On Yer Bike… Again!

Cycling to John O’Groats whilst some of the drama of the Euros unfolds!

Off the train at Wigan station on Monday morning, July 8th, (where the three of us finished last year’s cycle ride from Land’s End) and it’s out of town along the canal towpath. A watery start is set to be a theme as we head north. There’ll be rivers and waterfalls, estuaries and cliff coasts, lakes and lochs, shorelines, harbours, docks and locks. The latter give notice of our first climb.

It’s slow progress negotiating these feats of engineering but the sun’s shining and folks wave from boats. Our talk is similarly leisurely, of Mark Cavendish’s recent Tour de France victory and what lies ahead for us over coming days after all of our planning and preparation. Then a first puncture and it’s my rear wheel.

An early afternoon start soon turns to early evening as we thread our way along the network of old railway tracks and canal paths that once knitted together the success of the Industrial Revolution. We cross the River Ribble and pass Preston dock, now a marina, and press on to the static caravan we’ve booked for our first night. It’s impressively furnished, the owner has left a bottle of wine and all’s well with the world.

We wake next morning to torrential rain. By the time we’ve packed and pedalled out of the village, we are soaked. The wind is from the north and it’s strong and cold. ‘Character building’ we joke but it’s a slog along lanes already like sluices as water pours down from the hills. Time and again, wind gusts catch panniers to have us swerve and slip through gears. Occasional copses and hedges give brief relief.

Some respite comes at Kirkby Lonsdale with coffee and breakfast in a warm cafe. The woman serving us cannot believe our destination for the day and shares it with other customers. ‘They’re cycling to Penrith in this!’ Edging the Yorkshire Dales, the rest of Tuesday in the saddle is battling the elements as Sedbergh, Shap and the rest pass in a blur. Heads down, few words are spoken and we curse the loads we carry. A day of unremitting rain, though, ends at the town’s fine hostel. There’s a drying room and a secure place for bikes and a supper of fish and chips.

Despite heavy cloud seeming to meet the ground, next morning has us with a spring in our step and renewed energy. We slip out of Penrith before seven and push on, keen to make the most of a pause in the rain though we needn’t have worried. Come the end of the day, there’s a rendezvous with friend, George, to be celebrated in evening sun. He’s set up the tent and cooks our meal (as he did last year and will do for the rest of this trip) and there’s a quick replay of our route. Through Carlisle, past its handsome racecourse, negotiating some tricky cobbled streets, and then a fast and flat section into Scotland and Gretna Green. Famed as the go-to place for young English couples to tie the knot in the past, due to more liberal laws and just-over-the-border convenience, the town still lives on its reputation as a wedding venue.

Then Moffat, where our campsite is located, and a bar with a screen showing England’s Euro semi-final. We’re surrounded by Netherland-supporting Scots, sup beer and witness an often unconvincing display and bits of banter head our way. But we leave with smiles, when Ollie Watkins slides in a fine 90th minute goal to seal a 2-1 win, and we head for bed.

Thursday – with the relief of not having to carry baggage – starts with a tough climb before a long descent down to Hamilton. My back wheel and brake don’t feel right, my gears don’t shift smoothly and Richard’s front and back brakes suddenly give up. We limp through the town, admire another well-maintained race course, and find a bike shop. The owner soon sorts my friend’s bike and then turns to mine. Some adjustments and he’s done. ‘How much?’ I say. ‘Nay bother,’ he replies and will take nothing as he directs us to the cycle path which will take us into Glasgow.

We follow the mighty Clyde river through the city. Reminders of Glasgow’s industrial past abound. There are factory sites still to be developed and shipbuilding and dock relics. But the cycle way plays to another tune too. Numerous modern structures catch the eye. There’s the 2014 Commonwealth Games village turned pleasant residential area, BBC Scotland’s centre by the river, apartments built for newly-skilled settlers. And the Clyde Way is a main thoroughfare for cycling commuters. It’s also the way that takes us north, kissing the shoreline of Loch Lomond and then east to Loch Tay. Overnight camping near Clydebank has us fresh-legged and we need it, knowing that, at 78 miles or more, this will likely be our longest day.

Lochs come to dominate the landscape, their moods reflecting the weather. If Thursday’s Tay is all glacial still and refracting deep blue, another day’s lochs will be stippled gun-grey waters in a stiff breeze. Exhausted by countless miles of off-road biking and sharp ascents and precarious descents, add a ‘g’ to our destination of Killin and you get the picture. We barely have energy to repel gathering midges by the tent.

If ‘Why are we doing this?’ plays through our heads when the going gets tough, there are reasons enough around us to answer that question. Water shapes new views of high hills covered in the purple haze of heather, the scent of meadowsweet and honeysuckle and rhododendrons wafts across our tracks and roadside wild raspberries beckon to be picked. And, as you pick up a rhythm and speed to suit, motion becomes meditative. One such time, I’m suddenly snapped out of that state by the sight of an impressively antlered stag red deer. Statue-still in a sliver of sunlight by a wood, it vanishes in the turn of a pedal, like a spirit.

The Highlands are not all picture postcards, though, as vast tracts have been planted with conifers in brutal formations, with little regard for sensitivity to the environment. It’s a practice that is – thankfully – about to change, after decades of tax-concession deals allowed the wealthy to invest in the barely regulated timber industry. Harvested plantations look like battle sites, littered with dead wood and little else. Shards of bark scatter cycle paths but we’re thankful to be separated from the logging trucks hurtling past.

By this stage, we’ve seen plenty of beckoning whisky distilleries to decline as we anticipate the prospect of a stretch of hill climbing. One such is Drumochter Pass which, on the day we bike through it, funnels a northerly wind into our faces. No wonder a lone and heavily laden cyclist we meet joins us and tucks in behind to shield himself. We don’t mind, given that he’s into his second year of a world tour, having recently spent eleven months on the road in Africa. After a couple of hours, he peals off to continue his adventure elsewhere.

We, meanwhile, have an appointment with England. It’s early Sunday evening by the time we roll into camp after a pleasant route through a still-sleepy Aviemore, a coffee stop at Carrbridge (where the World Porridge Championships are held!) and on to Inverness. A few Spanish flags flutter from bedroom windows. Shower, eat and find a TV. A compact site, we wonder if there is one. Then, perched high in the corner of the laundry, sits a screen showing pre-match line-ups of ‘The Three Lions’ and Spain.

To the soundtrack of whirring washing machines, we sit with a Belgian couple on a motorbike tour and a Swiss cyclist, share beers and watch Spain demonstrate why they’re considered the best team in the competition and, finally, worthy winners. As usual, England appear to turn up for the game late, favouring an ultra-cautious approach. That said, an impressive Cole Palmer equaliser has us hopeful before Spain give us a dose of our own medicine, scoring their winning goal in the last minutes of the match.

Fine views of the Moray Firth from a cloud-shrouded Kessock Bridge kick-start Monday morning. The countryside is rich with pasture land for cattle and rolling fields of oats shimmer in the breeze. Then villages and impressive granite memorials to the dead of two world wars remind us of lives cut short as we enjoy ours. Rugged skylines follow and the famous Falls of Shin where salmon leap and you can watch in awe.

We break camp early next day again, fuelled by the usual bowl of muesli, and it’s still a north breeze into our faces but – more importantly – it’s another dry day. Despite mountain surroundings, the going is challenging but not back-breaking. Gradients are steady and descents remind us of childhood and the freedom and excitement and independence that a bike offered. Sight of the blue (yes, calm and blue!) North Sea spurs us on to Tongue, a settlement by the coast, and then we head east. Our last night camping is at Melvich.

This far north, daylight is with us early so a 6.45 start to the final section of our ride feels later. The going is a surprise: very quiet roads (expected) following the gentle up and down of the land and, finally, a tail-wind. We’re back to cultivation and isolated farmsteads. By eleven we have reached our final destination. After all the miles, the suddenness of it catches us by surprise. We push our bikes towards the infamous sign denoting where we are – John O’Groats – and how far away the likes of London and New York are. Three young blokes on a three-day car tour take interest in us and something of what we feel we’ve achieved begins to register. They take photos of us and send them on. We shake hands and then George appears with car and trailer. Time to take a back seat as we turn south.