We packed up the rest of the kit and packed away the tent. We tried to eat something for breakfast, we needed the fuel for we had a 3 mile climb to start the days journey. It can be hard to force food down the gullet when the body does not want to eat, even if it pain au chocolat. We drank some tea, loaded the bikes and set out for the cluster of street lamps. As anyone with roadcraft skills will know street lamps in the middle of the country means one thing, a junction with a major road, and we were about to join the A9.
Dornoch Bridge from the start of the A9 ascent.
We positioned the bikes between the edge of carriageway markings and the edge of the tarmac, selected the gears that would suit us as we pedalled into the head wind. Vehicles that passed gave us a reasonable clearance but the buffeting from their airflow made for a challenging time. It was not a steep gradient but was three miles to the turn off for Tain, with our heads down we pedalled and pedalled until we reached the turn off. We were both amazed and amused by our efforts and started to laugh as we followed the gentle drop into town.
We were looking for a cafe to have breakfast at as we threaded our way along the narrow high street but nothing seemed to be opened, so we pushed on following route 1. Surprisingly most of the countryside here seemed somewhat bland after what we had previously seen so we kept moving. Soon we were climbing more small humps that did not seem to give any descent, just a flat top. As we turned south and headed down the peninsular towards the Nigg ferry we could see the 600 foot hill in front of us and were willing the road to curve round it instead of going over the top. It did, fortunately, but we did not start our descent until we were almost level with it. Down we went and joined the main road for the last mile to the loading ramp.
I remembered the ferry form some time ago. An old black thing that looked like a second hand landing craft that had a capacity for 2 cars a handful of passengers. As we arrived there was 1 car waiting ahead of us so we parked up behind them to await this beast. The ferry arrived in due time. It has been replaced by an updated version. This small vessel now carries 4 cars and has a passenger cabin, and also boasts a turntable on the deck to assist the loading/offloading of vehicles. We gripped our bikes as we proceeded down the slope to board. As we set sail for Cromarty there were some interesting sights to behold.
An Drilling ship, looking like something 'GloMar' would use to recover sunken Soviet submarines.
The headlands guarding the channel into Cromarty Firth.
The bikes on the deck as we approach Cromarty.
We landed at the Cromarty side and set of into town for refreshments. We had a short break before deciding it was time to move on. As we left town we were faced with a steep gradient and immediately knew we would have to get off and push. Push we did, it took some time for the gradient to ease and allow us to remount.
We followed route 1 again as the main road seemed busy, strange for a small peninsula. The road climbed and we were soon back to pushing. We pedalled and pushed our way along looking at the great ridge that seemed to rear in front of us. It took some distance before we found our selves pedalling downhill and the road swinging away from the great ridge in front only to find a hairpin bend at the bottom and another steep climb out. We pushed and pushed, pedalled and pedalled our way up and up the road with some gradients seemingly impossible. Then it happened. Richard was on his side still astride the bike. Recovering ourselves we brewed some tea and looked at what had occurred. The road was not that steep, worn but not dangerously so. Richard had found his Encephalitic limits. With pushing, pedalling, steering, balance, map reading et al his brain had finally tripped out to prevent overload. A legacy of his illness.
We checked the map again, there was no connecting path to the main road, and knew there was only two options, to go back or to go on. Going back would mean traversing all the ground again, with the psychological pain as well. We would have to go on and up over this great mound. There is a campsite near Rosemarkie, we could divert into there for a rest. We remounted the bikes and pedalled on changing down as the gradients steepened until we could hear some chimes. It was Richard's bike, the rear mechanism had been damaged and was striking the spokes in low gear. Without low gearing this was going to be a trail. If we get over the hump and make the campsite we could find a repair shop in the morning. On and on we went, up and up, pedalling and pushing what must be the most wearying cycle route I have seen to date. Constantly having to get off and push to avoid breaking the spokes. Then the rain started, not the large globules of a summer storm but the icy blades of freezing water. We were soaked and cold on exposed skin and perspiring and cold under our waterproofs. Life was becoming uncomfortable. just before we entered the wooded area we looked back and could see the main road with it's traffic flowing freely, so close yet so far, we turned back to the task in hand with neither regret nor self pity. We had seen the aerial up the top and knew we would have to pass it before we were safe.
After we passed the mast we had a small gentle descent before another climb. It was a short one before the descent started proper. The bikes started to pick up speed and it was not long before we were having to alternate front and rear brakes to clear the water off the rims and slow ourselves down as much as possible, this was steep. Down and down we headed. We were aware that we would be joining the main road before the village and really squeezed the brake levers as the junction came into sight. Judging our speed to enter the road without causing mayhem we continued to descend as the road twisted and turned towards Rosemarkie.
The road started to level just before turning sharply into the village and we stopped almost immediately at a shop to pick up provisions. Fortunate really as we were later told it was the only shop for about 4 miles. Moving forward 100 yards was the sign for the campsite, a short descent to the seafront and a more welcome sight of two boats gently at anchor in the bay I have never seen.
The seafront just before the campsite.
Turning right onto the little spit of land that protrudes into the Moray Firth we entered the gates. The sign indicated that reception was another 400 yards, but we didn't care we had made it. At reception the warden & staff swung into action despite, or because of, the state we arrived in. Soaking wet, dirty, we must have looked a sight. The detritus from tyres, oil, dirt, exhaust particulates and anything else that is flicked up from wet roads has to be seen to be believed.
Arriving unannounced, the staff had us booked in, on a sheltered pitch next to the washrooms as requested, and handed us two pieces of paper with info we might need before my sodden fingers had retrieved my membership card from my wallet. They showed us to the pitch with a cheerful disposition and let us get on with little fuss. We pitched up, had a brew, and then went for some welcome hot showers. Later, feeling more human, we enquired about bike repairs only to be told that the nearest would be Inverness some 14 miles along the coast, but within minutes the camp staff had printed off a list with addresses for us to use.
So we settled ourselves down, had a look around, and relaxed while we took in the day.
Double rainbow as that storm passes out to sea.
Post storm ships in the Firth prepare for night.
And we gave thanks to the founding member of the Camping and caravan club who made it a state that'No backpacker shall ever be turned away, no matter what'.
No comments:
Post a Comment