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

Eventually, dawn broke on a dreary, rain-soaked day—one of many in our future. I called out, "Chris, are you awake?" and received an immediate response; like me, he was ready to get up and get moving. I asked him to quietly collect his belongings, and he agreed. Within minutes, I was dressed and noticed Chris, in the semi-darkness, apparently attempting 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, with absolute certainty, that any second now, there might be the unmistakable sound of spectacles crunching under bare feet. Left with no choice, I flicked on the light—not a gentle, ambient glow, but the full force of a 200-watt fluorescent twin-tube, bright enough to illuminate Edinburgh Castle’s Tattoo. Instantly, we were both crawling on all fours, patting the floor until we found the missing glasses.

Next came the thunderous rustling of bin liners—some nearly empty, others packed full, and one bulging with pills and lotions. I dashed downstairs, leaving Chris anxiously double-checking the room for anything left behind. I spared a sympathetic glance for the larger of the two guests, who rolled his eyes skyward as Chris lifted the corner of his mattress in a desperate search for his cutlery pack.

The Porridge Mountain

Down in the kitchen, another small disaster was brewing as I attempted to stave off hunger with an extravagant amount of porridge—probably enough for an entire week.

Meanwhile, Chris, ever the curious one, rummaged through the fridge and cupboards, uncovering a trove of items left by previous visitors. If only we’d found this stash the night before! Among these discoveries was the ultimate luxury: a two-litre bottle of milk, albeit close to its sell-by date. All of it went into the pot, and soon we had enough porridge to feed all of Scotland. Though we had planned to be the first to leave the hostel for an early start, that intention quickly evaporated as we each ate plate after plate of porridge. Chris, who detests food waste, poured some of the leftovers into his mug (which conveniently had a lid) for later. And by “later,” I mean much later—as will become apparent in our story. This habit of saving and squirrelling away food would prove invaluable in the days ahead. After washing the largest pot in the hostel and clearing what felt like half a ton of porridge from the U-bends, we ended up departing later than planned, now risking missing our ferry.

Powered by Porridge

Now came the challenge of a daunting hill. From the bottom, looking up, it appeared almost insurmountable—the summit shrouded in low cloud, small streams of gravel-laden water crossing the road’s hairpin bends. There could be no more delay; we dropped our heads and our gears, and began the slow, exhausting ascent. It was a gruelling 30 minutes in low gear, with little conversation and plenty of heavy breathing. Our spirits plummeted further when an elderly lady, walking her Highland Terrier, dressed smartly in a tartan coat, breezed past us. She offered a cheery Scottish "good morning," but all she got in return was a chorus of wheezing. Still, we both made it to the top—fully loaded and without stopping.

If nothing else, it was a much-needed boost to our weary egos, convincing us that this must have been the steepest hill we’d face on our journey!

A Rangers Away Day

Just outside of Lanark, after covering barely two miles, we encountered what could only be described as a major obstacle: the road would appear to be closed, firmly undeniably closed, barriers up, access denied, ZUTRITT VERBOTEN! Apparently, this remote Scottish backroad was undergoing resurfacing. At 9am on a Sunday, no less! The sign claimed, “residents access allowed,” but it was unclear if we’d be able to reach the A71 to Kilmarnock.

I pulled up at the junction, map in hand, puzzling over where the diversion might lead us. Chris rolled up beside me, instantly recognising the problem: was the road passable by bike or not? His solution was simple—just ask someone. I looked around sarcastically. Lanark, on a damp Sunday morning, was utterly deserted. Every resident was sensibly still in bed. But Chris, unfazed, took matters into his own hands by stepping into the road and stopped a car coming down the supposedly closed street. To my surprise, the car halted AND to my horror, it was packed full of Rangers supporters, no doubt on their way to some distant town, their early start evidence of their dedication. Chris began chatting with the driver as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Meanwhile, I tried to make myself invisible behind my bike, feigning a problem with my pedals. Please, Chris, don’t draw me in. He was probably calling the driver ‘my man’ or ‘dear chap’ by now. But inevitably, the question came from across the road, Chris shouted, "Stewart, where is it we were going to?" Still examining my uncooperative pedal, I pretended not to hear. I was just a local, I told myself, unrelated to this eccentric Englishman. As Chris kept calling out, I glanced at my reflection in a shop window—my green fleece matched Chris’s, revealing our alliance. The charade was finished.
"Auchenheath," I mumbled in reply.
In my imagination, I was sure I then heard Chris say to the burly man in blue, "Wanna punch in the teeth!" In moments like this, the brain works fast: the driver’s massive fist emerged from the window, and, for a split second, I feared trouble. But instead, his hand formed a stubby finger, pointing down the closed road, signalling it was open for us.

That was all I needed. Ignoring the fact that my sudden stop had left me in an absurdly high gear, I pedalled away, gears crunching, doing my best to appear casual. I didn’t look back until I’d rounded the next bend.

Beirut's Twin City

Reflecting on it now, the ride to Auchenheath was nothing short of dreadful. My lack of experience led me to believe that it was best to avoid the main roads, a decision that today proved deeply misguided. I soon discovered that 'B' roads can carry nearly as much traffic as 'A' roads, only with sharper blind bends and steeper drops. This route plunged into shadowy river valleys and climbed up again as if mimicking the Grand Canyon’s contours.

While the next junction lay just ten miles away as the crow flies, cycling there stretched the distance to nearly twenty on the ground. Road conditions were abysmal—potholes so plentiful even the most neglected corners of the world would have been embarrassed. We joked about patching the craters with our leftover porridge, but in truth, there was little to lighten the mood. Bleak, grey villages punctuated the landscape, their monotony mirrored in the bleak, grey, overcast sky. Concrete clad houses stood in drab clusters, and Auchenheath itself seemed a candidate for rejection as Beirut’s twin town, given its steel-shuttered shops. Eventually, reaching the A71 was a relief: the road was unexpectedly tranquil, and the absence of heavy lorries was a pleasant surprise.

Scotch Pies and Scones

In an ordinary small town, unremarkable among many, we stumbled upon a welcoming traditional teashop. Inside, we discovered a hidden treasure: Scotch pies with beans for just £1.70, much to Chris’s delight. Our meal continued with generous servings of tea and warm, freshly baked fruit scones, their comfort briefly overshadowing our rush to catch the ferry. As I urged Chris to get ready to leave, he lingered, wanting a few extra moments to enjoy his tea, unfazed by our tight schedule. With ten miles left and only two hours before departure, I finally convinced him to wrap up a scone for later.

Just as we were ready to set off, Chris stopped to snap a photo of our bikes outside the café, but the camera instead captured a passing Ford Mondeo—a final, fleeting 2000ths of a second lost. The clock was ticking.

Kilmarnock Bad, By-pass Good

We pressed on toward Kilmarnock, a town notable only for its bypass. Even city planners seemed to have given up on the place. Initially, I planned to take us through the town centre and along a national cycle route that traced an old railway line—one of many disused things in Kilmarnock. Instead, we opted for the dual carriageway bypass, hoping for a more direct route.

At the first major roundabout, I crossed and waited for Chris, as promised. We had a deal that whoever was in front would wait at any junction – unless it was ‘straight on’. Minutes passed, but there was no sign of him. Eventually, rustling from a nearby field revealed Chris, trying to avoid the roundabout by cutting through the hedge. “I don't like roundabouts,” he explained. My patience waned. There was quite a bit of traffic which didn’t help.

After the next roundabout the road was coned off for central verge grass cutting,

It offered me, a traffic-free, outside lane but Chris remained in the ‘open lane’ with the now slow-moving cars, piling up aggressively behind him. Cars that tried to overtake him were scattering cones like skittles, the odd one jamming itself under the passing car. He had to lift his bike onto the left verge to escape the gridlock, murmuring repeating “I don't like traffic.”

No Pressure

It was about here that it struck me that I had embarked on a two-week cycling tour with someone uneasy about 1. roundabouts, 2. hills – both up and down, and 3. traffic. As we approached yet another tangled junction, I accepted we would be missing the ferry. Unexpectedly, the pressure lifted; but we now faced a three-hour wait followed by a ten-mile ride to our Arran campsite, now most likely in the dark.
The route did however get better as we left Kilmarnock and its stupid bypass. Young lads on their BMX’s took us onto the ‘proper’ cycleway through the local park. Soon ferry signs became our beacons of hope—until a level crossing brought Chris’s progress to an abrupt halt. As I waited for him and the barriers to lift , I saw the 3 pm ferry sailing into the distance.

Ardrossan: The Ferry Crossing

Ardrossan welcomed us with its busy harbour and a tangle of overhead gantry’s. None of which said ‘ Cycle Tourist Lane’.
Rather than sightseeing, we passed the potential 3 hour wait time in a local ASDA, enjoying a cheap curry and a large pot of tea. Eventually, even Chris tired of waiting. At the terminal, he rummaged through his panniers to complete his ‘where things are’ list, only to realise his cutlery pack had probably been left in the Youth Hostel kitchen.

Excitement eventually returned as the usual well-managed chaos that always seemed to descend on a ferry turn-around. Tickets in hand, we were held back and were the last to board and our bikes lashed to the ferry structure. It didn’t assure us at all.

Arran, soon appeared on the horizon, unfortunately shrouded in dark ominous clouds. It honestly, did not look inviting, an approaching storm coming up the Firth of Clyde imminently threatened our arrival. Our disembarkation at Brodick, was greeted by a downpour and a daunting 10 mile climb out of town. Chris lagged further behind more than usual. I was fatigued and now walking the bike up very slight inclines. Stumbling upon an alternative campsite, we settled in despite its unwelcoming appearance. Having now experienced its overpricing, its cold concrete toilets and a very soggy pitch I can now award it the honour of ‘the worse campsite in Scotland’.

Tent Snobbery

Setting up camp in the drizzle, my sturdy tent was ready in moments. Chris struggled with what he said were mismatched tent/poles. My attempts to help him were defeated by midges and exhaustion, I retreated shamefully to mine, leaving him to wrestle with the elements, the midges and the tent, on his own.