Day 1 - Edinburgh / Union Canal / The Lang Whang / New Lanark

We had only30 miles to cover on the first day to reach New Lanark Youth Hostel, so we had anticipated a late start. A party of three eventually headed west, needless to say two of whom were grossly overloaded and dangerously weaving all over the road. The third person was my sister (a very active hill-walker and cyclist), she had the job of leading this adventure party through the concrete jungle that now surrounded the fair city of Edinburgh.

My family often warns anyone planning to trek over Scottish mountains with her: it isn't considered a proper walk unless your feet bleed. Today, the danger lay in being left behind, feeling physically inadequate and demoralized, all within the first 10 miles. Luckily, the route along the Union Canal was a pleasure. Part of a national cycle route to Glasgow, the narrow towpath and the occasional dog walker held her back just enough to make it look like Chris and I were 'cycle fit' and perfectly able to keep up.

The path took us along the 'Water of Leith', often called Edinburgh's 'hidden river'. Despite running through the center of Edinburgh, it's a haven for wildlife and mature trees, mostly hidden below street level.

I left my hometown of Edinburgh 40 years ago, and like all waterside areas in large towns, it has undergone extensive development. The village of Balerno, which in my youth was significantly out in the countryside, is now well within the city's suburbs. Here, we left the cycle path and took the A70.

So it was there we were seen off and left on our own. I took the lead up a fairly steep hill and around some bends. After about a mile I glanced back and Chris had gone! The first mile on our own in a possible 500 mile journey and he had disappeared. What on earth was his wife going to say? I pulled over into a field entrance and waited. About 15 minutes later he slowly appeared over the hill. This was a view I was regularly to see over the next 16 days.

Wearing the Green Jersey

The delay turned out to be because he finally concluded that carrying two fleeces was unnecessary, despite several repacks. So, he spent some time rummaging through the panniers and handed one fleece to my sister to take back with her. Had he remembered this in the morning, it would have saved him some money, as we spent an extraordinary amount of time in Tiso’s hunting for the cheapest fleece on sale. His purchase of this garment was particularly unsettling because I was already wearing the exact same fleece, bought previously from the same store.
As we pedaled through Scotland, the locals must have thought they were seeing double. Both of us were clad in identical outfits, riding the same make and color of bike. To put it mildly, we would have put the sponsored teams in The Tour de France to shame! I have to admit, though, that they were excellent purchases. A micro fleece is an essential garment for the Scottish summer—not just to keep warm on ‘summer’ days, but also to ward off midges on warm days. Plus, they made the most excellent pillows!

Don't Whang about on the Lang Whang!

The Scot's name of the road is the 'Lang Whang', with 'whang' in the Scots tongue referring to a narrow strip of leather. Much of the road is over elevated, desolate moorland, ascending several times to over 1000 feet above sea level. In winter, the wind's easy and uninterrupted passage often closes the road with snow, even modest snowfalls. The road lives up to its name and seems never-ending, despite good views across the Forth and Pentland Hills. We passed through the small towns of Carnwath and Carstairs, and the exposed countryside confirmed why the area is sparsely populated. Almost instantly, we said goodbye to civilization. Despite the expected slog, the journey wasn't too bad, helped by a grey dull day with no wind.

New for Old

Late in the evening, we finally saw signs for New Lanark Youth Hostel. To get there, we had to pass through the town of Lanark. For historical context, the town of New Lanark was founded in 1786 and is older than Lanark. It was well hidden down a steep, winding road into a dark, tree-covered gorge.

I certainly enjoyed today's ride but had grave thoughts about leaving in the morning. The next day’s ride of 53 miles to Ardrossan would be hard work as we aimed to catch the 3 pm ferry to Arran. Getting back uphill to Lanark from New Lanark without a heart attack would be a major obstacle.

The Great Fall at the Clyde

I arrived at the hostel without Chris, who I am sure I last seen far behind me at the top of the hill. Eventually, he made his appearance, and upon inquiring about his lateness, I established that he had, in fact, walked his bike down the steepest bits as he 'didn’t like riding down hills'. We intended to have a quick ride around this quite amazing place and look for a shop as we needed something for tea. I had only gone a few yards, when I heard an almighty crash and turned to see that Chris had fallen off his bike, having completely failed to coordinate his feet into toe clips.

A good place to do this sort of thing is at a busy tourist World Heritage Site like New Lanark. I left him propped up against a wall sipping his water (not before taking a picture of the injuries, of course). Tourists at the scene began piecing together the information available: bottom of a steep hill, bike lying on the road, injured cyclist nearby? The assumption was then made - Chris had suffered catastrophic brake failure coming down the steep hill and that he had heroically skidded to a halt by using his knees as brake pads. The rush to his aid by a multitude of international visitors would have put UNICEF to shame; poor Chris was a bit shocked even if all his injuries amounted to was a skinned knee. On my return, he was gallantly telling a posse of women of a certain age about the proposed trip and his efforts to cycle all of 30 miles from Edinburgh that day. It became very noticeable that Chris and 'ladies of a certain age' were mutually attracted, and often over the next few weeks Chris would be seen posing next to his bike while regaling his exploits on touring the B6047 and the back lanes of Leicestershire. I eventually managed to pry him away and shuffled him into New Lanark Youth Hostel.

The Couscous Mountain

My search for a food shop had ended in complete failure as I found that the nearest shop was – guess where? Back up that bloody hill. I would rather go hungry; the prospect of doing that hill tomorrow was bad enough. Planning the day’s rations is a logistical nightmare for the cyclist with minimal carrying space. I did carry emergency dry food pack, but, even in my current starved state, breaking into this on the first night was not going to be a good sign. So, we stared hungrily at the very dodgy-looking selection of pot noodles and tinned foods for sale in the hostel. We chose the dried spicy couscous which, according to the label was packaged in East Grinstead. It was news to me that East Grinstead was the centre of couscous excellence. After eating it, I can confirm it isn't! We also both disbelieved the blurb on the front that this was a meal for two, so we bought two packets. It turned out that, in fact, two packets would have been enough to feed the whole population of New Lanark.

Now the hostel itself was excellent, modern, with rooms were all en-suite and had no more than four beds in each. After slaving over a hot kettle and cooking our hard-earned tea. I went for a short walk along 'Falls of the Clyde' which I might add despite it being mid-summer, was in full flow. If I had the time, I would have written a song about it. Chris, however, missed most of this as he spent the evening repacking his panniers, having discovered the first law of touring cycling: that anything you will need will be in the other pannier, but you will not discover this until the pannier you first went to is emptied and spread all over the room. I have already mentioned that this particularly applied to his AWOL cutlery. Chris was henceforth often to be seen eating yogurt, for example, with a large plastic ladle.

Late Night Visitors

I had been here before but was quickly reminded that this is a superbly scenic place, even late on a dull grey evening. On return from my evening stroll, I went straight to bed, worrying about the climb out of here and the 53 miles to do tomorrow by 3 pm. Chris had still had spread everything he possessed around the room and it was getting late. It was a four-bedded room it currently looked as if there were actually four of us in it. As I was lying in my bed I commented that it looked as if we were going to have the room to ourselves when . . . you guessed it, there was a rattle at the door, and in came two rather large leather-clad bikers. By bikers, I don’t mean the Lycra-wearing, peace-loving, car-hating bikers. I mean the other type. Being a well-organised soul I had packed my kit ready for the early start. This meant I was fairly safe in that my worldly possessions were established in my clearly defined personal space.
This was not the case, however, with poor Chris, whose idea of writing everything down and recording in which one of his three bags items were going in, had now clearly gone down the pan in a big way.

Chris, who had never been in a hostel before, was rudely brought down to earth when confronted by our two new guests. Gathering his jumble into several black plastic bags actually made it worse for him. Why the black refuse bags you may ask? Chris’s panniers were not waterproof. Yes, cycle panniers - not waterproof! What was the point in even making them? Which is why he needed to keep everything in plastic bags. The rustling noise was deafening as he hoovered everything up and continually and profusely apologised to the larger of the two guests. I thought it best to pretend to be asleep and occasionally let out a pretend snort, hoping it would sound like I was about to come awake, so keep the noise down! It turned out that our two 'Hells Angels' were father and son from Holland and were on the last day of a two-week bike tour of the Highlands.

Like most Dutch people, they spoke very good English, albiet with a soft, Dutch lilt. Chris, being Chris, is slightly deaf, and I suppose nerves had something to do with it as well, but the result was the man would ask a question and get a reply from Chris that bore no relation to the question asked. Couscous and East Grinstead were mentioned at some point, and it all got too confusing in the end.
Eventually, it did quieten down, but a sleepless night ensued as my mind continually replayed the enormity of the morning's long trek up that hill. The prospect of water-only porridge for breakfast and getting to the Arran ferry for the 3 pm, all combined to unsettle me.