Ireland by Bicycle: Bruises, Giants, and Generosity
3 IRELAND
793 Kilometres – 14 Days
8 June – 11 July 2007
MAP
PHOTOS
VOICEOVER
Cycle Touring the United Kingdom
Pedalling Into the Drizzle: The Long Way Up
1,279 Kilometres – 29 Days
Prologue
I
didn’t set out looking for answers. I set out because staying still felt
impossible. because bicycles, like stories, are meant to move. The road ahead
promised rain, hills, and the occasional questionable decision — but also
castles, coastlines, and strangers who became part of the tale. This is the
story of following curiosity into the drizzle, the wind, and the wide, generous
world beyond the map.
Cape Town, South Africa –
London, United Kingdom
Flying with a bicycle is one of those
logistical puzzles that makes you question whether travel is worth it at all. I
phoned several SAA offices, hoping for clarity, but each one delivered the same
unhelpfully cheerful verdict: the bike must go as part of your checked luggage.
Judging by the quoted prices, I braced myself for a bill so large it might
require a small loan or the sale of a kidney.
My essentials weighed 25 kg, and so did
the bike. I arrived at the check‑in counter clutching my bank card like a
talisman, ready for financial devastation. Instead, the fee turned out to be a
once‑off charge and far less than expected. I nearly burst out laughing from
sheer relief. It felt as though someone had quietly removed a boulder from my
chest.
Touchdown in the Land of
Footpaths
The plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac at
6:30 a.m. in London, and I disembarked in that familiar long‑haul haze: stiff,
puffy‑eyed, and slightly resentful of gravity. My friend Ed — whom I’d met
during the 2005 Tour d’Afrique — collected me, looking far too awake for
someone who had voluntarily come to an airport at dawn.
Since it was still early, we wandered
through a wooded area near Chelmsford. I was astonished to find such lush
greenery on an island with the population density of a sardine tin. Over the
next few days, I would discover that Britain is threaded with more walking
paths than any country I’ve ever visited. It’s as if the entire nation
collectively agreed that the best way to get anywhere is by wandering there
slowly.
Later, we ventured into the village to
find a cycling map. I assumed this would be easy in a country so fond of hiking
and cycling. It was not. We returned empty‑handed, confused, and slightly
offended.
Chelmsford – East Bergholt (66
km)
Into the Drizzle: First
Pedals North
In any new country, I’m always impatient
to get going, but it was after midday by the time we finally pedalled out of
Chelmsford. Eddie kindly rode with me, leading along a rural path through
Maldon, famous for Maldon Sea Salt. I was more intrigued to learn that Maldon
was the starting point for canalising two rivers all the way to Chelmsford in
1797 — my first hint that the UK would be full of unexpected historical
tidbits, the kind that make you feel both enriched and slightly undereducated.
We continued through Colchester, which
proudly claims to be the oldest recorded town in Britain and the first Roman
capital after the AD 43 conquest. Despite it being May, the weather was wintry,
and it rained the entire day. The drizzle was relentless, but it did make the
countryside impossibly green and picturesque — like cycling through a damp,
slightly chilly postcard.
The villages looked as if they’d been
designed by someone who had only ever seen England in children’s books: double‑storey,
semi‑detached redbrick houses, all neatly lined up as if waiting for a school
inspector. As a cyclist, it felt like riding through a dream — a wet dream, but
a dream nonetheless.
We scanned every shop for the elusive
Sustrans cycling maps I’d seen online and naively assumed would be sold
everywhere. No such luck. We finally camped near East Bergholt, and I realised
there would be no racing through this country. Britain demands to be admired
slowly, preferably while damp.
East Bergholt – Aldeburgh (70 km)
Lost Paths and Beauty Found
We left shortly after 9:30, heading to
Woodbridge via Ipswich. The route threaded through a stunning patchwork of
woodlands, estuaries, rivers, farmlands, mudflats, and heathland — the kind of
scenery that makes you stop every few minutes to say, “Just look at that,”
until your companion begins to question their life choices.
At Woodbridge, we finally unearthed a
cycling map. Ironically, it only made things worse. It showed every tiny farm
lane, footpath, driveway, and possibly a few hedgehog trails. We spent half the
day stopping, squinting, turning circles, and arguing with the map as if it
could hear us. Progress was slow.
Towards evening, we aimed for Leiston,
where the map promised a campsite. On arrival, we discovered the caravan park
didn’t allow tents. The place was enormous and completely deserted, but rules
were rules. It felt absurd to be turned away from a field of empty grass
because we had the wrong type of temporary shelter.
We moved on through scenery so beautiful
it was easy to see why this coastline is part of an “Area of Outstanding
Natural Beauty.” Village after village tempted us to stop and explore. Riding
straight through without dawdling was nearly impossible.
The weather was marginally better but
still bitingly cold. It rained all night but, mercifully, not during the ride.
By evening, we found a private campsite on a farm for a pittance — far better
value than the caravan park, even without a shower.
Aldeburgh – Corton (62 km)
Ghost Stories, Curry Chips, and
Cold Winds
A quiet
country road led us to Walberswick and Southwold, two ancient villages on the
River Blyth. The beaches are somewhat stoney and some buildings were built from
beach-gathered stone. We wandered around, soaked up the atmosphere, and sampled
the local brew before moving on to Lowestoft.
At least we
didn’t meet Walberswick’s ghostly coach, supposedly drawn by headless horses
and driven by the murdered Tobias Gill, hanged here in the 18th century.
Lunch was
French fries drowned in curry sauce—apparently a local favourite and, to my
surprise, absolutely delicious.
By late
afternoon, we reached Corton, just as the drizzle began again. The weather felt
endless and grim. I wore every piece of clothing I owned and still felt
chilled. The saving grace was the abundance of cosy pubs, always warmer and
more cheerful than huddling in a damp tent.
Campsites were
a mixed bag. Some had manicured lawns, spotless toilets, and hot showers;
others were little more than a field with a basic bathroom. The prices
reflected the facilities.
Corton – Cromer (67 km)
Riding the Fast‑Eroding Coast
Being
May, the days were blissfully long, which meant at least one thing was on my
side: daylight. It stayed light until around 9:30 p.m., so there was no frantic
pitching of tents in the dark, no fumbling with pegs while muttering
unprintable things into the wind.
From
Corton, we drifted along the North Sea coast, stopping in Great Yarmouth where
I found an internet café — a rare and precious sight in those days, like
spotting a unicorn with Wi‑Fi. A cone of French fries in the town square
powered us all the way to Cromer, perched on a coastline eroding so quickly it
feels like the sea is trying to reclaim the entire county out of sheer
impatience.
Despite
this geological enthusiasm, Cromer remained a pretty seaside town with a lovely
seafront, a pier, and a lighthouse. It was the kind of place that would be
perfect for a postcard, provided the photographer worked quickly before the
cliff edge relocated itself.
Cycling
in the UK was very different from Africa. In Africa, a loaded touring bike is
an event. Children run across fields to wave or beg, adults stare and ask
endless questions, and no one quite understands why you’d ride a bicycle
without being paid. In Britain, you’re just one more cyclist among many. No one
bats an eyelid. You could be pedalling a unicycle while juggling flaming
torches and someone would politely step aside and say, “After you.”
We
stayed at an expensive campsite where the showers felt like a long walk away —
possibly in a different postcode. It started drizzling again, though we managed
to get a hot cup of soup and a bread roll down before the real rain set in. It
poured all night, as if the sky had been saving up.
Cromer – Sandringham (118 km)
Castles, Estates, and Endless Rain
We
set off in a drizzle that simply never stopped. It was the kind of rain that
didn’t fall so much as hover — a fine mist that seeped into everything,
including your soul.
Our
first destination was a station where Eddie planned to catch a train home, but
on the way, he changed his mind and rode on to Norwich instead, as it had
better connections. I admired his flexibility, though I suspected he simply
wasn’t ready to abandon me to the weather quite yet.
After
saying goodbye, I aimed my wheels at King’s Lynn. Somewhere along the route, I
finally got my hands on a Sustrans map (Route 1, Harwich to Hull), and it
instantly made life easier. It was like being handed the Rosetta Stone after
days of trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphics.
The
rest of the day, I cycled past magnificent estates, crumbling castles, and
striking churches, all with histories stretching back centuries. The route was
well marked, the scenery glorious, and I had an excellent ride despite an
annoying problem with my gears constantly slipping — a mechanical reminder that
nothing in Britain, including the weather, was going to make this trip easy.
Sandringham – St John’s Fen End (32 km)
Gears Fixed, Spirits Lifted
The
campsite at Sandringham was pricey but well equipped, with laundry and a shop.
I took full advantage, which meant I only left quite late — freshly laundered,
well stocked, and feeling almost civilised.
From
there it was a short hop to King’s Lynn, a substantial town with everything a
cyclist might want, including a bike shop where they finally sorted out my
gears. I also bought an odometer and a mobile phone. I briefly considered
staying at the hostel, but it was closed — a recurring theme in my travels.
With
daylight stretching to 9:30 p.m., I still had plenty of time and pushed on to
St John’s Fen End, which had a lovely campsite complete with bar and
restaurant. After days of drizzle and damp socks, it felt like luxury.
St John’s Fen End – Boston (56 km)
A Hotel Surrender
One
of the first things I noticed in this part of the UK was the sheer number of
piercings and tattoos. It felt like everyone had six nose rings, and there I
was, feeling positively old‑fashioned with just one. I briefly considered
getting another just to blend in.
The
UK struck me as an endlessly fascinating mix of people. On the way to Boston,
Eddie surprised me by driving all the way from Chelmsford to meet me. We had
lunch together before he turned back. It amused me how few people made eye
contact on the street. Yet when Eddie asked around for a cyclist with panniers,
they could tell him my exact time of arrival and departure. There was clearly a
bit of pretending‑not‑to‑notice going on.
Soon
after he left, the skies opened and the rain came sheeting down. I gave in to
the lure of warmth and booked into a hotel at a painful price. It’s astonishing
what one is willing to pay when it’s wet and cold. At that moment, I would have
sold a kidney for a radiator.
Boston
charmed me, not just with its long history but also with its position on the
Prime Meridian — a geographical novelty that made me feel briefly important.
Boston – Woodhall Spa (48 km)
A Flying Rack and a Boat Shop Rescue
The
next morning, I reluctantly left my snug room. The rate was too high to justify
another night, so I pointed my bike towards Woodhall Spa, only about 20 miles
away.
Midmorning,
my rear rack gave way and my tent, sleeping bag, and panniers catapulted into
the road. Fortunately, it happened right in front of a boat shop. The helpful
owner reattached everything and tightened the screws so well that, fifteen
years later at the time of writing, that rack was still holding firm. If he’d
been a surgeon, I’d have trusted him with my spine.
The
rest of the day was pleasant riding across the Fens and along rivers lined with
large boathouses. I quickly learned that British weather is almost impossible
to predict. One moment the sun shone, the next I was diving for cover from a
passing shower.
Woodhall
Spa turned out to be something of a misnomer — no spa in sight, just a few
dilapidated buildings. A cold north wind blew in a steady drizzle, and I
decided it was a sign to take a rest day.
Sadly,
the weather scuppered my plans to explore The Viking Way, a 237‑kilometre long‑distance
footpath that passes through Woodhall Spa. I consoled myself with the thought
that the Vikings probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it in that weather either.
Woodhall Spa – Barton‑upon‑Humber (75 km)
Wrong Turns and the Humber Bridge Rising
A
missing road sign sent me confidently pedalling in the wrong direction until a
kind passerby stopped to tell me I was heading off course — proof that people do notice you in Britain,
even if they pretend not to. They may avoid eye contact with Olympic precision,
but they will absolutely intervene if you’re about to cycle into Wales by
mistake.
It
was also the first day I encountered any real hills in the UK. After days of
gentle terrain, these inclines felt like a personal attack. Unfortunately, the
weather was once again dreadful, and I didn’t spot a single campsite along the
way. The drizzle had upgraded itself to a steady, joy‑sapping mist.
I
pushed on to Barton‑upon‑Humber, dominated by the 2.22‑kilometre single‑span
Humber Bridge — an impressive sight rising out of the gloom like a giant
concrete promise that civilisation still existed somewhere.
It
was also the first day I shared a campsite with other cyclists. Despite the
gloomy skies, it turned into a memorable day in the saddle — the kind where
you’re exhausted, soaked, and oddly proud of yourself.
Humber Bridge – Hornsea (48 km)
Mapless Again on the East Coast
The
Humber Bridge is even more imposing up close. Peering over the edge gave me a
touch of vertigo, which I pretended was awe. A nearby café provided coffee and
muffins, which helped restore my courage.
Reaching
Hull also meant reaching the end of my precious cycling map. Navigation quickly
became frustrating again. Finding decent cycling maps in the UK turned out to
be much harder than I’d anticipated — surprising for a country that seems to
have a footpath for every citizen.
In
the end, I rode on trust and a vague sense of direction to the seaside town of
Hornsea, which offered little more than a seafront promenade and the ancient
church of St Nicholas. It wasn’t exactly bustling, but it did have a campsite
outside town where I could pitch my tent and hide from the unrelenting,
miserable weather.
Hornsea – Beverley – Malton (74 km)
A New Map and an Accent I Couldn’t Decipher
After
the frustrations of the previous day, this one went much better. A shop in
Hornsea produced an excellent cycling map, and my spirits soared. It’s
astonishing how much happiness a piece of paper can bring when you’ve been lost
for 24 hours.
My
first stop was the charming market town of Beverley, where I grabbed a few
photos of the impressive Anglican church, built around the tomb of a Bishop of
York who founded the original monastery. Britain does churches the way Italy
does pasta — everywhere, varied, and always worth a look.
Cycling
into Malton felt like riding into the Arctic. At the sight of a B&B, I
caved in and checked into a room above a ground‑floor pub. The locals in the
bar were friendly and quickly invited me to join them for a beer.
The
only problem was that their regional accent was so strong I barely understood a
word. After a while, I finished my drink and retreated to a quieter restaurant
in the town square, where no conversation was required. It felt faintly absurd
to be in the home of the English language and yet find the English almost incomprehensible.
Malton – Boroughbridge (50 km)
ATM Drama and Moorland Calm
I
didn’t leave pretty Malton until after midday. I’d finally found an internet
café, and then an ATM swallowed my bank card. Untangling that little drama ate
up most of the morning. There’s nothing like standing helplessly in front of a
machine while it calmly digests your financial lifeline.
When
I did get going, my chosen route wound through timeless stone villages and over
high moorlands laced with rivers and valleys. It was the kind of landscape that
makes you forget about swallowed bank cards and other modern indignities.
I
was in no mood for detours and called it a day at Boroughbridge, a small
settlement with an old well and a main street lined with familiar terraced houses
under red‑tiled roofs. It felt like the sort of place where nothing dramatic
had happened since 1842, and everyone preferred it that way.
Boroughbridge – Leyburn (48 km)
Devil’s Arrows and a Brutal Headwind
My
first stop of the day was the famous three standing stones known as Devil’s
Arrows, believed to date from the early Bronze Age. They may once have formed a
row of five; the fourth was reportedly broken up in 1582 to build a bridge, and
the fifth has vanished into history — presumably stolen by someone with a very
large cart and questionable morals.
The
day began promisingly enough, but the stretch between Boroughbridge and Leyburn
turned into the toughest of the trip. A ferocious headwind tossed me around the
road; I had to pedal hard even downhill in my smallest gear. It felt like
cycling through invisible treacle.
At
the first sign of a campsite, I surrendered, especially as the next one was
much farther than I was willing to go. It turned out to be a blessing in
disguise, giving me time to tackle the never‑ending laundry.
I’d
never imagined cycling in the UK could be this challenging. The hills were one
thing — but the wind had ambitions of its own.
Leyburn – Middleton‑in‑Teesdale (56 km)
Castles, Coffee, and Kindness in Teesdale
Leaving
Leyburn, I found myself in a particularly beautiful part of the country, and
for once the weather cooperated. No wind, no rain — just a calm, pleasant day.
I almost didn’t trust it.
I
stopped in Richmond, home to a magnificent Norman castle whose construction began
in the 1070s. After exploring its walls and views, I continued towards Barnard
Castle, another medieval fortress built between 1095 and 1125. Britain’s
ability to casually scatter thousand‑year‑old structures across the landscape
never ceased to amaze me.
My
goal for the day was Teesdale, a typical British market town with a central
square and terraced houses flanking the main street. To my delight, the village
even had a campsite. The caretakers greeted me warmly, offered me coffee while
I pitched my tent, and their kindness was the perfect ending to an already good
day.
Middleton‑in‑Teesdale – Chollerford (61 km)
Over the Pennines: A Day of 20% Pain
Although
the sun finally decided to show its face, the riding was extremely tough. The
road to Chollerford crossed the North Pennines, with brutal 20% gradients.
These were the kind of hills that made you question your life choices, your
fitness, and occasionally your sanity.
The
landscape, however, was magical: rolling heather moors, deep valleys, tumbling
rivers, hay meadows, and ancient stone villages. Progress was painfully slow. A
few of the steepest hills forced me to dismount and push — something I did with
great dignity, or so I told myself.
The
road seemed determined to climb out of each valley only to plunge straight into
another. Eventually I reached Hadrian’s Wall, which I’d always imagined marked
the Scottish border. It doesn’t. This was mildly disappointing, like
discovering Santa lives in a suburb.
A
fellow cyclist pointed me towards a nearby campsite used by many hikers on the
Hadrian’s Wall route. The sheer number of long‑distance trails in Britain made
me itch to trade my bike for hiking boots.
I
discovered I was now firmly on the Pennine Way, Britain’s best‑known and most
demanding long‑distance footpath.
Chollerford – Bellingham – (25 km)
Sun at Last and a Change of Plans
In
glorious weather, I rolled out of Chollerford and soon reached a decision
point: head west or turn east. The original plan was to go to Glasgow to visit
my friend Esther, making the west the obvious choice. But the idea of exploring
the East Coast tempted me.
Before
I could commit either way, Eddie tracked me down again, turning it into a short
riding day. We pitched our tents at Bellingham, a favourite stop for Pennine
Way hikers and cyclists alike.
Bellingham – North Berwick (By car)
Castles, Coastlines, and Crossing into Scotland
With
Eddie now travelling by car, it made little sense for me to pedal alongside, so
we loaded my bike onto the roof rack.
The
UK is a treasure chest of castles, and we passed and visited several, each one
more imposing than the last. Eventually, we crossed into Scotland, and I was
blown away by its beauty — dramatic coastline, rugged hills, and a moodiness
all its own.
By
evening, we reached North Berwick and checked into a comfortable B&B. The
town charmed me immediately with its old stone buildings, narrow lanes, and rich
history.
North Berwick – Glasgow (by car)
Stone Streets and a Warm
Welcome
Late the next morning, we left lovely
North Berwick — a town so charming it felt almost staged, as if someone had
arranged the stone buildings and narrow lanes just so, then stepped back to
admire their handiwork. We drove to Glasgow, where my friend Esther lives.
Eddie dropped me at her apartment and then headed back to Chelmsford, probably
relieved to escape the relentless drizzle and my increasingly damp cycling
gear.
Seeing Esther again was wonderful. She
was her usual warm, chatty self, and we spent the entire next day talking — the
kind of marathon conversation only old friends can manage without needing
snacks or oxygen breaks. That evening, I got my first taste of Glasgow
nightlife: a lively pub, good beer, and plenty of people‑watching. Glasgow does
pubs the way Italy does espresso — with confidence, character, and no half
measures.
Glasgow
A Pub, a Plan, and the West
Highland Way
Somewhere between beers, we decided to
hike the West Highland Way. Esther has a habit of owning at least three of
everything, which made gearing up laughably easy. She produced spare backpacks,
sleeping bags, and all the camping gear we could possibly need. If she’d
rummaged a little longer, I’m convinced she would have found a spare canoe.
We packed our bags with tents, sleeping
bags, food, a stove, pots, and the rest of the essentials. The West Highland
Way runs for 95 miles (153.8 km) and was Scotland’s first official long‑distance
footpath, threading through some of the country’s most dramatic landscapes.
I was buzzing with excitement and felt
genuinely privileged to set foot on such a famous trail — even if I was about
to do so carrying a backpack roughly the size of a small refrigerator.
Milngavie – Drymen – 12
miles (19 km)
Into the Highlands with
Packs Too Big
Early in the morning, we caught a train
to Milngavie, just four stops from Esther’s place. To my amazement, half the
train seemed to get off there, all clearly intending to walk the West Highland
Way. I hadn’t expected such a crowd, nor that nearly all of them would be
carrying only small daypacks. Meanwhile, our backpacks looked like we were
heading for an unsupported expedition across Greenland.
The first day’s walk was a gentle 12‑mile
meander from Milngavie to Drymen, along a broad, well‑marked path with
virtually no risk of getting lost. We began through beautiful deciduous
woodland, crossing streams and skirting little villages. Halfway, we ducked
into a pub for lunch and a beer — a pattern that would repeat itself with
suspicious regularity.
That night, we camped on a farm about a
mile before Drymen. Fortunately, it had a cooking shelter — very handy when the
heavens opened just as we arrived. Scotland has a remarkable talent for timing
its rain to coincide with tent‑pitching.
Drymen – Rowardennan – 14
miles (22.5 km)
Conic Hill and the Shores of
Loch Lomond
We left Drymen with a pleasant stroll
through woods before the path delivered us to Conic Hill — our first proper
taste of the Highlands. The climb was steady, the views spectacular, and the
wind determined to rearrange our hairstyles.
On the way to Balmaha, we did what was
fast becoming a habit: stopped for lunch and a beer. From Balmaha, the route
followed the shores of the legendary Loch Lomond, and I could hardly contain my
excitement. The views across the loch to the surrounding mountains were
outstanding — the kind of scenery that makes you forget your legs are tired and
your socks are damp.
The trail took us past Ben Lomond and
through ancient oak woodlands, every turn revealing another picture‑postcard
scene. By day’s end, we emerged at Rowardennan, exactly where we hoped to be.
There was a hotel, a hostel, and wild camping. Esther chose the hostel, and it
felt like utter luxury: warm, dry, and comfortable — three things Scotland does
not always offer simultaneously.
Rowardennan – Inverarnan –
14 miles (22.5 km)
Wild Goats, Rob Roy, and a
Night of Singing
Leaving the hostel, we hoisted our
backpacks and immediately felt their brutal weight. Esther has a gift for
packing the entire house plus the proverbial kitchen sink. The young man at
reception stared at her pack and asked if she knew about the luggage transport
service. Only then did we discover that hikers routinely send their packs ahead
by van.
It took almost no persuasion. We handed
over our bags and walked off carrying only small plastic bags with snacks and
daily essentials. Other hikers, used to seeing us groaning under giant packs,
stared in disbelief as we sauntered past.
Once again, the trail hugged Loch
Lomond’s shore through natural oak woods. I even spotted wild goats clambering
about the rocks — creatures that looked as though they’d been designed by
someone who had only a vague idea of what goats should look like.
The area is steeped in stories of Rob
Roy MacGregor; there are so many tales it’s hard to know which are true. The
path was hillier than in previous days, and I was very glad we weren’t hauling
full packs.
We camped at Beinglas Farm, which had a
great bar/restaurant and a cooking shelter — a blessing in the foul weather.
Later, we walked across the river to a bar believed to be more than 300 years
old. Inside, a roaring fire and a massive wooden table set the scene for a
memorable night of singing and far too many glasses of red wine with other
hikers.
We had such a good time that I left my
wallet in the pub — a classic sign of an excellent evening.
Inverarnan – Tyndrum – 13
miles (20.9 km)
Lost Wallet, Found Bluebells
The next morning, heart pounding, I
dashed back to the pub — and there was my wallet, still waiting. What a relief.
By then, everyone knew the South African had lost her purse, which was a bit
mortifying, but at least it was intact.
With the wallet safely recovered, we
followed the route along the River Falloch past dramatic gorges, waterfalls,
and rapids. Eventually, we joined an 18th‑century military road, now little
more than a narrow track.
The hills wore a soft blue‑purple hue
and were carpeted with bluebells, making the views even more spectacular. The
trail passed “the King’s Field,” where legend says Robert the Bruce was
defeated by the MacDougall in 1306.
The beauty of the day was only slightly
marred by the arrival of the dreaded midges — tiny, more vicious than
mosquitoes, and seemingly everywhere. Esther, walking in short sleeves, was
soon covered in bites. They got into our hair, ears, and even up our noses. I
began to understand why Scottish folklore is full of battles and suffering.
We trudged on to Tyndrum and camped at a
place called “By the Way.” In the village’s famous Green Welly Shop, which
stocks everything from food to hiking gear, we finally bought ourselves small
proper daypacks. Walking with plastic shopping bags was not ideal.
Tyndrum – Kingshouse – 20
miles (32.1 km)
Across Rannoch Moor to the
Shadow of Glen Coe
There were two possible routes to
Kingshouse, and local advice was unanimous: take the longer one. The
alternative was steeper and rougher, and you don’t argue with people who know
the hills.
Though it was a long day, the path was
mostly flat, weaving through forestry plantations that were muddy in places. I
finally understood why proper hiking boots beat running shoes on this terrain.
We crossed Rannoch Moor, rewarded with
sweeping views of distant lochs and numerous Munros (mountains over 3,000
feet). Descending towards Kingshouse, the dramatic peaks of Glen Coe and Glen
Etive rose around us. I could easily imagine fantastic skiing and rock climbing
here in winter.
We camped wild at Kingshouse, where
there were no facilities, and spent as much of the evening as possible tucked
into the warmth of the pub — a strategy that had become central to our
survival.
Kingshouse – Kinlochleven –
8 miles (12.6 km)
The Devil’s Staircase and a
Sunny Day at Last
A relatively short walk took us to
Kinlochleven through a landscape crowded with some of Scotland’s most
impressive peaks. It made me wish I were a climber.
We followed another stretch of old
military road, climbing to the highest point of the West Highland Way via the
Devil’s Staircase. For once, the sun shone all day, and the views were nothing
short of magnificent.
In Kinlochleven, we pitched our tents at
MacDonald’s campsite. The village itself looked as if it had been designed for
a postcard and it boasted a large indoor ice‑climbing centre.
Kinlochleven – Fort William
– 13 miles (20.9 km)
Beer in a Ruin and the Final
Miles
The path climbed steeply out of
Kinlochleven through woodland, rejoining the old military road. In true Esther
style, she’d packed a beer, which we enjoyed at an old ruin. By then, the other
hikers probably thought we were slightly mad — we were forever stopping,
laughing, and appearing suspiciously cheerful.
On reaching Fort William, we didn’t,
like most, head straight for the campsite. Instead, we wandered through town in
our hiking gear, searching for pizza and beer. Priorities firmly in order.
Ben Nevis – 12 miles (19.3
km)
Into the Cloud: A Wet Climb
to the Summit
The next morning, we lingered in bed
until about 9:30 a.m. The weather was awful, and it’s hard to muster enthusiasm
for climbing a mountain when the rain is already drumming on your tent.
Eventually, cabin fever won. We pulled
on wet‑weather gear and set off to tackle Ben Nevis, Scotland’s highest peak.
The trail starts at the Visitor Centre, and on such a gloomy day, it was almost
deserted. We saw no other hikers, which didn’t surprise us.
The fog hung low, and a fine, constant
drizzle made for a rather joyless climb. The path itself was less steep than
I’d imagined, and I was struck by how quickly the scenery changed from green,
rolling slopes to a stark, rocky landscape.
On the summit, even in midsummer, we
found a large field of snow. We took a few quick photos, shivered, and turned
around, hurrying back to lower ground.
Seven hours after starting, we walked
straight into a cosy pub and celebrated with hot food and cold beer. Mission
accomplished.
Glasgow
Drying Out and Dreaming of
Ireland
After our West Highland Way adventure,
we returned to Glasgow and started plotting the next one: a two‑week cycle tour
in Ireland.
Although Esther already owned a bicycle,
it had clearly not seen much action recently and needed more than a squirt of
WD‑40. Once it had been properly serviced and we’d found her a set of panniers,
we loaded our bikes and were ready.
Ireland
From Belfast to Donegal: A
Comedy of Hills and Hospitality
793 Kilometres – 14 Days
Glasgow, Scotland – Belfast, Ireland (16 km)
Esther vs. Silver: The
Toppling Begins
Getting to Ireland involved cycling from
Esther’s house to Glasgow Central Station to catch a train to Stranraer. That’s
where the comedy started.
Esther, unused to riding with panniers,
toppled over — not once, but three times — between the apartment and the
station. I kept turning around to find her lying on the ground, bike on top of
her, legs waving in the air like an upended beetle.
To make matters worse, all of this took
place in peak‑hour traffic. Unfazed by the stares, she simply got up, dusted
herself off, met their eyes, and announced cheerfully, “Take three!”
From Stranraer, the ferry carried us
across the North Channel to Belfast, arriving around 16:30 — another busy time
of day — and, right on cue, Esther managed one more spectacular topple.
The problem wasn’t so much falling off
as falling over. Her bike was too big, the top tube too high, and her legs too
short to swing safely over it, especially with loaded panniers.
We laughed so hard tears were running
down our faces, but somehow still managed to ride the six kilometres north of
the city to our campsite. By evening, she had christened her bike “Silver,” as
it bucked and kicked like a stubborn horse, clearly not yet convinced about
touring Ireland.
Belfast – Cushendall (69
kilometres)
Sunshine, Cliffs, and Five
More Falls
The next day dawned bright and sunny — a
rare and glorious Irish gift. With Ol’ Silver loaded and packed, we followed
the coast along a spectacular route lined with white limestone cliffs, tiny
coastal communities, and ancient ruins like Red Bay Castle and Ardclinis
Church.
Esther must have fallen over at least
five times before we reached Cushendall. At camp, she didn’t dismount so much
as flop sideways, to the astonishment of the other campers. Good thing she wore
a helmet. Still, we managed 43 miles (70 kilometres), which felt like a small
miracle.
Cushendall – Ballycastle (32
kilometres)
Torr Head: The Scenic Route
of Doom
Packing up took forever, so it was late
by the time we pedalled out of camp. Shortly beyond Cushendall, a sign pointed
to a scenic route via Torr Head. It sounded lovely. The warning — “Not suitable
for caravans and coaches” — should have been a clue.
This stretch of coastline is separated
from Scotland by the North Channel, and the views were spectacular.
Unfortunately, so were the hills. They were the kind of steep that makes you
question your life choices.
Esther claimed she didn’t fall over that
day because she walked her bike the entire way, resulting in blistered feet.
The descent into Ballycastle was pure joy — until I realised Esther wasn’t
behind me. I rode back up and found her walking down the hill with a flat tyre.
The surprises continued: her wheels had
no quick release and required a spanner. With no tools, we walked the bikes
into town and onto the campsite. Every man in camp seemed to own the exact
spanner needed, and soon the wheel was off. Esther was given a lift into town
to buy a new tyre and inner tube. Irish hospitality at its finest.
Ballycastle – Castlerock (64
kilometres)
Bruises, Bungees, and Giants
The morning began with Esther providing
the day’s entertainment. While loading Ol’ Silver, a bungee cord slipped and
snapped her on the lip. By then she was covered in bruises from falling over,
lumps from the “Wee Buggers” (mosquitoes), and now sported a fat lip for good
measure.
We stopped at the bike shop to buy a
spanner and a new front tyre — the old one looked as though it had survived a
war.
The Northern Irish coastline was
magnificent, and we stopped at the Giant’s Causeway to explore its 40,000
basalt columns. The geology was impressive, but the legends were even better:
Finn McCool, his Scottish rival Benandonner, and the baby disguise that saved
the day. Only in Ireland could a giant be outsmarted by a clever wife and a
fake infant.
After a particularly long hill, Esther
declared the trip was killing her and that overdosing at home would have been
quicker. Still, she pushed on another 40 miles. When we spotted a campsite at
Castlerock, we called it a day. The lady managing the campground took one look
at Esther and let us camp for free.
Castlerock – Quigley’s Point
(32 kilometres)
Lost Tracks and a Much‑Needed
Pub
Feeling refreshed, we stopped at the
Mussenden Temple — a tiny 1785 library modelled after Rome’s Temple of Vesta.
From there, a short ride took us to Magilligan Point, where ferries departed
for Greencastle.
Unfortunately, our map indicated a track
beside the ocean that did not exist. After wandering around slightly lost, we
reached Quigley’s Point and pitched our tents at the first opportunity to give
Esther’s backside a rest.
With camp set up, there was only one
sensible thing left to do: go to the pub.
Quigley’s Point – Portsalon
via Letterkenny (91 kilometres)
Rain, Wrong Ferries, and a
Numb Hand
It rained all night, and we packed up in
the downpour, reaching Buncrana soaked to the bone. We intended to take a ferry
to Rathmullan, only to discover it wouldn’t start operating for another three
days. So much for mid‑summer.
I loved the foreign‑sounding names of
the towns as we cycled from Quigley’s Point to Portsalon via Letterkenny — a
remarkable 91 kilometres. Esther was getting stronger and falling over less,
though Ol’ Silver still creaked and squealed like an old man protesting every
uphill.
From Rathmullan to Portsalon was only 19
kilometres, but we took the scenic route and encountered several nasty hills
before a steep descent into town. By then, Esther’s hand was numb and entirely
useless.
Portsalon
A Day for Books and Beer
The weather turned even fouler
overnight: cold, rainy, and whipped by an icy wind from the north. It was the
perfect excuse to stay put. We crawled back into our sleeping bags, zipped up
the tents, and read books for most of the day.
By 5 p.m., we’d had enough of lying down
and headed to the pub — a combined shop‑and‑bar establishment where a few
locals were already seated. Soon the singing began, and the evening turned into
a lively affair. It was three in the morning before we stumbled back to our
tents. Suffice it to say, we had a good time.
Portsalon – Melmore Head (59
kilometres)
Hangovers, Arctic Winds, and
a Hostel on a Hill
For obvious reasons, we didn’t rush
packing up. It was noon before we finally set off. The weather was horrendous:
drizzle, strong wind, bitter cold. Even Esther wore long sleeves — a sure sign
of meteorological severity.
We reached Carrickart and were told of a
hostel “not far.” In arctic conditions, we headed in the pointed direction. It
was considerably farther than suggested, and up a steep hill. By the time we
arrived, I was frozen stiff.
The hostel was extremely basic and
remote, but inside it was warm as toast — and that was all that mattered.
Melmore Head – Letterkenny –
Belfast – Larne (72 kilometres)
No Rooms in Belfast and the
Kindness of Strangers
Esther needed to get back to work, so we
cycled to Letterkenny to check public transport options. Buses ran to Derry,
and from there straight to Belfast.
But Belfast had a surprise waiting: the
city was fully booked due to a major international boxing event. Every B&B
and hotel was packed — from the cheapest to the Hilton. We even considered the
Hilton.
By then it was 10 p.m., freezing cold,
and we were exhausted. I suggested cycling the six kilometres north to our
first campsite, but Esther was having none of it.
The staff at the train station were
wonderful. They found us a B&B in Larne, booked the ferry, and helped us
onto the train. Irish kindness strikes again.
Larne – Oxford Island (91
kilometres)
A Farewell and a Marching
Band
We woke to a scrumptious breakfast —
pure luxury. The guesthouse was conveniently across from the harbour, making it
easy for Esther to catch the 10:30 ferry. After waving her off, I pointed my
mobile home toward Belfast and then south.
The weather was good, and being Sunday,
plenty of cyclists were out, all stopping to chat. I followed the River Lagan
to Lisburn, then a minor route via Moira to Oxford Island and Lough Neagh.
In one small village, I stumbled upon
the Orange Order marching, band and all. I couldn’t believe they existed in
real life. I’d assumed their supremacist values were illegal by now. They were
likely practising for the annual 12 July march.
Oxford Island to Ballyronan (72
kilometres)
Friendly Locals and Giant
Legends
Fortunately, most Irish are friendly —
even offering dope. What lovely people.
Lough Neagh is one of the largest
freshwater lakes in Western Europe, so I followed its shore to Ballyronan. The
route wound along tiny lanes past farms and small settlements.
The lake has a delightful legend: it
supposedly formed when Finn McCool scooped out a clod of earth to throw at a
Scottish rival. The clod missed, landed in the Irish Channel, and became the
Isle of Man. Geography explained.
Ballyronan – Kesh (Lough
Erne) (101 kilometres)
A Long Ride and a Not‑Quite
Campsite
As usual, I packed up in the rain, but
the weather soon cleared into a glorious day. I headed west along the foothills
of the Sperrin Mountains, via Omagh to Kesh.
Reaching Kesh required cycling up a
serious hill to the “campsite,” which turned out to be a mobile home park with
no camping facilities. Bummer. The owner, however, was kind enough to let me
camp on a small patch of grass and even unlocked a mobile home so I could use
the shower and toilet.
Kesh and Surrounds – (32
kilometres)
Carb Queens and Forest Walks
Kesh is tiny — population under 1,000 —
but lively thanks to its location on Lough Erne. I stayed to explore, cycling
down the hill to another campsite where one could walk around the lake and
through the forest.
I discovered dried fruit (delicious) and
ate the entire bag. Speaking of food, I consider myself the Queen of Carbs, but
the Irish outdid me. I found macaroni cheese served with French fries. I kid
you not. Another shocker was a baked potato topped with beans — even I
considered that a carbo overload, not to mention a crime against a good Irish
potato.
Kesh – Donegal (Dún na
nGall) (72 kilometres)
Tailwinds, Donegal, and a
Change of Plans
The way to Ballyshannon followed Lough
Erne, and with a tailwind, the route felt gloriously downhill. From
Ballyshannon, I turned north along the coast to Donegal, still with a tailwind.
I arrived early and set up camp at a hostel.
Soon afterwards, Eddie arrived by car.
He wanted to travel Ireland but hadn’t brought his bike, so we loaded mine onto
the roof and explored the rest of Ireland by car. Later, I regretted it — the
chances of returning to cycle that region are slim.
In London, I’d tried to obtain a
European visa, but the Schengen visa proved elusive. It required applying in
one’s home country with a full itinerary and prepaid accommodation — not ideal
for spontaneous cycle touring.
Frustrated, I moved to Plan B: fly to
Hungary (no Schengen visa required) and cycle Eastern Europe. Eddie took time
off work, and we packed our bicycles and flew to Budapest.
London, UK – Budapest,
Hungary
A New Adventure Begins
From the moment I arrived, I was smitten
with Budapest — its old buildings, cobbled streets, and views of the mighty
Danube. I instantly understood why it’s called “the Capital of Architecture.”
To this day, it remains one of my favourite cities.
If it were today, I would have lingered
longer. But back then, I had bees in my bonnet and wanted to get going — a
habit that took years to outgrow. Only later did I learn to enjoy the touring
part of cycle touring, which, in my mind, is what the whole thing is about.
Epilogue
When the wheels finally stopped turning, I realised the journey hadn’t
ended at all. It had simply changed shape. Every fall, every climb, every rain‑soaked morning had stitched itself into me — reminder
that adventure rarely arrives tidy, but always arrives true. And somewhere
beyond the next border, the next ferry, the next improbable plan, another road
is already waiting.
