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

Journey wisdom   The weather in Scotland is like being in Irag - 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!

The Weather has issued a recall notice for summer 2008, citing 'manufacturing defects' that have resulted in inadequate sunlight and a severe excess of precipitation.

'Basically, summer’s broken, but we can’t do much about it at this late stage. So we’re planning to pull it and roll autumn onto the market earlier than usual to fill the gap. We expect that most customers won’t even notice the changeover, especially those doing a cycle tour of Scotland'. Radio Scotland, weather report.

It was a depressing start to the journey proper, this wasn’t supposed to happen, Scotland in August is meant to be dry. Where were the raging heather fires, the global warming evidence, the 'WHAT A SCORCHER' headlines in the Oban Courier? I called Chris in his Wendy House, and we agreed to have an extra half hour in bed. This was in the full expectation that the Scottish weather would see sense and eventually oblige us with a proper, sensible, dry cycling day. Unfortunately, there is an awful lot of weather in Scotland, and like Chris, it is slightly deaf.

Can you see the top of the Ben?

A quick trip to the toilet confirmed that the amplification of the rain on the tent was not exaggerated. You know that soft, persistent type of drizzle that has an extraordinary soaking effect, well that was it.
The Scottish climate consists basically of three main elements:
Water: It is very important to have a good grasp of all things watery if you want to understand Scottish weather. Take for example the lengthy constant debate in all Scottish pubs – water in your whisky? Sacrilege or not. Eskimos have thirty words for snow. Scotland has thirty words for rain. A few examples are - drizzle, bloody drizzle, pissing, bloody pissing, shit-rain,(not to be confused with sheet rain), etc.
Wind: The wind is the other Scottish cyclist's main hate, no matter which compass point you are heading in, you will be going into a headwind. Needless to say; it is always cold and strong.
Watery-wind. You first, are in denial that it is rain, sea spray, perhaps, anything but the wet-stuff. The darkening road, your glasses misting over, eventually you concede it is actual rain, but by the time you have stopped, searched for the waterproofs, put them on, guess what? The next few miles has you wetter on the inside with sweat, as by now, of course, it’s perfectly dry. So you stop . . and the ‘clothing cycle’ continues.

I want to say a little about sunshine. It is never accompanied when the conditions are warm and dry. When the sun is to be seen, it is often in mid-winter in dry but freezing conditions, usually shortly before a blizzard. This is technically known to Scottish weather forecasters as 'a nice day for a bike ride'.

Electricity and Water Don't Mix.

We did eventually get away and after a thorough soaking, we ended up back in the bright lights of Brodick. We had some shopping to do and sat in a café sipping several cups of coffee for several hours before the rain went from ‘bloody torrential’ (No. 30 in the rain dictionary) to ‘precipitation in sight’ (No.10).

Just a quick word about the shopping. This was for batteries. My torch failed to work last night probably because it got turned on inside my panniers. Also, since my very first pedal stroke back in Edinburgh, my cycle computer had gone ‘tits up’ (this is an IT technical term). My rear light was also full of water and the battery in that had gone as well. I had a small radio with me and this fortunately was still working. Statistically, though 75% of all the electrical items I had with me failed in one 24-hour period. Luckily, not all the shops in Brodick were selling Scottish tat. However, on replacing the battery in the cycle computer the sodding thing still did not work. If it had, I could have enlivened this travelogue with statistics like the fastest MPH reached during the day, hourly average speeds etc. As it is, you will have read on without these, fascinating statistics for you – what a shame – eh!

It was in the coffee shop that Chris, on speaking to his wife, was informed that the 'stolen camera' was miraculously found under the driver’s seat of his car. It had fallen out of his bag and the 'fatwa' on the members of Northampton Sailing Club was now, like Chris, withdrawn. In the end, we conceded that continuing around Arran the long way was pointless, especially now we had stayed still for the last three hours. So it was the shorter anti-clockwise route to Lochranza, and a ferry to Claonaig followed by a short hop over the hill to a pre-booked B & B at Kennacraig on the Mull of Kintyre. What I didn’t tell Chris was that there was a whopper of a mountain in the way, the highest in Arran, in fact (874 m). It was going to be a long day, with poor Chris probably walking most of it. One good thing was that this was an island free of traffic islands.

Heading North at Last!

The road out of Brodick was quite good as it followed the coast and at times only a matter of feet from the shore. The A841 circles the whole island and, luckily for us, the traffic was quiet. The road passes through some scenic villages, one of which was Corrie with its row of white houses facing the sea. We had a short stop here to take photos of the Viking longboat in the harbour. Why that was there? I don’t know. How it got there was easy to answer because there was a Mercury outboard engine on the stern (these cunning Vikings)! The children’s swings on the grass were just feet away from the unfenced main road, giving a good indication as to the speed of island life.

The day progressively brightened up, and the sky slowly went from dark-lead to Dulux shade, misty grey. The villages were also beginning to be left behind as we rose up into the Arran Mountains, a long, very long climb ensued. If I had spent a little more time looking at the map I would have noted that while the road was reasonably straight, it was also decorated not with a single, not a double, but a knee-quivering, lung bursting, three-stripe gradient chevron. The climb was memorable in one respect when we stood and watched a young sea eagle having a bit of an easy day, moving around like a hooded adolescent looking for trouble.
Watching this bird sells the benefits of cycle touring, its often possible to stop where you want! The S-bend incline made stopping difficult for cars, what a shame! You realise what you miss when in a car, the scent of heather, the bleating of sheep and the twittering of skylarks, all just about noticeable above the rasping sound of your own heavy breathing.

The Whisky Run

Every uphill has a corresponding downhill and the downhill into Lochranza was a wee cracker. If my cycle computer had been working, I would have had the proof of the maximum M.P.H. As it was, you will have to believe me, I am sure I broke the sound barrier! If the supersonic boom wasn’t me, then it must have been Chris’s bowels as he faced this downhill. A name for it should have been the 'whisky run'. At the bottom the first building you come to in Lochranza is the Arran Distillery. I was straight in, still at great speed, across the car park and only stopping inches from the front door in a cloud of steam and squealing brakes. Why all this wreckless urgency? Simple, the brakes were wet and not binding! The first Single Malt of the tour was soon down my throat, if only to calm my nerves. Still, its warm glow did not dampen the adrenaline rush pumping through my veins at my near-miss.

I waited for Chris to arrive and ordered a bowl of Scots Broth. This, of course, was the most popular thing on the menu. hot warming soup in AUGUST! The rain had by now, returned with a vengeance, it poured down the glass roof of the distillery. At about the same speed whisky was going down my throat. Eventually, a soaking-wet Chris wandered in and, this being a team effort, made the same menu/whisky choices.

Bar-Bag Inspection

My bike kit (and Chris’s) was complemented by a neat little bar-bag that clipped to the handlebars. In here should be you're 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 tour of Scotland with a strange friend - you can guess the rest!

McCartney, where are you?

We sat and had our left-over, food watching the flat-bed 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 (you know by now that I am not prone to exaggeration, there really was one). I have got to say the climb out off Claonaig was not a pleasantly remembered. 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 now 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 cyclist who went to bed. One of them was looking and feeling as if he had just been rubbed down with a Brillo Pad.