The Achness Hotel is in a remote part of northern Scotland, even by Scottish standards. It is inland from the coast in the tiny village of Rosehall, on a road that takes almost no traffic. It lies about ten miles from Lairg, the “Crossroads of the North”, which itself is little more than a junction of several empty roads. It is easy to forget how deserted some areas of Britain still are. People come and stay here mainly for the fishing; but right now there were no fish to be caught, because the river levels were too low. The slightly dishevelled, politely spoken hotel owner asked us all to bring rain with us, which – in my defence – I had done the night before when I arrived from Invershin. But this morning it was fair weather.
The hotel owner had other issues, too. His recently departed manager had done an effective job of discrediting the hotel’s reputation (unfairly we were assured) and the kitchen staff had decided to follow the manager out. They had also, for the moment, lost the villagers, although he seemed sure they would return. The owner was thus facing a period where there would be just two of them to run everything, and that sounded like very hard work. On the basis of my one night stay, I don’t think he deserved this. I later heard that he is also the owner of large areas of land in the region, and clearly has assets he can fall back on, so we shouldn’t be too concerned. But I want the hotel to do well. Their breakfast alone is deserving of special praise.
The road outside the hotel headed NW along a broad valley, following the river. It was surfaced for many miles and took us (Simon, Simon and myself) closer to much higher, rugged mountain scenery. Eventually the good road surface gave out and our speed was reduced to a crawl on a bumpy track. The Simons were on loaded mountain bikes, riding the An Tuas Mor MTB route from Glasgow to Cape Wrath; but my loaded bike is really intended for road adventures, so this was putting it – and me – to the test. I managed to ride everything except the steepest section, where the combination of gradient, weigh, less thick tyres and a lack of very low gears proved to me beyond doubt that my friends’ epic off road adventure – with which my route had now coincided – was for them, and not for me on this bike. But then, at the foot of a big uphill, the tarmac returned for the benefit of vehicles servicing a hydroelectric dam, and my way forward for several more miles of mountain riding was possible. It allowed me to focus my attention on the mountains, now taking on a new grandeur as the sun broke warmly through. This was more like the Highland scenery I had hoped for, and it continued to thrill in ever increasing amounts as the day unfolded.
A very long and exciting descent brought us to the next major valley, with another deserted, single track A-road snaking alongside silent lakes between nowhere and nowhere. We turned NW and followed it for a few miles before the Simons turned north onto another unsurfaced track. I could see enough of it to know that my way led in another direction. Later reports suggested I was wise.
But what a ride I had for the rest of the day. I may have been on a road, but I was all alone and around each corner was a new and ever more thrilling view. I cycled for more than three hours, first as far as the coast road and then north to the top, and didn’t pass a single commercial property. No cafe, no shop, nothing. There was a little more traffic on the coastal route – now marketed as the North Coast 500 – but it was mostly a single lane with passing places.
A lot of the traffic was cars and camper vans from France, The Netherlands, Belgium and even further afield and they seemed at times confused by the protocols of passing places. The vehicles tended to arrive in clumps of three or four, stuck behind the slowest, and that made it a bit harder for them to pass each other. Some vehicles politely stopped for oncoming bicycles, while others decided they didn’t need to. The gap could be quite narrow. I fell into step with a couple of Swiss long distance cyclists on a six week tour of Britain and the three of us made a more formidable barrier. But for the most part, the coastal road was a delight to ride, and one long, straight section of several miles between majestic mountains provided one of the best and longest opportunities to free wheel at wind-assisted high speed that you will find anywhere.
Finally, we reached the Kyle of Durness, a long sea inlet that has to be crossed by ferry to access the final stretch of road to Cape Wrath itself. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. At least. Our plan was to cross in the morning and stay the night in a remote bothy by the sea. But today, we now learned, was the Durness Highland Games, with entertainment for this isolated local community stretching well into the night. Rumours were circulating that the ferryman was intimately involved. Would the boat be running?
All I could do for the moment was check into the friendly Youth Hostel, housed in modest ex-military barracks, and secure what the proprietor, Ben, called “the best bed in the place”. I had booked it, just in case, for three nights and I wouldn’t be giving it up. Because, in a beautiful, windswept place like Durness, far, far from anywhere else, you never know!
