Pedalling Into the Drizzle: The Long Way Up
1,279 Kilometres – 29 Days
5 May - 7 June 2007
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.
Cycle Touring the
United Kingdom
Pedalling Into the
Drizzle: The Long Way Up
1,279 Kilometres – 29
Days
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 — a 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.
