Travel Reference
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Just after Bridge of Orchy we passed Loch Tulla - a mirror-like lake surrounded by
windburned heather and a scattering of ancient pine trees. It was beginning to look like the
Scottish highlands that I had envisaged.
The weather was still dry, but the sky ahead of us was black and we knew that rain was
inevitable. The road climbed steeply through a switchback that seemed to go on for miles.
We were nowin true
Braveheart
country.With the exception ofthe road, there was nosign
of civilisation in any direction.
Unfortunately, bank holidays and roads make a lethal combination. The traffic was re-
lentless,andanuninterruptedtorrentofmotorbikestreatedtheroadlikeBrandsHatch.Not
only did it make cycling unpleasant, and potentially dangerous, but the noise was insuffer-
able. It was like having a mosquito trapped inside your eardrum. It was not how we ima-
gined the remote Scottish highlands would be.
Justbeforethesummit,wereachedalay-bywherewestoppedforabreak.Therewasan
ice-cream van and a souvenir stall selling bits of tartan crap. Crap souvenirs, I mean. Not
tartan faeces. Although I'm sure there's probably a gap in the market for that.
Therewasalsoabagpipeplayerwholookedtobepackingawaybecauseoftheimpend-
ing rain. We stopped next to him and pulled on our state-of-the-art waterproof cycling gear
- the trusty bin liners. He offered to play us a tune, despite us telling him that we didn't
have any money to offer. His name was Sandy and he drove from Glasgow every day to
play his bagpipes in that particular spot.
'Hae ye nae got proper waterproofs?' he asked, when he saw what we were wearing.
'No, unfortunately not. Just bin liners,' said Ben.
'Yoo'd better ride canny in those. Two people ur killed everyday on these roods. Yoo'll
be gonnae home in a feckin' body bag.'
As we left the lay-by the weather closed in completely. An impenetrable blanket of fog
had fallen onto the mountainside, cocooning us in its damp, cold flesh. Our route book de-
scribed this part of the road as follows…
'On a fine summer's day this is a beautiful ride... But when it's misty, wet and windy the
crags close in, and a headwind can make this section tough going.'
This was definitely an understatement. The bagpipe player's words were haunting me.
'Two people ur killed everyday on these roods. Yoo'll be gonnae home in a feckin' body
bag,' I said out loud, in my bad Scottish accent. It sounded more Jamaican.
'I know. What the hell did he have to say that for? Thanks, Sandy, for scaring the shit
out of us,' said Ben.
'Heprobablyhadapoint,though.Lookatus!Wecouldn'tbemoredangerouslydressed
if we tried. Maybe we should push our bikes for a bit, just until the fog clears.'
'Thatsoundsgoodtome.Ihatesharingaroadwiththesestupidcoachesandmotorbikes
anyway.'
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