I wanted a decent start from Aviemore today, because I had much to achieve. Predictably enough, I slept through all the early morning activity in my YHA dormitory and woke only at 8.30am. Once again, I was playing catch up from the start.
I was obviously making up in part for the miles I let myself off yesterday. I had 40 miles to get to Inverness along NCN 7, and I was a perturbed when it headed off along an off road track through heathland. I emerged in the village of Boat of Garten, where I have a friend with whom I would have been staying had they been around. From there it was back on roads through Carrbridge, home of the world porridge making championship (top prize the Golden Spurtle) and the upwards to cross another pass, this one called Slochd.
With that behind me I allowed myself an efficient stop in the only cafe between here and Inverness, in the village of Tomatin (better known for its distillery). I went for it in the hope that this would sustain me for several more hours. And then there were 20 more miles of very quiet roads to the edge of Inverness, where things got rather urban.
All of this was pleasant enough; but none of it especially memorable or photogenic, and I was on a mission. The reason was my next stop, deep in the countryside a couple more hours beyond Inverness, where I had arranged to meet someone I knew only as a child. It was a former neighbour of mine, Angela, who lived a few doors away in the same village in South Yorkshire (until I was perhaps eight) and was a couple of years ahead of me at school. We had reconnected after more than 40 years due to a chance encounter in 2022 in a cafe, The Midge Bite, run by two of her daughters. The full story is documented in a previous blog post in 2022.
In brief, I had been applying my “never pass an open cafe” rule in the open spaces of the Highlands when this random encounter occurred, and we were all quite surprised to learn that I grew up knowing these two girls’ mum and grandma. The whole thing was really quite unlikely, given that we were currently 450 miles and 9 hours drive away from where that happened; but we had maintained email contact over the next two years while failing to meet in person. Now I had a chance to put that right, and so I was making a small detour to visit her place of work, an activity centre in a huge Scottish country estate in what felt like the middle of nowhere.
But first I had to get there, which turned out to be an adventure within an adventure. I first crossed the Kessock suspension bridge over the Beauly Firth, affording a fine view over the mouth of the River Ness, with the city of Inverness spread out behind. On the north side, I followed a tiny lane all along the north shore of the broad firth, whose tidal waters were in. It was rather lovely.
That part was easy enough and very enjoyable. Then, as the first rain of my trip started to fall, I took a small lane past the Singleton distillery in Muir of Ord, and went where I thought I was being sent. Except I ran into a big set of metal gates after a couple of miles, locked with a whole series of sturdy combination locks. There was an open pedestrian gate alongside, so I continued despite a feeling that maybe I shouldn’t. I was nearly there, after all. The tiny lane continued past estate cottages until I reached another huge set of gates, similarly secured. Beyond that, the little road started to climb quite alarmingly into mountainous country and I felt I must have missed something. I had. Google maps wanted me to go down a hidden track and cross a fast running river over an old wooden bridge. Suddenly, a large mock castle appeared in front of me and I was there. Well, not quite, since this was a care home, but at the other end of a drive I did reach the right building. This was the more direct way in, according to Google Maps. Right.
Anyway it was all worth it. We spent two hours updating each other on all the 1970s neighbours of Sycamore Crescent and did our best to impart 40 years of living into two hours. I’m sure it will not be the last time.
But all this – while a great example of grabbing a chance while it was there – did little for getting me another fifty miles further on, where I needed to be to meet other friends before dark. So I rode the first ten of those miles to Dingwall, went for a pub meal, and caught a train to Invershin. Cheating? Yes, technically; but absolutely the right thing to do. I still had ten more miles of cycling to do, but I was back on track after squeezing more out of the day than should have been possible. I will return to ride the missing miles, I promise, and that will be good enough for me. Watch this space.
And so I met another group of cyclists – on mountain bikes – in a very remote fishing hotel, and shared a whisky before bedtime. And that was a full working day!