we were getting some lunch they arrived.

Bob and Brian on the Kinloch Hourn road.

Invergarry

Fort Augustus lock.

You can see the difference in the water level between each side.

Ben and Faithir arrive at Cannich.

It was warm at Cannich but it started to shower. We spent time dodging the rain under the trees or under Ben's tarp shelter he'd brought with him. After a while we all ended up in the pub where we had food and then watched David Beckham ride a bobbed Triumph around on television over a few beers. Then it was back to the camping room for a few more beers.

The wee room in the campsite.

I had pitched my tent by a tree, so when I woke up the next day I didn't realise how warm it was. It was fucking roasting! I had ordered breakfast and a coffee from the on site cafe. I sat at one of the tables outside reading Chickenhawk on the kindle, but I had to go inside. I could feel myself getting burnt!

After breakfast we discussed which way we were going. Bob decided to go straight to that night's destination, Glenlivit Public Hall, while Faithir wanted to go for a look at Chanonry Point, a well known dolphin spotting area. Ben, Brian and I chose to go with Faithir, following the single track A831 to Beauly then on to Chanonry Point.

There was no dolphins to be seen that day, but there were plenty people looking.

Fort George in the background.

As we headed south and up into the Cairngorms the sky got cloudier. I stopped in Carrbridge for a photo of the old packhorse bridge, the oldest stone bridge in the Highlands, then caught up with everyone else at Grantown On Spey. We got beers and food from the shop and shovelled chips from the chippy down our throats. Much to Ben's delight Faithir and I also shared some chips with the birds, Ben fucking loves that.

From there we headed up the last few miles to Glenlivit Public Hall. The roads in the area are nice but quite busy with lorries no doubt taking stuff to and from the many Distilleries in the area.

By the time we got to the hall most of the other guys were all ready there. The five of us met up with Smillie, Euan, Andy and the Massif's newest member Chris. Andy, Euan and Chris had pitched their tents round the back of the hall but the rest of us opted to just crash out inside.

The hall was really good. Smillie had a wee stereo set up blasting out old rave music and there was a big kitchen with a huge fridge in it for all the beer. Smillie, Ben and Euan went to the distillery for a look around while the rest of us chilled oot at the hall. About an hour later Andy cooked up a load of spicy pasta for everyone who wanted some. Chris gave me one of his cigars to try, a Filthy Hooligan. It was braw! We were all relaxing on the wee porch bit when we heard another bike coming. It was Auld Brian (I'm sure he loves that handle) on his Suzuki Bandit. Now there was ten of us. With Brian on the Bandit and Chris on his Triumph Explorer, thankfully, the BMW GS fest was slightly diluted, we were beginning to look like the BMW owners club!
The night was spent chilling out and getting the crack (craic). When it got a bit later we moved into the hall. Brian, Bob and I told the other guys about Kinloch Hourn and wee inspected the damage the midges had done to Brian's legs. Ooya!

Carrbridge

I had a great night sleep in the hall that night, and was raring to go in the morning. Ben and I had talked about heading straight to Applecross and spending two nights there, instead of going to Scourie with everyone else, but this idea was quickly kicked up the arse by Route Captain Smillie. I'm glad we stuck to the plan, cos we got to ride a couple of great roads on the way to Scourie.

As usual we left in dribs and drabs. Faithir went to ride around the whisky trail and photograph some of the distilleries, some went for coffee and rolls at another distillery and the rest of us battered up to Inverness. From there we carried on up the A9 untill we turned off onto the B9176, a fucking stonking road. It was great fun on the GS, swinging into the bends and switchbacks. The B9176 joins the A836, opens out into a bunch of fast sweepers and into Bonar Bridge. Carry on to Lairg and then take the sharp left onto the A838 which takes you up the side of Loch Shin. Myself and Bob made a slight cunt of things here and battered straight past the turn off and everyone else, spirited riding taking preference over navigation and observation.

Scottish roads can be confusing for non Scots. The B9176 is a B road but it is still a dual lane road folk are used to. Whereas the A838 is mostly a singletrack road with passing places, so you have to keep in mind that if you're battering on, you might meet another daft cunt doing the same thing but coming the other way. Despite this some of us were holding a fair old pace, but no one could match the guy in the jet fighter plane who went screaming past a hundred meters or so above us, causing the majority of us to shite our breeks!

Eventually we got to Laxford Bridge where we took a left onto the A894, the last wee bit of the north coast road that takes you into Scourie.

The usual ritual of pitching tents and going to the shop for beers and stuff took place as always. Some folk opted to eat in the pub but I joined the folk cooking on the campsite. Sausages on rolls was my three star Michelin meal, Bob had soup and Smillie and Euan attempted chilli. Hammy and Claire turned up for a visit and joined the folk eating in the pub. When they said their goodbyes we headed along to the Scourie Hotel where somehow I ended up playing darts with Smillie, Andy, Ben and Brian, or was it Bob? Fuck knows. the one sure thing was I was a fair bit more pissed up than everyone else. This didn't impede my newly found dart skills and in a torrent of foul language I won the game, and then done it again!!

Photo by Faithir

Bonar Bridge. Photo by Faithir

Photo by Faithir

Scourie Views

Euan arrives at Scourie

Smillie arrives.

Brian greets Smillie.

Photo by Faithir

The following morning I was a burst couch. "Coach" is the term we have in the Massif for the fuckwit who takes fucking ages to get their shit together before we move on from somewhere. That day the fuckwit was me. I was pretty hungover. It seemed I was moving through setting cement as I fed myself and packed my tent and shit away. Some of the guys chose to wait behind and give me shouts of "encouragement" while I tidied my shit up.

"For fuck sake, what the fuck are you playing at?!?!"

"Hurry the fuck up!"

"Fucking coach"

"Slooooooow bastard"

Etc etc. On top of that, I'd lost my fucking hat. So once I'd finally got the bike loaded we had to ride back to the Scourie Hotel. No sign of said hat in the bar or around the darts board where I had been so prolific the previous evening. I had given up hope when I spotted my precious hat lying outside on a picnic table, exactly where I left it the previous evening. Fuckwit.

We set off heading south on one of my favourite roads. The A894/A837 from Scourie to Ullapool is one of my favourites, but due to my wits dulled from the night before, I was more riding dog than riding god. The preceding nights festivities however had no impact on the scenery, which was fucking incredible, as always. MobyDick (what I call the GS these days) proved to be a worthy companion, hurtling my rough arse swooping and twisting into Ullapool. I might have felt a bit shite, but the bike was planted, it's forgiving handling masking my dodgy lines and mid corner braking into swoopy, pendulum swinging smiles.

We regrouped at Ullapool. The cake and coffee I bought at the cafe overlooking the harbour blasted away the cobwebs from the night before and I was back "on it" as the young team say.

Scourie to Ullapool. Photo by Faithir

Exploder to Ullapool. Photo by Faithir

Photo by Faithir

Bandit and Brian. Photo by Faithir.

Andy, Bob, Ben and I stopped to look at Stac Pollaidh and discuss and arsehole in a van who tried to kill us. You can probably tell by Andy's face that he wanted to kick the guys head in. And rightly so.

Another one of the hazards of riding up north. Deer! A herd of deer near Inchnadamph. Photo by Faithir.

Massif at Ullapool. Photo by Faithir

From Ullapool we had to routes to out destination. We could follow the coast to Applecross via Gairloch, or just batter down the A835 to Garve. For some reason everyone but Faithir chose the route via Garve, despite us all knowing that the Gairloch road is the more enjoyable. We convinced ourselves we'd made the right choice, as it was the quickest route there. And while it was far from unenjoyable, it wasn't the five star route I knew my Old Man had taken. It was a great run down through Achnasheen and into Lochcarron., but it was a road I've ridden bings of times. Maybe Faithir was speaking sense...

Never mind, we'd be pitched for ages before that old fud had turned up....

Well, not really. Faithir rolled in about half an hour behind me. I should have taken the Gairloch road.

Anyways, routes aside, we'd all made it to Applecross hassle free....................ish.

After we'd stopped for supplies in Lochcarron I'd said I would like to get photos of folk riding up the Bealach Na Ba. So off I sped, followed closely by Ben. At the famous Bealach Na Ba sign I stopped. It's a Winton Massif tradition to apply our stickers wherever possible and I wanted another one on the sign.

Stopping at the sign I jumped off the bike and whipped open the top box looking for a sticker.

Where the fuck is it??

Fucking sticker.

I pulled my camera out and searched around.

Fucking hell!! Fucking beers in the way!!

I took the beers I'd bought in Lochcarron out and searched more.

Where the fuck are these stickers?!?!

Into my pocket I go and whip out a pile of stickers. Fuck sake. Sticker on the sign, beer back in the top box and off I go.

BRRAAAAAAAAAP
BRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Navigating the Bealach I'm thinking I was the first up, but no, there's Smillie on one of the hairpins, camera in hand.

I go a few turns up, quickly jump of the bike, open the top box, and

no camera.

Eh?

What the fu....?

Fuck

FUCK!!!!!!

Now if you read back that last wee bit, or you're equipped with a better brain than me, you'll have realised that after I took my camera out to find the stickers, I never put the thing back in the topbox.

WHAT A FUCKING ARSEHOLE!!!!

FUCK SAKE!

Next up the hill was Andy. He had been following Ben who had come across my trusty Nikon D80 lying in the middle of the road looking fucked. Ben had given it to Andy. When he passed it to me I battered hopefully on a few buttons, but it wouldn't focus. It was fucked.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

To be fair to the guys they were pretty supportive. My SLR was really expensive but I used it all the time. There was a chance it could get damaged at some point.

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNSSSSSSSSSSSSSTTTTTUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

I was pretty thankful that Ben and Andy had found it. At least I hadn't lost the photos from the trip so far. I really would have been fucking gutted if I'd lost them.

PPPPPPPPPPPIIIIIIIIIIIIDCCCCCUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNTTTTTTT

These things happen. But I was fucking annoyed with myself . What a fucking halfwit.

Anyways, I rode down into Applecross where I headed straight for the Inn. The pub is in such a great location that as long as the weather is fine I like to have a beer before I head up and sort the tent out. Euan joined me. We shot the shit and spoke to the staff while we sipped our beer and Euan sampled a pint of prawns.

We got our tents up just and I got my arse in the shower. I'd skipped a wash due to my slow start that morning and I felt like I was cultivating mushrooms around my crotch.

I emerged feeling like The Dalai Lama. My camera was fucked, but I hadn't lost my photos, and at least it was insured. Hopefully...

The rain came in the form of brief but heavy showers as we hid in the Flower Tunnel, that is now being used as a campers refuge. We all had a couple of beers then headed down to the Applecross Inn for some food. As always, it was fucking good.

Views from the Gairloch route. Photo by Faithir.

Me winging it up the Bealach sans camera. Photo by Smillie.

Photo by Smillie.

Photo by Smillie

Setting up the tents in Applecross. Photos by Faithir.

Faithir, Brian and Smillie stayed in a Wigwam. Photo by Faithir.

Cosy. Photo by Faithir.

Fuck knows whats been going on here. Answers on a postcard.....

Photo by Smillie.

It wasn't raining the following morning but it looked like it might start any time. We whipped the tents down and got cleaned up then rode up the Bealach Na Ba and into the clouds. That's not an exaggeration, it was misty as fuck. I literally had a couple of meters visibility. After ages crawling along I got to the top, I was heading down, when at one of the hairpins a big yellow truck appeared and then disappeared back into the mist, it was pretty freaky. I popped out of the clouds halfway down and headed on to Lochcarron. There was only one thing on everyone's mind. Breakfast.

When we've been at Applecross breakfast means only one place, The Waterside Cafe in Lochcarron, home of the Challenge Breakfast. Because it was Chris's first trip he decided he'd step up to the very large plate.

The Waterside Cafe

"What the fuck was I thinking...."

Another pass certificate for Smillie and I.

It was a valiant effort from Chris, but those last couple of slices of fried bread had him beat. He lay down his sword. Well, he lay down his knife and fork. I though it was going to beat me too but I forced those that few beans down. Fuck Shreddies, the Challenge Breakfast will keep hunger locked up till dinner time.

We left Lochcarron heading to Skye. The plan was to get the ferry from Armadale to Mallaig. Skye is known as the Misty Isle and it lived up to it's name today. Not long after crossing the bridge and getting on to the relatively new, upgraded A851 we were plunged back into the pea soup. It was quite alarming when old coffin dodgers would appear out the fog like ghosts in silver hatchbacks, only to disappear again seconds later. Put yer fucking lights on folks.

I arrived to the busy ferry, it was just getting ready to go. "We can fit you on" said the ferry guy.

"There's ten of us, the rest of them will be here just now."

"Ah. You'll be wanting to wait for the next ferry then"

This wasn't much an of an issue. Smillie had to make a pit stop to drop of some of his breakfast is some poor bastards shite house, so there was no danger we would have made it on the earlier ferry.

We killed time drinking coffee in the wee cafe, slagging each other off and reading. The ferry was back in no time. The crossing only takes a wee while and as we crossed we formulated the next wee bit of our route. While this was going on I saw some dolphins jumping not far from the boat. It's a pretty awesome thing to see.

Off the ferry, we battered down the A830, another stonking road that get occasionally clogged with tour buses and caravans, all heading to Arisaig. Our destination was Glenfinnan. Not many of us had stopped there before, so we slipped the bikes between the tour buses and foreign cars. We had a look at the viaduct and the monument to where Bonnie Prince Charlie raised his standard at the start of the Jacobite rebellion. Not long after we had arrived we were ready to go. Bob, Brian and I opted to head back the way we'd come and take the single track A861 to our final nights destination, Strontian.

Massif crossing the Skye Bridge. Photo by Faithir

Ferry terminal. Photo by Faithir.

Photo by Faithir.

Photo by Faithir

Titanic threeway. Photo by Faithir.

Photo by Faithir.

Glenfinnan. photo by Smillie.

Sunart Camping is the campsite at Strontian. It's a cracker. Tim, the owner, has made camping huts himself. Smillie, Faithir, Bob, Ben and Brian all stayed in the biggest one. It was pretty impressive, it even had its own shower, toilet and cooker. All that for £65! The rest of us got our tents up and had a couple of beers. We all ate out in the pub that night. It was quality.

Homewards bound the next day. I packed my tent away for one last time. We ate in the cafe in Strontian then headed to the Corran ferry. I rode home with Smillie, Ben and Andy along the side of Loch Earn and into fife, Smillie showing us some of his old stomping ground.