It was raining when we took the little ferry to Claonig.
On the ferry there was a young Dutchman with a bike. It had 2 large rear panniers and 2 front panniers, one on each side of the front wheel; a front top bag on the handle bars and a tent perched on top between the rear panniers. He was cycling all over Europe. He stood on deck in the teeth of the gale with a permanent smile. John & I agreed his smile had been stitched on. It was the sort of smile, slightly superior, that one longed to erase.
Claonig. I search in vain for any sign of habitation. There is nothing. Not even a hutlet. Just a concrete jetty and an upright structure masquerading as a post.
Out of Claonig up the rather brutal hill in the rain over the peninsula of Kintyre to beautiful Tarbert. On the way up the hill (about 2 miles) the smiling Dutchman overtakes John & I with effortless ease. The bastard!
Tarbert was glorious but wet. Up Loch Fyne to Lochgilphead. In the Argyll Arms for lunch we were very bedraggled indeed. I purchase a waterproof “Mac in a Sac” which fits over my cycling jacket. Dry at last.
We find a marvellous place to hole up for the day – The Grey Gull Hotel in Ardrishaig. It meant cycling back down Loch Gilp for 2 miles in driving rain. We arrived totally ruined and were greeted by a friendly kiwi proprietress, age 67 and her husband. The chef kindly gives us mugs of hot soup. It was an excellent place to while away a wet afternoon. I had a hot bath and then lay in bed watching the races from sunny Goodwood, York and Haydock Park. John slept.
We were revived. The afternoon was greyer than a greyhound, greyer than a battleship. The rain was relentless but the hotel was warm and comfortable.
An excellent supper in the hotel restaurant. We drank some indifferent bitter but washed it down with the excellent Bruichladdich
I could murder a cigar
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