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 When
my brother Steve announced he’d mapped out a coast to coast route
across the Northern Highlands, I sighed wistfully … "a week long
epic from Ratagan to Montrose - I’ll never get the time off work".
To my surprise, he had actually pulled together a little gem that could
be completed in just a couple of days. Steve's route was cunning indeed
- starting near Brora and finishing 145km to the northwest in the village
of Kylesku. The route mapped, advice and estate permissions gained, and
another victim enlisted (my wife Aneela) - a date was set in mid April.
We were fortunate to land a weekend of glorious sunshine only occasionally
marred by passing snow, hail and rain.
Although only a mini
coast to coast, it was a 'maxi' on the logistics front. We planned to
leave one car parked in Kylesku and use another to ferry us to the East
Coast. Picture decanting the contents of one stuffed Fiat Punto into a
tiny hatchback: a six foot two brother; his extra large mountain bike
and a 'canteen's worth' of essential supplies. Firmly opposed to Rubik’s
cube and other such nonsense, the transfer resulted in much cursing and
a significant pile of surplus gear. The trip appeared doomed before it
had begun. A rationalisation plan (my bruv is a project manager) was put
in place and the crate of beer, chicken satay and other 'essentials' were
omitted. Noses to the windscreen and knees in seat backs, we drove to
our mid point stopover at the Crask Inn, by Lairg near Sutherland. It
was the perfect spot to relax the night before the riding commenced; our
chosen place of recovery after the first day; and our place of sore-arsed
celebration after it was all over.
After a hearty breakfast
the next morning, the three amigos departed for Doll near Brora. With
the car safely parked up, bikes lubed and riders fuelled, we posed for
the requisite 'coast-shot'. Gorgeous sunshine ensured fantastic views
as we skirted around Loch Brora on some tasty singletrack. Route finding
was straightforward and obstacles were few until we reached the narrow
suspension bridge beyond Kilbraur Croft. The boys picked on Aneela and
gently bounced the bridge when she was half way across. Aneela did a
neat
cleat-shoe-shuffle and only scowled a little.
After a quick burn on
the road we launched into Scribberscross Forest. Steve developed a terrible
habit of intruding on my 'personal climbing mantra'. "Hey - there’s
a lapwing" and "look, look - deer". I took this moment of 'burst
climbing mantra' to explain "I prefer silence while trying to both climb
and keep my breakfast indoors". Point ignored, Steve again got excited
about DEER. As I turned to sneer I was almost bowled from my bike as
twenty-odd
deer darted across the track.
Onwards along the Ben
Armine Lodge track which degenerated into a leg-sapping vague trail through
the moor. We continued into Ben Armine Forest (where curiously there
are
no trees) and pushed, carried and occasionally cycled on a point of principle.
Nirvana. At the end of a delirious 5km of bog plodding we had earned
the
easy descent to Loch Choire. Its mirror-smooth water, sandy beach and
remote setting prompted an outbreak of motivational song to aid my tiring
companions as we tackled a formidable climb… "The hills are alive…"
"SHUT UP".
At the top we rested
and munched on our remaining snacks - funny how fantastic a fig roll can
taste. We sat in the sun, confident that "just over the next hill" we
would sight the Crask Inn and our bed for the night. Breaching the summit,
we were elated to see the Crask about 4km ahead. Frustratingly, the anticipated
singletrack turned out to be axle deep 'home-of-frog'. Worse, the Crask
was on the move — it stayed exactly 4km away for almost an hour.
Eventually, nine and a half hours after our merry start in Doll we stumbled
into the Crask for a well-deserved pint.
Waking up to blue skies
and frosty bikes, it took a lot of mutual persuasion to leave our cosy
cottage for another day's toil. We started gently with some speedy road
work through spectacular scenery en route to Loch Hope. Dropping into
the Reay Forest Estate, we then zigzagged to Gobernuisgach Lodge. With
permission to cross the estate already obtained, we were rewarded with
a majestic climb on a rocky track, flanked by impressive mountains and
curious deer. An exhilarating descent on loose rock and shale spat us
out at Loch Merkland.
The mountains surrounding
us as we approached Ben More Lodge were fortress-like. Scary. Sure enough
a lung bursting climb awaited at the head of Loch More. The dry, fast
surface toyed with our fitness as the incline steepened. Twenty minutes
later, the silvery slopes of Foinaven across the glen provided a just
reward. Narrowing into the Bealach nam Fiann - a culvert-strewn masterpiece,
tricky on a down slope, sappingly difficult on the way up - we gave it
one last big effort. Topping out at last, we lay on the sun-baked rocks
until heart rates stopped racing. One final adrenalin hit remained before
we reached the west coast. We plunged towards sea level following the
waterfalls of the Maldie Burn. Dropping 450 m over 2km on rough singletrack
- boulder strewn, rut-infested, wheel swallowing bog pools and vertical
slate sections. Not a puncture nor skinned knee among us, we regrouped
along the edge of Loch Glendhu for a final snap and group hug.
Final snap? I forgot
to pack extra batteries and the digital camera had run out of juice.
All eyes on me — what a plonker! We battered along the final stretch
of track to Kylesku where the Punto was patiently waiting. We darted
into
Kylesku, found a shop selling batteries and raced back to our finish
to bang off a couple of shots to mark the completion of an unforgettable
ride.
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