Applecross

a big one

We pack the tents and make our way back to the hotel bar for breakfast.

It costs a tenner each - US$15-ish - which it turns out is the going rate for this kind of thing. We down some cereal and then Dave goes for the full English, while Debbie and I opt for fish. We put some of the small packs of butter into our pockets to use on the bread so we can have a picnic later.

Outside our tents were drying, slung over some wooden benches, flapping about in the breeze. The sky is overcast.

We soon climb. Rhododendrons line parts of the way up, with purple sticks of digitalis making an appearance here and there, shooting high out of the ferns.

Blue skies open up for a few minutes, before clouds push themselves over it.

We climb some more. Dave’s knees don't like it one bit.

The couple of tiny villages we pass don't offer up much in terms of respite. They are just fishing communities. We need sponge cake and sticky toffee pudding.

The views on this wonderful coastal section are fabulous. Low mountains form the horizon. The loch is on our right. There are hardly any cars. We are out there. Abandoned cottages seem to say these parts are not for living in.

There are some flat sections, where the road usually skirts small pieces of water, but mostly we climb and dropped and then do it all over again.

It seems doubtful we can do the road over the high pass as I thought we’d ride the 50km to Applecross before noon. It is 2pm when we get to the dinky village, little more than a few houses and a pub.

On his train journey to Scotland, Dave was told by a passenger to have the fish and chips in the Applecross Inn. "The best you’ll ever have," the man had said. That’s what we order. It is disappointing: frozen peas and chips from a packet.

Dave is unsure about any more riding. We can camp here, but it is very early in the day. And it would scupper the remaining itinerary, as I’d set the day’s goal for Lochcarron. Adding it to the next day would simply be too much to ask.

After an hour sat in the bar, Dave says he’ll give it a go. We walk outside, get on the bikes and head for the pass, one of the highest in the UK.

We know we’ll walk some of the route. It is mid afternoon but it won't get dark until 10.00pm, which is just as well.

A sign soon tells about the route is often being blocked in winter. This is mid summer and it looks grim, with rain a possibility any moment. Sure enough, it starts.

We don our jackets, then eventually find a small stone bridge to hide under, but the strong wind wafts the rain and chills us, so we press on. Thankfully it cleared soon after. It's hard to believe this is summer.

There are a few false summits. Then we see the road wiggle up in the distance. The apex is a windswept area with a stainless steel marker pointing out the nearby places, mostly to the west, such as mountains and villages.

Its Gaelic name, Bealach na Bà, means Pass of the Cattle, which alludes to the fact drovers once used it to herd their cows across the rocky peninsula and before the coastal road was completed, the one we cycled earlier in the day, this narrow, twisting piece of track was the only way to reach the west coast.

The drop down is steep, 20 percent in places. As we get lower the air becomes clear. The loch then comes into view. It seems massive.

We ride over a bridge and stop briefly to enjoy the view, one painted quite famously by Willie Brown in the late 1800s, but midges soon find us so we speed off, hoping to find something to eat. It's around 8pm.

A small place not far from Tornacross junction is open. We prop the bikes against the fence and take a table beside the large window and question the waiter about what to order. I say I need something filling and he suggests the scallop with garlic potatoes and a croissant. When it comes my heart sinks Ten quid for a snack.

To ease the pain, I drink a bottle of Skye red, brew nearby. It's always good to experience the local culture.

There is more climbing to be done. We have to get to Lochcarron, on the east side of the stubby peninsula. The waiter says it i nothing compared to what we’ve just done. But how could it be.

Darkness is just about complete when we roll along the long village street, looking for a B&B sign. We eventually find the one pub and a local comes out and points out a nearby house which he says might have room. No luck, but the owners phone another place and give us directions after confirming they have rooms available. It's around the back, up a long sloping lane. Just what we don't need.

We find it and "You must be…” the chirpy, 60-something landlady starts when she opens the door.

“Insane” I add.

She laughs.

Today's ride: 82 km (51 miles)
Total: 145 km (90 miles)

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