John Stuart gazed upwards at the seemingly endless sea of steps that stretched out in front of him. He had heard rumours about the size of Loch Lomond hostel but he had never imagined it to be this big. It was huge! He seemed to have spent all the previous evening trying to find his way to and from the dorms, kitchens and washrooms. The carved hall, dining room and chandeliers were all very nice, but three flights of stairs? He paused a moment longer to consider how on earth he had managed to land the job of sweeping them, and then dutifully set about completing his thankless task.

A mix-up over the breakfast order the previous evening had meant that the group had missed one of only two chances in the two-week tour to get a hostel breakfast provided for them. This, coupled with the need to leave early, had meant that there had been some confusion in the hostel kitchens that morning. The confusion later spread to the hostel store as numerous individuals attempted to stock up with what few provisions were available in readiness for the day’s great adventure – a foray into the uncharted reaches of Rannoch Moor. Few knew what the hostel at Loch Ossian would hold in store for them, but most had made up their minds that whatever it was, it probably wouldn’t be very nice.

It was around nine o’clock when the group finally set off for Arrochar. They should have left a little earlier, but the road proved flat and fast and the time was quickly made up. The sun shone brightly to welcome the new day. As the road twisted its way along the side of the Loch, some riders noticed a hostel on the other side which brought back happy memories of an earlier tour. The magic of Scotland was beginning to work on everyone.

The plan was to catch the 11.11 train from Arrochar to Corrour, but the group had made such good progress since leaving the hostel that there was time to visit the local shops. BY the time everyone had stocked up with their own food there was little room for the communal milk, bread, jam, marmalade and pickle that Michael had purchased. Matthew solved some of the problems by strapping a loaf across his pannier rack with an elastic strap, radically altering the shape of the load in the process of course.

It was only when they were part-way along the track to Corrour that Michael realised it was his 25th birthday. He reflected for a moment on why he hadn’t arranged for the tour to start a few days later, but as he gazed out of the carriage window at the little yellow engine gleaming in the sunshine and pulling its load along the most scenic rail route in Britain he decided that he really couldn’t have had a better birthday.

And the scenery really was spectacular. The train followed the main road through Crianlarich and on as far as Bridge of Orchy, but then veered sharply to the right as it began its lonely trek across the moor. There were countless viaducts bridging the wide scars in the landscape, and as more and more desolate hills rolled up in front of the engine, doubts about the nature of a hostel that could survive in such conditions began to mount.

The train pulled to a halt. Everyone piled out on the platform, bikes were unloaded with perfect efficiency and the train was gone. There was silence. This was Corrour.

Young Matthew eyed the footbridge. On the other side were a few chickens, a three-wheeled buggy that looked as though it was made for negotiating the lunar terrain, and a solitary farmhouse. Beyond them a rough track wound its way over the hill. It didn’t look very welcoming, but the sun was shining and it was nearly time for lunch, so there was no point in hanging around.

A short ride along the tack brought the group in sight of a large loch. A few trees adorned the near side, and nestling amongst them was a small grey building which everyone presumed immediately to be the hostel. Closer inspection revealed a rickety jetty protruding into the loch, onto which was nailed a large notice bearing the words “Members use this jetty at their own risk”. Along with a neighbouring grassy bank it proved a highly suitable spot for lunch.

It was during lunch that Tom’s water bottle, which he had carefully placed on the edge of the jetty, fell into the loch. There was a little wind and this served to make the rapid progress of the bottle alongside the jetty all the more enjoyable for the onlookers. Tom arrived at the edge just in time for the bottle to be out of reach as it pursued its stubborn course towards the centre of the loch.

Some less cautious people nearly fell into the loch themselves with laughing. When they had finally recovered sufficiently to wipe the tears from their eyes they were confronted with the sight of Tom appearing from behind the hostel wearing nothings but swimming trunks. There was a sudden splash, a short squeal, the sound of numerous cameras and then the sight of Tom swimming out towards his bottle, which by now had drifted a considerable distance into the loch. More fits of laughter obscured any further attempts to view the spectacle, but one things was abundantly clear: this hostel was shaping up to be one of the best in the whole tour.

There can be few pleasures in the universe more enjoyable than lying on a slatted wooden jetty on the edge of a remote Scottish loch on a warm summer afternoon watching fleecy white clouds going by and knowing that no-one can disturb you. It was just such a pleasure that Michael and Andrew were enjoying on the second day of their epic tour. The other members of the group had set themselves the task of climbing the nearby mountain, and this fact was not entirely unrelated to the degree of peace and solitude that now surrounded the hostel.

There was a loud splash. A variety of different-sized water droplets fell onto the two boys. They sat up, annoyed, and were greeted with the sight of 13-year-old Paul squatting by the water’s edge, grinning. Evidently the mountain had proved too steep for him.

‘There are some interesting creatures in the rushes on the other side of the hostel,” began Andrew. “I saw a frog there earlier and ..”

With the second sheet of water came the realisation that the pleasurable place to be was now on top of the mountain, so the two peace-lovers reluctantly vacated the jetty and began to dress for higher altitudes. As they were about to set off a flash of inspiration prompted Michael to try the hostel door which everyone had previously assumed to be locked. The result was that the boys had the first choice of beds and a chance to investigate some of the delights that the hostel had in store for them that evening.

The exact location of the lavatory evaded the boys at first, but eventually they found it – a small square shed outside the washroom and overlooking the loch. Inside was a chemical toilet and a message “Please pee on the grass”.

The washroom consisted of three empty bowls and nothing else. The kitchen was homely, with a single tap and a paraffin lamp. Closer investigation revealed that the tap was fed from a tank near the porch, out of which came a plastic pipe. Following the pipe led one down to the loch side, where there was a hand pump whose wooden handles were well worn. Clearly the evening was going to be entertaining!

There turned out to be a wealth of pleasurable things on top of the mountain, not least of which was a profusion of whortleberries growing amongst the heather. Some considerable time was spent filling Andrew’s woolly hat with these delicious fruits, though many proved just too delicious-looking to save until tea-time.

At last it was possible to get a real idea of just how remote the hostel was. Barren, bleak moorland met the skyline for as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by the distant station, the hostel and the loch. If there is a pleasure more enjoyable than lying on the slatted wooden jetty previously described it can only be gazing at the said jetty from the desolate, heather-strewn top of a nearby mountain, gorging oneself with freshly-picked whortleberries and musing over such things as the vastness of the loch, the length of the path that followed its circumference and the sheer lunacy of the three specks who were apparently attempting to run around it.

The warden arrived on his lunar motor-trike. People were gathered around his stop-watch which was hanging from the door. When he’d taken on the wardenship of the hostel he hadn’t bargained for the additional duties involved with being timekeeper of the “Run around the Loch Ossian in an Hour” event. There were many signatures on the role of honour, and he should have guessed that the CTC would be keen to add their names to the list.

Matthew Burrows was the first to appear, which was quite an achievement at the age of eleven. He had covered the eight-mile round trip comfortably within the hour, but his father was apparently having problems along with John Stuart. Simon Haly and Richard Wiseman, aged fourteen and seventeen respectively, also managed to complete the course in the allotted time. The story of Tom Woodman, however, who got blisters after attempting the course wearing someone else’s trainers, is pitiful indeed.

It was about five o’clock and the group felt that the hostel had provided enough surprises for one day. There was still one further delight in store for them however – midges.

There were millions of them – nasty, biting ones that found their way through the smallest cracks. Everyone rushed into the hostel, closed the doors and windows and smeared midge repellent over everything. Breathing a sigh of relief the contingent settled down to play board games and prepare some food.

It was whilst Duncan and Michael were hazing out through the misty window at the swarming enemy and watching their numerous attempts at gaining access to the terrified prisoners that the warden entered the dormitory and announced that the water had run out. Someone had to go outside to work the pump! The task only took on a more acceptable light when viewed alongside the possible alternative of cleaning out the chemical toilet next day, and so the chore was dutifully, if hastily, completed.

(Michael Jones)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 19/12/18]

Saturday was a distinctly wet day. To make things worse, a number of people had woken up feeling about as flexible as a wooden plank. Taking all things into account the train seemed a more attractive proposition than the track route originally planned, and so only four members cycled across the moor. The train group disembarked at Tulloch station, and both groups then made their separate ways via Spean Bridge and Fort William to Glen Nevis hostel, where they settled down to enjoy their meal in the crowded but tastefully-decorated kitchens.

The warden discovered a dirty pan lying by itself on the draining board. This must have been contravening one of his most basic commandments for he suddenly turned into an evil, foul-smelling ogre. Blue smoke came out of his ears as he roared at the poor hostellers. Eventually a shaking figure came forward from the crowd to clean up the offending pan.

(Michael Jones)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 20/12/18]

Everyone was ready to leave. The milk had been stashed away in various saddle bags, chores had been done and the thought of doing some real cycling at last was cheering everyone up. But where was Duncan?

Duncan had managed to do what every self-respecting cyclist always tries to avoid: he had locked his bike and lost the key. Ransacking the dormitory had failed to locate the offending item and he had now gone searching for a hack-saw. He finally appeared from behind the hostel looking rather embarrassed. It was at this point that he discovered just how easy it is to break through a cheap cycle lock – the whole sawing process took little longer than thirty seconds!

Andrew led the group along the Road to the Isles to the Glenfinnan Monument, where lunch was taken in style beside the loch. A few brave souls ventured to climb the monument. Emerging through a one-metre square hatch at the top one finds oneself standing on a small parapet, surrounded only by a knee-high barrier – not recommended for acrophobics! The sound of a piper across the loch sent everyone into a dreamy mood, but eventually the group made a move.

Only a short bathing stop at Loch Eilt, which proved to be infested with aquatic triffids, and the purchase of an “elephant egg” interrupted the afternoon’s cycling. Garramore hostel is quite modern and is set in beautiful surroundings near white sand beaches. Unfortunately the group’s milk had been affected by the warm weather and was unsuitable for consumption, but the hostel had some supplies to ease the situation.

(Michael Jones)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 21/12/18]

The ticket-collector glared uncompromisingly at Phil Burrows. “I’m sorry sir, but the 10.15 ferry is fully booked,” she repeated. “Unless you have a reservation ticket you’ll have to wait for the afternoon service.”

“But I’m sure Michael’s booked us in,” replied Phil. “He’ll be here any minute with the rest of the group.”

“Look sir, you can see there’s a queue of people waiting to be served. I can’t give you a ticket, so if you’ll just stand aside and let me get on …”

It was just at this moment that Michael arrived with the necessary reservation tickets. The lady made a feeble attempt to prove that the papers were invalid, but quickly realised that there was nothing to be done but to issue the tickets.

The ferry from Mallaig to the Isle of Skye has front loading capability, but for some reason the quay is not designed with this in mind. All cars have to be loaded from the side in batches of about six and then lowered down to the car deck by means of a huge hydraulic lift. The whole process takes about three quarters of an hour at each end, which seems rather ridiculous when one thinks that the crossing takes only twenty minutes.

Having been hydraulically ejected from the boat, the group began their journey around Skye towards Broadford. There was time for fruit juice at a country post office along the route before lunch was taken in the shelter of some trees near Duisdalemore.

The scenery was perhaps a little harsher than that of the mainland, but otherwise it seemed much the same. The afternoon sun was certainly beating down on the happy crew of cyclists, and several items of clothing were removed as they continued on their way.

Broadford was the last hope of obtaining provisions for the next hostel. Fortunately there were two shops open, both selling milk and bread in addition to the other requirements. All that remained for the day was the ride to Sconser for the ferry to the Isle of Raasay, so there was even time to stop for afternoon tea at Luib.

As with all tea stops, it is easy to stay too long. In this instance there was quite a rush around the coast road to reach the ferry by 6.15 and the leaders almost lost their cool when they saw the last ferry leaving just as they approached the jetty.

Perhaps this was to be split-second timing that went wrong for Torbay Section?

“Don’t worry,” said the ferryman with a wry grin. “We’ve had to put on an extra ferry today. He’ll be back again in half an hour.”

Simon and Matthew watched the boat as it navigated through the deeper waters of Sconser’s natural harbour. However would they occupy themselves for a full thirty minutes? Their eyes turned to the end of the jetty and instantly they were struck with the same inspiration: this would make a perfect diving platform!

Freefall water antics kept everyone thoroughly amused until the ferry returned for its last journey of the day. Raasay looked strangely barren and uninhabited as the sun set over its highest peak, Dun Caan, and threw up a dazzling reflection from the sea.

Raasay hostel is situated at the top of a long climb, with superb views across to Skye. It is a simple-grade hostel consisting of a kitchen/common room and a few small dormitories. There is a wooden hut above and behind the main hostel which accommodates male hostellers.

“There aren’t enough beds!” announced one of the boys, returning from the hut.

“Don’t be silly,” replied Michael, reassuringly. “We’ve been booked in for months. If anyone’s in our beds they’ll just have to vacate them!”

Unfortunately it wasn’t as simple as that. The annexe was inhabited chiefly by a bunch of geologists who had, it seemed, been in residence for several months. One glance at the litter-strewn floor, unmade beds and the general scattering of dirty clothes was sufficient confirmation of this fact. Most of the remaining beds had been occupied by another group who had turned up on the off-chance and who had no intention whatsoever of vacating them. The warden, apparently, had not yet arrived so there was nothing to be done but wait.

It was ten minutes later when the warden rolled along and decreed that he wasn’t going to turn anyone out of their beds. Instead he put half the CTC in a girl’s dorm in the main building, leaving the other half to battle through the smelly socks of the annexe to the few beds that weren’t actually being slept in! A swarm of flies, presumably attracted by the array of partially-cleaned washing strung on the line, added to the delights of the accommodation.

Still, the scenery of the area was delightful. Plans were made for an excursion to Dun Caan next morning before catching the 12.15 ferry back to Skye, and with these happy thoughts the group got down to the job of preparing meals in the cramped but homely kitchen.

It was later that evening that four weak and exhausted individuals staggered into the hostel. Everyone gathered around to hear their story. They seemed to have difficulty in talking, but managed to say the words “Don’t go to Glenbrittle” as they pointed to the countless thousands of midge-bites covering their bodies.

(Michael Jones)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 22/12/18]

“Hurry up Mike,” shouted Tom frantically. “We’re going to miss the ferry!”

“OK, OK, I know,” was the calm reply. “You shouldn’t let these things worry you.”

“But there isn’t another ferry until this evening!” retorted Tom.

The three mountaineers came within sight of their target. There, on board the little ferry, were the rest of the group who had chosen not to attempt Dun Caan. It was 12.15 as the three sped along the little road to the ramp. They could hear the shouts of the others now, willing them on.

Four pairs of wheels rolled onto the hydraulic ramp. At the same instant the ferryman pressed the button that lifted the ramp and the ferry was off. Talk about split-second timing!

The day’s journey involved a fairly short trek across Skye to Glenbrittle hostel. There were those for whom the thought of being eaten alive by midges held no great charm, but others considered it a challenge and had stocked up with midge-repellents in anticipation of the forthcoming battle.

The ride to Carbost was leisurely, even allowing time for waterfall bathing along the way to alleviate the effects of the hot sun. The majestic Cuillen Mountains towered above the glen as the apprehensive band descended down towards the hostel. And when they arrived they were greeted with the sight of the hostel’s own personal waterfall – one of the best they had seen!

The rest of the afternoon was spent bathing, but shortly after five the midges descended as promised. There was nothing to be done but to retreat to the dormitory. The warden said he had never known the midges to be so bad – even sealing off all the air vents with cardboard and insulating tape didn’t keep them out! One wonders how Scottish people survive the summer months.

(Michael Jones)

[These slides were cleaned, re-scanned using new scanning technology and re-uploaded in higher resolution on 28/12/18]

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]