Day 3 - Lamlash / Brodrick / Lochranza / Clanoag / Kennacraig

Journey wisdom   The weather in Scotland is like being in Iraq - it's either Sunnie or Shite.

In a dream-like state, I was gently awakened by the sun beginning to heat my little tent. I sleepily peered out and saw deer calmly nibbling the grass nearby. Brightly coloured kingfishers flashed in the background of an ever-brightening deep blue sky - it was going to be a nice day. YOU WISH......! NO, IT WASN’T.....IT WAS BLOODY RAINING!

A Weather Recall Notice

It almost felt like the weather itself needed a reset. There was talk of 'The Weather' issuing a recall notice for the summer of 2008, citing “manufacturing defects” that had resulted in a shortage of sunshine and a significant surplus of rain. Summer, it seemed, was out of commission, and autumn was being rolled out early to compensate. Most wouldn’t even notice the switch, especially for those attempting a cycle tour of Scotland, according to Radio Scotland’s weather report.

It was a disheartening start to the main journey—August in Scotland was supposed to be dry. Where were the dramatic heather fires, the evidence of global warming, or the “WHAT A SCORCHER” headlines in the Oban Courier?
I called Chris in his tent, and we agreed to linger half an hour longer in bed, hoping the Scottish weather would see reason and finally grant us a dry cycling day. Sadly, Scotland has an abundance of weather, and, like Chris, it can be a bit hard of hearing.

Can you see the top of the Ben?

A visit to the toilet confirmed what the tent’s rain amplification suggested: the drizzle was as persistent and soaking as it sounded. Scotland’s climate, at its core, can be broken down into three main elements:
• Water: Understanding water is essential to understanding Scottish weather. In local pubs, debates rage about water in whisky—sacrilege or not? While Eskimos have thirty words for snow, Scotland boasts at least thirty words for rain, ranging from drizzle and pouring rain to terms best left to the imagination.
• Wind: Wind is the bane of every Scottish cyclist. No matter the direction, it always seems to be a headwind—cold, strong, relentless.
• Watery-Wind: At first, you might dismiss the wetness as sea spray or something else, but as your glasses mist over and the road darkens, you have to admit it’s rain. By the time you stop to put on waterproofs, you’re wet from sweat instead, and soon enough, the rain stops. Thus begins the endless ‘clothing cycle.’ On the Elusive Sunshine
Sunshine in Scotland rarely arrives with warmth and dryness. When the sun does appear, it’s often in the middle of winter, alongside biting cold—just before a blizzard, even. To Scottish weather forecasters, this is known as “a nice day for a bike ride.”

Electricity and Water Don't Mix.

After a thorough soaking, we managed to make our way back to the bright lights of Brodick, where we sought refuge from the relentless rain. We occupied ourselves with shopping—primarily for batteries, as nearly all our electrical items had failed within a single day. The torch had switched on inside my panniers, draining its power, my cycle computer had ceased working from the first pedal stroke in Edinburgh, and the rear light was full of water. Even my radio was only just hanging on. While replacing the battery in the cycle computer, I found it still stubbornly silent, denying me the chance to regale you with fascinating statistics of our speed and progress.

During our respite in a local café, Chris received a call from his wife who announced the miraculous recovery of his 'stolen camera', discovered beneath the driver's seat of his car. With the panic resolved, the 'fatwa' on his Sailing Club was, like Chris himself, withdrawn. Given the hours spent in the café and the incoming weather, we decided to take the shorter anti-clockwise route to Lochranza. From there, a ferry would take us to Claonaig, followed by a short ride over the hill to our pre-booked B & B at Kennacraig on the Mull of Kintyre. I conveniently left out the detail about the daunting mountain awaiting us—the highest in Arran, standing at 874 metres.

Heading North at Last!

Leaving Brodick, the road hugged the coastline, sometimes only feet from the shore. The A841 traces a circuit around Arran, and we relished the quiet traffic. The route led us through picturesque villages, including Corrie, with its iconic row of white houses facing the sea. We paused to photograph a Viking longboat in the harbour—complete with a Mercury outboard, proving even Vikings appreciate modern convenience! The swings nearby, mere steps from the unfenced main road, spoke to the relaxed pace of island life.

As the day brightened, we climbed into the Arran Mountains. The ascent was prolonged and challenging, marked with a three-stripe chevron gradient—a warning for what lay ahead. Pausing to catch our breath, we watched a young sea eagle glide above, a reminder of the unique joys of cycle touring: the freedom to stop and savour the landscape, the scents of heather, bleating of sheep, and skylarks—just audible above our laboured breathing.

The Whisky Run

What goes up must come down, and our descent into Lochranza was thrilling. Had my cycle computer been functional, I might have recorded a record speed—instead, you must take my word that I all but broke the sound barrier. At the base, the Arran Distillery awaited, and I made an urgent dash inside, brakes protesting loudly. The first single malt of the tour quickly soothed my nerves, though the rain pounding the glass roof outside kept pace with my whisky consumption.
Chris arrived, equally soaked, and we both indulged in hot Scots Broth—comforting even in August. We sampled more whisky and perused the shop, only to blanch at bottles priced at £500. Soon enough, we were back out in Lochranza, ready for the next leg.

Bar-Bag Inspection

My bike kit (and Chris’s) was complemented by a neat little bar-bag that clipped to the handlebars. In there should be your most precious items. It comes everywhere with you. We both brought in our ‘bar bags’ to the restaurant. What was interesting was the difference between what I thought was valuable and what Chris’s thoughts were. My bag consisted of a wallet, camera, mobile phone etc. Out of his bag tumbled, firstly, a large mug of cold porridge, a plastic bag full of pills and potions and, right at the bottom, much to his delight, the missing cutlery pack. Of course, this being a posh sort of place, it did supply cutlery, so Chris, for the first time, had the correct eating tools but did not need them. After a bit more whisky sampling and a quick tour of 'Ye Olde Whisky Shoppe', balking at prices of around £500 a bottle, we were soon back out into the bright lights of Lochranza.

A Grave Situation

There was a short wait for the 3 pm ferry so we had a quick scoot past the ferry terminal. A short distance out of Lochranza is a roadside grave. Clearly, by the state of the moss-covered stone, it was of an age, weather-beaten but still readable. The story is that in 1854, a ship anchored in the bay off Lochranza, a man by the name of John McLean had died on board. The crew wanted to bury him in Lochranza. However, the people of Lochranza were afraid that the body of this sailor might bring the plague to the village, and so they refused to allow him to be buried in the churchyard. The ship’s crew had no better luck along the coast at Catacol, where the people also refused to allow the sailor to be buried within the village. A compromise was reached whereby the sailor was buried, by the roadside, between the two villages. It became a custom for people to leave a pebble from the beach upon the sailor’s grave as they passed by as a token of respect, and perhaps an apology. An alternative and more believable version is that John McLean was a gentleman on a grand cycle tour of Scotland with a companion with 'malice aforethought' - you can guess the rest!

McCartney, where are you?

We sat and had our left-over food watching the flat-bottom ferry plow its way back across from the Sound of Kintyre. No one else got on, so the journey was just for us. We were to return on this ferry in two-weeks time, and it was to be a particularly significant event, but that’s another story. The ferry terminal on the other side took us back to the mainland. It consisted of no more than a concrete ramp and a larger-than-normal bus shelter. The rain had officially stopped by the time we got there, but it became very obvious, very quickly, that the midges that had been hiding all day from the rain were coming out in big style. It would be no exaggeration to say that two grown adult males were chased out of Claonaig. Passing cars may have thought to have spotted two maniacs not only cycling recklessly but also flailing their arms and legs in an impression similar to ‘Tam O’Shanter’ on speed.

The Cow Line

The mainland peninsula we are now on is the narrowest point of the Mull of Kintyre. There is, yet again, a climb over yet another mountain range (honest, there was). I have got to say the climb out off Claonaig was not a pleasantly remembered one. Firstly, we were chased out of town by midges; secondly, it was starting to rain again. Thirdly, it was a single-track road, and it was surprisingly busy. Fourthly, I could not get the tune of ‘Mull of Kintyre’ out of my head. I had come all this way and Paul McCartney could not be seen anywhere. It was quite a struggle up this hill and at the end of a long day as well. It was a matter of just getting your head down and going for it. So both the head and the gears got lower. I was struggling, and when I next looked up expecting to see the summit and heather-covered mountains I found that not only had I not even passed the tree line, I hadn’t even made it past the bloody cow line!

Shower Power

We had pre-booked a Bed and Breakfast along the shores of West Loch, not very far from the next day’s ferry to Islay. The downhill section was over very quickly, for me anyway. I had my usual wait at the bottom while 'you know who' took his bike for a walk! The B & B was a very welcome sight and was absolutely perfect for our needs. It was a large Victorian house, set in well-maintained gardens that even through the mist and rain looked very nice. The only drawback was that it did not do an evening meal. We both, however, concluded that we were just too knackered to go to the nearest pub/food place. So out came the emergency chilli-con-carne food supplies and it was bliss. I soon found the hidden switch for the heated towel rail (these thrifty, crafty Scottish Landladies) so the washing got done and was now steaming away nicely. The room was beginning to look as if a bomb hit it. Especially, since Chris decided to repack and laid everything out in a vain attempt to find his cutlery pack. This was last seen on the restaurant table at the Arran Distillery. . . did he put it back into his bar-bag? . . . Oops!

After our tea, it was an evening watching the Olympics. Watching the British Cycle team winning another gold medal was an added bonus. In any strange house however, there is always the dreaded SHOWER! Why can’t it be a standard fitting? Cars have the pedals in the same order. Why can’t showers?
Our shower’s temperature control was one of those safe cracker jobs: tiny clockwise adjustments going from '...ow...bloodybollocks, I’m being boiled alive!' to 'spine stiffening, needle sharp ice fragments' in about 2 mm's of dial movement.
Anyway, it was two tired but contented cyclists who went to bed. One of them was looking and feeling as if he had just been rubbed down with a Brillo Pad.