The Highlanding – Part 5

Day 4 – Overtaking and Biker Chasing: Applecross to Loch Lomond

Unsurprisingly, none of us got a great deal of sleep in the tents, emerging bleary eyed and irritated early the following morning. A small condolence, for me at least, was that there was a decent on-site shower, which was genuinely a level up from the one in the Pinetree Lodge. We wasted little time packing up the tents, which had helpfully begun disassembling themselves in the middle of the night. Adam re-joined me in the Clio, hugely thankful for the heater and air-tight cabin, and the 3 cars burbled their way out of the campsite and back onto the road. We found the A832 again and went in search of breakfast. It took until Kinlochewe, 30 minutes later, for us to find it, at a tiny little café bolted to the side of a petrol station. Here we are taking over the car park.

Full English’s were in order, with copious refills of tea. The owner-cum-chef-cum-waitress-cum-pot washer was very friendly, and full of fascinating tales as we tucked into the much needed grub, some of which may have even been true. All things considered it was a cracking little find. Once we were full up to the eyeballs with caffeine and grease we waved our goodbyes and got the day properly underway. We left the A832 in favour of the A896, which was even narrower and more rustic, but mercifully for young Frank, slightly less bumpy. Traces of habitation on this road were pretty much non-existent, in fact I reckon if you persuaded a Homo-Erectus into a time machine and brought him here he’d happily grunt to you that nothing had changed. The scenery, as we’d come to expect, was mesmerising.

We left the A896 at Shieldaig, onto the road known as Appplecross Pass, or Bealach na Bà if you’re feeling particularly Gaelic. This was a road many internettings had demanded we MUST visit. The road climbed gradually higher as we ventured into the Applecross Peninsula, and we pulled over somewhere near the hamlet of Fearnmore. We were on a small track that appeared to have been carved out ready for some forthcoming building work, which gifted us with an impressive view over Loch Torridon which flows in from the Atlantic Ocean. It’s difficult to grasp the scale of the landscape in these images, but the water level was some 150 feet below us, and the drop down to it, just over the brow, looked pretty painful.

It was nippy up here so we didn’t hang about too long, continuing on the Applecross Pass towards the town of Applecross itself. It all started out well enough, a light spattering of rain doing little to hamper progress on an absolutely captivating, smooth and sweeping road. We were all having a smashing time and I, for one, was almost salivating at the prospect of the Pass proper, which the official website promised had “some of the most awe inspiring and untouched scenery in Western Europe”. But as the road continued to climb, the clouds continued to drop. Soon the light rain had turned into a thin mist, and then gradually into a dense fog. By the time we had risen to a peak height of 2,054 feet, it was the kind of fog you used to find by the darts board in the local pub before the smoking ban came into force. What an old work colleague of mine would describe as “a proper pea-souper”. On a clear day I imagine you would see for miles and miles, but we could barely see one car in front of the other. Stick a hand out the window and it would momentarily disappear, probably helped along by a ragged bit of rock face. Annoyingly I didn’t take any photos up here, although what I would have been able to achieve, even with a couple of grands worth of DSLR, is unconvincing. To fill the void I have created a little collage using a screen-grab from the GoPro, and another shamelessly stolen from Google Streetview. I assure you, on the grave of a thousand dead kittens, that this is exactly the same corner, although had you told me that at the time I wouldn’t have believed it for a second.

These extreme conditions were a real shame, as not only did they stop us from marvelling at the supposedly marvellous views, but we couldn’t attack the twists and switchbacks with any kind of vigour at all. I would love to go back and do this stretch again on a more agreeable day, but that’s not to say it wasn’t fun this time around. It was certainly engrossing and petrifying in equal measure, as we tentatively crept down the mountainside, unsure if we were moments away from falling to our deaths or crashing into something. The descent was far steeper than the ascent, which meant visibility soon improved and we could relax a little. This was nice as my brain was a little bit broken.

We pulled off the road near Tornapress, next to Russel Burn, a river which rushes hurriedly down the mountain into the vast Loch Carron, which in turn forms the lower edge of the peninsula. It was a welcome break from the steering wheel, letting us stretch our legs and talk to each other about what had just happened, without having to use a walkie-talkie. It also provided Frank with a great opportunity to increase the volume of the river a little. I did have a photo of Adam carrying out a similar action, but it was a little too close for comfort if you catch my drift, so had to be deleted. It is a family show after all.

At Tornapress we re-joined the A896 for a short stint eastwards, and then picked up the A890 at New Kelso. A little while down this road, which was noticeably less rural than its predecessors yet still a not quite what the English would classify as an ‘A’ road, we discovered a short tunnel. It is an unwritten rule among petrolheads that all tunnels, and anything with similar acoustic properties, should be traversed with as much noise as possible. Well it was unwritten, up until I just wrote it. Anyway, Frank and I were more than happy to oblige this regulation, and made damn sure everyone within 50 square miles (so about 18 people, 3 dogs, and a couple of hundred sheep) knew about it.

The next turning on our navi-sheets was the A87 at Auchtertyre, which would be our home for the next 45 miles. This was more like your average English A-road, aside from the very Scottish landscape it meandered through. Smooth, fast and flowing for the most part, but with plenty more additional users than we had become accustomed to! Fortunately we were able to deal with any on our side of the road promptly, thanks to long lines of sight, and the fact they were usually only travelling at 14 miles per hour. We stopped briefly in a carpark near Glen Shiel, on the outskirts of Loch Cluanie, as I needed to water the garden. Whilst I was minding my own business behind a bush, Adam lynched my camera and proceeded to take about two dozen images, all of which were average at best. This one was the most acceptable of the collection, so I am including it as a token gesture to stop him getting upset.

The A87 concluded at Invergarry, where it met the A82. I would say the A82 is probably the second longest road in Scotland after the A9, which we saw so much of on day 2. In fact, having just checked this fact via the wonders of Wikipedia, I am pleased to report that it is, at 167 miles in length. We would witness roughly 120 of them. I am going to struggle to describe any of these miles in too much detail, as I spent the vast majority of them overtaking stuff. Truth be told, I reckon I may have broken the all-time overtaking record for the A82, although Wikipedia cannot currently confirm this one. I blame this hugely anti-social tomfoolery on one thing, and one thing only… the invention of the motorcycle. The initial 15 miles were relaxed enough, a few sensible overtakes were made obviously, but nothing to write home about (or indeed on a preposterously long internet blog post). Then, out of nowhere, two lunatics came flying past my driver’s side window, one piloting a GSX-R1000, and the other something slightly smaller, I’m not sure what. It didn’t matter; I instantly made it my life goal to keep up with them. Ed, in his Postman Pat-mobile, had been bated yesterday by the Caddy van, but up to then I had had no competition. This was my competition; this was my time to shine. Or die a horrible death crashing off the side of a mountain… Either/or.

Okay, so I was assisted massively by traffic and moist tarmac, in more favourable conditions the bikes would no doubt have decimated the little Clio, but on this particular day and this stretch of road, I managed to keep them in my sights for the following 10 miles. The rider of the Gixer seemed to be suitably impressed to find the blue hatchback in his wing mirrors every time we slowed up, often offering a thumbs-up or congratulatory clap. Needless to say, the other two cars in our little convoy had been left well behind, along with countless other road-users.

When I pulled into the BP station at Fort William I was more than a little bit gutted that the bikers didn’t follow suit, I’d have loved to have met the men under the helmets and exchanged some cheerful words. My adrenaline level was sky high by this point, which is more than can be said for my fuel level, which I had failed to realise was essentially nil. I rectified the situation with 55 litres of Ultimate whilst waiting for the others to arrive.

The rest of the crew turned up soon enough, and I gabbled at them excitedly about what had happened, expecting them to lift me up and carry me across the forecourt in celebration. Alas this didn’t happen, as they were more concerned about being hungry. We bought some miscellaneous snacks, and slumped down on the verge to ingest them, watching the traffic we had overtaken on the way, overtake us once again.

Suitably refreshed we climbed aboard our steeds and continued our quest. I hung around at the back of the pack for the next stint, in an attempt to calm myself down, letting Frank and Ed initiate the overtaking manoeuvres. Ed had suggested we stop at the Falls of Falloch, a waterfall in the north of the Loch Lomond national park, just off the main road. He had heard on the grape vine that it was pleasantly picturesque, and as we were making pretty decent time we all agreed it would be a grand idea to find out if this was true. Which it was. It’s far from the largest waterfall in the world, or even Scotland, but measuring in at a drop of 30metres it was still quite a spectacle. I clambered down some rocks to the left of the river flowing away from the fall, and wedged the tripod as far out as possible to get some long exposure shots. What the following image fails to show are the countless swarms of midges which viciously attacked any bare skin they could find during this endeavour. We had been warned prior to the trip to prepare for mass midge attacks in the Scottish countryside, but this was the first time I had really experienced them. This was lucky, as it wasn’t very pleasant.

With the A/C blasting to sooth my irritated limbs, we left the stunning waterfall, and the bothersome midges, behind. Again I tried to bring up the rear but it only lasted a couple of miles this time. We encountered a long line of cars and neither Ed nor Frank seemed enthused about passing them. I, on the other hand, was still surely on course to decimate the all-time overtaking record for the A82, and I wasn’t about to let that accolade slip away, even if Wikipedia still fails to validate it.

With Adam playing spotter from the passenger stool we commenced Mission: Overtake Everything. In the next 30 or so miles we flew past Porsches, TVR’s, Lotus’s, countless German execubarges, and even a couple of motorbikes. There was NO faster way to traverse Loch Lomond that day, than a little blue Clio R27 with a tent in the boot. With a scant 200bhp its far from the fastest thing when the throttle is in the carpet, but it can carry momentum with the best of them, and the confidence it transfers up to the driver’s seat from its four little rubber boots is astounding. What a phenomenal little car. I’ve no real idea how many cars we passed on that road, I will leave it to the independent adjudicators to figure that out, but it was almost certainly into three figures. The whole ordeal was massively antisocial, but my lord was it thrilling.

Unsurprisingly I had gotten way ahead of the other two again, so a swift phonecall was made and we decided to reconvene at the day’s final destination. This, thankfully, was constructed from bricks and mortar, unlike the previous night. Whilst the other two would get there via the Sat-Nav suggested route, Adam and I decided we would take a less direct course through the back roads. This started with a quick top up of fuel at the Shell garage in Helensburgh, then a tour round the banks of the river Clyde, a short blast on the M8 and a calm meander down through the mainland to Ayr. The back roads in this part of the country are not dissimilar to those that interlink the majority of the British Isles. The scenery, although still lovely, was a world away from the stuff up in the Highlands. We made decent progress on the reasonably quite roads, although without the crazy hooliganism of the A82’s antics, and ended up arriving at the hotel just 10 minutes after the other two.

We elected to stay at the Mercure for the night, which is situated right in the heart of Ayr. In a similar vein to the Royal Hotel from earlier in the trip the parking here was abysmal, so we were forced to invent our own spaces. We parted company for a quick freshen up, in what were actually very amenable en-suite rooms; Frank and I in one, seeing as I had already spent more than adequate time with Adam, who would share the other with Ed. Regrouping in the lobby we cracked open Google Maps in search of a nearby eatery, settling on a little Italian called Vito’s, which turned out to be superb. We then retired to the hotel bar where we stayed for the next two hours getting somewhat tipsy and discussing politics and the FTSE 100 index. Well, it was either that or cars, girls, and the fact Ed’s family own their own island… which actually sounds more likely. Once the innuendo level had reached a frankly disturbing level, and things started getting blurry, we called bedtime. After the soul-destroying nature of the previous night, the bed in my room felt like a 5-star cloud in Heaven, that should have been reserved for a member of the clergy. I slipped into the land of nod in record time.

The Highlanding – Part 6