A West Coast Triumph in Scotland: One
man’s journey round Scotland on his Triumph motorbike
I guess you could say my fascination
with motorbikes or old motorbikes, to be more precise, started when I was a
young lad growing up outside of Glasgow. There were a bunch of older lads who
had embraced the rocker lifestyle, and I would stare at them in wonder as they
lurked around in their battered leather jackets, oil-stained jeans, long unkempt
hair and beards that just looked, well, to a young pre-pubescent boy, godlike!
I remember plucking up the courage one
day to spit out some words as one of these leather-clad layabouts walked past
me: “Hey! You ride a motorbike, don’t you?”
He turned to me and in a lazy but cool manner
said, “Triumph, wee man, only the best.”
I was starstruck. Triumph, what a name! I
mean, it sounded so cool, so victorious and so final. It’s safe to say from
that moment on I was bitten by the motorcycle bug, the Triumph motorcycle bug.
Years would roll on past before I
finally got my bike license and became a proud biker myself. But I had never
forgotten about these glorious machines. In fact I had been reading about them,
studying them and hanging out with crazy old bikers who would routinely top up
my fantasies with stories of the good old days where there were very few traffic
lights to slow you down, when chasing the “ton” was the weekend excitement
and camping out with your trusty steed was why summers were created. It was
these stories that fueled my imagination and my desire to get my ticket and one
day become a biker.
That day came while on the road touring
with my band in America. I bought my first bike, a 1979 Triumph Bonneville. 750
ccs of pure fun. I still have her and she is still my number one love, but I
needed a bike for Scotland, my home.
Scotland is the place of grand mountains,
sweeping loch-side roads and winding passes that guide you through ancient
glens. Scotland is a country with over 6000 miles of coastline to explore. I
needed to go on this journey that had been simmering in my head since those
days of my childhood. I could still hear the words “Triumph, wee man, only the
best” calling to me.
It so happened on my return home from
touring that Mick, my producer and friend, was settling down with another child.
He decided that roaring around on his bike was better left alone now. He had in
his possession a beautiful three-cylinder Triumph Adventurer 900 cc with burnt
orange paint work that just spoke to me. It reminded me of the setting sun. “Jamesie,
you still interested in this Triumph?
She’s having troubles firing up, but yours if you want her.”
The same day I was up in his barn, the
two of us trying to figure out what was wrong with his beast. She still wouldn’t
start, but I didn’t care that she wouldn’t roar for me. I knew that she was
coming home with me and that together she and I would sort out her problems and
it would be the start of something special.
I did my homework and found out what was
wrong. I tinkered and tinkered, then called in some help, and with minimal cash
spent “Rosie” was alive and purring. Mick had removed the stock mufflers and
replaced them with stubby chrome straight-throughs. Let me tell you, when I
thundered out of my Mum’s driveway to give her a proper test run, I thought I
was riding at the front of a fleet of B-52 bombers!
What a noise! What a grumble, a rumble and
a roar! I felt ten feet tall as I sped through the neighborhood streets. I
could feel the eyes of the neighbors on me as they tried to figure out what was
causing their windows to vibrate.
My best mate Dave “Freddie” Fraser, a
lifelong biker himself, was excited at the thought of the adventures that lay
before us. Road trips, Saturday blasts, and those long-dreamt-of camping trips
up the north of Scotland were finally going to happen.
After a few weekend rides had passed, we
decided it was time to go on a week-long camping trip round the motherland.
This would start from Glasgow, take in the west-coast highlands, and then move
across the wild northern coastline before dropping down the east coast and
slicing into the heartlands and back to Glasgow. The route had been planned, campsites
had been booked, and now all we had to do was saddle up and hope the weather
was going to be kind to us. Right! It is Scotland, remember?
We took off on a Saturday morning in
typical miserable weekend weather, smirry[1]
rain. When you’re riding into it you don’t have a chance of staying remotely
dry. Determined not to be put off, we charged up the west side of Loch Lomond. Even
though we were not able to see the sights through the gloomy grey, we were
still excited at the road ahead.
Our first stop was at the small highland
town of Inveraray, home of the Duke of Argyll himself. On this day, I reckoned
the duke would have been snuggled up next to his log fire with his trusty
deerhounds at his feet, with no need to survey his lands in the dreary weather.
Despite the rain and cold the town was
still busy. Weekenders out for a run in the car were now trying to find an
empty seat in one of the few cafes: a place to shrug off their damp coats and
enjoy a brew, maybe a cake and a chin wag, or sit in that familiar couples’
silence and listen to the hearty din of others hard at the yacking.
We too looked for those elusive spare
seats and came up short. Instead we had to stand outside and cup our warm
teas in our cold hands, staring grimly at the dull waves of sheet rain coming
steadily in from Loch Fyne. It was decided then that we would cut our day short
and head straight for the youth hostel at Glencoe. Camping didn’t cut it now as we were soaking
wet. A warm shower and hot food were all that we wanted.
Our arrival was greeted with sympathy
from an English lady who ran the place. Oddly you’ll find that most hostels in
Scotland are run by English people, a strange fact discovered when you tour
this land. We unrolled our sleeping bags and took a hot shower. It’s amazing the
wonders of a warm shower. Indeed, things did not seem as bad.
After a good munch and a few cold beers
we decided that we would crack on tomorrow up to Applecross and begin our
journey into the more remote parts of northwest Scotland, a biker’s paradise.
Sunday I woke to Freddie’s snoring and a
deserted dorm, I suspect due to his snoring. I crawled out of my warm cocoon
and dared to look out of the window. Grey! Grey sheets of rain lashing
everything in sight with no mercy; my heart sank. I awoke Sleeping Beauty and
bummed some coffee from a happy-go-lucky mountain climber who was up
celebrating his birthday weekend by himself, seemingly undaunted by the horrid
conditions outside.
Grateful for the brew, we stood at the
door in silence, looking across at our bikes, both thinking the same thing but
not wanting to say it. The trip was over. Neither of us had the want nor drive
to carry on up the coast, for the weather was not to change. The eternal grey
gloom and lashing rain was to reign supreme in the highlands this Sunday. At
last I spoke up: “Home, Freddie, screw this!”
We fueled the bikes up and headed south
for home. Rosie had handled the ride in the rain beautifully, gliding through
the waterlogged roads without a problem. She had been a joy to ride and it
irked me that I had to cut short this adventure.
We rode down through Glen Falloch, in
what can only be described as Poseidon’s fury, as we got slammed by torrential
rain and gusting winds. On passing Loch Lomond for the second time in as many
days, I shuddered at the thought of falling into those icy, choppy waters. White
horses on the loch’s surface seemed to want to race me, putting me in a trance.
The rain soon slapped me out of it. Before long we breached the boundaries of
Glasgow and headed home defeated and broken.
I showered and ate a hot meal, bringing
me back to life. I sat with my feet up feeling depressed that I was home only a
day after leaving for my long-awaited ride round Scotland. What a letdown, I
thought, as I gazed numbly at the TV, watching the news.
When the weather report came on, I
suddenly snapped out of my gloom and paid attention to the forecaster. He was
telling of a break in the weather for the next few days. I came alive as if
jolted by electricity. The trip was back on! I grabbed the phone and excitedly
called Freddie. “Let’s go!” he shouted.
Monday morning we were back out. We were
dry, rejuvenated and cruising up through Glencoe, where the scene of our defeat
had taken place just a day prior. The sun was out and the clouds were gathered
in massive formations that towered over the Argyll mountain ranges. The tarmac
was dry, the wind was blowing and it was an amazing day to be seeing this
haunting glen. My mind wandered to thoughts of the infamous massacre and all
the suffering. I wondered how such a beautiful place could harbor such sorrow.
The route to Applecross in the remote
area of Sutherland, our planned stop for the night, took us up over the third
highest road on mainland Britain, Bealach na Bà. Translated this means “the
pass of the cattle.” Sitting at 2054 feet, it’s a single-track road that climbs
from the loch side and takes you up over the mountain via a series of hairpin
bends that conjure up images and thoughts of the Swiss Alps, not Scotland.
Every sense you possess is on full alert
as you steer your bike up through this pass taking care not to hit loose gravel
or clip the close edge, while all the time trying to take in the grand mountain
flanks that enclose either side of you. I kept Rosie in low gear and let her low-end
torque bite deep into the road surface; upward she pulled. Freddie and I stopped
at the top to take some pictures and commented on each other’s Cheshire-cat-like
grins. Both of us were buzzing with the rush of navigating that road. The ride
down the other side took just as much concentration as coming up. The camber
and tight turns demand your attention, for one slip would have you skidding off
the road and getting up close and personal with the heather-covered moorland of
the mountain top.
We rumbled into Applecross and found the
youth hostel, a converted farm house set by a running river, in green fields, with
highland cattle grazing a stone’s throw from the front door. We checked in and
found our room. This was perfect. There is only one place to eat at night in Applecross
and that’s the Inn. We had come prepared with our own food so we decided on
having a wander along the river banks, taking in the peace and quiet of it all,
filling our lungs with the smell of the Atlantic being brought to us by a
gentle westerly wind. This place really is lost in time, I thought, as the
giddy feeling I had inside began to take over. We did it! I was finally out in
the wilds on my motorbike doing what I had dreamt of for years! Just me,
my best mate and my Triumph surrounded by some of the most awe-inspiring scenery the world has to offer.
We slept well in the still silence that
the dark brings in Applecross, and in the morning were advised that a great
breakfast was to be had just down the road in a small tearoom surrounded by a
Victorian walled garden. Our appetites were stimulated by the fresh country air
as we blasted the few miles along the road. Once we arrived we were treated
to a scrumptious breakfast indeed, surrounded in what I can only describe as a café-cum-greenhouse.
I left there swearing that I would endeavor to visit this place at the height
of spring or summer, when the gardens are in full bloom and a real hive of
activity.
Tuesday had us ride the coastal road and
divert back onto the mainland, all the time being teased with glimpses out to
the Atlantic and the Hebridean Isle of Skye. We snaked our way through
more mountain passes and single-track roads, passing other bikers, no doubt
chasing their own dreams. We decided that our journey today would be to Durness
on the very northwestern edge of the mainland. It took us past some of the most
breathtaking sights I have ever seen. The road from the Gairloch to Ullapool
reminded me of an image you would see painted on a shortbread tin. It looked picture-perfect
as we sped past. Caledonian pine forests went by in a blur of reddish brown and
green, all the time assaulting my sense of smell. The strong pine scent
reminded me of a hospital corridor, like a smell of disinfectant.
We pulled into Ullapool for a
well-deserved cup of tea. Our destination of choice, once inside, looked like
something from a 1950s TV show. The room
was full of quaint gifts and ships in bottles, typical harbor-town trinkets. The
selection of wonderful desserts presented to us on a vintage silver cake
stand made them look all the more appealing; I was sold. But then I’m never one
to turn down a tasty biscuit.
The road from Ullapool to Durness is
such an amazing experience. The landscape changes and becomes more like the
surface of the moon as you tour though glacial retreats, vast swathes of land
carved out by the dying ice giants. In some parts it’s hard to think that
anyone lives up there; maybe they don’t. Rosie took on a whole new life up in
those lonely glens. The straight-through pipes I spoke of earlier echoed off
the mountain walls, terrifying all within earshot. It was music to my ears. Her
throaty growl was the perfect soundtrack to this desolate wilderness once
inhabited by warring clans and governed by mighty clan chiefs. That day the
land lay still and otherwise silent, like some eerie testament to the wild old
days.
We came upon the small highland village
of Durness just before dusk. Finding our B&B took some doing. I had, in my
typical forgetful fashion, left the address behind in Applecross. We sailed
through the streets looking at every house, trying to jog my memory for a name.
At last we found it perched up top of a
hill and at the end of the road. It was a beautiful place with stunning views
all around. Our landlady advised us that the only restaurant left open was
about to stop taking food orders in ten minutes, so we dumped our road-stained
bags and roared off down the farm tracks to the main village. She was not
kidding; we just squeaked in. Barely making last orders for grub made us laugh,
although missing this meal would have been no laughing matter. Both of us were
famished; the night could have been a long and grumpy one.
After some fine fish and chips, we
ventured outside into the gloomy semi-darkness that haunts the northern parts
of Scotland at this time of the year, never really getting too dark from late spring
to early summer. We found a bench overlooking a windswept beach and sat in silence
absorbing the majesty of it all. Gulls hung in the air, huge waves crashed onto
the sands and all around us the world was peaceful. I almost felt a twinge of
guilt at the thought of firing Rosie up again and shattering this serene atmosphere.
The morning had us seated at the landlady’s
large farmhouse-style breakfast table where she heaped loads of freshly-made
scrambled eggs onto our plates. This made me happy as I love a good breakie,
but Freddie, being a lightweight in the eating department, looked terrified. The
thought of having to devour the lot as not to offend our host had Freddie’s
face plastered with fear.
The chat was merry at the table as our
landlady asked us about our journey so far and where we still had to go. Her
husband would stick his head round the door every now and then and chime in
with some words of wisdom of the road. Seems he knew these parts rather
well. I finished my eggs and Freddie’s leftovers, then washed it all down
with tea. It was time to leave and time
to hit the open road again, for John o’ Groats, the official end of Scotland,
was on the cards today.
We packed our gear, said our goodbyes
and headed outside. The dreaded grey had returned. Long, cold, shimmering
curtains of rain swept the landscape, making sure that nothing escaped the
rain’s miserable watery touch. We throttled out of Durness and headed east
along the coastal road, not really seeing through the gloom. We were fighting
the rain, trying to stay focused on our surroundings. The hardy sheep that live
up in these parts tend to have a suicidal want to wander along the middle of
the roads. Not even the rumble of the bikes seemed to deter them. It’s almost
as if they are saying, “This is our land, and we’re prepared to battle to the death!”
One of the highlights of this trip was
to visit John o’ Groats, the very tip of northern Scotland, where for a small
sum you can get your picture taken at the official signpost, and if you’re
lucky, get to put your own name in letters under the village name. I had
dreamed of this picture the whole way up the western coast, but in my heart I
was starting to realize that today was not going to be that day. The rain had
grown stronger; as we headed east, the puddles on the single-track roads now
resembled small lochans[2]
that almost swallowed up the wheels of our bikes.
I pulled in and a dejected Freddie
ground to a halt beside me. He flipped his visor up and I shouted over the din,
“Bugger this, Freddie, John o’ Groats can wait.” With that, we spun around on the
shortcut to our much-anticipated accommodations for the night. We raced
across the open moorlands with no shelter from the elements. We could actually
see the next wave of rain looming like a specter in the distance waiting to
engulf us in its misery. More than once we had to pull the bikes to a
standstill to wipe off our visors and take stock of our surroundings. Finally,
after what seemed an endless ride across the vast nothingness, we
burst into a lush wooded glen. That’s the amazing thing about motorbiking:
in Scotland you just never know what’s waiting round the bend or up the street.
All sorts of beautiful sights await the adventurer.
As we entered the glen I rolled off
Rosie’s throttle and slowed her down, mesmerized by the raging river Helmsdale.
Helmsdale, famous for its salmon fishing, was on my left and the earthy-smelling
woodlands were on my right. Just as I was absorbing the landscape, a large stag
bounded onto the road and into the woods right in front of me. This stag was a
huge beast with an impressive rack of antlers adorning his head like a mighty
crown, a crown that only the king of the forest would wear. Once in the woods,
he turned to watch us ride past. He held his head high, pride radiating from
him. What a noble creature, surely a member of the royal court, if not
the king of the forest himself!
Because we had cut our day short due to
the weather, we had arrived early into our digs for the night. We had arranged
to stay at the Helmsdale youth hostel, but on arrival found the place locked
up. We parked the bikes and sat on the doorstep, looking rather pathetic, I
feared, soaked to the bone, with our rolled-up bags at our feet. We only broke
our silence when a merry border collie, whom we later learned was named Molly,
came bounding round the corner and right up to the doorway in which we sat.
A woman carrying shopping bags was next
round the corner, and she too came to the door. “Can I help you?” she said in a
very commanding fashion. We told her that we had booked there for the night and
had not anticipated being there until later, but our plans had been derailed by
the weather. The woman stared at us for a few seconds then said, “Right, you’re
too early but I’ll let you in anyhow. Once I show you around you’re on your own,”
and with that she whistled at Molly and vanished off through the large wooden
doors into the hostel.
We looked at each other, shrugged and
ventured in after Molly and her owner. Once inside it looked to me that the
hostel had once been a church or a Boy Scouts hall. Wood paneling lined the
walls; both Fred’s and my eyes fixed firmly on the wood-burning stove. Irene,
the owner, must have seen us staring at it. “I’ll light that stove later, have
this place roasting,” she said. And with that thought, the Cheshire-cat grins returned
to our weatherbeaten faces.
We dumped our road bags and stumbled out
the door and down to the village to buy some supplies and have a look around. I
hadn’t really looked into Helmsdale and other than the fact it sits
conveniently on the east coast, not far south of John o’ Groats, I didn’t know
much about it at all. Once we had grabbed some munchies and a few beers for the
room later, we took a wander through the streets that were vacant, except for a
few locals.
At first appearance, I perceived the
place to be just a sleepy little town perched on a hill side looking out to the
cold and rough North Sea. No real story to be told here, I thought. However,
this sleepy little town held a much more interesting past. After further
exploration I learned it had played a part in a dark chapter of my homeland’s
history, the Highland clearances. In the
late 18th and early 19th centuries, this town had seen
thousands of natives come to its shore. Some people chose to stay and tough it
out, but many with no other choice had to board the emigrant ships and leave
for the new world.
We stood in the rain underneath a huge
bronze statue of a highlander and his family, his sculpted face commemorating clear
distress. The agony of fear and the unknown were etched perfectly on the
family’s faces as they stared out at the very same menacing sea that we now did,
some 300 years later. As we thought
about what it must have felt like to know full well that you’d never set foot
on your homestead again, it was a somber moment for both of us.
Once back at Irene and Molly’s hostel,
an enjoyable night was had in the company of them both. A backpacking fella from
Holland and a brave young English lad had also checked into the hostel. The
English lad, having recently lost his mum to cancer, was walking from Land’s End,
at the very southern tip of England, to John o’ Groats to raise money for charity.
I listened to the tales of his wander so far, blistered feet and twisted
ankles, hungover mornings after beer-fueled nights in long-forgotten towns. I
didn’t have the heart to tell him that once my mate Fred started to snore in
the dorm he was sharing with us, he’d be in for some more misery tonight!
Thursday morn we awoke to overcast skies
as we prepared for our day’s ride south into the whisky heartlands of Speyside,
Granton-on-Spey to be precise. We said our goodbyes to Irene and Molly and
headed off down the A9 coastal road. With farmlands on one side of us and the
rugged crags and ruined castle skyline on the other, even with the dark thunder-like
clouds above us, I was content riding this morning. Rosie purred and seemed to
be happy too. Every now and then, in a cat-and-mouse fashion, I’d pass Fred at
high speed and he too looked happy. It wasn’t some age-old Celtic magic
happening to us, but simply the joy of the open road. We were far away from day-to-day
worries, just two bikers out chasing a storm on two steel steeds, tasting the
elements, feeling the earth beneath us as we raced on south.
We pulled off the A9 and stopped at a
junction that I’d been at a few time before. Blink an eye and you’ll miss it,
the town of Carrbridge. There happens to be a bridge there, not a normal bridge
-- this one dates back to 1717 and is visually prominent due to its almost humpback
structure. We got off the bikes and took some pictures, each wondering how this
bridge would have been used back in its day before the modern bypass. I
couldn’t help but think that it looked like the perfect place for jumping off
into the cooling waters of the river Dulnain on a hot summer’s day. On this
dreary and chilly day it was a comforting daydream.
Back on the bikes we passed through
enchanting Caledonian pine forests, the very image of Scotland themselves. We
could have been riding through Middle-earth straight from the pages of a
Tolkien book for all we knew. These were old and wise woods with the Cairngorm
Mountains reaching from their depths, stubborn snow caps still adorning these
rock lords of the east, brown with a flash of white, like the mighty sea eagle
who soars overhead. I was grinning again; I was aware of it. I shouted out to
the woodlands, this was why I had come! I was living my dream!
We spent the night in the highland town
on Granton-on-Spey deep in the heart of whisky country. A mecca for drinkers of
Scotland’s finest import, it’s a quaint place with Victorian buildings of grand
construction, the likes you’ll not see again unless you have vast amounts of
money at your disposal.
We bunked at a local hostel and wandered
off into town to treat ourselves to an Indian meal. This we had planned in advance
and had been looking forward to since leaving Glasgow. Walking down the high
street, I felt as if we should have been wearing wax jackets or Barbour pheasant-hunting
attire. The buildings and shop fronts emanated the grace of highland gentry and
a time gone by. It felt good to wander
these streets and be a guest in the ancient kingdom of Moray. Our long-awaited
Indian meal was superb! With the heady aroma of Asian herbs and the sounds of
the sitar filling the air, we feasted on spicy delights, washed down with cold
authentic Indian lager, a perfect end to a perfect day’s biking.
Friday morning the sun shone on us as we
parted company with Speyside. Our plan was to ride over the high pass of Glen Shee
and down to Braemar, famed home of the Royal family when they are visiting
Scotland. I had never been there before and had only visited Glen Shee once as
a young Scout on a skiing day out. I had heard from other bikers that the road
over the pass was one of the best biking roads to be found in all of Europe.
They weren’t lying. The road snaked up
over vast green hillsides, sliced open at the summit by ragged black rocks that
seemed to burst free from the mountain like some massive dinosaur spine. We
crested the pass in glorious sunshine and felt alive as a blast of cold
mountain air greeted us with chilly open arms. I felt truly blessed this morning;
my country and my bike seemed at one with each other, treating me to an almost
heavenly experience.
We followed the river down through the
hills and out across open countryside, nothing but farmlands as far as the eye
can see. I imagined what life must be like out here in the country, living the
life of a farmer. Good old honest hard work was the laird out here. The fresh country
air would fill your lungs and help you sleep the sleep of the righteous at
night. I must admit the thought appealed to me. Could I live a quiet life at a
slow pace, or was I just romanticizing and seeing life up here through the green-tinted
spectacles of a part-time outdoorsman?
Braemar was beautiful! All the stories I
had heard were true. It’s a magical place wrapped up in castles, woodlands and
flowing rivers of unrivaled beauty. The Victorian architecture is something to
see on its own, but paired with this scenery it really is surreal.
I hadn’t booked ahead for this night, so
on arriving we followed the signs for the Scottish youth hostel building and
tried there first. We were politely told there was no room at the inn and that
we might have trouble finding a place, due to its being some kind of bank
holiday that yours truly hadn’t taken into account.
We slowly rode back through town,
eyeing the B&B signs in most windows like a couple of cat burglars, only to
see “NO VACANCIES” staring back at us. I couldn’t help but think we must have
looked a troublesome sight, slowly cruising back and forth glaring at the
houses, when all we wanted was a bed for the night. At last we pulled into a grand-looking
hotel and tried our luck -- it seemed that it was in! The landlady told me she
had just had a cancellation, and a double room was indeed available for a very
reasonable price. Lady Luck was on our side. We plunked our road-weary bodies
down on our freshly-made beds and laughed at our good fortune. Fred clicked the
kettle on, and after a good brew we took off in search of the local chippy.
There’s a kind of peace to be found
wandering the streets of these small highland holiday villages, but it’s also
mixed with a feeling that you’re almost trespassing on some hallowed ground. Taking
in the village sounds I could hear the sound of the blackbird, while the song
thrush thrills the early evening atmosphere. Its songful punctuations burst in
atop the ambient humming of a lawnmower being pushed along by an elderly gent
working off his supper. All the while a prop engine plane flew overhead and the
sounds of the river rushing, on its way to wherever rivers seem to rush to, culminated,
in what seemed to me, to be the soundtrack for a more simple way of life.
All of these things added to the warm
and safe feeling that seeps over you as you sit on a bench and pick at your
chips -- chips served in a brown paper bag stained from the vital ingredient of
dripping oil that makes the chips so darn tasty. We headed back to the hotel
for a nightcap in the lobby bar, and were happily surprised to find the log
fire had been lit and some of the locals were in having a chinwag about life in
the village. We nursed our pints, entranced by the chat of the locals and their
lyrical Highland accents, every now and then nudging each other if we found a
comment interesting or funny. We drained our pints and skulked off to our room.
Sleep came easy that night: dreams of pipers and castles, lochs and ladies. We
drifted deep into the highland mist.
Saturday morning and again the sun
favored us! We were both in good spirits
as we scooped up our hearty highland breakfasts and chatted. We should have been sad at that thought of the
trip coming to its end, but we weren’t. More than 100 epic miles lay between us
and our hometown of Glasgow today. The open road fever had us in its grip!
After a fuel stop on the outskirts of town, we roared off west across the open
moors towards the town of Pitlochry; from there we planned to ride down past
beautiful Loch Tay, through Rob Roy MacGregor country and back towards the
industrial heartlands of Glasgow.
The ride to Pitlochry took us through
many remote glens of stunning beauty. Once again, we had to be vigilant due to
the defiant and almost suicidal sheep who call these parts home. One thing that
I love about biking is the smell in the air. Everything seems to be multiplied
ten times when you’re on a bike. Be it a farmer mucking his fields or the road
workers laying new tar on a broken pothole section of road, these smells seem
all the better when you’re riding in the open air. Through the surrounding
glens of Pitlochry, I was reminded of the old saying, “Only a biker knows why a
dog sticks its head out of a car window.”
Passing the small towns of Aberfeldy and
Kenmore, our minds were now fixed on the next section of road, the section that
would see us ride alongside Loch Tay. Loch Tay is a vast body of water,
sapphire blue in color, immersed in myth and charmed with sunbeams dancing on
its surface like mischievous spirits. This part of the day was one that stands
out in my memory. The lochside farms that we passed, the mountains rising high
above us on either side, old stone walls separating the long standing green
fields that give life to so much around them: it was as if the very earth of
Scotland was talking to these two bikers as they crossed its skin.
We passed through the small town of Killin,
both remembering a past trip here, where we’d fuel up on chips and cups of tea
from one of the many cafés that can be found in this gem of a village. We
crossed over the famous falls of Dochart, a wondrous sight, and headed for Glen
Ogle, opting for a tea break at the little burger van we knew sat at the top of
this ancient pass. This little privately-owned burger van is a favorite with
the two-wheeled tourist, and we were not surprised to find other bikers already
there, enjoying the goods that could be bought there. We furnished ourselves
with cups of tea, rolls and cheese and watched this busy little highland eatery
serve people, all the while basking in the smell of sizzling sausage and salty
bacon. The savory smells were making even this vegetarian water at the mouth.
Reluctantly leaving Glen Ogle and the
burger van behind, we rode down through the pass and into the Trossachs. This
is an area of Scotland known for its rich history and beauty, most famously
known for one of its sons, the outlaw Rob Roy Macgregor.
Being a history buff and a fan of this
man and his legendary skullduggery, it’s always a blessing to travel these parts.
Each time I’m there, my mind begins wandering to the adventures and escapades
of this great highland rogue. As we meandered past the lochs and mountains of
his domain, I couldn’t help but feel a wee bit jealous that this was where he
called home. What a beautiful place to settle, to roam and to conduct business.
Yes, I believe he was a lucky man indeed.
As we slowed our pace down to navigate
the busy little town of Callander, I think we both now felt sad. We were a mere
half hour or so from our homes. The journey was drawing to an end, and the 900
miles had passed in typical Scottish fashion. We’d endured rain, wind, sun and
a blur of some of the best landscapes this world has to offer. But of course I
am a wee bit biased!
The sun was dropping to the western
hills as we passed the Carbeth Inn, a mecca for a biker out on a day run from
Glasgow. We nodded in salute to some riders parked up outside enjoying a coffee
and a chat. Our bikes were now on autopilot, as they knew each and every turn
on this notorious road back to the village of Bearsden.
With the light fading, I pulled in
behind Fred, who was waiting for me in a lay-by. I drew up beside his bike with
a heavy heart, knowing that this was the end of our adventure. The end of a
dream realized. Together we had ridden through storms, watched waves crash down
on beaches, sped past countless ruined castles standing silent as a reminder of
the days when clansmen ruled the glens. We wandered the streets in sleepy
highland towns while peat smoke from quaint little houses rose in the gloaming.
We had met people on their own adventures, eaten fine foods and drunk lager
from far-off lands together. We had ridden around the coast of Scotland,
sharing and making new memories that will stay with both of us forever.
Fred stretched out his gloved hand, flipped
up his visor and said his goodbyes, and with that he was gone. I watched him
blast off down the road before pulling a U-turn and heading for home myself. I
pulled into my driveway and switched Rosie off, sitting in silence for a few minutes
listening to the slowing but steady ticking noise she made, like some resting
beast after an exhausting hunt.
I stepped back and thanked her for
taking care of me, patted her tank, and headed indoors to be greeted by my anxiously
awaiting mum. She was looking forward to the details of my monumental
adventure. I clicked the kettle on; I needed a brew. Once I began to relive the
details of my journey, that Cheshire-cat grin was back.
[1] Smirry rain: a fine spray-mist, a drizzle.
[2] Lochan: from the Scottish Gaelic, a small loch.
***
As an avid outdoorsman, James Johnston has always been keen on anything that brings him closer to nature, starting with his adventures as a Cub Scout, and progressing to mountain climbing.
Growing up in Glasgow, Scotland brought him to his love of history, wildlife, hillwalking and motorbiking. He is always up for a good hike, in any weather. From the Five Sisters Ridge to Pike’s Peak, he wants to explore them all.
If Johnston is not hiking, or motorbiking around the U.S. or his native Scotland, he's tinkering on one of his classic Triumph motorcycles or playing with his band.
