Map 40, 41 – The Road to the Isles

I spent last night in an amazing converted chapel about 5 miles outside Inverie on the remote and wild Knoydart peninsula. Visibility was poor; but in some ways that enhanced the sense of other-worldliness about where I was. Arriving at Britain’s remotest pub in the early evening mist, I enjoyed my obligatory pint before moving on along the only narrow strip of tarmac, which took me high around the western end of the landmass. From there I had to negotiate a mile of steepish downhill to sea level on an unmade track – proper off-roading – until I arrived at the only buildings. They look out across a beach and over Loch Nevis to the mainland opposite. Of course, I was already on the mainland; but the journey there and sense of isolation made it feel just like being on an island.

Sandaig, my accommodation, belongs to a Swiss-German couple, Roland and Bettina, who also had a couple of Swiss friends staying. We all ate a wonderful Swiss meal together, Raclette, and I practiced what little German I possess. This was not at all the way I expected the evening would go; but it was really very enjoyable and about as far away from the hustle and bustle of “normal life” as you can imagine.

Reversing my tracks in the morning, I safely made the 11am ferry. It arrived in Inverie bearing some special passengers and packages to greet a small girl who was waiting on the pier. As the boat was tied up, the crew sang Happy Birthday to her. It was a lovely moment. The weather, however, was still less than lovely. It wasn’t fit to be outside on the deck, so I chatted in the cabin to a young Spanish lady, Mercedes, who had been volunteering in a guest house even more remote than mine. She was leaving early because it hadn’t been a good experience. I tried out a little Spanish, only to discover that she gives on-line Spanish lessons. We exchanged details – learning Spanish is one of my next projects. And she seemed inspired to get on a bicycle. Well, that’s what she said. I wonder who is more likely to follow through with their expressed intentions.

After racking up another Cullen Skink in Mallaig, I left this end-of the-road port behind for hopefully the last time in this adventure. I have nothing against it; but it is time for a different ferry terminal! The Harry Potter steam train had just arrived in town and it was beginning to fill up with tourists (some actually wearing Gryffindor scarves!) The tea room would need this table more than I did.

I rode one more time along the lovely old coastal route to Arisaig, past white sand beaches. And then a very strange thing happened: the sun came out! The day had been brightening since the ferry reached Mallaig and the marked change in weather underlined how much Knoydart is truly its own world. I reclaimed my panniers from the Arisaig Hotel, grabbed a toastie and some tea in the marina and enjoyed the view out to the now visible again island of Eigg. And then I could put off cycling no more.

Ahead of me lay the mythical “Road to the Isles” (or, in my case, from them), a once tenuous and narrow route that wound its way for almost 50 miles from Fort William to Mallaig. It has been much improved in recent years and, while still traversing glorious mountain and loch side scenery, now does so with 2 wide lanes for the traffic to pass each other at high speed. I understand about progress and not standing in its way; however you do feel that a little of the romance has gone forever.

I say romance – in fact my memories of the Road to the Isles are not so rose-tinted. More than 20 years ago, on the way to visit Skye with my American parents-in-law, we found ourselves stuck in a long, static line of vehicles on a stretch of single-track that is no longer there. I can’t remember the reason for the hold up; but it lasted ages. There was nothing to do but sit it out – and by the time we reached Mallaig the last boat to Skye has sailed! It all worked out in the end; we found accommodation and saw a fabulous sunset over the Small Isles to compensate; but it wasn’t the way the trip had been planned to go! I felt responsible.

Much longer ago, I remember a classic incident on a camping holiday near Fort William. This was the same holiday that my dad took my younger brother and I up Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest mountain. We were probably 11 and 9 and had no walking boots at that age. So we went up in our trainers. It was June and there was a couple of feet of snow on the summit, as well as think cloud. It was cold. There is also a sheer drop from there of a couple of thousand feet and there would have been overhanging snow. I remember carefully following the other footprints in the snow to the summit cairn. Looking back it may not have been the smartest thing to do. But that was trumped by an evening drive to see the Isles.

The whole family of 5 were in our small car, including my mum and 5 year old brother, who were spared the mountain climb. I’m pretty sure we didn’t think it was a good idea in the first place to drive 40 miles each way in the evening on a mostly single track road; but my dad was adamant that he wanted to see the sun setting over the islands. He could be pretty stubborn when he got an idea in his head, so off we went along the Road to the Isles. He also had a habit of running the car very low on petrol. This was one of those times. Then, as now, there was no petrol available until you got all the way to Mallaig. But we never did. It started to rain and then one of the windscreen wipers broke. I recall it got a little tense between my parents. We may have seen the islands briefly, and we did make it back to the tent; but it was a close run thing. That feeling of watching the petrol gauge move ever closer to empty was one I experienced too many times as a child. Somehow we never actually ran out when I was in the car. I don’t know how he got away with it.

But today I could only run out of energy. And to prevent that from happening, I made another stop for tea and cake at Glenfinnan station. The cafe is in an old buffet car with its original fittings, right down to the toilet. All very authentic. It sits a short distance from the famous curved viaduct, which I was able to cycle right underneath. It is really high. It was built in 1897 and is possibly unique in its unusual shape. It is impressive indeed, and now very famous thanks to the Harry Potter films. Glenfinnan sits at the head of the very long and largely inaccessible (to motor traffic) Loch Shiel. One day I hope to canoe it in a different adventure. Today I made do with a photo from the small pier.

An hour later and I reached Neptune’s Staircase, the longest staircase of locks in Britain (according to Wikipedia, so it may be true) and large ones at that. There are 8 of them in a row, one emptying straight into the next. They carry big boats up and down the Caledonian Canal, close to where it joins the sea loch at Fort William, in the shadow of Ben Nevis (today, as most days, hidden in thick cloud). They were built by our old friend Thomas Telford in the early part of the 19th century. At the bottom of the locks are two swing bridges: one carrying the main road, and one the railway, that both rotate to allow boats to pass. Except that tonight, for reasons unexplained, the road bridge was stuck! A group of five large and rather expensive looking yachts had made the two hour journey down all eight locks only to find they could not exit at the bottom. It was all most unfortunate. The canal officials would not allow them to stay overnight in a lock, for safety reasons, so they were having to go all the way back again to the top, even more slowly – and backwards! This was all related to me by a Swiss lady in perfect English. Two of the yachts were flying Swiss flags, two others were Norwegian and the fifth was Swedish. It looked like being a very long evening for all of them!

I realised that I was hungry and I had another hour to cycle into the unknown. I entered a hotel right by the locks, which was mostly empty and possibly had more staff in evidence than diners. I was told they were fully booked. It was hard to believe. To be fair, the teenage lad who conveyed the bad news was quite apologetic and sent me half a mile down the canal to a far more welcoming pub that was very busy indeed. But not too busy to serve me an excellent venison burger in their bar, for which I thank them. After that, the final 12 miles or so of my ride along peaceful back roads melted away without further incident. Except that the sun came out again!