The Highlanding – Part 6

Day 5 – One Final Foggy Foresty Farewell

We awoke a good amount of hours later, showered (separately), packed our things and checked out, paying for our very reasonable night’s stay alongside a slightly less reasonable drinks tab. Frank was delighted to find his MX5 exactly where he left it, sporting only the paperwork he had left the previous night apologising to the owner of the Mercedes for parking like an imbecile, and not anything official from the parking police confirming that fact.

Having failed miserably to tick the breakfast box when we had booked the hotel, we wandered back into the main square and found a Frankie and Bennie’s which smelt suitably delicious. We all chose a dish from the breakfast menu, and then someone (I forget exactly who) decided they would choose a second as well. Plainly it would be ludicrous for the rest of us to let this behaviour go unnoticed, so when the waiter came to our table of four, we ordered for eight. Our excuse, if we needed one, was that we had a gruelling 400-mile long day ahead of us, and such epic exploration would never be successful on an empty stomach.

Eventually we finished depleting Ayr’s supply of scrambled egg and PG Tips, found the cars, and began our trip back home. From here it would have been easy to make a beeline on the A70 for the A74(M) which would have lead us to the top of the M6 in a very efficient fashion. But this trip was never about taking the easy route, so this notion was not considered for a second. Instead we would head due south on some minor roads and investigate a big patch of green on the map known as Galloway Forest Park. I had done zero research into what Galloway Forest Park could offer 3 shouty pint-sized automobiles, but whatever it was it had to be more enticing than a motorway.

The commute to the park was decent in any case, pretty standard country roads similar to those me and Adam had found late the previous day, with minimal traffic disruption allowing us to take advantage of the smooth tarmac and frequent twisty bits. I had sucker-mounted the GoPro inside the MX5 for this stint, thinking the twitchy rear-ended cabriolet would make for some exciting footage. Unfortunately I had completely disregarded the fact it possessed a similar natural resonance to an industrial jackhammer, so watching it back makes your eyes roll-over and your brain turn to custard. This is a shame as it sounds like Frank was having a spiffing time trying to control his 220 stallions in that mornings mildly moist conditions. One thing I did get reminded of whilst trying to focus on the juddering mess of video pixels, is the fact that had I done a better job of mounting the camera it would have been in vein anyway, as Frank had forgotten to top up his washer fluid. I’ve not spent a great deal of time staring through a cow’s back passage whilst wearing swimming goggles, but I imagine such a thing would be comparable to Frank’s view of the road ahead. I think he may be some kind of Jedi as he still managed to keep it on the black stuff.

At one point we got separated due to the aforementioned MX5 pilot getting totally bewildered by a simple instruction from Ed to turn right and then left, instead turning right and then… well not turning again at all. I pulled into a gateway, called him some unsavoury names over the walkie-talkie, and waited for him to re-appear in my rear-view mirror. Half a minute or so later this is exactly what he did, only at a rather different angle than expected. Now, and I’m sure he will back me up here, Frank is hardly an accomplished drifter. Don’t get me wrong, he is notably better than I am, but that is like saying an old sock is a better filling for a sandwich than a hand grenade. Whichever way you swing it, he is no Ken Block. So when he came into view at 90 degrees to the angle of travel, with the rear wheels blurred beyond recognition, I was one hundred percent convinced that he was about to have a massive accident. Fortunately, for everyone’s sake, physics managed to regain control and deliver him perfectly back onto the correct course with great aplomb. Adam was absolutely overjoyed at this performance, whooping and hollering congratulations to Frank. I simply called him a bellend, and we continued onwards.

We were now on Newton Stewart Road, which is one of those roads so rural and rarely-used that it doesn’t even warrant a reference number. In fact, I’m still not convinced it even classifies as a road at all. Parts of it I feel would be better described as interlocking slabs of miscellaneous hard stuff, partially levelled by a gorilla with a pick-axe, that just so happen to be wide enough for a car, should anybody be stupid enough to take one down there. Nevertheless, looking back on Google Streetview, the scenery it cuts through is breath-taking. In reality, as was the case with Applecross Pass, a stupendously huge cloud of super-fog decided it was going to spoil the view for us in its entirety, like when a party of heavyweight boxers with hair like Jimi Hendrix sit directly in front of you at the cinema.

A short way down the “road” we caught up with a couple of local’s piloting a Mk5 Golf. I think the driver quickly cottoned onto the fact that we weren’t there to enjoy the scenery at pedestrian-pace, and put his foot down. I say down, this was hardly the situation for wild full-bore stamps on the loud pedal… so I imagine what actually happened was an increase in right ankle pressure of approximately 22 percent. This was enough. Even though I could have undoubtedly overtaken had there been room to do so (which there certainly wasn’t) I was more than happy to chuck out a rope and hitch onto his back bumper, as he seemed to have far more idea than I about where to brake, which way to turn the steering wheel, and generally how not to crash. The other two dropped back out of sight quite quickly, which was of no great surprise as that sight only reached about 3 metres rearwards of my tail-lamps.

I followed the Golf for 10 or so miles, until I could recount each and every molecule of paint on the tailgate with my eyes shut, at which point the road widened and I was able to briskly go past him. I gave a quick flash of the hazards to show my appreciation for keeping us alive, and zoomed off into the now-decreasing mist. Annoyingly it dawned on me that I was the only one who really had a clue where we were supposed to be going, so I decided to pull over into a layby, watch the Golf and its puzzled occupants re-pass, and wait for the others to catch up. They weren’t far behind.

Reunited we continued, and hung a left at Newton Stewart onto the A712. Thankfully this road was in much better condition than its predecessor, with actual white paint on it and everything, meaning we were able to make some rather more uncivilized progress through the bottom of Galloway Forest Park. The downside was, although the fog had now departed, it had instead been replaced by the increasingly enthusiastic presence of rain.

We pulled over briefly in a large layby, not far from Dallash, for a breather and for me to grab the GoPro back from Frank. There was a wooden walkway at the outer apex of the layby that hung precariously over a steep drop. I wandered down it and discovered it looked out over a long tree-lined gully called Glen of the Bar. This was a damned impressive sight, and I’d have loved to have hung about a bit longer admiring it had it not been for the fact I was being pummelled with sky juice. I rushed back to the car and bravely (or possibly stupidly…) donned the camera for a couple of quick photos, as it had dawned on me that I hadn’t taken a single one since the hotel carpark. Between frantically microfiber-ing the lens (don’t worry camera nerds, it was my fully weather-sealed 24-105L) I was able to capture a couple of half decent ones. Frank then decided he still had far too much rubber on his rear tyres, and started pirouetting around in front of me. I clicked the Canon onto video mode and attempted to follow him around. On the teeny tiny camera screen it looked like I had done okay, especially considering I have only used this function a handful of times before. However, reviewing it on a proper screen reveals it was a complete disaster. I think I shall stick to still imagery from now on!

Impeded only by standing water, and the limitations of windscreen wipers and an aging layer of RainX, we pressed on down the A712, fully aware that this would likely be the last interesting stretch of tarmac on our trip. All things considered it wasn’t a bad road either, it was lacking slightly in the scenic department (relatively speaking of course), but there was barely a straight in sight to notice. The twists and turns came thick and fast, requiring the footwork of Michael Flatley to maintain a good flow between them. This lasted for an extremely enjoyable 26 miles, up until a small village called Crocketford, by which point Frank’s engine was running entirely on hopes and dreams in place of unleaded. Fortunately we had found the A75, which delivered us promptly to Dumfries and our penultimate meeting with Señor Shell. From here the A75 turned into an exceedingly straight (and incredibly dull) dual carriage way, which speared its way concisely to the top of the M6.

Roughly 4 hours and 200 miles later we had scaled almost the entire length of this motorway. We stopped only once for bladder convenience at a generic service station, where I took the opportunity to snap some final photos of our three noble steeds, all wearing a heavy coat of hard-won road rash.

They had done us proud. As we stood looking at them parked up, basking in the sunshine which had now decided to show its face, we reflected on the fact that, quite miraculously, they had all completing the trip without even a hint of a breakdown. It was a wonderful realisation and left us all feeling very content.

This bubble was well and truly burst as we crawled slowly towards the M5/M6 interchange, stuck in its notorious traffic jams. We had become a little spread out as we each tried to overtake the others, whilst threading the fastest route through the bedlam. Ed was leading the way as we passed junction 10, with me somewhere in the middle, when the distress call came in over my walkie-talkie. The MX5: it was kaput. I pulled over onto the hatchings just after the on ramp and tried to find out what had happened. As far as I could make out from the panicked crackle coming through the speaker, the car had been absolutely fine one second, then absolutely not fine the next. Without warning it had stalled and was now refusing to start. This was not good news.

Adam (who has the mechanical knowledge of a pencil sharpener) jumped out of my passenger seat and ran back down the packed motorway at rush hour to see if he could be of some assistance. As luck would have it, a keenly-eyed motorist had recently reported some crazy maniac running across the packed motorway at rush hour somewhere near junction 10. I’m moderately sure these two events are unrelated, but to this day I am still not 100 percent convinced. In any case, what it did mean was that a Highways Agency Land Rover was on the scene in a jiffy. The high-vis heroes produced a tow rope from the boot, hitched it up to the stricken white roadster, and towed it a short way down the motorway to a conveniently-placed refuge area.

Having been informed of the refuge area’s existence I had made my way there in preparation, and after a brief dialogue with the Traffic Officers (predominantly requesting an absence of running around on a packed motorway at rush hour) I sent Adam away in the Clio to reconvene with Ed at a Morrisons just off of junction 9.

After a quick poke around under the bonnet of the MX5 I concluded that it had likely just gotten very hot, and the Megasquirt ECU had probably realised this and taken some evasive action, cutting the power before expensive metal things started to become very unhappy. Sure enough, after leaving it for a few minutes with the cooling fans screaming their blades off at the front, and the heater set to max inside, it started again on the button. As a passenger, squashed in between various bits of luggage with my face being melted off by the dash vents, it was an uncomfortable journey from here to the Morrisons car park, but fortunately very short.

We hung around here for a bit, letting the little Mazda cool down further, and the traffic calm down a bit too. We laughed at the irony of having spent the best part of the last 5 days hooning about the countryside at full pelt without a breakdown, but being unable to complete a simple straight line cruise back home. At least 3 of us laughed about it… one of us was still a little less amused.

Anyway, after half an hour or so of getting lost in Walsall, thanks to Adam’s questionable navigation skills, we managed to find the M5 and finished the rest of the trip without any further drama. Just south of Gloucester we waved and tooted goodbye to Ed, who continued down the M5, while me and Frank turned off and picked up the A417. A few minutes after 8pm, as the sun dipped below the horizon, we re-entered our glorious home town of Swindon, a scant 109 hours since we had last left.

We were all shattered, and glad to be home with the prospect of comfy sofas and familiar mattresses, but also sad that the adventure was now officially over. Scotland once again seemed a whole world away, a mythical land that existed only in dreams and memories. Yet dreams and memories that will undoubtedly last a lifetime. Oh and the 40GB of photographs and videos will probably help that cause as well!

I shall end this chapter with a few vital statistics, kindly provided by the Clio’s trip computer. From the moment I had left my driveway on Day 1, to the moment I rolled back onto it at the end of Day 5, the little French hatchback and I had covered 1,683 miles, at an average speed of 43.8mph. I had seen off exactly 300 litres of super unleaded equating to an average economy of 25.2mpg. I am still pretty impressed with those numbers. We did good.