Day 2 - New Lanark / Auchenheath / Kilmarnock / Ardrossan / Brodrick (Arran)/ Lamlash

Eventually, dawn filtered through on a dull, rainy day, the first of many to come.I whispered, "Chris, are you awake?" and received an immediate reply. Like me, he was eager to get up and leave early. I asked him to gather his belongings quietly, and he agreed. Within minutes, I was dressed. Through the gloom, I saw Chris seemingly trying to walk on his hands.

'What are you doing?' I asked,
'I’ve lost my glasses.' he replied,
'Don’t move! Stay where you are.'

I knew, I just knew, that in the next few seconds there was going to be the sound of breaking spectacles on bare feet. I had no choice but to switch the light on. This was no namby-pamby gentle awakening light; this was, of course, a full-blown 200-watt fluorescent twin-tube job that would be sufficient to light up the Tattoo at Edinburgh Castle. On it went, and soon we were on all fours pattening the floor until we found the offending glasses. Next came the deafening rustle of bin liners, some carrying a single item, others crammed full, and one bulging with pills and lotions. I quickly scampered downstairs, leaving Chris in a paranoid state, scouring the room for anything he might have left behind. I pitied the largest of the two guests who rolled his eyes to the heavens as Chris lifted the mattress in a futile search for his cutlery pack..

The Porridge Mountain

Downstairs, in the kitchen, another small disaster was unfolding as I tried to cure the hunger pangs by making an extraordinarily large amount of porridge (about a week's worth). Chris, in an inquisitive mood, rummaged through the fridge and cupboards and found a selection of items left by previous visitors. If only we had come across this little treasure chest last night! Among this treasures was the luxury of all luxuries: a two -litre bottle of milk, (close to its sell-by date, mind you). So, in went the milk – all of it. We now had enough porridge to feed, the whole of Scotland.

Bearing in mind we were first up in the hostel intending to get an early start, this plan went out the window as we ate plate after plate of porridge. Chris intensely dislikes food waste, so some of the remaining porridge went into his mug (which did have a lid) for later. By later, I mean a lot later as you will see. This saving and squirrelling away food by him was to become a godsend later in the tour. By the time we washed the largest pot in the hostel rack and cleared half a ton of porridge out of the U-bends, we ended up leaving a little bit later than intended. Our ferry timings now in jeopardy!

Powered by Porridge

Now for that bloody big hill, at the bottom, looking up, this was going to be a daunting prospect. The highest parts were covered in low cloud and small gravel rivers ran across the road on the hair-pin bends. So, no further dithering, our heads went down, the gears went down, and slowly, we went up the steepest hill you ever did see. We soon realised the warning of a ‘steep ascent’ doesn’t just mean a little less talking but a touch more standing up and pushing. It's 30 grinding minutes in the lowest gear and a lot of highly audible panting; our morale is considerably decreased when we are overtaken by a wee elderly lady, walking her wee Highland Terrier in its wee tartan coat! She did give us a wee Scottish 'good morning' but all she got back was wheezing noises. In the end, we both got up the hill - fully loaded and without stopping. If anything, it was a great boost to our sagging egos as this was, surely, the steepest hill we were to face on this journey!!!

A Rangers Away Day

Just outside of Lanark, having done all of about two miles. We ran into a 'slight' problem. By 'slight' I mean 'big'. The road was - CLOSED - SHUT - NOT OPEN - ZUTRITT VERBOTEN! It appeared that somewhere on this distant Scottish backroad resurfacing was taking place. Who are they trying to kid? This is 9 am on a Sunday morning! It did say there was ' residents access allowed', but it was not at all clear whether we could get through to the A71 to Kilmarnock.

I stopped at the junction and tried to make sense of the map of where the diversion route was going to send us. Chris rode up to me and quickly grasped the essence of the problem. Was the road open or not? Could a bike get through?
His solution was simple - to ask someone. I sarcastically looked around. Lanark on a wet Sunday morning was hardly a bustling cosmopolitan town. In fact, 100% of its residents were quite clearly still and sensibly in bed. To his credit, Chris's solution to this problem was brilliantly simple. He, simply walked into the middle of the road and stood in front of a car coming down the supposedly closed road. The car, much to my amazement, stopped. And to my absolute horror I saw -and this is the truth - it was packed with Ranger's supporters. No doubt the ‘Gers' were inflicting themselves on some small Scottish town miles away from Glasgow which entailed this very early start. Chris was now talking to the driver.

Meanwhile, I was trying to hide behind my bike crouching down pretending there was a fault with my pedals. Please don’t ask me a question Chris. If they hear my Edinburgh accent I am mincemeat. Sod the fact that Chris’s English accent was the biggest giveaway ever. He was probably now referring to the driver as ‘my man’ or ‘dear chap’. That didn’t bother me too much as I knew I was a faster cyclist, especially when the chips are down. The inevitable question was asked, and from across the road came the sound of Chris,
"Stewart, where is it we were going to?"
I continued to look at this wicked pedal. It was just not spinning right. I ignored the question. I was not with him. I was just a local person who just happened to be on a similar bike. I knew where I was and where I was going. That mad Englishman over the road was not with me. I looked behind me in pretense of looking for this "Stewart" person he was shouting at. Glancing into a shop window, I noticed my lovely green fleece top and saw Chris also in the same team colours.
The game was up!
"Auchenheath", I said.
I think, I then heard Chris reply to the man in blue with no neck,"wanna punch in the teeth"!

The brain makes rapid calculations in moments like this; it looked to me like a big hairy fist was coming out the driver’s window. I could clearly see 'GERS' tattooed on the back of his fingers. The fist contorted and transformed itself into a stubby digit, and it pointed down the supposedly closed road. That hand signal was enough for me, the road was open! Taking no account of the fact that my sudden stop had left me in a ridiculously high gear, if there is one thing worse than running away, it is doing so while pretending not to. Striving to get face-saving nonchalance, I pedaled away to the noise of crunching gears and the occasional missed cog, at about 2 miles an hour, not daring to look round until I had gone around the next bend.

Beiruts Twin City

Looking back now, the journey to Auchenheath was awful. In my inexperience with this kind of cycling, I made the misguided decision to avoid the main roads, which turned out to be a colossal error. 'B' roads, as it turns out, are not much different from 'A' roads in terms of traffic. They are just more bendier! Worse still, these particular 'B' roads plunged steeply into dark river gorges and rose back up in Grand Canyon-like elevations.
As the crow flies, the distance to the next junction was about ten miles, but on a bike, it stretched to around twenty. The atrocious road surfaces didn't help either; they were often so riddled with potholes that even a third-world country would have been ashamed. We should have saved some of our porridge to fill the craters. It would have been nice to make some pleasant observations about the area, but there was nothing remotely nice about it. The villages, just like the skies, were drab and grey. Concrete grey boxes of houses dotted a bleak, featureless landscape. As for the town of Auchenheath, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had been rejected as a twin town with Beirut, with its permanent steel-grid shutters even over the few shops that were open.
Eventually, we reached the A71 and were pleasantly surprised by its tranquility and the lack of heavy lorries. Had we known this back in Lanark, we would have stayed on it. However, we were now halfway through our journey, and time was ticking away. Unless we picked up the pace, we wouldn't make it to the 3 pm ferry from Ardrossan.

Scotch Pies and Scones

At yet another small town whose name has now melted and disappeared into the mind along with a host of similar-looking places, we spotted an old-fashioned teashop and, even better, it was open. Upon entering the said establishment, it soon became apparent that this was a little gem of a place. They offered Scotch pies and beans and, much to Chris’s glee, all for just £1.70.
We followed this up with tea and big fruit scones that had been baked on the premises that very morning. The pleasure of eating overcame the sense of urgency for the ferry. When I asked Chris if he was ready to go, he replied that he needed five more minutes to let his tea settle. I couldn’t believe his lack of urgency! We had at least ten miles to cover in two hours, a perfectly feasible journey—but not if we were sitting in a café.
Eventually, I dragged him outside, but not before he wrapped up his fresh scone and jam ‘for later.’ I should point out that there was a slight delay in starting: Chris wanted to take a picture of our bikes outside this 'time-warped' café. When I looked through the photographs later (now our shared camera), I saw that he had taken a picture of a Ford Mondeo which just happened to pass in front of the café as the shutter was pressed—another 1/2000th of a second wasted when we should have been rushing to catch the ferry.

Kilmarnock Bad, By-pass Good

We pedalled our weary way toward Kilmarnock, a town whose best feature seemed to be the bypass. The planners appeared to have given up on the town as a hopeless cause. My original plan was to ride into the centre of Kilmarnock and follow a national cycle route along a disused railway line—Kilmarnock had plenty of disused things. However, I decided to stay on the dual-carriageway bypass, hoping it would be a more direct route to the ferry terminal.
We had picked up the ferry signs, reducing the possibility of getting lost. At the first big roundabout, I went straight across. It was busy, but since it was a Sunday, nobody was rushing. You only had to take the first left and carry straight on. I went and waited for Chris, as I had promised to wait at every junction to make sure he was following me. I stopped about 100 meters up the road from the roundabout and waited. And waited. No sign of Chris anywhere. I couldn't see the road we had just been on because of the hump and foliage in the middle of the island—where on earth was he?
Then I heard rustling in the bushes coming from the field behind me. There was Chris, looking for a way through the hedge back to the road.
"What are you doing in there?" I asked.
"I don't like roundabouts," he said. "I went into the field to cut the roundabout off."
My nervous tic was getting worse, now accompanied by an involuntary slap to my forehead. If that junction was a disaster, the next one was even worse. At the give way lines, Chris got off and walked around, which was fine. However, the road leading off it was coned down the middle of the carriageway. There was a big sign stating that the outside lane was closed for centre island grass cutting. This, as far as I was concerned, was brilliant. I went straight into the fast lane, now totally free of traffic. The road cones disappeared into the distance, and I was convinced we were finally going to get the ferry.
Well, I thought this for about a fraction of a second before my hopes were shattered by the squealing of tyres and the furious blaring of car horns. Looking back, I saw that Chris, having failed to follow me into the fast and coned-off lane, was riding with the traffic in the single lane. Unfortunately, the traffic was more likely riding with him. There was an enormous tailback behind him, as the lane was now too narrow for cars to overtake. Chris was pedalling away furiously, quickly becoming aware of the chaos unfolding behind him. I couldn't believe my eyes. He ended up having to stop and physically lift his bike off the road onto the left-side grass verge. It was a good 10 minutes before the traffic cleared sufficiently for him to cross the road to me.
"I don't like traffic," was all he said.

No Pressure

I found myself contemplating the absurdity of embarking on a two-week bike tour with an adult companion who detested roundabouts, dreaded downhill rides, and was terrified of traffic. As I mumbled to myself, we approached yet another roundabout, looking like a mutated set of bagpipes. It was clear we’d miss the ferry, but strangely, the relief was instant. No more pressure—just a three-hour wait and a 10-mile ride to our campsite on Arran, likely in the dark.
The rest of the journey turned pleasant. We stumbled upon the cycleway, guided by some helpful young hoodies. The 'This Way To The Ferry', signs became a comforting sight. My hopes soared briefly—maybe we could make it—but they were dashed when a level crossing siren blared. No way was Chris making it past those barriers in time.

Ardrossan: The Ferry Crossing

Ardrossan was a small town with a bustling harbour. The seafront’s multi-lane roads, adorned with gantry-style traffic lights, directed all manner of transport—except bikes—to the ferry terminal. Instead of sightseeing, we explored a local ASDA store, indulging in a cheap curry and tea. After three hours, even Chris had had enough. The terminal building became our refuge as Chris tore apart his panniers searching for his cutlery pack, only to realize he’d left it at the Youth Hostel.
Finally, the excitement of our first ferry crossing gripped us. Flashing our tickets to the fluorescent-clad attendant, we were ushered to the front of the queue. No turning back—we were seasoned bikers now, heading to the islands of Bonnie Scotland.

Arran Revealed

The distant mass of Arran gradually unveiled itself, shrouded in dark clouds over Goatfell. We still had 10 miles to cover, but it seemed manageable. The sweep of Culzean Bay to the south and the distant outlines of the Mull of Kintyre and Ireland added to the anticipation. But a brewing storm over the Firth of Clyde threatened our arrival.
As we crossed, it seemed as if Arran had vanished into the clouds. Our arrival in Brodick was met with a torrential downpour. The slight hill out of Brodick turned into a mountain disappearing into the mist. Aiming for a particular campsite, we trekked uphill for miles. Chris lagged behind, hinting at his dwindling energy. By chance, we found a different campsite, though waterlogged.

Tent Snobbery

Setting up camp, we faced challenges. My sturdy green tent was up in minutes. Chris’s toy-town tent, according to him had been delivered with mismatched poles. Exhausted and overwhelmed by midges, I had no choice and retreated to my tent.