Wednesday was a fairly uneventful day. Phil Burrows led the group back along the previous day’s route to Sconser and then on to Kyleakin for the ferry back to the mainland. The hostel at Kyle of Lochalsh was not especially interesting and would not have been on the itinerary if there had been some way of avoiding it. However the warden was a health-food fanatic so everyone was able to enjoy a good evening meal.

(Michael Jones)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 29/12/18]

Thursday was the day everyone had been waiting for. Accommodation that evening was to be a bed and breakfast at Applecross, and the route promised a great deal of spectacular scenery.

The first stop was Plockton, a delightful little National Trust village set on the sheltered edge of the almost Mediterranean Loch Carron just north of Kyle. It was complete with its own primary and secondary schools, railway station, bus terminus and post office, and yet was quiet and unspoilt. It should be mentioned that the post office only just qualified as such, being no more than a small garden shed with a table and chair inside. It was only given away by the postbus parked outside!

The lazy atmosphere coaxed everyone into a lochside café for refreshments – and water pistols. There was still time for a few photographs of the boats bobbing up and down near the island in the loch before the ever-rising sun reminded the group of the journey that lay ahead. Reluctantly they continued on their way, following the beautiful wooded lanes that ran towards Stratcarron.

“ROAD TO APPLECROSS (Bealach Na Ba): This road rises to a height of 2053 ft with gradients of 1 in 5 and hairpin bends. NOT ADVISED FOR LEARNER DRIVERS, VERY LARGE VEHICLES OR CARAVANS AFTER FIRST MILE.”

So read the massive sign that now towered above the hesitant group of cyclists, marking the beginning of another great adventure into the unknown. Julie, who had been unable to work up any real excitement about the road from the outset, felt even less enthusiastic now that she was at the bottom of it.

“Don’t bother waiting for me at the top,” she said, convinced that she was bound to arrive at least two hours after everyone else. “I’ll meet you at Applecross.”

Richard, Phil and Matthew, who had definite inclinations towards competitive cycling, set off in the sweltering heat at a fair pace with the intention of reaching the top within forty-five minutes. The others, who had no such ambitions, began the climb at varying speeds and soon divided into small groups of two or three.

Hairpin bends skirted dangerously around the steep and rugged slopes of Sgurr a Ghaorachain as the little road made its tortuous way up to the dizzy heights of the Pass of the Cattle. Every new bend revealed a new and longer stretch of the climb. Fluid supplies soon ran out as sweat flowed off the poor cyclists, but mountain streams provided lusciously cool and refreshing refills.

The final hairpins climbed to the head of a huge amphitheatre, enclosed on three sides by the steep mountains. Michael and Andrew gazed back to the bottom where they could just make out a small, yellow dot that must have been Duncan and a small, dark dot that must have been Paul.

“Hel-lo,” rang out Michael’s voice, momentarily disturbing the surrounding solitude. The echoes died away and there was silence once again. The dots stopped moving. There was a pause, and then came the reply. In this way it was possible to hold a conversation, although the inherent delay involved in the transmission did cause a few problems with the flow.

Julie didn’t take as long as she had feared, Richard did make it in forty-five minutes and everyone was thoroughly relieved to be resting against the plaque that marked the highest road in mainland Britain. However the road to Applecross could only be downwards, and no-one was about to delay the undoubtable pleasures involved in the descent.

Rounding the first corner a myriad little discs came into view. They were lochs, nestling in the tops of mountains far below. The road twisted and turned all the way down to Applecross Bay. The four miles must have taken only a few minutes, for it seemed no time at all before the experience was over. It seemed impossible to believe that until the mid-seventies that road formed the only approach to Applecross, giving it the reputation of being the most inaccessible community in mainland Britain. The new coastal road would be used the following day, but it didn’t take much imagination to forget that it existed.

This village, stretching along the desolate coastline, boasts a primary school, but secondary-age children have to board at Plockton. Most men of working age work at the Kishorn oil site over the mountain. Many of the inhabitants have lived there all their lives, having gone to school I the now ruined communities of Lonbain before the track was replaced with the road.

It seemed that life was standing still. There was no rushing here: there was time for everything. Three local families at nearby Camustiel gave the group the best night they had spent on the whole tour, and as they settled down to sleep they looked forward with anticipation to the second half of the tour.

(Michael Jones)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 31/12/18]

The VIP treatment we received at our Applecross Bed and Breakfast accommodation made a very pleasant change from the rough and ready Youth Hostels, but I wouldn’t have wanted to do a permanent swap. The restraints imposed by the fact that we were in somebody else’s house, and the consequent necessity of behaving in a gentile and polite fashion, would soon have worn me down.

Nonetheless it was a good opportunity to get some of our used clothes (which by this stage had begun to wriggle about in the farthest recesses of our panniers) washed. Half of our hideous pile of contaminated clothing, which technically would probably have been illegal under the Biological Weapons Convention of 1972, was dealt with here, while we made for the local campsite in order to deal with the other half. This was a fairly lengthy operation and it was 2.15 by the time we finished, at which point we retired to a nearby beach for lunch. The local midges also appeared to favour this beach as a lunch spot and on this occasion cyclists were a popular choice on the menu.

All in all it was a record-breaking retarded four o’clock by the time we actually started covering the miles, and there were twenty seven of them to be covered. The coastal road on which we were to cover them could well have been the inspiration behind the invention of the roller coaster and the hurricane force winds that blew along it did not make progress any easier. After miles and miles of this we finally hit the main road near Shieldaig.

It was now seven o’clock so we went into town in search of a quick snack to keep us going. Finding a fairly reasonable café we decided to stop and make a meal of it. At nine o’clock we finally arrived at Torridon hostel.

Having been purpose built quite recently it boasted all mod-cons as well as being exceptionally roomy and having loads of mysterious corridors and rooms to explore, had we had time to do so adequately. As it was, the small amount of free time we had left was spent by most of us on the mammoth task of trying to use up the fourteen pints of milk we had ordered, while Tom demonstrated his powers as a chef by making a batch of oat-cakes. Very excellent they were too.

(Andrew Billington)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 2/1/19]

Saturday dawned bright but breezy. No sooner had we begun to propel ourselves in the appropriate direction when Paul’s rear changer collided with his spokes, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Fortunately Richard was on hand to put his expertise as a cycle mechanic to good effect and we were soon underway again.

Ten windy miles later at Kinlochewe an ice cream stop was in order, and we stopped for lunch soon afterwards at the loch-side Beinn Eighe nature reserve visitor centre. Continuing along Loch Maree the picturesque mountainous scenery helped the miles to fly by, and by four o’clock we were at Kerrysdale, within six miles of Carn Dearg hostel – pronounced, as we were assured by a local, Karn Jerrig.

At this stage Mike convinced seven of us that we were within range of a beach that was well worth a visit, so we duly followed him along the delightful lane through Badachro in search of it. The others were not convinced by his smooth talking and went into Gairloch for a cup of tea.

This turned out to be a sensible move, for although we cycled a few miles we never found that beach! However, a nice lady at Port Henderson took pity on us and insisted on bringing us out tea and cakes, refusing any payment.

Back in Gairloch we spent time in an information centre ordering posters before heading for the hostel, where we received a warm welcome from the midges.

(Andrew Billington)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 2/1/19]

An early start was necessary on Sunday morning for most of us because we had a ferry to catch by 4.30 and for Phil, Matthew, Richard, Julie and Simon because they were taking the long way round and had many miles to cover.

Before long we passed within sight of Gruinard Island, which looks like any other but is in fact infected with Anthrax after germ warfare tests during World War Two, all attempts at decontamination having failed.

Continuing along scenic mountain roads we made good time and stopped at a viewing point for a lunch of odds and ends. During the afternoon’s riding we turned off the main road at Dundonnell on to a side road lined with trees and green fields, which was strangely reminiscent of Devon after days of heather and windswept rocks.

From here we climbed a steep hill and then came to a rocky track, often un-ridable, which took us steeply down to the ferry that would take us to Ullapool. At the bottom of the track was a hotel, the Altnaharrie Inn, and while we waited for the ferry we refreshed ourselves with smallish glasses of lemonade at an extortionate 30p a time. The ferry was an hour and a half late, but at last we loaded up and were taken across, arriving at the hostel five minutes before the active ones.

(Andrew Billington)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 5/1/19]

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]