Tuesday 14th August 2007. Leg 16: Helmsdale to John o’Groats.
Woken at 3.00 a.m., not by rain, but by a lorry, to the realisation that we’re in a field next to the A9 in the far North of Scotland. What for? What on earth for? It all comes back to me, before I doze of again for another 4 hours.
A beautiful, still, cloudless morning to start our final leg.
Dropped off at Helmsdale, for a 9:50 set-off. We’re in good spirits as we tackle the climb out of Helmsdale. We know we can do it. However, it’s a stinker of an ascent topping out at 700 feet.
To add insult to injury, there’s another similar climb out of Berriedale, to 500 feet. This is taking the smiles off our faces a bit.
The support team are there on one of the climbs, watching us winch our way up towards them. Then we say goodbye to them until noon, when they’ve got the bacon butties going at a place which used to be Castle Hill Filling Station. The petrol pump originates from the pre-decimalisation days of Gallons, with prices in Shillings and Pence. (Pounds not shown on the dial, as you could fill most cars’ tanks for mere shillings).
We’re in Gunn country, with Dunbeath, birthplace of Neil M.Gunn (I betray my ignorance), and Latheron, home of the clan Gunn heritage centre. Dad used to say that our family were entitled to wear the Gunn tartan. Don’t know which particular branch of our forebears that was.
A little further on, a dilapidated hotel, long ceased trading, “TH GU ST HOUS ”. Obviously built in the immediate post-war years during the national ‘E’ shortage. (The government had already enforced the use of sans serif typefaces in the press, to conserve printers’ ink: a restriction which was removed when sweet-rationing ended in 1953).
Half past one: stop to meet the van at Lybster. I love these place names. There’s Lybster, Occumster, and my favourite Badlipster (sounds like some sort of insult – don’t trust him, he’s a Badlipster). Then there’s Haster and Thrumster (or is that Hamster and Thruster?) Absolutely no truth in the rumour that Marc Boland wrote Jeepster during a tour of these parts in the late 60’s.
Now we’re passing “The Hill o’ Many Stanes” – does exactly what it says on the tin.
Lots of oats in evidence in the fields along the roadside.
This is a multi-buzzarded area (including one example dead by the roadside).
Up the A99, the last road in Britain. The weather – ye couldnae ask for better, Captain, very slightly marred by a cool S.E. which is chilly on the downhill sections.
Wick 15:30. Lovely loos – well kept for Viking territory. Sat by the river with Matt and Jon. Leave at 15:45. Most incongruous thing we see next is a huge matrix sign on the other side of the road, presumably to remind the tourists from the Faroe Isles to drive on the left.
Loo stop at Keiss, where a RAF Tornado flies low over the township. “Only” 10 miles to go, now. This is where those jokes about South to North being the hard way as it’s all up hill seem to ring true. I kid on to Georgina that I can’t go any further.
About this time, a thought comes into my head “Wouldn’t it be a cool thing to take the punk attitude, stop 3 miles short of John o’Groats, throw the bikes into the nearest burn, and say “Can’t be arsed!”
Song for today “This is The End.” by the Doors.
Final downhill into John o’Groats is a tremendous relief. Great views of the Orkneys lying out there offshore. Finally coast into the car park to see Jacky, Matthew and Jonathan, next to the van. Photos, both official and unofficial are taken. Chips from a hot food stall. We pose for a photo of us opening a bottle of Landlord. Georgina shivering in a cool easterly, waiting for the photographer. Me impervious to the cold (well not really). We see recumbent rider. He arrived one hour before us. Buy the Tee-shirt, sign the book, and look unsuccessfully for an entry from Mr. Robinson’s party. (We later found out that they did complete the ride).
Then, blow me, Jonathan and Georgina have only wandered off for a walk down by the ocean, and he’s only gone and proposed to her, and she’s only gone and accepted. Ta da!!!! Then they’ve only gone and come back to show us the ring. Well, what a year this is turning out to be! Of course, we were sort of expecting this sooner or later, but what a place to pop the question! How romantic!
Then Jacky tells us that we’re not staying on the campsite, as I’d thought. Instead, as a surprise, she’s booked us all in at the Seaview Hotel. Ahh, luxury. Of course a bottle of bubbly had to be drunk with the meal, but the Taylor’s Landlord we’d drunk earlier is IMHO “The Champagne of the North”.
“Mr. King, how do you feel, now you’ve completed the challenge?”
“Well, My knees are twingeing a bit: I think that when we get home, I may need a session with my knee specialist, “Patella Guru”. In fact, I’ve got Thumbshift thumb, Broken Bandaged Bum, Twistgrip wrist, Bulgin’ thighs, Dustin Eyes, Po’ knees, and old ankle gone cobbly an’ all. However, I will now draw a discreet veil over my “Anus Horribilis”.
“Finally, Mr. King, any advice for anyone thinking of taking up the challenge (apart from the obvious DON’T)”
“Yes, remember you are not cycling to John o’Groats, you’re patiently reeling it in, like a fish on a very long line. The secret is to keep pedalling, and it will come to you. Eventually”.
I rest my **se.
Distance covered: 52.6 miles
Moving time: 05:35
Average speed: 9.4 mph
Maximum speed: 27.7 mph.
Woken at 3.00 a.m., not by rain, but by a lorry, to the realisation that we’re in a field next to the A9 in the far North of Scotland. What for? What on earth for? It all comes back to me, before I doze of again for another 4 hours.
A beautiful, still, cloudless morning to start our final leg.
Dropped off at Helmsdale, for a 9:50 set-off. We’re in good spirits as we tackle the climb out of Helmsdale. We know we can do it. However, it’s a stinker of an ascent topping out at 700 feet.
To add insult to injury, there’s another similar climb out of Berriedale, to 500 feet. This is taking the smiles off our faces a bit.
The support team are there on one of the climbs, watching us winch our way up towards them. Then we say goodbye to them until noon, when they’ve got the bacon butties going at a place which used to be Castle Hill Filling Station. The petrol pump originates from the pre-decimalisation days of Gallons, with prices in Shillings and Pence. (Pounds not shown on the dial, as you could fill most cars’ tanks for mere shillings).
We’re in Gunn country, with Dunbeath, birthplace of Neil M.Gunn (I betray my ignorance), and Latheron, home of the clan Gunn heritage centre. Dad used to say that our family were entitled to wear the Gunn tartan. Don’t know which particular branch of our forebears that was.
A little further on, a dilapidated hotel, long ceased trading, “TH GU ST HOUS ”. Obviously built in the immediate post-war years during the national ‘E’ shortage. (The government had already enforced the use of sans serif typefaces in the press, to conserve printers’ ink: a restriction which was removed when sweet-rationing ended in 1953).
Half past one: stop to meet the van at Lybster. I love these place names. There’s Lybster, Occumster, and my favourite Badlipster (sounds like some sort of insult – don’t trust him, he’s a Badlipster). Then there’s Haster and Thrumster (or is that Hamster and Thruster?) Absolutely no truth in the rumour that Marc Boland wrote Jeepster during a tour of these parts in the late 60’s.
Now we’re passing “The Hill o’ Many Stanes” – does exactly what it says on the tin.
Lots of oats in evidence in the fields along the roadside.
This is a multi-buzzarded area (including one example dead by the roadside).
Up the A99, the last road in Britain. The weather – ye couldnae ask for better, Captain, very slightly marred by a cool S.E. which is chilly on the downhill sections.
Wick 15:30. Lovely loos – well kept for Viking territory. Sat by the river with Matt and Jon. Leave at 15:45. Most incongruous thing we see next is a huge matrix sign on the other side of the road, presumably to remind the tourists from the Faroe Isles to drive on the left.
Loo stop at Keiss, where a RAF Tornado flies low over the township. “Only” 10 miles to go, now. This is where those jokes about South to North being the hard way as it’s all up hill seem to ring true. I kid on to Georgina that I can’t go any further.
About this time, a thought comes into my head “Wouldn’t it be a cool thing to take the punk attitude, stop 3 miles short of John o’Groats, throw the bikes into the nearest burn, and say “Can’t be arsed!”
Song for today “This is The End.” by the Doors.
Final downhill into John o’Groats is a tremendous relief. Great views of the Orkneys lying out there offshore. Finally coast into the car park to see Jacky, Matthew and Jonathan, next to the van. Photos, both official and unofficial are taken. Chips from a hot food stall. We pose for a photo of us opening a bottle of Landlord. Georgina shivering in a cool easterly, waiting for the photographer. Me impervious to the cold (well not really). We see recumbent rider. He arrived one hour before us. Buy the Tee-shirt, sign the book, and look unsuccessfully for an entry from Mr. Robinson’s party. (We later found out that they did complete the ride).
Then, blow me, Jonathan and Georgina have only wandered off for a walk down by the ocean, and he’s only gone and proposed to her, and she’s only gone and accepted. Ta da!!!! Then they’ve only gone and come back to show us the ring. Well, what a year this is turning out to be! Of course, we were sort of expecting this sooner or later, but what a place to pop the question! How romantic!
Then Jacky tells us that we’re not staying on the campsite, as I’d thought. Instead, as a surprise, she’s booked us all in at the Seaview Hotel. Ahh, luxury. Of course a bottle of bubbly had to be drunk with the meal, but the Taylor’s Landlord we’d drunk earlier is IMHO “The Champagne of the North”.
“Mr. King, how do you feel, now you’ve completed the challenge?”
“Well, My knees are twingeing a bit: I think that when we get home, I may need a session with my knee specialist, “Patella Guru”. In fact, I’ve got Thumbshift thumb, Broken Bandaged Bum, Twistgrip wrist, Bulgin’ thighs, Dustin Eyes, Po’ knees, and old ankle gone cobbly an’ all. However, I will now draw a discreet veil over my “Anus Horribilis”.
“Finally, Mr. King, any advice for anyone thinking of taking up the challenge (apart from the obvious DON’T)”
“Yes, remember you are not cycling to John o’Groats, you’re patiently reeling it in, like a fish on a very long line. The secret is to keep pedalling, and it will come to you. Eventually”.
I rest my **se.
Distance covered: 52.6 miles
Moving time: 05:35
Average speed: 9.4 mph
Maximum speed: 27.7 mph.
1 comments:
Googled in by accident and spotted the reference to Badlipster where I grew up. Loved your description... gave me a whole new take on the place!
Post a Comment