Highland Fling
In June 2003, I found myself with three weeks holiday, a working
bike (BMW K75) and not much planned. Forward planning never being much of
a strong point, the first thing I did was pick up the phone to see if I could
get a ferry to France in the next couple of days. Having left it late the
ferry companies were in full rip-off mode, wanting over 150 beer tokens
for a return crossing. Even if I was that gullible the bank balance was never
going to stand for it so I did the next best thing, bungee-corded the tent and
sleeping bag on the back, packed in my usual meticulous fashion (looked for
clothes on the floor - any that didn't make me gag when I smelt them
got packed)
and headed north with the general idea of seeing the Highlands and Islands.
I left Gloucester on day one, reaching Darlington by late
afternoon after a spectacularly uninteresting ride across the Midlands and
up the M1. Stayed with a mate in Darlo, glad to be in the land of cheap beer,
then headed off the next day towards the Lakes on the A66. This is potentially
an awesome speed track, but not on the K and not with half the country's
freight traffic inching along in the same direction as me in the middle of
a torrential downpour. After crossing the M6 I eventually picked up the signs
for Windemere, took the ferry across the lake and spent a night camping next
to Coniston Water. An early start the next day saw me reaching Glasgow by
mid afternoon. There's probably a really quick way of getting through Glasgow,
but I didn't find it, getting dragged into the centre before finding a bridge
across the Clyde and signs for Loch Lomond to the North.
The contrast between Glasgow and the countryside immediately
to the north has to be seen to be believed. However, the first campsite I found on
the banks of Loch Lomond was waterlogged (an ominous omen). I eventually
stayed in a festering swamp of a campsite next to a pub in the far Northwest
corner of the Loch. One thing I discovered very quickly was midges. Midges
love swamp-like conditions. If you camp anywhere in Scotland in the summer
months avoid any form of woodland and on pain of death avoid any marsh-like
land. I didn't. I learnt. Quickly. Other effective methods of avoiding midges
are hiding in the tent, chain smoking, getting too drunk to notice, or once
you have reached expert level you can combine any or all of these techniques.
The target for the next day's ride was Fort William. The A82 between
Crianlarich
and Ballachulish must rate as one of the best pieces of tarmac in England,
Scotland or Wales. The road climbs and climbs with the breathtaking expanse
of Rannoch Moor distracting you before entering the Pass of Glencoe itself.
I've ridden far higher roads in Europe, I've certainly seen better surfaced
roads and roads with better bends, but for consistently stunning scenery
it does it for me. Approaching Rannoch Moor I had a very near miss with a
sheep determined to turn itself into a kebab on a Bavarian skewer. Put it
this way, nowadays, I always order roast Lamb in pubs if given a choice.
The chrome on the K75's stanchions was slightly worn,
to the extent that over a few thousand miles most of the oil had done a
disappearing act. If it limited handling and thus speed it made for some amazing fuel
consumption. I've owned two K75s and a K100RS now, the K75 the
more sensible
engine design but lacks any real character. The two valve K100 wasn't perfect
but it was incredibly satisfying to roll on the throttle just about anywhere
in the rev range and let yourself be dragged along on the wave of torque.
I feel ungrateful being cruel about the K75. I've had tens of thousands of
hassle free miles out of the two I've owned, I just can't help feeling I'd
have had a lot more fun doing it on just about anything else. The
most impressive
thing about any of the K series bikes is the way the engines thrive on all
day, long distance abuse. After a hundred miles the engine is just starting
to get in its stride. After two or three hundred miles everything is
noticeably
smoother and fuel consumption reaches miser levels.
Fort William was nothing special, but there was a good campsite next to Glen
Nevis. I took a walk up the top, which was covered in cloud. The view from
just under the cloud line was pretty amazing - hills disappearing
behind hills into the distance, clear views to the sea in the West and the
beginnings of Loch Ness in the East. Talking of which, if you ever
find yourself
near the Loch Ness visitors centre just laugh as you pass by. I stopped for
a fag break, laughed at the entrance price to see a pile of rubble and carried
on to Inverness.
The A9 North of Inverness is another great road. Loads
of open spaces, a good combination of fast sweepers and straights but also
one of the speed trap capitals of the known universe. Discretion might be
the better part of valour, at least until you reach the more deserted
stretches
in the north. John O'Groats is a godforsaken hole, but you've got to do
it if you're in the area. I walked out to the old lighthouse by Duncansby
Head for lack of anything else to do and almost got run over by a group of
kids ragging a Ford Escort around a field. I wished I had the money at the
time to get the ferry to the Orkney Islands, temptingly in sight from the
mainland. Oh well, next time.
Following the coast road to the west, the road becomes a single track with
passing places. Beyond Thurso, petrol stations are pretty thin on the ground
and tend to take the form of small pumps, as part of a local shop rather
than a garage as such. The road twisted and turned as it followed the contours
of the coast. When I reached the Kyle of Tongue there was a very other-worldly
quality to the scenery - Celtic crosses in villages, white sands on the
beaches, mountains and very little traffic. Damn near perfect, really.
By the time I started heading down the West coast I
was approaching
scenery overload. Every time you turn a corner you see another
stunning mountain
vista and after a while, to be honest, you start taking it for granted.
I was stranded in Ullapool for a couple of days while a storm passed through
the area. If there's one thing worse than being stuck in a tent during a
force eight gale waiting to be blown to your doom it is being stuck in said
tent when the only station you can pick up on a cheap radio is
Loch Broom FM - playing bagpipe music on loop. After the weather broke I headed
for Plockton on the south bank of Loch Carron. On the north bank is a little
village called Appletree. To get to it you can either take a 30 mile detour
around Wester Ross or ride about three miles up and down one of the most
intense bits of road I have ever seen. Like the Alps in miniature.
Recommended.
After this I spent a happy few days on Skye in a little
village called Uig in the Northwest. Corner of the Island. There is a ferry
terminal, a pub with a pool table and a jukebox and not much else. I met
a South African hippy in the pub, and we decided to head down to Talisker
bay on the east coast of Skye to see in the longest day in the only
way appropriate (ie: not sober). Riding back at dawn, still the worse for wear, with not a
soul awake and the entire island to ourselves, was quite entertaining. From
Skye I took a very scenic route south, stopping off in Oban, heading back
to Darlington then on to Gloucester the long way via some friends in Lincoln
and Norwich.
Total mileage was about 2500, which to be honest is about right
for a three week trip. The BM, as ever, ran like clockwork. Every time I board
a ferry heading back to Blighty it is always full of German and Dutch riders
heading for Scotland. Given the roads, the awesome scenery and the friendly
locals I don't blame 'em.
John Rodgers