Author: Mark

The Florida coast continued to provide me with opportunities to cycle directly north along barrier islands, with water on both sides of me, often within sight. The beaches and the turquoise seas were delightful when you could access them; but the beach front continued to be developed almost without a break. During the course of today, the really big, fancy developments gave way to more modest shore residences, and I even saw my first stretch of nature along the sea shore, where a rare piece of coastline had been purchased by the Nature Conservancy.

The shore of the Intracoastal waterway was also heavily populated, especially when, after an hour or so, I reached the city of Palm Beach. All along the waterfront here were countless super yachts, costing God only knows how much. There was plenty of activity on the water and the drawbridges linking the islands to the mainland were regularly raised: the one leading out of central West Palm Beach, for example, twice every hour. I just made it over before the lights began to flash. This whole area was dripping with wealth, and contained many incredible waterfront mansions, large enough o be museums. But security here was high, and the sea shore was only accessible directly from the private boardwalks that each had locked gates. This was territory of the most exclusive nature, and not to be shared.

I was well over 100 miles north of Miami Beach before things took on more of an air of normality. I stopped for coffee and then headed north again on a long straight road that gave way to a cycle path through a state park. It was a lucky find, and I felt like I was cycling through a Dr Seuss landscape of arid scrub with periodic tall trees that had bare trunks and bushy tops. I pressed on because this well made path had to lead somewhere, and it did. After a few miles of the busy route one, I was back onto a drawbridge over the broad St Lucie River, and then I found a smaller road that hugged the western shore of the South Indian River for twenty miles, looking across to the islands for once instead of being on them. This delightful road took me all the way to the pleasant town of Fort Pierce, my destination, which I reached as the sun was setting.

Fort Pierce was also my first encounter of this trip with train lines and – more evocatively – that plaintive wail made by the goods trains, heard all over America on their vast, slow journeys. It was a sound I had missed: these enormously long freight trains were my regular companions in 2023, and I was glad to be reacquainted. It represented a side to the country I identified with much more than the super rich – albeit in their stunningly well manicured surroundings. It is mostly lovely to see; but they can keep it.

The city of Miami Beach lies on a barrier island separated from the mainland by the broad expanse of the Intracoastal Waterway, a network of broad lagoons and lakes that provide a continuous route for large vessels right up the east coast of Florida from Miami northwards. A whole series of different barrier islands are linked to the mainland and, sometimes, to each other, and my way ahead took me along many of them, following the many miles of glorious, sandy beaches. It meant crossing a lot of swing bridges, which was the only chance I had to cycle up of down hill!

On many of the barrier islands, you are only a matter of a mile or less from water on both sides. There is almost continuous beach front development for more than a hundred miles to the north of Miami, and much of it is quite exclusive, with private beaches. In other places, such as my first ten miles today, there were well made bike paths all along the shore, and people out taking many forms of exercise alone or with companions. For some people here, fitness seems to be a big part of life. There are outdoor gyms, cycling, walking and running, and all manner of beach activities, including volleyball.

The route along the coast was only interrupted around Fort Lauderdale airport and sea port, where it became rather scrufffy and industrial for a few miles. But then I was crushing Fort Lauderdale beach – the most traditional promenade ai have seen – where the beaches were crowded with many young people this St Patrick’s Day. I’m not sure I have ever seen so many young people on a beach all together as right here today. Quite a sight. They seemed to be having a lot of fun.

Later I cycled along the coast in upmarket Boca Raton, where the Ocean Drive was a series of sumptuous, older villas, mainly built in an ornate mock Spanish style. They were in manicured grounds and there were no stopping points along this section of coastline. I can’t imagine the wealth you need to live here. It seems to extend to the ownership of luxury yachts, however. Even in the more modern developments, there were endless rows of high rise residences and hotels lining the beach front. Several bore the name Trump. More still had artificial waterfalls cascading down to their driveways, rather like Las Vegas casinos. It was all tasteful, in some cases even attractive, but the overall effect was one of quite unnecessary privilege.

However you look at it, this corner of America simply drips with excess wealth. I have been lucky enough to travel the world widely, and see and even experience real privilege, but despite previous trips even to places like Monaco, the sheer scale of this wealth here has surprised me. It has been a cycling trip like no other so far. But I cannot deny that it is very beautiful in its own way. How much more could there be of it?

It was really hot today. The wind was more in my favour, but it got pretty stifling as the day wore on. I left behind the Florida Keys after an hour and headed off on the only available road that avoided busy route 1. And that took me up the coast and into the mangrove swamps. Here all development came to an end, and for miles it was just a long, straight road and trees on either side, masking the nearby presence of water, except for the occasional bridge or roadside canal. In the midst of all this was Alabama Jack’s, a great waterside lunch spot where everyone sat outdoors under shade, and all kinds of people, including boaters and many motorcyclists, all mingled under the same roof. It was decorated with hundreds of license plates from allover America and had a unique atmosphere. Perfect place for a shrimp salad.

Then I was off again, and into the most monotonous part of my ride so far. In another hour I reached the unremarkable Florida City, and from there it was a straight line for an hour or more towards Miami along a dedicated busway, which had a cycle path running alongside. It was a huge, wide expanse of tarmac and you could have landed a Jumbo Jet on it. Probably. It contained very few buses today. But it got me to the edge of Miami proper in an efficient way, missing out on miles of uninspiring sprawl.

After that. I picked up Old Cutler Road, which wound its way just inland of the elusive coastline, through shady avenues of old trees, past beautiful homes in mature grounds. There was a lot of it, and it marked the start of perhaps 100 miles of continuous, exclusive coastal development. However this part of Miami had an older feel to it, where the excessive wealth was a little more concealed in very private surroundings. It was all lovely to cycle through, and a big change from the busway! The only issue was the mature tropical tree roots that caused regular bumps in the surface of the path. On only my second long day of cycling in months, this was not they treatment my sensitive undercarriage wanted!

I made barely a turn from the roadside cycle path on Bike route 1 North, and it delivered me suddenly into the throbbing heart of downtown, where many sleek new buildings suddenly reared up all around. It was an exciting part of the ride and it was both impressive and large. This is a big city with a feeling of both wealth and importance, a meeting of cultures and a huge port as well. But it was among the more attractive modern city scapes I have seen, with a predominance of white and green mirrored towers in unusual shapes and orientations. There was a lot to take in. And then, suddenly, I was crossing a swing bridge – a reminder that boats and water play a big part in the layout of the city. There were plenty of fancy sailing craft out on the water today, a late Sunday afternoon. The place was buzzing.

From downtown Miami I crossed a long causeway, via a few smaller islands, to reach the oceanfront of a Miami Beach, which stretches for miles and is lined with a collection of fine Art Deco buildings, along with some more modern, larger hotels and condominiums, which were all very tasteful. The beach here is a vast expanse of fine, pale yellow sand and it stretches away to the north for many miles. I was staying in one of the larger Art Deco buildings, now a very cool hostel called Generator Miami. I had stayed when I first arrived off the plane from Colombia, and found it such good value and pleasant to be around that I came back! I ended my day with a sunset swim in their beautiful large pool in the gardens behind the hip lobby. A day that started slowly but rose to quite a climax.

You can’t get further south in the continental USA than Key West. It sits at the bottom of a long chain of islands: the Florida Keys. They trail off south west from the bottom right corner of Florida, below Miami, for over 100 miles, into the newly renamed Gulf of America. Happily none of the signs I saw reflected this name change, so neither will I. 

US Route 1 joins all of these places together, a ribbon of tarmac from which it is often possible to see both the turquoise waters of the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico simultaneously. It runs where there was once a railway, built to open up Key West to the rest of Florida. In places you can still see the huge old bridges that crossed between the islands, but much of it is now rusting away and unsafe or even incomplete. It must have been a major achievement in its day. Today, there is a stream of cars running in each direction, but also – for large portions of the way – separate cycle paths. There are a few big bridges, most notably Seven Mile Bridge, where you have no choice but to cycle along the broad shoulder of the highway, hoping that all the vehicles stay on their side of the white line. You have to avoid the shredded tyres and other detritus, including two worryingly beaten up cycle helmets. I hope their owners came off better.

But the biggest challenges I faced on my 95 mile ride out of Key West were the unhelpful sea breezes in my face and the relentless heat. It was about 28 celcius today and there wasn’t much shade. It was energy sapping. And this is March.

I wouldn’t quite say that the bicycle is king in Key West; but it is definitely a senior member of the royal family, perhaps a Camilla Parker Bowles. You could argue that cockerels are king, in fact, because they seem to run free all over town. It is that kind of place. BIkes are everywhere, however, and commonly used to get people of all types around town. Taking on something on the scale of my ride, however, was a very different prospect. I was slowed down from departing by the US postal service. I wanted to to send a box of belongings, mostly clothes I had with me from my trip to Colombia, to an address in Philadelphia. I boxed them up on Friday evening but couldn’t send them until the office opened at 9.30am. When I got there, the queue was enormous and there was only one person serving. So I got away late and found myself riding against the clock on the very first day of my adventure. 

There were some quite long stretches without anywhere to stop. When I could, I stopped at a couple of small grocery stores and a gas station for much needed fluids, consumed in their air conditioning, and a seafood restaurant for lunch, where I had a conch burger. Otherwise I just cycled and took a few pictures. It was a rude awakening after a few months out of the saddle. But a memorable, often very beautiful, and altogether unique cycling experience. I was glad when my 95 miles were over, by which time I had my lights on after a lovely sunset. It may have been a flat ride, but it was relentlessly hard work without any respite. 

I arrived at my Airbnb to be treated fully like a king – nothing less this time – and was fed dinner and plied with margaritas. That was an unexpected treat at the end of an unforgettable day. Needless to say I slept very well.

I promised to provide some numbers about the epic trip I just completed. It’s a fiddly business; but below is what I have found out.

OVERALL TOTALS (Boring to Dull via Iceland):

50 days of cycling (52 days from Pacific coast)

Miles cycled: 3861 (from Pacific coast)

Feet of ascent: 108,648 (from Pacific Coast)

Time in the saddle: 296 hours 40 mins (from Pacific coast)

Average miles per cycling day: 74.3

Average speed: 13.0 mph

MILAGE BY REGION:

NORTH AMERICA – 3,716 (45 DAYS)

(of which USA 3,459 miles over 42 days and CANADA 257 miles over 3 days)

ICELAND – 145 miles (3 DAYS)

SCOTLAND – 223 miles (4 DAYS)

For a more detailed breakdown week by week, I have copied in the table below from a spreadsheet. I would point as a highlight to 21 to 27 August, easily my most prolific week, when I averaged 104.4 miles each day at a speed of 14.3 mph in extreme heat. After that, nothing was quite so challenging until I was defeated by the Icelandic wind and took evasive action in the face of cataclysmic Scottish rain, when an ark might have been of more use.

Today was an auspicious day. 12th October 2023 marked the tenth anniversary of the first celebration of Boring and Dull Day. What better time, then, to be arriving at the culmination of my long and almost certainly unique cycling adventure. We had 22 miles left to go and a fine, if rather cool Scottish morning in which to enjoy the magnificent scenery.

Things got off to a start in Killin, our last overnight stop, where we stayed in a rambling old hotel beside the River Dochart. It had plenty of character. The lift, serving all five floors, was at least 100 years old. If you treated it nicely, and fully closed both mesh doors, it would deliver you to your room in style. Long may it live on. The breakfast was impressively large and wide-ranging and on another day I might have seen that as a challenge. But today I had an early lunch appointment and I held back. A little.

Killin is a pretty place. Jenni, who has spent less time than me in these parts, thought it was reminiscent of a Lake District village. I could see what she meant. It was indeed “a bit like” Coniston, if you’ve ever been there. Right down to the tall shop fronts and the dark green paint. But Killin is quieter. Our hotel was busy enough with retired folk up for a walk in the mountains, or so it seemed. The main draw in the village, however, is the Falls of Dochart, just above the point where the main road crosses an old, narrow stone bridge. It is less a waterfall and more a series of cascades and frothy channels where the river churns its way through narrow gaps in the rock. In the past, I have watched children – including my own – play safely on the rocks here, hopping about in between the various streams. But today, after all the recent rain, it was a raging torrent of dark, fast moving water. Impressive, but no playground.

Our ride today took us along the southern shore of the extensive Loch Tay, on a tiny lane that described itself as cycle and walker friendly, which it was, except when an occasional motor vehicle came along in between passing places. The views out across the water and over to the mountains on the opposite shore a mile or more away were never boring or dull, even today when the cloud remained stubbornly low on the mountainsides. I knew they were there because I have seen them before. And they are big. A year ago, I rode along here in the sunshine on my way from Oban to Aberfeldy, one of many wonderful days criss-crossing the Ordnance Survey maps of Britain (in numerical order). But that was in the early stages of another adventure. Today was about reaching the finish point on a single west to east line, spanning two continents. I was very close.

Our cycle-friendly lane undulated along the banks of the Loch for perhaps 18 miles, passing some amazing Grand Designs- style properties with exceptional views and eco-friendly living roofs. Eventually, it reached the eastern end of the lake and the village of Kenmore, whose whitewashed buildings and small marina sat prettily by the water, looking up the length of the loch with the misty mountains tentatively emerging on either side. We passed an old hotel and crossed a fine stone bridge over the broad, fast-flowing River Tay as it emerged from its lake. And hereafter, we stayed close to its banks, all the way to Dull (and indeed for 20 miles beyond to catch a train).

We were now in countryside that was filled with large country estates and castles, with the associated lodge houses, mature trees and estate villages. It was very attractive. The road was quiet and we sped along, mindful that we had an appointment to keep. And then, suddenly, there it was by the roadside: the “Welcome to Dull, Paired with Boring, Oregon, USA” sign. We weren’t yet in Dull, not quite, but the tiny village of Dull, such as it is (population 80), lies a little up the valley side on a quiet lane and nobody would see the sign unless it was here, close to the turning.

I paused for the obligatory photographs and then we toured the small collection of buildings, sitting quietly by the old chapel and the ancient Sanctuary Cross. It felt like a nice place to live, if you don’t mind being a few miles from local shops and services. There is one business to visit in Dull, however: Highland Safaris (which was signposted from much further away than Dull itself). And that was where we needed to be in three minutes time!

Luckily, since Dull is not large, we made it, and as we climbed off our bikes a grey haired man with a fine moustache called to us across the car park. It was Tommy, lifelong Dull resident and my best and only contact here. We went inside the cosy cafe and he treated us to coffee, soup and herb scones. Then we chatted at length about Boring and Dull, how the pairing came about, visitors from overseas and other amusing stories. Tommy was happy to reminisce and we could have stayed and chatted for much longer. An hour flew by. Reluctantly, we had to leave. We had a train to catch. And Tommy had a house to decorate. So we made promises to exchange more information, took more photos (of us pretending to pan for gold!) and waved goodbye.

The ride down the Tay valley continued to be a delight. Dull is in a beautiful location. And we will surely return. The nearest train station is at Dunkeld and we were delayed just short of arriving by a closed cycle path. There was no way past the high fences keeping people away from storm-damaged trees. The only alternative was a small and rather hairy riverside path next to the swollen, angry River Tay: tricky stuff, and we shouldn’t have made the train. But it was running late, so we did! Seamless, as ever. Just the way I like it. By the end of the evening I was catching up with my little brother in a convivial pub in Edinburgh.

And that was that. Another grand adventure completed. What next? I don’t know. But watch this space in the next day or so for some final trip statistics and reflections on Boring to Dull.

I awoke to a dim morning on the southern shores of the Firth of Clyde, with the sound of the lapping waves drifting through my open window. After the terrible storms of the past week, I was expecting a brighter start. This was a concern.

There wasn’t time for breakfast ahead of taking the 8.20am passenger ferry north across the Clyde to the village of Kilcreggan (other than a bacon sandwich carried aboard from Sainsbury’s Local in the high street). The ferry was quiet as my bike was bounced over the gangplank and its handlebars hooked over the railing. In the water below a large flotilla of Eider Ducks bobbed about. The day held promise, but it was chilly and breezy. And then I realised. The sun was yet to rise. In a sign of how far north I had travelled in this time zone, the first October rays only appeared over the eastern horizon as the boat pulled away from the pier. It made for some rather special light conditions.

This ferry route was one of the very few of Calmac’s services that I didn’t use in my UK cycling adventure in 2022 and today gets me closer to a full set. Kilcreggan sits at the bottom end of a peninsula flanked on both sides by large sea lochs. My route took me several miles up the west shore of Gare Loch, looking across at Faslane Nuclear Submarine Base, which is a massive complex that resembles part-shipyard and part-university from afar. It is an incongruous sight.

From the village of Garelochhead, whose location you can guess, it was up and over to the eastern shore of Loch Long, which is well named. It feels quite fjord-like and penetrates well into the higher mountains close to Loch Lomond. Near the top of the loch were magnificent views up to the distinctive sharp, rocky twin summits of The Cobbler, shining in the morning sun. Down in the valley, on the narrow, quiet road, I was just starting to warm up, too.

At the top of Loch Long is the is the village of Arrochar, which had a few large, handsome old hotels and not a lot else to detain me. In any case, I was on a timeline to catch a boat a couple of miles along the road in Tarbert, on the Bonny banks of Loch Lomond, at 10.30am. The road was quiet because this was the lower portion of the A83, a mountain pass known as Rest and Be Thankful, that remains closed to traffic because of the heavy rain and mudslides of the past few days.

When I got to Tarbet I could see three boats moored off-shore, but nothing by the pier. I ventured into a small building by the car park, which contained a coffee shop. Inside a number of German tourists were asking about the 10.30am ferry. It was almost 10.15am. The coffee lady was very helpful. She explained that the boat was running from a different pier today because the pier at Tarbet was currently underwater after all the rain. The boat would leave from Inveruglas, five miles up the loch, instead. She phoned the boat and they agreed to wait. I got a head start on the Germans and rode as fast as I could. When I arrived, the Germans were just boarding and I was last on with my bike. Phew!

It was calm out on the loch and the leisurely cruise took us over to the opposite shore at Inversnaid Hotel, where I got off. This manoeuvre saved me many miles of riding around the lake on main roads. On the boat I had time for a coffee and a Tunnocks Teacake – a Scottish speciality – while listening to the commentary from the captain. He was quite amusing and even attempted to convince the assembled tourists that the hydroelectric power station on the nearby mountainside was a haggis factory! The sun shone, the autumn colours displayed all around, and there were rainbows in the distance. It was all very pleasing.

A brisk climb took me away from Loch Lomond and along a remote lane to the shores of beautiful Loch Katrine. I arrived at Stronachalchar Pier just in time to see the historic Sir Walter Scott steam ship leaving on a tour of the lake. Lots of cyclists had arrived on her. Most of us had the same idea: to ride around the loch on the lovely traffic free cycle path to the opposite eastern end of the lake. But first, I, for one, wanted some brunch. And I got it! I was treated to the “Full Strony”, which I enjoyed right by the water in a glass extension to the pier cafe.

It was a relaxing hour, but it had to end. I left when the sun was at its brightest and the sky at its bluest and had a magnificent time cycling alone, up and down, on a tarmac surface around stunning lake scenery, with an ever changing mountain backdrop. When I finally reached the Trossachs pier, the Sir Walter Scott was tied up there, looking picturesque.

It was a very quiet ride into Callander through Brig O’Turk and alongside small, pretty lochs. I had time to see the flooded park in Callander, by the swollen River Teith, before successfully achieving a rendezvous with my wife, Jenni. She appeared on her bicycle from the east, having travelled from home to Dunblane by train today. We called in at a pub to recharge her battery and then set off north into the mountains along national cycle route 7. It was a pleasant ride, albeit with some unexpected steep hill climbs involving switch backs. The views, however, were excellent, and it beat cycling along the main road.

And so, eventually, we arrived in Killin, our home for the night, at the western end of Loch Tay. It was still light; but the nights are definitely drawing in. A good thing, then, that tomorrow is the final day of this cycling adventure. It began in early August on the pacific coast of America. I am 22 miles from Dull, at the other end of Loch Tay, and I am expected there at 11.30am.

It is Sunday evening, I am still at home after five days, but I now have a plan to get to Dull. It involves getting a train (three, in fact) from Hathersage to Gourock on Tuesday, then an early ferry on Wednesday morning, and then cycling all of Wednesday and Thursday morning to reach Dull around lunchtime on Thursday 12th October, the ten year anniversary of the first Boring and Dull celebrations. That feels right. It also feels sensible in light of the recent apocalyptic Scottish weather, and the current forecast.

Timing is everything, especially for the long distance adventure cyclist. I had glorious weather for weeks as I slowly approached New York City, and then two days after I arrived they suffered terrible floods and wet weather. I made it to Ireland just in time to arrive in Islay by boat in good weather; but not in time to reach Dull from there. Now I have just enough time to reach Dull by 12th October – my aim when I set off from Boring on 9th August – without getting comprehensively soaked or blown away (I had enough of that in Iceland).

I’m happy that I should now be able to complete this big cycling trip in an enjoyable way. Attempting it over the last five days would have been really unpleasant and inadvisable to the point of dangerous. While I have been enjoying unseasonably warm and sunny weather here at home, Scotland has been suffering rain in biblical quantities. There have been floods, road closures, mud slides, helicopter rescues, many train cancellations and police warnings not to travel. Rivers are at dangerous levels. Some areas have seen a month of rain in a day!

Yesterday both railway lines between Scotland and England were closed, as was the main line between Glasgow and Edinburgh. There is a further weather warning in place for Tuesday, not because the expected rain is likely to be excessive; but because everywhere is already completely sodden. But overall, starting tomorrow (Monday), things calm down and dry out significantly. Cycling, it seems, will once again be a possibility. Hopefully by Wednesday things may have returned to something a little closer to normal.

So, I made a good decision to come home! It has also been a chance to see family, mow lawns, catch up with a couple of friends, cycle a bit in my own local area and generally enjoy some sunshine while the chance lasts. It’s weird; but after Iceland and Islay, the Peak District feels lush and almost summery still. Autumn has yet to take hold. Who knows how Dull will feel after this week. I suppose if it is above water we should all be thankful.

I reluctantly made a big decision to leave Islay after just one day on the island. The weather forecast suggested that today, Tuesday, would be the only half-decent day in Scotland for the foreseeable future – and that the next three days (at least) would be very wet and windy. Yellow weather warnings had been issued. I had no desire to be a victim of all that. My golden rule always stands: if it isn’t enjoyable, I stop.

My first step was to get up and out of my Bnb early enough to cycle 18 miles to Port Askaig to board the first Calmac ferry to the mainland, which departed at 10am. Miss that and I would be stuck until mid afternoon. It is quite an exposed ride around Loch Indaal and over a few hills to the Sound of Islay, and I didn’t find the going as swift as I hoped. It was very wet and windy when I awoke; but by the time I was cycling, the only water was under my tyres. The ferry was discharging its vehicles when I arrived; but there was plenty of time to buy a ticket and board. By now I was starving, and ready for the Calmac big breakfast, which is not for the faint hearted. For the under-nourished adventure cyclist, however, it is just the thing. I watched the wild, rocky coast of the island of Jura glide past the windows as I cleaned my plate, reliving past cycling adventures there.

Two hours later I was back on the mainland. The port at Kennacraig, on the Kintyre peninsula, is just a harbour at the end of a sea loch. The nearest settlement is 5 miles north east in Tarbert, a pretty fishing port and sheltered sailing haven that opens out onto Loch Fyne. Tarbert means isthmus in Gaelic, and it straddles a narrow neck of land between two sea lochs. It is a pleasant place to pause and watch the colourful activity in and around the harbour, and I had about half an hour to kill here before taking my next ferry. I found a cafe and enjoyed a pot of tea and that Scottish speciality, an Empire biscuit. These are a layer of jam in between two shortbread biscuits, all covered with white icing and perhaps a glace cherry on top. When in Rome (although apparently they are very popular in Winnipeg, too, where they are called Imperial Cookies!).

The small vehicle ferry across Loch Fyne takes 30 minutes to reach the sailing resort of Portavadie and from there, on a narrow strip of concrete road, the most demanding part of my day’s cycling commenced. I was now on the Cowal Peninsula, “Scotland’s Secret Coast”, and the tiny road roller-coastered its way up and over the forested hills to drop steeply down to the water’s edge at lovely Tigh-na-Bruich, overlooking the enchanting Kyles of Bute. The top part of the large island of Bute reaches a hilly point near here, and the narrow strip of sea water that separates it from the mainland on three sides provides excellent sheltered sailing in beautiful surroundings. Along the waterfront are handsome stone houses. I have been here before (in all weathers) and thought how lovely it all looks. Living here may be less idyllic than it first appears, because you are a long way from most essential services, and lines of communication are anything but straight. But as a place to stop for lunch, or indeed watch a game of shinty, as once happened to me, it is a delight. I paused for long enough to remove my waterproof jacket and go down to shirt sleeves, and to drink. I knew what was next.

Next, since you ask, was a long, hard climb. It was every bit as tough as I remember. Jenni and I came this way last August in my Riding All the OS Maps adventure, and it is the only sensible way to get further east (which I was always trying to do); but you have to work for it. As well as the climb (for which you are rewarded with glimpses of the stunning view below), the quiet road takes you many miles north to Ormidale, to cross the river that flows into the Kyles of Bute, and then takes you back again along the eastern shore, almost parallel to the way you just came. It is circuitous; but the descent – and the scenery in general – makes it worthwhile.

Finally, a turning took me up – and very steeply down – more hills on narrow, winding roads with passing places (where I was passed by the occasional big logging truck) around the top of Loch Striven and up the side of Loch Tarsan reservoir. It is lonely, remote feeling country; but after all this effort I enjoyed a long, sweeping descent into the village of Clachaig and suddenly I was on a main road on the fringes of Dunoon!

Following the water’s edge along the shores of Holy Loch, I was presented with the most gorgeous vistas across the sparkling waters to Cove, looking east, and further away to the south, across the Firth of Clyde, to Gourock, with green hills looming on every horizon. Colourful boats, large and small, were criss-crossing the water. It was all very pretty. How quickly things had changed. A few minutes later I was waiting to board my third car ferry of the day over to Gourock, and 20 minutes later I was looking at the same views; but this time from the south as I pedalled along the promenade to Gourock railway station, at the end of a line out of Glasgow.

It was nice to see all of this under bright skies. But in the days ahead, these views would be quite different. I needed to be somewhere I could sit out the bad weather – ideally somewhere a little sunnier where I could regroup and make new plans. And since I had made very good progress, and caught the 4pm ferry from Dunoon, that place could be my home in the Derbyshire Peak District. I would now comfortably make the 6.40pm train from Glasgow Central, upon which I had a bike space reserved. This (with one change) would dispatch me all the way this evening to my home village of Hathersage, before 11.30pm. Since there was a train strike tomorrow, all of that mattered. I had set off from Islay as much in hope as expectation that I would make all of my connections today. But the plan had worked.

And so, some hours later, I slept in my own bed for the first time in almost four months. It was all oddly familiar and comforting, like I hadn’t really been away for very long. I made a cup of tea in my favourite mug and decided to wait until the morning before considering my next move. I will complete this journey to Dull just as soon as the terrible weather abates in Scotland. My ride to Gourock kept me on track – no miles were wasted. I can pick up exactly where I left off.

The most recent weather forecast looks worse than ever. The weather warnings have now been extended to the weekend! So I will remain poised for the next window and grab it when it arrives. I need two clear days – that would suffice. In the meantime, it’s really rather nice further south!

Having arrived in Port Ellen the sneaky way, from Northern Ireland, at 11am, I was perfectly positioned to embark on a tour of three of my favourite whisky distilleries: Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg. They are a mile apart from each other along the coast road out of Port Ellen (with a brand new fourth distillery currently under construction even closer to the village). Each has whitewashed walls facing out to sea, upon which its name is emblazoned in tall, black letters. Anyone arriving by boat from the mainland would have no excuse for not knowing where they were. These tiny dots on the map bear world famous names and yet they sit in the quietest, most unassuming of locations. Nevertheless, people come from far and wide to visit and today was no exception. I shared these hallowed visitor bars with people from China and Germany, Australia and London. Some of them must spend a fortune on tours and tastings and bottles of limited edition single malts.

Having already spent a small fortune this summer, I was happy to chat with the staff and drink whatever free drams came my way. It’s nice to try things you can’t easily get hold of anywhere else, especially if it falls outside your usual price threshold for whisky buying, which in my case is most of what they had!

I whiled away a very content three hours in this way, enjoying an al fresco lunch in the sunny courtyard at Ardbeg. Then it was time to cycle across the island to my accommodation 28 miles away on the far side of beautiful Loch Indaal. I did call in at Bowmore distillery in the island’s tiny capital, with its unusual round church, halfway there, but only the shop was open on a Monday. Perhaps tomorrow. Bowmore has always eluded me in previous visits to Islay (one of which regular readers of my travels will know was during last year’s OS map adventure). But I had planned a free day on the island before I leave for Dull on Wednesday, so anything was possible. Tuesday was supposed to be an OK weather day. I should use it well.

Back to today, the ride around the horseshoe bay of Loch Indaal took me into the breeze past Bruichladdich distillery, with sweeping views back across to Bowmore and further to the Paps of Jura. The white buildings of Bowmore shone distantly across the water in the afternoon sun and it was all very atmospheric.

I got dinner in the bar of the Port Charlotte hotel. There was nowhere else to go on a Monday in October. I had a wonderful Keralan style chicken with rice and green vegetables, and a pint of Finlaggan, an Islay IPA. It wasn’t a cheap evening but it was worth it. I was shown their whisky menu for interest. It covered seven pages. When I look back at most of the other food menu offerings I have been presented with over the past two months, this selection, here in a tiny remote Hebridean village, was a world apart. You couldn’t eat like this every night, of course; but just to be given such appetising and imaginative choices was a pleasure in itself. How refreshing. If this was British eating out, I was glad to be home! It was also conspicuous how many vegetarian and fish options there were. (As a aside, in Ballymoney the night before there was even an entire vegan menu available). So that was all something to celebrate as rain fell in biblical quantities just after I entered the hotel.

On which note, I had other issues to absorb my attention this evening. After tomorrow, my BnB owner pointed out, the met office had issued yellow weather warnings for three consecutive days. Heavy rain and high winds were expected all day for up to three days, starting in 24 hours. I might enjoy Islay tomorrow, but then what? Stormy weather and cycling do not mix well. I was in a very isolated place with nowhere to easily escape the conditions. Should I use tomorrow to make my escape? Was that even possible? I was a long, rather complicated way from most modern transport options. Tricky.

This dilemma called for much detailed internet research of trains, ferries and road mileage to see what made sense. I had intended to visit more distilleries; but I have been here before more than once. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made for the greater good.

In the end I made a plan to leave Islay in the morning on the 10am ferry. I would be doing that anyway on Wednesday. I may as well do it in the dry. What happened after that would be down to luck and how fast I cycled. As always, it pays to have a plan B.