Finding ourselves in a reasonably sized town for a change we spent Monday morning investigating it. Andy for one took advantage of the opportunity and bought himself a real haute cuisine evening meal of melon, pizza and fruit pie by way of variation from the more usual fare of baked beans on toast. It was midday by the time we set off, and consequently we hadn’t gone very far before the hunger pangs hit us and we stopped for lunch.

It has become traditional on these summer tours to include the conquering of a fairly hefty mountain in the programme of events, and a few miles further on we came across the sprawling heap of rock that had been earmarked for this year’s assault. Going by the name of Stac Pollaidh it proved just as difficult to climb as it was to pronounce. The track that led up to it made no concessions to protesting muscles, such as meandering from side to side or going round and round. No, it took the direct route, straight up the 45 degree slope.

The mountain itself consisted of many peaks, or rather piles, for it wasn’t one massive outcrop but lots of boulders of varying sizes stuck together, or so it seemed. Some fairly amazing rock formations had been created in this way. By the time we returned to ground level the faint-hearted ones who had had no mountaineering inclinations had gone on, as it was late in the afternoon.

The rest of us joined them at 6.45 at Achininver hostel, an establishment that boasted no such modern sophistications as electricity or running water. No, I tell a lie, there was a stream running alongside in which one could have an icy wash. Dinner was heated in a coal burning oven and eaten by candlelight, which for many of us was a vast improvement on electricity, and at bedtime Mike entertained us all with ghost stories.

In the middle of the night the entire dormitory was woken up by a frantic hammering on the door. In his semi-conscious state Andy had absolutely no intention of leaving his warm, comfortable bed to investigate, preferring to ignore it and hope it would go away. Fortunately Mike was noble enough to assume the mantle of responsibility and stagger bleary-eyed downstairs to see what was going on. This was particularly fortunate for John, because it was he who was doing the hammering. Having gone out to use the toilet he had allowed the door to shut behind him, and when he returned found to his horror that he couldn’t open it from the outside. This sorry episode was brought to an appropriate conclusion by his attempt, on being readmitted to the hostel, to climb into Mike’s bed! I suspect that the memory of Mike’s cry of dismay when he tried to return to bed himself and found it already occupied will be treasured by all who heard it.

(Andrew Billington)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 6/1/19]

Those of you who have stayed in Youth Hostels will know that an essential part of the experience is the chore that you are required to do, which usually consists of washing dishes, sweeping the dorm or some other equally mundane task. This Tuesday morning however we had something rather more interesting in store for us, namely repairing the track that led to the hostel. Apparently the stream had burst its banks during heavy rains a while back and washed the path away in several places. We had to transport stones to the affected area in a wheelbarrow and tip them out to build up the ground again. Quite fun really.

As was becoming our habit we made a lazy start, and after the usual visit to the local store to stock up on food it was soon time for lunch which we ate near Badnagyle. We then continued on down a twisty little road into Inverpolly Nature Reserve, which was quite scenic and involved a fair bit of cycling up and down hills and round and round the lochs.

We stopped at Enard Bay, admiring the sun on the water, and a mile further on stopped again for a walk to the Falls of Kirkaig. We weren’t quite sure how far we’d have to walk, but after going further than we’d wanted to we met some people coming back who said that it was at least as far again and the Falls were somewhat unimpressive anyway, so we turned back.

After spending some time in a nearby bookshop we went on our way, into Lochinver and then along a winding and undulating lane that took us to Achmelvich hostel.

(Andrew Billington)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 8/1/19]

As Simon’s bike was now totally unrideable, he and Mike took the train all the way to Perth. The rest of us were cycling to Inverness and taking the train from there. Phil and Andy were in charge of proceedings, but Andy left matters in Phil’s capable hands. Forty-four miles lay ahead of us and the weather was wet and windy. We stopped at a windswept moorland pub for coffee at about eleven and carried on suitably refreshed an hour later. Lunch was taken on the Black Isle, which was reached via a long windswept bridge.

After being buffeted by side winds on the final bridge crossing we soon found ourselves in Inverness, which was unpleasantly large and industrialized and not at all enjoyable to cycle through. At this point we found that Duncan and Tom had disappeared. Andrew assumed, bearing in mind the mental deficiencies of these two, that they had taken the wrong turning at the last roundabout and duly headed off after them, leaving the others to continue to the railway station. Having failed to locate the errant pair, and running out of time, Andy turned back and rode to the station, reaching the train with just seconds to spare. Duncan and Tom were sitting on the train looking pleased with themselves, having found a short cut!

From Perth station to the hostel was only a five minute ride but nonetheless there was still time for Paul to be dismounted – by a wet manhole cover – and to send Andy sprawling with him, writing off his front wheel. Fortunately this was the last cycling day of the tour, so this wasn’t as disastrous as it might have been.

(Andrew Billington)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 10/1/19]

Friday consisted almost entirely of an extremely long train journey. Readers may remember the lengths British Rail went to last year in an attempt to keep us from getting home: this year they confined their hostile activities to leaving the air conditioning switched off in our carriage, causing us to sweat all the way to Newton Abbot, which we reached by early evening. We then returned to our respective homes and lived happily every after.

(Andrew Billington)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 10/1/19]