Day 12 - Mallaig / Morar / Lochailort / Salen / Resipol

Old is good, New Is Bad

When heading out of Mallaig, you have a choice between the slick, new fast road—straight and wide, with an added EU-funded cycle lane—or the tougher, not-for-wimps old road that follows the coast. We were in the groove, so we chose the old scenic route. I suspect the new road's cycle path will remain unused by all touring cyclists. The main A830 Fort William road seemed to be subject to a total relocation. Make no mistake, these roadworks were no minor inconvenience; they were huge, stretching for ten miles. The road to Mallaig was being turned into an extra-wide carriageway, dead straight. Whole mountains were being torn aside. While I don’t live in Mallaig, so probably for them, it’s a good thing, but there’s a difference between knocking out the odd bend and the extent of these works, which was out of all proportion.

This is part of my cultural heritage. This was the 'Road to the Isles' for heaven’s sake; it’s now a superhighway from nowhere to nowhere. No doubt, as soon as it is finished, the accident rate will go off the scale. Money will then be spent on speed reduction schemes (cameras and staggered junctions). At what point does making it easier for the economy of the area become self-defeating? The road now is no different from driving on some sections of the M1. And don’t tell me it’s for the HGVs—there is a perfectly good railway running alongside the entire route!

Speaking of the railways, just before we turned off the Mallaig–Fort William road, we managed to catch a glimpse of the steam tourist train heading north. Now called horribly 'The Hogwarts Express'. I’ve seen it many times, but the sight of a steam engine going thumping uphill at full throttle in this terrain still makes you stop and stare—it's doing all of 40 mph, which in this area is quite fast enough.

Ailort the Road

Soon enough, we left the A830 at Lochailort, the village—not to be confused with Loch Ailort, the loch—onto the quieter and more scenic A861. Just after the junction, we stopped for a snack in a bus shelter. We were getting real experts at these bus shelters, and according to the graffiti, it was poor old Morag getting slagged off yet again. She must get around a bit and seems to be the main entertainment for the local youths from Arran to the Outer Hebrides.

The road along the sea and the shores of Loch Ailort is very beautiful. Across the bay, there were plenty of islands to catch the eye and imagination. The film ‘Local Hero’ has close connections with the area. The Lochailort Hotel had been used to film the dining room scenes (where the rabbit was eaten for dinner). Also, nearby is the church used in the same film.
If the continual mention of the film 'Local Hero' is too subtle for you, then get a copy and watch it!

This section was going to be hard work, but as it turned out, it was worth the effort. It is a little-used scenic road and serves the numerous fish farms in this area. There was a big climb up Glen Uig over to Loch Moidart, then a second climb from Kinlochmoidart, punctuated by three large stone cairns, shown on the map as 'Captain Robertson’s Cairn -1868', although I have not been able to find out who Captain Robertson was and why he has three cairns. I suspect though that Captain Robertson died from cycling up all those hills, and they buried him with his bike and kit.

Midge Hell

From there, it was an easy ride down to Salen on Loch Sunart. The road threaded its way through wooded glades, thick with rhododendrons. The views changed as the road dipped into dark forests, only opening up at Loch Nan Umah. On reflection, this part of the journey was when we were at our peak of fitness, covering significant miles. The steeper summits still defeated us, but generally, we were riding like pros. After a short stay at a charming tearoom in Salen, we soon reached the Reispol campsite. Initially, it seemed like a near-perfect site. There was a laundry, soon filled with our clothes, excellent showers, and even a small camper’s kitchen. The site was clearly upmarket, with camper vans and caravans of circus/showman-like sizes. Each had at least one large jet ski and a collection of valuable, yet impeccably clean, mountain bikes outside. The campsite was set in a wooded glen, right next to Loch Sunart.

While waiting for the tumble dryer, we wandered into the shop. Chris spotted a two-litre tub of Mackie’s ice cream, which caught his eye due to its reduced price of 50p. I immediately noticed it was Mackie’s. Never mind your American or Italian rubbish; this is the crème de la crème of ice creams. We shamelessly scoffed the entire tub in the laundry room, which, I might add, also provided a collection of up-to-date magazines. One thing that began to dawn on us was that, despite the site being nearly full, there was no one around. No kids on bikes going round and round, nobody out for a caravan-comparing walk. An ideal place for this type of stroll.

We soon discovered why. Since our arrival, we had been constantly on the move—shop, pitch tent, shower, shop, laundry, eat a large tub of ice cream. Now that the initial rush was over and the evening began to settle in, so did the midges. I can honestly say this was the worst place I had ever been for the little blighters. They were horrific. Near our tent was a litter bin that made a noise. On closer inspection, I found it was a midge hoover-upperer. Despite it sucking in the little devils by the bagful, it had absolutely no effect on the clouds of midges still hanging about. So, just after seven in the evening, we went to bed. It was simply impossible to do anything outside the tent. There was no letup in the morning. Luckily, we had a camper’s kitchen to cook and eat our breakfast, but taking down the tent and getting underway was pure torment.

Culicoides Impuctus

No holiday report from Scotland would be complete without mentioning the weather and the ubiquitous Scottish midge (Culicoides Impuctus). Australia has the white shark. Africa has rampaging elephants. Scotland has the midge. The effect of a midge bite is out of all proportion to its actual size. The midge is one of the perils of Scottish life. The Scottish midge shares the instinctive socialist tendency inbred into the Scottish character. Much like Scottish Man, the midge may drink alone but mainly prefers hanging about with others. And just like Scottish Man, it tends to get a bit loud, boisterous and argumentative when it has had a few.

For the cyclist, it means concentrating on keeping your mouth shut and always going slightly faster than the wind. Easier said than done, when going uphill and gasping for breath, you cannot help but take in a throatful of insect matter. Stopping for a good old spit is not recommend, as the little blighters that are still alive will now seek revenge on for their drowned friends.Saving it for the downhill may result in an accidental overdose of protein, but worse is a very unwise attempt at ejection at speed. The necessary parting of the lips allows further objects a way in, and the process inevitably results in spit-covered corpses decorating your face and clothes. Knowing the difference between ‘apparent wind’ and ‘true wind’ takes years of practice.

There is some debate in the scientific community, see for example McSporran, McCracken, (et al).1997, Wee Midges Up Yer Kilt, about the best way to repel these horrendous little creatures.

The current suggested battle plan consists of:

• Face netting – have you tried eating and drinking with one of them on your head?
• DEET repellent – this comes with a warning that it dissolves Lycra, now that makes it really useful stuff for the touring cyclist!
• Our last weapon is Avon Soft and Nice. Now who are we kidding here, this stuff is an Ad-Man’s dream – nowhere on the label is there any mention of its anti-midge properties; it is based solely on rumour and desperation.

It does, however, up to a point, appear to work. Although having plastered yourself with this perfumed, feminine product, the drawback is having to walk around like a Scots ex-pat and speak about ‘bonking’ and ‘pelotons and other manly things like bottom gear ratios.

If you listened to all the advice folk give, you would set out smelling like a chemical dump, sporting red skin because you have rubbed petrol all over you and smoked a cigarette. You could try, wearing two pairs of socks, woollen jumpers, thick gloves, a scarf, waist-high fishermen’s waders, a Macintosh raincoat, a balaclava, a hat, a bee-keeper’s net, wellington boots, an umbrella, earmuffs, goggles, a gas mask and a NASA spacesuit, all covered by a double-ply midge net. Carrying a clove of garlic and a spray can of Agent Orange, I hear, also helps.