Sunday 30 December 2012

In search of the Sun

The weather this year (2012) has been horrible. It started on the first of January with gales and rain and continued all winter, with little in the way of snow and no sunshine. Come the spring we got a hint of a change with a week of sunshine which ended on the second day of our tour of the Western Isles beaches, returning to wind and cold rain. I actually bagged my annual spring motorbike trip during this sunny week, doing my usual run up to Durness and back but in two hectic days involving closed roads, missed ferrys, diversions and much fast A road riding. The highlight was getting to cross Loch Carron on the wee turntable ferry that normal serves Kylerea on Skye. The main road round the loch had been bleutered by a huge landslip thanks to the horrible weather and they were running this ferry from the old crossing as a temporary measure. Many times I'd ridden past the sign saying 'Strome Ferry, No Ferry' and now there was!

Thereafter it got worse with every single day seeing torrential rain. I managed to avoid it on May bank holiday weekend by heading north and west to the Isle of Skye and much sunshine. Not what you would expect as its usually worse here and odder still were the dry trails. This gave a hint of the strange weather system that would dominate the country all summer.

For reasons that even Meteorologists were confused by, a massive high pressure was sat to the northwest of the UK, centered on Iceland, and showing no signs of moving. Whilst England, Wales and Southern Scotland got day after day of rain, this high pressure was baking the north west of Scotland. By stunning coincidence I'd planned a bike tour in Iceland and got roasted; whilst the UK drowned under more and more rain. The high had crept into Southern Scotland a couple of weeks before this trip. By chance we were off to Glencoe during this dry spell and I used it to test my gear out. I pedaled up from home, camping in a roasting hot campsite north of Strathyre, then got thoroughly sun-burned following the West Highland Way to Glencoe. We ended up swimming in the river coe by the campsite!
Sun on the three sisters of Glencoe

This high pressure seemed to be covering pretty much everything north and west of the Great Glen and showed no sign of moving. Typically this fact wasn't advertised as it would have heralded the best tourist season the north-west had seen for a generation but Visit Scotland, in characteristic style, totally failed to cash in on this rare event.

I did, but more by good luck than good management. After getting colossally lucky in Skye and Iceland, I pushed it further by heading up to Applecross for a weekend in July. I was meeting a couple of pals up there who were on motorbikes. My plan was to do the Bealach na Bar sportive route on the road bike one day and then bag a few trails on the fat bike the next. Thereafter I would be heading for Aviemore for some more fat biking as well as helping my mate swap the chassis on his land rover.

I got up to Loch Carron early doors and was riding by 9.30. There isn't much to report on the ride, its around 85 miles and hilly including the famous Applecross road, as well as many other climbs round the peninsular to Shieldaig and on to Torridon. The road bike has a 53/39 chainset and it took a bit of heaving to get it up the steep bit of the main climb. Thereafter it was just a case of getting your head down and pedaling. One of the reasons my love affair with road bikes is on the wane as its impossible to ride them slowly and take in the views. Five hours and 20 minutes later I was back at the car. I drove back over to Applecross campsite, and pitched my tent close to where my pals were staying. We chatted in the sun for a bit (no midges, that's how dry its been!) and then inevitably went to the pub for food and much beer. 

The next morning I headed round Applecross bay on the beach aiming for a track that went up by the Applecross River. I was on a hot tip from Bruce Mathieson AKA Coastkid, him of fat bike fame, who has posted a vid of this trail the previous year. The track climbed up the glen and then narrowed to a good made path after a few miles.



Applecross river with Skye in the background

Soon after it climbed steeply round the shoulder of a hill. This would be my first real test of techy rock riding on the Mukluk (apart from what I'd done on the beach of course!) and it passed with flying colours, the big tyres gripping limitlessly and rolling over rocks that would have fired a normal tyre out from underneath you. Thereafter the trail was more straightforward climbing steadily to a junction with another possible route over a higher pass to the coast road. It looked a lot less well defined than the one I was on so I figured I'd stick with the lower level route which would also cut down the road riding. It was absolutely bone dry.



Torridon hills from near the end of the trail

The trail remained a peach right out to the road and the descent was ace. I had a go at a short cut on another path but this was non-existent on the ground after a promising start. So instead I cruised round the road, only pausing to check out a beach with some nice dunes.


Then it was back to the campsite for more chat, more good food and beer. The next morning I had a leisurely drive to Aviemore and spent the rest of the day and the next helping Rob with his chassis change. Interestingly as soon as I passed over the great glen the weather changed dramatically and became much damper. Rob took some time off from his project to check out a route in the Northern Corries (of the Cairngorms that is) on the fat bikes. It was actually a nice day but rivers were up and any bit of the trail that wasn't rock (not much to be fair) was pretty muddy. We ground up the ski area access track and then cut across into Corrie an Schnechda picking any suitable line through the boulder field. We stopped for a while taking in the views then rode out on the equally entertaining path back down and round to the Cas car park.


That evening I drove home back to work and rain, rain, rain.

Four weeks later I was back up to Aviemore, this time on the motorbike. It was looking like another stunning weekend in the North West and the plan was to do some walking and boating. That's right, we were going pack rafting, something that Rob and Iona had been doing for a couple of years and I was keen to try. The next morning we drove up past Ullapool, turned off on the Achiltibuie road and cruised along to a suitable parking point a few miles past Stac Pollaidh. 

Boats were inflated, rucksacks strapped to the front and off we went paddling up Loch Bad a Ghail in the warm sunshine. We followed this loch up to its furthest reach, jumped out, shouldered sacks and carried the boats under our arms, still inflated. A couple of hundred metres later we were back in the water in Loch Lurgainn. This was a bigger body of water and a bit choppy in the breeze. I was on a fairly steep learning curve paddling one of these things and I was keen not to fall off it! It was incredibly relaxing however and it made a change for me to be using my arms for forward motion instead of my legs.





Stac Pollaidh passed slowly on our left and then we beached just after Linneraineach. This times the boats were deflated as we had a bit of a walk ahead. This went straight up the hillside on a steep trail which was hard work with the heavy load (not actually that heavy - the boat, paddle and bouyancy aid weigh about 5kg in total) and the hot sun. Topping out revealed a stunning panorama - the wilderness of Sutherland.









We marched down the hill into this wild land, Cuil Mor just in front and Suilven in the distance. At the bottom we got the boats out and up and put into Loch an Doire Duibh. This was fairly short with a river of dubious provenance linking it to Loch Sionasgaig - a large body of water filling a wide land between us and Suilven. The river was short and not deep enough to paddle so we hopped out and carried the inflated boats for a bit before taking to the water again.




Progress is fairly slow in these things so you have to have fairly modest plans, distance wise. After a fair bit of paddling we approached a small group of islands. Eilean Mor had been Robs planned stopping point but lo and behold, someone else had beaten us to it. Not that surprising given the weather. Instead we beached just across from another small island and pitched up on an exposed shoulder of ground that would hopefully catch enough breeze to keep the midges at bay.

The breeze came and went so a bit of running around was needed setting up but we managed to cook and eat tea sat outside.

The next morning was quite breezy so we had a midge free breakfast before packing up and paddling off. Hmm the wind was in our faces and the waves on the increase. The problem being we had to cross the Loch to avoid a long paddle round its north shore. "Lean into the Waves as you paddle!" says Rob. Easy for him to say, he's into white water. After a few nervous wobbles I got into the rhythm of it and we progressed across to the south shore which was sheltered and much easier. At the end of the loch we hopped over a small sluice, paddled another wee loch and scrambled down a wide area of braided burn lines and a waterfall. Then it was one last lochan before we deflated the boats and trekked up to the road. This we stuck to back to the car. What a fun trip! The potential of packrafts, particularly in this part of Scotland, is huge. There are multiple lochs and rivers which a keen eye could thread a route through, avoiding horrible schleps across trackless rough moor. Hmm guess that's something else on the shopping list.



Our illustrious guide


Later that month I took the motorbike to the Manx Grand prix and experienced the worst weather I have ever camped in, anywhere. Fortunately my tent was a four season one so was one of a very few in Peel campsite that survived the gales and torrential rain. We ended up leaving early it was so bad....

Finally in October we got some better weather across southern and eastern Scotland. The scorching weather that had blazed across the northwest returned to a normal mix of sun, wind and rain. I actually managed a couple of great day rides in good weather during this month. One was a circuit starting in Blair Atholl going north across the Minigaig pass, over to the River Feshie, up this and across the Geldie to Glen Tilt and down back to Blair Atholl. Its a great route being around 50 miles and all off road. The trails were pretty wet but the infamous Feshie was the lowest I'd seen it....



The other was a bit of exploration north west of the Spittal of Glenshee. I was on the fat bike again as I knew there would be some off piste work on this one. I went up Glen Taitneach then scrambled up a narrow defile to a wee lochan. From here I crossed over to the Slopes of Carn an Righ and got right up to the summit thanks to an unexpected path and the short turf you tend to find about 750m which the fatty rolls across without issue.



Cairngorm panorama


Descending was harder but I eventually reached the track out of Fealar Lodge, rode this to Enochdu and then over the Cateran trail back to the Spittal.

That was it. In November the weather went pear shaped again, right to the end of the year, barring one blessed snowy weekend (So I finally got skiing in 2012!). I hope 2013 is going to be better!

Saturday 1 December 2012

Non-bikepacking Interlude - The Motorcycle Diaries

Back in 1991 I did a particularly epic cycle tour which involved excessive distances, running out of money and far too much suffering. The worst day involved doing 95 miles into a headwind and burning sunshine on busy roads. That evening I met a couple of Dutch lads on Tomos mopeds also staying in Carlisle YHA. They too were touring Scotland and Northern England and despite their machines restrictions to 30km/hr, were doing big distances. This pretty much ended my pedal powered touring and a seed was sewn.

I had a motorbike but apart from occasional short day runs, it was mainly used for commuting and messing around the streets of Edinburgh. As more friends got into motorbiking and were seeking to explore Scotland's fab road network, that sewn seed started to bloom. I realised that I could fulfill my desire to disappear randomly into the countryside, pitch a tent and escape from normal life; but without the physical hardship and distance limitations of cycle touring.


This photo was taken a long time ago.....

Over the subsequent years we rode all over Scotland, stayed in a variety of places, in a variety of weather. Being skint, we avoided official campsites and pubs, only starting to use these as we got older, wiser and richer. Time went by and
 friends moved away, trips became less regular until eventually petering out altogether. By this time I'd re-discovered cycle touring and the simplicity of cycling from place to place with a small load, no worries about recalcitrant machinery and no problems wild camping.

But motorcycle touring still had an appeal, albeit in my own company. After a long cycle tour it was nice to be able to relax, cover huge distances and scope out places to do more bike riding. It occurred to me that I had no record, beyond some photos, of my various jaunts around Scotland (and elsewhere) so I figured I better get something down on paper before I forgot....




Early days

I was notionally part of the Edinburgh Uni Motorcycle Club, despite being a student at Heriot-Watt. I'd fallen in with a bunch of like minded students, trying to run a variety of old bikes on a limited budget. Runs were a regular feature, typically to one of several 'regular' locations. St. Andrews, North Berwick, Moffat or Crianlarich; all popular biking hang outs. Overnighters started to become popular and pretty soon we were heading for the wilds of Scotland. A group of us would head for some suitable destination on some highly dubious machinery, the idea being that we would find a quiet spot near to the road to camp, have a fire and alter our mental states via various means. On every trip, at least one bike broke down, several had bits fall off, someone always got lost and progress was hardly faster than my days of cycling thanks to the golden rule of faff:- the amount of time spent faffing is an exponential function of the number of people in a group. 

One trip in particular stands out. Myself and another guy were on fairly sorted 650 BSA's and another lad had a Triumph T140 that despite having being rebuilt sprayed oil everywhere. Night one was on the back road to Braemar, a popular roadside camping destination. Unfortunately we only had one tent between us and three large blokes didn't really fit in it. The next day we headed north, the weather alternating between rain and shine. The first intimation of doom came on the road out of Inverness. Chris's T140 was misfiring at low revs. The solution seemed to be to ride it fast so off we went on a mad thrash west. I well remember going down the Torridon road and getting sprayed by gravel as Chris gunned it round the bends in a bid to keep going. Eventually we made it to Kishorn and a promising dead end road, at the end of which was a track which provided a fine place to camp. The midges were fierce but a fire kept them at bay. 

The next morning Chris's bike wouldn't start. Just back along the track we'd noticed a seemingly abandoned car which on closer inspection was unlocked but seemed to be in use as there was some change on the dash and stuff in the back. There was no sign of the owner so we popped the bonnet, attached a couple of wires from its battery to Chris's and then had breakfast. Thereafter his bike started and off we went. I knew it wasn't charging properly but Chris just hared off, me and Niall adopting a more leisurely pace. Sure enough at Loch Carron there he was with a dead bike and a glum look. So we set too removing the primary chain case to have a look at the alternator. Oh dear. The rotor nut had come loose and the rotor was busy smashing the stator to bits. Chris bolted it all back together but he hadn't located the rotor into its driving pegs so unbeknownst to him, the rotor went on squint and bent the stud on the end of the crank. Of course this meant the rotor would further destroy the stator. So it proved and at Inverinate garage he gave up and phoned the AA.

So on we went. Until Spean bridge that is. As I pulled into the car park the bike died. We had food and then set off but pretty soon it was clear that I now had charging problems. Any use of lights killed the engine and it would only run if I gunned it. So it was my turn to ride too fast, this time down the famously bendy Lagan road. Eventually it died just by a house down off the road. Annoyingly as I waited for Niall I noticed a Golf GTi approaching at speed and recognised the driver - Derek. But he sped past with a wave. Bugger. Niall appeared and we wandered down to the house in order to use the phone. The guy who answered the door looked highly dubious about letting two bikers into his house but eventually relented so in we went and phoned the AA. Niall wanted to get back before dark so he left me too it. The AA man turned up quite quickly as he was based in Kingussie and soon enough I was being trailered down the road. Not for the last time....

Attendance at bike rallies was also a regular feature - either the biker type or milder vintage vehicle do's held around Scotland. The vintage do's were very relaxed with much sitting in the sun and perusing the exhibits. Biker rallies were a bit more focused (on drinking) but our arrival on a gaggle of old bikes always caused a stir. That said we experienced fights between Hell Angels and Satan's Slaves, tear gas, crap heavy metal bands and horrible rally food so I was never that taken by them.

As time went on the bikes became more reliable (or we got better at fixing them) and runs became more regular and less fraught with breakdowns. After too many group rides involving someone being left behind, someone holding the rest of us up due to a bike running badly, someone getting lost and highly dodgy overtakes trying to follow the leader; we figured on just setting meeting points and all heading up at our own pace. Cries of "I'll just follow you" were ignored. If you didn't have a map, you were on your own.

I suppose the most epic of these trips was to the infamous Dragon rally, held in mid February in Wales. The ride down became the usual mix of mad thrashing, getting lost (we were trying to avoid the motorway as much as possible) and horrible weather whilst trying to navigate the famously lumpy and twisty Welsh roads in the dark. We'd all got split up and then Me and Rick encountered a couple of Ural outfits, one towing the other which had expired. They were doing about 20mph with a huge queue of traffic behind and Rick suddenly decided we should follow them as the rearmost bike didn't have any lights. This lasted for about a mile before I got fed up and sped off. Rick soon followed as he had no idea where he was. Finally we got to Betwys-e-Coed, had a pint and food and sussed out where the rally site was.

On arrival it was clear we were in for a hard night. It was windy and raining and I suddenly realised my tent was seriously lacking in strength and water-proofness. Rick's tent would blow flat everytime the wind gusted so we both ended up in mine, which really wasn't big enough. After a very rough night we both realised we were damp and cold as the tent had multiply leaked. Rick had a total sense of humour failure and decided there and then he was off home. The rally didn't officially start until that afternoon so I was reluctant to leave with him but my wrecked tent and wet bag was of concern. Eventually I just thought 'fuck this, I'm going home.' So off we went followed by the jeers of our fellows. We didn't muck around, just followed main roads to the M6 and headed north.

Now I was on an ex army BSA B40 - a 350 single which cruised at about 55 - 60. Rick was on a rough BSA A10 which ran OK but used rather a lot of oil. As we progressed north it got colder and colder with sleet and then snow showers increasing. I took the decision to use the A7 as it would get us off the motorway and hopefully away from the black skies to the north and west. It did until the hill after Hawick where the snow came in, in earnest. We made it over to Selkirk but after here it got worse and worse. The snow finally stopped but as the skies cleared the temps dropped alarmingly and the road was covered in snow. Ricks bike then started icing its carb, resulting in it cutting onto one cylinder (or out) and then firing on both with much wheelspinning as a result. Every so often he had to stop to allow heat from the engine to thaw out the carb and then off we went again. I was actually OK as the B40 had trail tires and wide bars and being a nice soft 350 thumper, the ideal tool for snow riding. It was now dark of course and progress slow. At one point I noted Rick's bike slowing so I pulled up behind him, leaned forward to place a hand on his top box and gave him a shove until his carb thawed once more. Finally we descended down to Edinburgh and out of the snow. We were both freezing so headed straight for the pub, hot food and beer.

After this I got my kit sorted and camping trips became more organised. We also started using hostels and B & B's to save humping camping kit around. A sign of growing maturity?


The dawn of a new millennium....

So we now had (largely) sorted bikes, decent kit and an encyclopedic knowledge of the highways and byways of Scotland. I had a 650 Triumph by this time and it was in regular use. Me and a mate Ian, who was on a 650 BSA and like me, a bachelor, would head out most weekends on one of a variety of circuits North, West and South. Distances were anything between 150 to 350 miles. Despite the age of the machinery we never broke down and had some epic thrashes around the many quiet and bendy roads in the Highlands and Borders.

Trips wise, these too had become a bit more structured, generally one at midsummer and another sometime in September. Roadside camping had become verboten thanks to armies of neds spoiling it for everyone else at places like Loch Lomondside, Loch Rannoch and Loch Earn so we were tending to use campsites or hostels, plus even the odd B&B!

The midsummer trips started in 2002 with an expedition to the Western Isles. The goal was Calanish stone circle in Lewis for the solstice (along with lots of hippies and tourists). It rained from the moment we arrived to the moment we left. Fortunately one of the group had brought 50kg of coal which proved to be a life saver (along with whisky, beer and other herbage). We did nearly get lynched by the locals after one of us shouted at their kids for nicking valve caps off the bikes; the feral children belonging to some of the travellers scared even the hardiest of us plus one of the party nearly got us all arrested for selling ecstasy to the locals. On the way home we ended up in the Hostel in Portree on Skye. I recall relaxing in warm and dry comfort, reading the paper and venturing out to the pub for food and much recuperative beer. It rained all the way home as well.







2003 saw us visit foreign climes (Ireland) and much welcome sunshine. Later that year I did my first solo trip spending a week bombing round the Highlands on my recently acquired MZ Baghira (Yamaha XT660 engine'd hooning machine.) Despite a cracking summer I managed to pick the worst week of the year to date with much rain and even snow on high ground. I used bunkhouses exclusively and did my first run round the Northwest Highland roads.


2004 and it was a fine week in the Orkneys. Me and another guy (Zack) pre-empted the others with a few days buzzing around the highlands before we hit the Northern Isles. The weather was pretty horrible (again) but we were staying in bunkhouses so at least we could dry off at night. The only problem was that as we were tending to cut short our day rides due to the weather, we'd get to our destination early and end up in the pub from 3pm to midnight. One of the bunkhouses was a set of railway carriages in a place called Rogart. Best of all there was a pub next door and the guy behind the bar was most welcoming as we were the only folk in but spent a fortune eating and drinking.

We met the rest of the gang at a very gloomy and damp Gils Bay, just along the road from John O'Groats. A private outfit ran a couple of clapped out rust buckets between here and St. Margarets Hope on South Ronaldsay. The crossing was much cheaper than the Northlink boat from Thurso plus you went right across the roughest bit of the infamous Pentland Firth. At one point the pilot seemed to aim for the biggest wave in the violent currents leading to much leaning over of ship. This was a taste of things to come. The first night was in Kirkwall YHA (a former barracks and as appealing.) We were a bit alarmed when the warden told us they were fully booked only for one of our party to state that it was him that had booked it. After too many beers in the pub we were forced to get up at 6am to get the early boat to Westray. It was slashing rain and blowing a gale. The guy at the ferry port said some immortal words: 
"Right lads, its going to be a rough crossing and we can't guarantee your bikes'll be in the same number of pieces at the end as the start"
Given that we were now up we couldn't be doing with waiting for the afternoon boat (which we'd been told may be too busy for us all to get on) so carried on. Much tying up and padding of bikes in the cattle pens ensured they'd be largely fine. The crossing was indeed rather rough..... 

Arriving in the small town of Pierwall was a bit like a cold and wet version of that scene out of the Wild One when Marlon Brando and his gang rock up to a quiet American town to the consternation of the locals. Everything seemed to be shut (it was only 8.30 am) and some of us needed fuel. We pulled up outside a petrol pump and stood in the rain looking for evidence of a kiosk or garage. Then a very elderly lady peered out of the next door house and it turned out she was the petrol station. After filling up we headed up to our digs. 

We'd booked the whole of Bis Geos hostel which was real luxury after previous trips. We weren't due in until 2pm but the owner was happy for us to use the facilities for the day, given the weather. The current occupants didn't seem to happy with this but we were too wet and tired to care. So we spent the rest of the day watching the weather improve whilst checking out the views. By this time the entire island knew that a dozen bikers were in town and we added to their fears by all riding in to check out the shop and source beer. The shop stocked everything but beer so we bought food and then headed to the craft shop which had an off license. The two rather attractive middle aged women who ran it were very pleased to see us as they had a couple of crates of out of date Orkney Red Macgregor which they sold us cheap. 

Westray proved to be a gem of a place. Much fishing, riding without lids (there are no Police on Westray) and generally relaxing followed. The first night we all rode the bikes down to the Pierwall hotel, had a fab meal of locally caught fish and quite a lot of beer. We debated walking home however it was clear the locals were arriving and departing by car, in view of the lack of Polis; so in the event we jumped on the bikes and rode back to the hostel up the (empty) road, thoroughly over the limit. This continued all week and was quite enlightening really as it dispelled any myth you can ride a motorcycle whilst drunk unless you are on an empty road doing 5mph in first gear with one eye shut... The last night saw us and various befriended locals having a beach party to the wee small hours.

2005 was back to camping but further north again in Shetland. This was at the Simmer Dim rally - a particularly fine do with more good weather, lots of local ales and just enough biker couture to be a laugh without it getting too heavy. A key moment was the road from Lerwick to the rally site. We'd been chatting to a few local bikers on the boat and they were all on Hayabusas, R1's, and Fireblades. Our expectation was the roads would be like the Orkneys i.e. fairly narrow and pretty rough so their bike choice seemed odd. As we climbed over the hill out of the town it all became clear. The road was like a race track - wide, sweeping bends, zero traffic, zero houses, zero animal concealing trees and zero Police.








2006 saw a more local run around Scotland with a varying group of people as the week went on.






2007 and it was back in the northern isles - a few days in Orkney (Westray again) followed by a further visit to the Simmer Dim in Shetland. The run up was one of those that was a hoot at the time, lead to much nervous "what if" thoughts afterwards but tempered by a huge buzz from having got away with it. I'd met up with VFR750 riding Scott and we stayed over at his folks place in Aberdeenshire on the Friday after a leisurely run up through Deeside. On the Saturday we met up with Chris at Huntly. It was rather damp but that didn't stop the inevitable thrash along the A95 and A9 up to Tore Services. We had a leisurely lunch and then I suddenly noted that it was 12.30. We had to get to Gills Bay for the 2.30 boat. Gills bay was 120 miles away.... What followed sticks in my memory as probably my fastest run anywhere. 

Fortunately the A9 was quiet and there were no Polis in evidence. We kept the bikes above the ton as much as the road and light traffic allowed on on the long sections of traffic free open road we were regularly doing twice the speed limit. On the long straight to Thurso there is a somewhat hump-backed bridge over the railway line. I was at the back at this point. As I saw Scott and Chris approach it, I looked down at my speedo which was indicating 125. I backed off big style, just about kept on the deck over the bridge and was relieved to see Scott and Chris on the far side, terra ferma and still going. Both later noted that they spent enough time in the air to appreciate the sensation of flying. Needless to say we got to the ferry port in plenty of time. 
On arrival.


We had a few fine days in Westray again then got the night boat to Shetland. The weather was, once again, fab. Arrivals from Aberdeen talked of torrential rain all the way up through the UK.



2008 was a taste of things to come. I spent a few days on my own doing the northwest and then met up with others for a couple of nights out.
Campsite top end rebuilds are easy if you ride a side valve!


The Clachaig Inn, in Glencoe, had become a regular feature on all of our trips as it made for a good stopping off point on the Friday after work and gave access to the whole of the Scottish Highlands thereafter. It also became a destination in its own right. From the late '90's through until about 2008 myself and friends were up here many weekends over the summer, on a variety of machinery....





The Isle of Mann Years.

Sometime in 1997 a friend suggested we should go to the Manx Grand Prix the following year. This is a quieter version of the TT with classic racing and therefore more of the old bike crowd in attendance. We'd talked about it for years so after some debate (and a few beers) we decided to do it. Digs and ferries were booked, I just needed a suitable machine. At the time I had the B40 but the 650 BSA was in bits as it had gone bang earlier that year and I had little interest in fixing it as it was a bit of a nail really. Enter a 1970 Triumph Trophy 650. My mate Rick had one and he gave me a shot. Far smoother, revvier and quicker than the A65 and no stupid antiquated bottom end requiring either an expensive upgrade or a gentle right hand. Rick wasn't selling his so after a bit of searching, one turned up at that years roaster of a Festival of a Thousand Bikes at Brands Hatch. This was rebuilt and fettled over that Winter and Spring and as usual only just ready and run in by the time the departure date came. 

Three of us set out heading roughly south west with an aim to stop over somewhere. The weather was nice and the pace relaxed as we trundled down to and through the Lake District. After some head scratching we went into a Tourist Office who booked us digs near to the bottom end of Windemere which was a short walk from the Newby Bridge Hotel and its very welcome bar. The ferry was caught and a fab week in motorcycle world commenced. The Triumph ran like a dream. On the straight to Peel I wound it up and hit 105 before running out of road. Me and Goldstar Mounted Rick had much fun round the TT course chasing down much more capable modern machines.


As expected we were booking up for the next year before we left!

'99 saw a bigger group of us although this was the only time there were more than the core of us four. Ricks Gold Star went bang on the first day unfortunately (dropped valve) however he managed to source a new valve and piston and get them fitted in time for going home.


2000 was an interesting year in that Rick and (now ex) wife Angie had a coming together so to speak which smashed up the pair of them and the bikes. This being the first day of a two week holiday made things a little strained, especially after the previous years mechanical woes. Of other note was a 
mass lap of the TT course on closed roads to commemorate the death of Joey Dunlop who'd been killed earlier that year, racing in Lithuania.



2001 was foot and mouth year but this got us into better digs in Peel, home of the island famous Creek inn. We stayed here for several years afterwards until the owners sold up. In 2002 I took my newly acquired MZ Baghira and spent most of the week blasting around the Islands prodigious collection of back roads. Trophy again in 2003 and back on the MZ in 2004.


2005 is one year that stands out. I'd not long acquired a Greeves Scottish trials bike. Given the number of green lanes on the Island, this seemed like an ideal tool for taking down. I fitted a smaller back sprocket to enable a reasonable cruising speed (45mph) bodged on a rack and top box and off we went. On arrival the big back sprocket was refitted, the rack removed and much trail riding followed. The bike had its ups and downs, seizing on the first day (it freed off and ran fine all week, and indeed for the following two years), blowing both its shocks and getting a puncture but otherwise it was a hoot. '06 and '07 were done on my recently acquired BMW GS (with full time pillion), the Manx week following a tour round Ireland in 2006 and the Yorkshire Dales in 2007.


We then had four years of camping. After much debate we decided to take a van as this would allow family size tents and much home comforts. 2008 was the first time and the weather was atrocious. This was annoying as on all of our previous visits the weather had generally been good. 2009 and it was even worse with Peel Campsite resembling a mud bath by the end of it and most people leaving early. Of course in 2010 we had a break and the weather was fab. In 2011 we at last had a dry camping week. Machine of choice was my (then still fairly new) Suzuki DRZ 400 and much trail riding ensued.


2012 was my last year on a bike and without doubt the worst weather we'd had on the Island and the worst camping weather I have ever experienced anywhere. Fortunately our group of three were all using mountain tents and these were some of the only ones standing after one nights storm.

The last two times I've been on the Island were by bicycle, ironically enough. Ferry fairs for a motorbike were in excess of £200 and spaces were all booked by the time I'd decided to Go. A bicycle went free so you only paid a foot passenger which was a mere £50 and there was plenty of space. It wasn't the same but I had a week of enjoyable mountain biking, I could have a drink wherever I felt like it and it was great opportunity to test the weather proof-ness of my newly acquired SMD Deschutes!


The Rock 'N Roll years
Every May and October, the Hemsby Rock 'n' Roll weekender took place at the Pontin's Holiday camp in Hemsby, Norfolk (near to Great Yarmouth). Friends had been going for a few years and it had gained a reputation as a great mix of R'N'R music, drinking and motorbikes. You stayed in chalets in the camp with two dance halls featuring DJ's and bands. The first year I went was 1995. I'd gotten quite into Rock 'n' Roll (The pukka '50's variant that is) and went to a monthly do in Edinburgh. A number of the EUMCC guys were into the music and the bikes reflected this - some seriously dodgy '50's machines that were in an authentically wrecked state and run on a shoe string. I was in the middle of building a 650 BSA, acquired the previous winter as a basket case, and riding it down to Hemsby seemed the ideal way to test it out. My mate Niall was going to take his fairly sorted A65 and Rick and Angie would be on, respectively, an original (and somewhat decrepit) A10 (as featured in the Dragon Rally tale) and a very shiny Triumph T100. Also heading down were Tombo and Scott, also on dodgy A10 cafe racers, but they were leaving a day later. I left a few days early as I wanted to spend time at my folks place and needed to do an oil change on my newly rebuilt and run in bike. I'd got it on the road a few months previously but soon after the engine seized solid - a typical BSA bottom end balls up. So it had been a rush to get it rebuilt and ready and as usual I was still working on it until the early hours of the morning of departure. Still it went fine down to Mum and Dads, I changed the oil and figured it would be fine for the remaining 600 odd miles of riding.

Rick, Angie and Niall were heading down the next day but took an age to arrive at mum and dads place. We didn't leave until 3 but only had 120 miles to do to Lincoln where we were to stay with Niall's girl friend. In the event, the weather was fine, the bikes ran OK and we got there in good time. The next day was a leisurely run along the A17 and A47, roads I would become very familiar with over the following years. The landscape down there is pan flat and somewhat featureless but at least makes for easy miles. The weekend was a hoot with lots of good music, dancing, riding of bikes round the site and general tomfoolery. Scott and Tombo had made the run in one go with only some minor parts loss an issue. 

Heading home was a more leisurely affair. Rick and Angie were going to do it in three days but I needed to be back to work so was going to head back up to my folks and home from there. Scott, Tombo and Niall decided to join me. Apart from Niall's colossal hangover, the day went well. We backtracked the A47 and 17 then reversed our route up the '15 past Lincoln, over the Humber Bridge then various A roads to the North East. Scott and Tombo had just ridden the A1 on the way down so this made a pleasant change for them.

The next year was very similar although Nialls girlfriend was no more so me an him stayed at my Mum and Dads and did the rest of the journey in one go. Rick and Angie took the car! That year we fell in with a bunch of guys from Germany. They had similarly dilapidated bikes and were of like mind when it came to music, dress and attention to restorative detail. Steve, a guy from Belfast but actually one of Ricks London mates had also joined our gang. He too had a bike being run on a tight budget (a T100) and soon enough we had set ourselves up as a gang of scumbags, in sharp contrast to the lot from London who were all immaculately turned out both in terms of dress and their bikes. These all seemed to be mint restorations of various '50's road burners but all had been trailered up, despite the short distance. We'd already gained a reputation as hard nuts having ridden out machines from various far flung destinations and we were sure to milk this for all it was worth. On the day of departure, Niall was again horribly hung over so left me to ride home in one go.

1997 saw me riding my recently acquired BSA B40 (from Rick, I should have known) gingerly down the road, it too having just had a new piston fitted. It snowed on the way down then rained rather a lot. The bike became progressively louder, the farther I went, and by the time I arrived it was smoking ominously and making some horrible noises. Undeterred I removed the top end to discover a loose big end and a piston that had hit the head, bending the ring lands, hence the smoke. The AA came to my rescue (a popular trick at the time was to 'break down' a few miles away from the site in order to get a free run home) and needed little convincing that my bike was dead. So a two day epic journey became 7 hours in an AA van.

1998 and a gang of us were going. I'd borrowed a works van and we had several bikes and bodies in the back. The B40 had been properly rebuilt and was now a full on trail bike so as well as the usual music, beer and bikes, we spent several happy hours jumping it off the wheelchair ramps that came with each chalet.

The next few years were the Trophy years. Having proven it on the Isle of Mann it was the ideal tool for a run down to Great Yarmouth. I generally went a long scenic route, calling at various family members houses and avoiding motorways as much as possible. Best of all I discovered the old road through Norfolk from Kings Lynn which missed the drudgery of the A47 and took me along many great wee roads, empty of traffic. Every year all the bikes at the event took a run into Great Yarmouth on the Saturday. This was a chance to show off the machines and to have a full on rocker burn up on the way back. I'd already upset a few of the Londoners on the B40 the previous year so the Trophy showed them all a clean pair of pipes. It would crack a ton without any bother whereas their precious machines had clearly never seen such excesses and were unlikely to have survived.

Then in 2001 I'd had a change of fortunes in that my girlfriend was coming too. She was travelling up from the south and then we were both driving back to her folks place after the do. I still wanted to take a bike however so after some thought I figured I could shoe-horn my trials B40 into the back of my Citroen AX. A small bike in a small car. I'd been trialling on this bike for a year or so and it was a huge amount of fun. Inevitably we ended up jumping it off wheelchair ramps again and even featured in one of the German lads film of the event.


2003 was the last year I went but I was drifting away from the scene so the run down and back were the only real highlight.


Later Years
 
Times had changed again. I was mostly on modern machinery, the Triumph sold and the Ariels only used on club runs. 2010 started with my permanent pillion passenger departing so I was determined to exploit my new found freedoms to the full. It started in April that year. The Ariel owners club had arranged a meet up at Newtonmore. I took the Friday off with a plan to get round the North coast before the meet up on Saturday evening. This would become a ubiquitous route heading up the West Coast as far as it went, then back down through the middle of Scotland by various means.



April was a good time to go to such places as it was before the tourist season, you often got good weather and the midges were still dormant. Many of the 'main' roads north west of the great glen were nigh on empty and offered some of the best motorcycling available in Europe. I'd camp in either Applecross or Gairloch as both sites were a good run up from home and had a good pub. Next day would be a mad thrash round to Ullapool and up the infamous A835. Home would be via many different routes, usually finishing up with the A939 and A93. No pillion, no cares, empty roads and no Police meant traffic laws became guidelines and the Big GS's handling and performance got used and (sometimes) abused.

That said I was still happy to use older machinery. The 2010 Ariel National rally was in Germany and obviously I had to ride an Ariel to it. Four of us thudded across the continent, my 71 year old bike being the oldest by ten years. The pace was slow, we saw all manner of things and the bike ran (mostly) flawlessly.



Every September, the Antler Rally takes place in Ardnamurchan and my thoroughly blooded machine was the obvious choice. The weather was fine, I won a prize and the narrow, rough and twisty roads of the west were ideally suited to a simple rigid framed motorcycle with dual purpose tyres. Exactly what it was designed for.



I was riding with mate Keith on a similar vintage VB - same bike just a 600cc side valve lump instead of my 500cc OHV. Both bikes went and handled pretty much the same so this made for a fine run.

I finished the year with a rather damp tour of Mull and the west, followed by a trip down to the Yorkshire Dales for some heavyweight byway bagging.




2011 was particularly fine as April became five weeks of continuous sunshine. I did my usual with a camp in Gairloch, followed by a run north and west. In the 70 miles between Ullapool and Durness I overtook one car. Altnaharra on the singletrack A836 stuck in my memory as the temps hit 30 degrees as I passed through. That January this wild and remote place saw the lowest temperature recorded in the British isles - minus 30!




The voluminous rain of 2012 did curtail things somewhat. I got lucky with my April trip (actually the end of March...) with a few days of glorious sunshine in amongst weeks of rain. The highlight was crossing Loch Carron on the old Kylrea boat, pressed into service as the main road had been closed by a landslide.




The Applecross road before it became famous (and crowded) 

2013 was a funny year. The monster winter ran right through April so my usual spring thrash would have been a test of cold tolerance, willpower and corrosion resistance. Just as things were coming good, weatherwise, I broke my collarbone... On my first motorcycle trip after this, its fair to say I took it pretty steady. Hitherto, my trips on the big GS had tended towards point to point races between destinations. That 2012 trip had been the epitome of this where I seemed to ride across most of Scotland in one weekend, and at high speed. It suddenly occurred to me that pretty much all I would see was the road in front of me. A gentler pace, already perfected on the old bikes, was called for. Not wanting to break anything else was also a consideration.

2014 saw my entry into the world of Bikepacking ITT's and it got off to a shaky start with an epic fail on that year's Highland Trail. Of course after I pulled out the weather turned stunning and I still had the week off. So it was obvious to jump on the Beemer and have a ride around the route to see who was still out there. In the event, I only passed Richard Seip, who probably had no idea why a passing motorcyclist gave him a grin and a thumbs up.


Not the first time I've mixed bikes and motorbikes. A lot of people seem to think it must be terrible carrying a bike on the back but an average pillion weighs 75kg and even my fat bike only weighs 15 or so...

Duff weather in April seemed to persist and I was tending to use any weather windows to bang in some big miles on the bike. Motorcycling had taken the back seat once more. Things were also changing. By the power of the internet many more people were heading for the North West to experience the empty roads and scenery. So the roads weren't empty any more and the Police were taking an interest. Then a group of local business owners, seeing their north Highland hotels decline year on year, had the bright idea of promoting a driving route round these roads in order to drum up business. What seemed like a colossal white elephant blossomed into a tourist phenomena. Crowds headed up to my favourite roads, in Morris minors, Beford rascals, 2CV's and worst of all Campervans. Once empty roads saw holiday traffic levels grow by alarming amounts. Numerous single track roads became mexican standoffs as people who had never experienced such things (at least in a house on wheels) struggled to cope. The locals sharpened their sticks and tourist businesses reaped the rewards.

I stayed well out of it. My now sporadic trips were focused on 'Not the North Coast 500;' seeking out roads that this route missed and were still quiet as a result. I guess my main disappointment was that my favourite campsites were suddenly full. In September 2019 I did this to perfection only using the NC route a few times and during the evenings when the tourists were tucking into their main meal. 


I was also planning a further change to my motorcycling - a new bike! Or rather an old one. The big GS was getting a bit long in the tooth and manoeuvering quarter a tone of machine over narrow single track roads was becoming a chore. High speeds no longer interest me and finding the limits of cornering likewise. I still had the Ariels and these would be brought out to play once more but I had a hankering for something that was a bit more of a road burner than a forties plodder. Enter a(nother) 1970 Triumph Trophy 650.....


More on this later!


Saturday 16 June 2012

Iceland Tour

Sometime towards the end of 2011 my friend Iona phoned up to see if I fancied doing an Iceland Tour in 2012. She'd been twice before and was keen to explore more of this dramatic island. I'd always fancied it after hearing Iona's tales so instantly accepted. That new year I was up at their place as usual and we discussed options. A traverse across the interior was the most appealing but our planned date for the trip - early June - would likely mean the high roads (the infamous F26 or F35) would be snowbound. Also we'd need to get a bus from Reykjavik to the north side of the island to make such a trip practical within our notional timescale of a week and a bit. Something in the southwest of the island seemed a bit more practical and would still provide opportunities to touch the interior of the island without having to arrange transport or worry too much about snow.

During that (extremely wet) winter we kept in regular touch about plans and gear. I'd already got the bike - a rigid On One inbred 29er which, with the right tyres, would be ideal for the mix of gravel roads and tarmac that we'd encounter. I was starting to amass various bits of bikepacking kit so a frame bag / seat pack / bar roll set up seemed ideal for what we were planning. I stressed about tents for a quite a while. Iona described some of the exposed sites she'd used previously and the need for something suitably windproof. Eventually I got a good deal on a Force 10 nitro which looked to be strong enough, roomy enough for some comfort on a 10 day trip, and at 1.9kg, not too heavy. Iona was going with her trusty Terra Nova Voyager which was heavier still but stronger.

In the April myself, Iona and Rob did a 4 day tour of the Western Isles on the fat bikes which gave me an opportunity to test the tent. And test it I did, especially on one wild night where the wind nearly had us all off Eriskay and into the sea. A weekend trip up to Glencoe allowed me a final kit and load out check. My previously much loved Brooks conquest did not make the cut as it ripped my backside to pieces. Fortunately I already had a WTB speed V gel which I'd used on the beach tour so went with that instead.

Finally on the 31st May I headed through to Glasgow airport. I hate flying, not because of any fear of crashing, but entirely due to the massive hassle involved in parking, checking in, getting through security and getting on board. In the event it all went well and the flights were direct thanks to a new route by Icelandair to Keflavik. 

Flying in revealed much sunshine and a landscape unique in my personal experience. Leaving the tiny airport was a cinch and we were picked up by the owners of the hostel we were staying at (Hostel Alex). 



We'd booked this well in advance for our first and last nights. Its close by Keflavik airport, offers free transfers and bike bag storage. It looked like a warehouse but was actually quite posh inside. And a bit pricey however Iceland's recent total bank crash had meant we got an excellent exchange rate making prices overall pretty reasonable. That afternoon was spent building up the bikes outside in the warm sunshine, followed by a wander into town to check out the place. Food outlets seemed to be either American style cafes selling junk food or very expensive restaurants selling local delicacies. There's a very strong American influence on the island thanks to the US having an airbase there. This dates from the cold war but they refused to leave after it was all over and the Icelanders seem powerless to turf them out....

The next morning dawned bright and sunny and after a diversion to get gas we headed roughly west on route 425. The plan was to follow this along the south coast as far as we could. Iona's map seemed to suggest a lot of it would be gravel but my more recent map suggested more was tarmac. Whatever, the gravel roads all looked to be motorway standard so no bother.


The landscape was desolate - volcanic ash covered with moss and the odd bit of scrubby vegetation. We passed the first of many power stations driven by the geothermal heat that is an integral part of Iceland's highly active geology. Basically if you drill a hole in the ground, at some point a jet of superheated steam will blast out. All you need is some kind of turbine and you've got power.

This narrow defile marks the line of the major tectonic plate join that makes Iceland so volcanic

Turning east lead to a stiff tailwind but the sun was now baking. Neither of us had thought to bring sun cream and we were getting fried as a result - who'd have thought it.... Bits of the old road still existed beside the new surfaced alignment and one longish section looked worth a look. Its not as if there was any traffic on the main road but we were there to ride gravel and not in any rush so made the most of it.


Our timing was perfection as we rolled into the first town since the start at lunchtime. This was Grindavik and typical of a small Icelandic settlement. Lots of low tin and timber houses, well spaced out streets (all with cycleways) and a garage cum shop / cafe in the middle. This supplied further junk food for lunch and food for that evening.

So we progressed, the landscape slowly changing from barren volcanic ash of all hues (think West Lothian pit bings) to scrubby grass to farmland. Our agreed destination was a small community named Selvogur which revealed itself as a cluster of spread out houses and a couple of farms. A campsite was marked on the map and sure enough a sign indicated one of the farms. The site was a small field surrounded by sheep, with a picnic table, a small toilet block and little else. Best of all it was free but a shower was 60kr (about 20p). We'd done about 85k which seemed plenty for our first day. The wind had done a 180 for the last few k so further distance was pointless in any case. Tea comprised hot dog sausages and couscous, something we would be sick of by the end....



Local Sheep

The next morning dawned grey. I'd slept incredibly well, a rarity for me in a tent. Iona was up and breakfasted already so I made a quick brew, had some more sausages and packed up. We continued east but the landscape was changing. The grassland was getting richer and richer and we passed many farms. Ahead was a different story - low bumps of hills capped with white. We crossed a long bridge over the river Olfusa and then shortly after the main road turned inland.



Black sand beach. The line of surf is breaking on a former laval flow that would have cooled as it flowed out to sea.



We followed a lesser road which then turned to gravel. This gave me my first experience of washboard. As vehicles drive along a gravel road, the suspension starts to vibrate up and down. This forms small dips and ridges which get progressively bigger as more vehicles pass by. They can end up around 2" high at about 12" centres and riding over them is hellish. In a car the trick is to drive fast to float over them. On a bike you try and keep to the edge or middle of the road to avoid them.


The surrounding farms all seemed to have fields full of Icelandic ponies. This, the flat grassy plains and the snow capped hills in the distance looked like pictures of Utah and Montana. As we headed east the hills became clearer and bigger. It was tremendously exciting knowing we would soon be in amongst them. At the river Thjorsa we headed inland and joined the main A1 coast road.

Typical Iceland river fed by glacial melt water. Makes the Avon look a bit lame, even when its in flood.

Its curious. Many cycle tourists go to Iceland purely to cycle the A1, which circumnavigates the whole island. Whilst you get a good view of the scenery, its the only road which sees any significant traffic levels. Given most other roads are nigh on empty, this is daft. Anyway, we followed it ourselves for around 50k as missing it out would involve much too-ing and fro-ing. It was pretty quite to be fair but this was enough. We stopped at Hella for food and supplies and thereafter traffic levels went up - the local rush hour, such as it was. A lot of the vehicles were 4 wheel drives with comedy large wheels - these take tourists on mountain roads and even onto the glaciers. Our form of tourism seemed much closer to the landscape.

The wind switched for the last few k and was again a stiff headwind. Not for long as we turned off the A1 at the river Markarflijot, the mountains beckoning.




This river saw huge levels during the eruption of Eyjafjallajokull last year. We know it for the air travel chaos it caused due to the vast volume of ash blown into the air, right in the path of the main air route from Europe to America. The resulting melting glaciers caused a vast torrent of mud and water to flow out of the river. They deliberately cut through the road embankment to allow more water and mud to escape, without trashing the bridge. A year later the only evidence was a new section of road and a sign board with pictures and info of the eruption.




A couple of k up the road revealed a large waterfall and a campsite. Oddly the campsite was mobbed with locals, all out enjoying the rare hot sunshine, something of a tradition in Iceland. We pitched up away from the crowds in the hope to get some peace and quiet. Although it was mainly youths, they were actually pretty well behaved. I mean they were all wrecked but there was no fighting or vandalism and they were unfailingly polite to us when we encountered them.



Ear plugs allowed a good nights sleep and another lie in. The morning dawned hot and sunny again and it looked like it was going to be another roaster as we left the campsite revelers to their hangovers. 

At the old bridge the tarmac ran out and then after a few k the gravel road descended into the river course. There was no construction as such, the road was just a buldozed strip through the volcanic river gravel. This made for hard going - a loose bed of of 2 - 3" diameter stones. We both shared a look - the fat bikes would have been the business for this.....


Malik Endar = end of the tarmac, how exciting!



The distraction was the opening views. The vast Myrdalsjokull ice cap was slowly emerging in front and the cliffs of Eyafjallajokull were building on our right. Occasionally a comedy monster truck came past as well as the odd tourist in a hire car or some post apocalyptic landrover based contrivance. There were regular side burns of varying depths and flows. some were rideable some not. After the easy riding of the previous days this was on the money - mountain roads, rivers, ice caps and glaciers.


Knee length sealskin socks are handy


 Rideable!


Tour bus, Iceland style


And speaking of Glaciers, this was my first. This was the main torrent after the eruption.


Worrying sign



Myrdalsjokull Icecap

On our map were two clusters of huts and campsites, all collectively labeled as Thorsmork. The first was over to our left and seemed as good a place to stop as any. We'd been vaguely aware of the main flow of the river a few times. As we clattered across the gravel towards the small cluster of huts we encountered it properly.



It was clear we weren't crossing this. We'd noted a somewhat bent footbridge a ways downstream so this looked like our best bet, although the path on the far side of the flow looked a bit dubious. As we debated a tractor suddenly appeared on the far side and tootled unhesitatingly across the flow, which was around 1m deep and fierce. It pulled up alongside and a young lad leant out. 



"You will not cross here" he stated
"What about the bridge?" says we
"It no longer crosses the river"
"Oh...."
"A few kilometres further along, there is another campsite. No rivers to cross"
"Right then cheerio, and thanks for the info!"


Off we went feeling slightly concerned as to what we were getting into. In the event the riding was fine, barring a few more burn crossings.


Around a corner appeared another cluster of huts, many vehicles and a bar. This was Thorsmork proper. A number of walking trails leave here and head further into the interior. Today we were content to pitch up despite having only covered 30k but next time.....


A largeish cloud had appeared but it cleared to leave another pleasant evening. More hot dogs....

Another long sleep and another sunny morning but with more cloud and a stiff easterly breeze. No worries as we were now heading back west. The return along the road seemed to go much quicker and soon we reached the old road bridge.




It was technically closed and somewhat bent but carried our weight fine and meant missing out a return to the A1. 



Our route then traced a path north then west, eventually rejoining the A1 at Hvollsvollur which provided food and supplies. The 30-odd k to our turn off passed quickly enough with a strong tailwind and light early evening traffic. The map indicated a campsite a few k up this road which turned out to be a school playing field and a swimming pool. There was no-one in the nearby shop so we pitched up near to a camper van, made use of the changing rooms for showers and relaxed after a 100k day.



That night it rained - a short sharp shower that was not in evidence the next morning - more sunshine - but a definitely cool feel to the air heralded more to come. This was something of a relief as we were both looking like parboiled lobsters after the heat of the previous three days. I'd actually managed to source sun cream by this time so typically it was looking like it wouldn't be needed.

That said it was sunny but breezy as we departed. A bunch of school kids had arrived as we were packing, there to play football. I think of the chances of school playing fields in this country being used for campsites....

We traced a pleasant route north east to Fludhir, passing rolling farmland and timber buildings. Most Icelandic buildings are made of wood (or tin attached to wood), however there are no trees. All of it is imported from Scandinavia at great expense. Stone seems to be ignored as a building material, likely as its all volcanic pumice, ie. porous and weak. The slight downer was the blaster of a headwind, from which there was no hiding. After another junk food lunch at Fludhir, we were back into open country and the wind came on in earnest. The river Hvita was crossed and then we joined another steadily climbing main road, our destination was only a few k off, but thanks to the hard wind, took a while.



More tourism stuff - Gulfoss. Apparently someone has packrafted down this....


Glacier truck.

We had expensive snacks and drinks and then with relief turned back down the hill, hardly having to pedal thanks to the blast of a tailwind. More tourism occurred at Geysir but this was a beauty. You stood a few metres back from this suspiciously steaming pool and then every few minutes it erupted in a gush of super heated water and steam. In the UK, you'd never get within 50 metres of this and the view would be largely obscured by warning notices. The Iceland way is a low rope and a few tiny signs - "Haetta!"



A short tailwind assisted cruise later we reached Laugarvatn, our stop for the night. The campsite was next to the road, and as with all the others, empty and free. We pitched up, showered and then hit the local junk food establishment for tea. I sampled the local lager but this is only available up to a strength of about 2% from such outlets. The hard stuff is only available from a licensed bar or shop, none of which were much in evidence. As we looked across to Hekla (1491m) it was cloudy and cool but again it had remained dry all day. Distance covered 90k. The first 50 took 5 hours....




Hekla - Iceland's most active volcano

The next morning was cool and breezy. We headed further west, our destination Thingvallavatn (vatn = lake). As we crossed a low moor the wind blue clouds of dust across the road. 



The sky was darkening and the temps dropping. The lake was like an oasis with rich vegetation and even some low scrubby trees. At the northern end is another tourist trap at Thingvelir - the large fault which cuts right across the western end of Iceland. We'd already crossed this just out of Keflavik but there it was just a shallow channel.



Here it was a large rock face sculpted into fantastic patterns, evidence of its molten past. We spent a while wandering around and then had a conflab in the cafe about our route over the next few days.

Iona's plan had been to push right through F550 to get close to the Langjokull ice cap. The difficulty with this being it would leave a long road ride back round the A1, in order to finish up in time. We decided to set off and make a final decision further up the road where a turn off would provide a shorter route out.

It was cold and breezy with the odd sprinkle of drizzle being blown through as we set off north. Suddenly this was the Iceland I'd been anticipating - large snow capped hills in the distance, threatening weather and utter desolation.



The gravel road was good but the wind was cutting across us. An odd car came past, mainly tourists, and we got some funny looks. Cycling is still a bit of a novelty in Iceland (away from the A1) and overall people were always slightly amazed at what we were doing.



Ahead was the end of the Langjokull icecap, one of the biggest on Iceland. To its left was a low but oddly regular hill (Ok) and to our right another cone shaped bump, all volcanoes of course....



Eventually we reached a cross roads with a mountain refuge hut at the junction. It was now late afternoon and to push on would take a while given the wind. It was one of those situations where neither of us really wanted to go on but neither would be the first to say it. A look at the map was a clincher. Turning left would drop us off the plateau and then we could pick up another mountain road if it looked OK which would lead to a lake, another track and then more gravel roads back over to Hvalfjordur. This looked far more interesting than the coast road and would enable us to pick up a few more nice routes thereafter.



Me at the crossroads

Turning west was a relief as we had a stiff tailwind. As we descended into the valley the weather brightened, ratifying our decision. At the turn off for the mountain road (F508) we stopped to have a look - it seemed pretty good and would be a substantial short cut from the 'main' road. Of course it didn't last and climbed steeply away from the junction, the surface made up of loose stones that made riding on our narrow tyres hard and slow going. More fat bike thoughts.... Time was rolling on. It was now 6pm and I was feeling slightly nervous. This seems to relate to my tendency to stop around 4 or 5 on my usual tours. Of course here this was nonsense as it wouldn't get dark, we had plenty of food and our tents. Still; passing over another low moor, on a hard trail, the sky greying again all added to the adventure.



Iona on the climb



And on the descent

The downhill had to be taken carefully due to the loose surface but soon enough we reached the bottom and the track improved. There was a church and a few houses at the end of the lake but no one was in evidence. We decided to take a chance on a track marked on the map which followed the south side of the lake (Skorradalsvatn). It was signed as "4x4 only" so at least it must be passable.




I'm glad we did. It was a mix of grass and gravel with only a few loose bits on the lake shore a check to progress. It popped out on a wide smooth gravel road which climbed up over another pass.




Our map showed a campsite along the road (i.e. the wrong way) but a road side signboard seemed to show another one just over the hill. These sign boards are all over the place and have maps of the local road network showing all facilities. This site seemed a better bet as it would avoid back tracking so off we set over another steady climb. Waterfalls flowed down a large corrie to our right, fed by a big patch of snow.



It had greyed over again but as we dropped into the next valley the sky brightened. After the harshness of the last 50k this valley was lush. The campsite was signed into a golf course but there was absolutely no-one to be seen so once again we pitched up FOC, right beside a line of shrubs which would provide excellent shelter from the wind. The showers were in the club house which was unlocked. As we boiled hot dogs a car appeared towing a caravan. This did a circuit of the field beside us, the occupants waved and then off they went. Odd. K's today = 97.



Morning 6 was once again clear and blue. We pedaled away from our site climbing over one final gravel road and down into Hvalfjordur. 


Looking down into the Fjord


Back to the campsite

Hmm. This is the centre of Icelandic whaling and there was a small museum on the subject which we felt honour bound to visit before casting judgement. It seemed to be somewhat unrepentant of what the Icelanders saw as a tradition they must maintain. The bizarre thing is, the vast majority of whale meat goes into huge deep freeze warehouses which we could see further along the road. Effectively they are stockpiling for the day when whaling is finally fully banned, leaving them enough whale meat to meet demands for this (apparent) delicacy....



Anyway we bought food at the nearby shop and headed south along what used to be the main road but is now empty as the A1 misses this whole fjord out via a tunnel. As we made our way south the cloud had been building again and finally, as we turned off the road onto the B48, the rain came in, an all too familiar horizontal dreich.

Fortuitously we came upon what looked like a hotel / bar / restaurant which was totally empty, but unlocked. We wandered in looking for someone but nobody was home. In the end we sat out on a large covered veranda eating food and seeing if the rain would pass through. Of course it didn't so eventually we donned water proofs and headed out on a long but steady climb up out of the valley.



This ended up being the only bad weather we experienced on the bikes. It took a while but as we emerged out of the pass and looked down over Thingvallavatn the rain stopped and the sky showed signs of clearing.



More tarmac took us to a large power station. This was the first narrow and twisty road we had encountered and was huge fun given the total lack of traffic and a tailwind. The main road then turned due west to Rekjavik but we were heading east on another gravel road.


Weedkiller graffiti, weird


Hot pond

Oh dear. The washboard was verge to verge and fierce, making riding incredibly slow and hard work. We only had about 12k to do to a campsite but it seemed to take an age. At one point I wondered if it was better just to get off and push. It wasn't.... So on we crawled clattering over the annoyingly regular bumps. We'd passed a few small communities along here but it seemed strange that the washboard was so bad given the complete lack of traffic. Finally we rounded a corner and saw Ulflijotsvatn, our destination. Worryingly there was no sign of a campsite but we were looking for the usual wee field and toilet block. What we weren't looking for was a large holiday park full of caravans. But that's what we got as we rounded a final corner.

I guess it was a prime spot but after the basic sites we'd been staying at all week this seemed a bit OTT. We also had to pay but only a thousand K (about a fiver). Better still it had a kitchen for campers so we were able to relax in luxury as we made our usual tea. It had waited until we pitched tents but the rain was now coming down heavily so this was a real bonus. Today had been 90k.



What a surprise; the morning dawned clear and blue. I'd been aware of the rain stopping during a nocturnal loo excursion but I'd expected it to be back for our last couple of days. So once again we were pedaling in warm sunshine with a breeze to keep us cool. There was a gravel road option for the next bit but after the bouncing of the previous evening we didn't fancy it. In fact the washboard continued right to the main road.

Following this down to Selfoss was a relief. Here we found a supermarket with a cafe and indulged our selves in cakes and coffee, feeling we'd earned it after the hard riding of the previous three days. Thereafter it was an easy run down to our outward route. We backtracked along here to our first campsite at Selvogur. We'd only done 65k but after a leisurely start this was plenty.



We missed this first time round. On closer inspection it was a bar, despite being in the middle of not very much.



Local jakey juice. The first (and only) real beer of the trip....



Regulation midnight photo

Our final day was sunny. We cruised west along the coast road, a stiff breeze helping us along our way. At Grindavik we turned away from the coast for our final tourist trap - the Blue Lagoon. This is basically a series of large ponds fed by the nearby geothermal power station. The idea is you lounge around in these (which are pleasantly warm) as a way to de-stress after a hard flight from the US. Americans were much in abundance and after the solitude of our previous days this was a total culture shock. That said lazing around in a hot pool is a nigh on perfect way to finish a cycle tour. Its all artificial of course and the white mud, which is claimed to have healing properties, is just sediment that builds up due to the power station evaporating most of its water, so concentrating the mud. It also gets everywhere and I didn't get rid of it all until after I'd returned home.



After an hour or so of this my tolerance for other people in my personal space had been exceeded so we sat in the over priced cafe and had more coffee and cake. It was a relief to get back on the bikes to be honest and best of all, where everybody else was heading back to Reykjavik we took a chance on one more gravel track which would take us right back to Keflavik. This followed a large pipe from the power station and was easy pedaling.



We reached the hostel in the early afternoon and relaxed in the sun reflecting on what had been a fabulous tour. This day had only been 66k but in total, over 9 days, we'd done 740 odd so we felt well pleased. Whilst we'd not done all of the mountain roads we'd originally hoped to, this had been a fine intro to this fantastic place. The weather had made it. Never in my most optimistic moments had I thought we'd be getting sunburned and generally have so much dry weather. The southwest of Iceland is a perfect place for bike touring. There is a large network of quiet roads, plenty of gravel roads for some adventure and a few rougher racks for more adventure. Best of all was the facilities. Campsites abounded (and were mainly free), most towns had shops and whilst our diet was a bit monotonous we survived....

Eventually the bikes were taken apart and packed up. We wandered into town in search of food but after contemplating the upmarket and expensive restaurants, ended up in yet another burger bar. The next morning we were ferried to the airport and all too soon we were landing in a grey and wet Glasgow, back to reality.

This was written in 2019 from notes on a power point presentation I made of the trip at the time.