Despite an early start our departure is delayed by finalising our train bookings while we still have wifi connection. We knew this would likely be the last opportunity as we headed off into the wilds of Sutherland.
Rhododendrons. Hundreds of them greet us up the long valley from Alness to join our route north. Simon is quiet this morning. No mention of any birds is the giveaway to a blacker mood. The continued rain, greyness and hills are taking their toll. At the junction to our route I look around and he is nowhere in sight. I cycle back and discover he has turned right on a dead end track and is heading up another hill towards a gate that is shut!
Eventually we are rewarded with a long run down to the town of Ardgay. Two cups of coffee and a bowl of soup later things are looking up. We meet Reay, a fellow New Zealander, originally from Nelson, who lives further down the valley. She and her Scottish husband breed Hanoverian horses. We agree on the remarkable similarity of the Highlands to the High Country of NZ’s south island. No wonder the Scots felt at home in such a wilderness.
We continue onwards to Lairg and stop by the loch to thaw out again with a cup of tea before taking the single track road ever upwards towards Altnaharra. It is getting late and the prospects of finding a place to stay are looking bleak.
I will leave it to Simon below to describe the welcome sight of the Crask Inn – a wonderful oasis of shelter in the most barren, desolate but incredibly beautiful part of Sutherland. This will prove to be one of the highlights of our entire trip.
The understated welcome and eccentricity of our hosts and the warmth and cheer of this remarkable Inn and the fellow guests encountered will be unforgettable. Sadly we did not have time to speak properly with a Dutch couple, Erika & Dennis, until after breakfast the next morning. They were both photographer and artist and we saw a brief publication of their work of Altnaharra, Loch Naver, and the surrounding landscape.
(http://www.gidz.net/aboutus)
It was not hard to see why they kept returning to capture such breathtaking scenery and why the Crask Inn was their chosen base.
On of the owner's dogs takes a shine for Simon's old blue plimsoles,pouncing at his feet given any opportunity.They evidently needed replacing!
Simon Sez,
Ever north is our cry as we spring to our saddles.
A pretty awful day starting with light rain, leading to heavy rain. We get somewhat lost out of Alness when I go up a blind alley. Basically the day is spent climbing up and up and up. Cycling in the rain is awful. To be perfectly frank the whole business of cycling can be a little monotonous – the repetitive nature of the basic movement, pedals up and down – boring.
We cycle along the Moray Firth and up and up and eventually, in the driving rain, have a wonderful grey view over the Kyle of Sutherland towards Bonar Bridge.
Rhododendrons. Hundreds of them greet us up the long valley from Alness to join our route north. Simon is quiet this morning. No mention of any birds is the giveaway to a blacker mood. The continued rain, greyness and hills are taking their toll. At the junction to our route I look around and he is nowhere in sight. I cycle back and discover he has turned right on a dead end track and is heading up another hill towards a gate that is shut!
Eventually we are rewarded with a long run down to the town of Ardgay. Two cups of coffee and a bowl of soup later things are looking up. We meet Reay, a fellow New Zealander, originally from Nelson, who lives further down the valley. She and her Scottish husband breed Hanoverian horses. We agree on the remarkable similarity of the Highlands to the High Country of NZ’s south island. No wonder the Scots felt at home in such a wilderness.
We continue onwards to Lairg and stop by the loch to thaw out again with a cup of tea before taking the single track road ever upwards towards Altnaharra. It is getting late and the prospects of finding a place to stay are looking bleak.
The understated welcome and eccentricity of our hosts and the warmth and cheer of this remarkable Inn and the fellow guests encountered will be unforgettable. Sadly we did not have time to speak properly with a Dutch couple, Erika & Dennis, until after breakfast the next morning. They were both photographer and artist and we saw a brief publication of their work of Altnaharra, Loch Naver, and the surrounding landscape.
(http://www.gidz.net/aboutus)
It was not hard to see why they kept returning to capture such breathtaking scenery and why the Crask Inn was their chosen base.
On of the owner's dogs takes a shine for Simon's old blue plimsoles,pouncing at his feet given any opportunity.They evidently needed replacing!
Simon Sez,
Ever north is our cry as we spring to our saddles.
A pretty awful day starting with light rain, leading to heavy rain. We get somewhat lost out of Alness when I go up a blind alley. Basically the day is spent climbing up and up and up. Cycling in the rain is awful. To be perfectly frank the whole business of cycling can be a little monotonous – the repetitive nature of the basic movement, pedals up and down – boring.
We cycle along the Moray Firth and up and up and eventually, in the driving rain, have a wonderful grey view over the Kyle of Sutherland towards Bonar Bridge.
In the little village of Ardgay two drowned rats are revived with hot soup and lots of coffee in a very nice clothes shop with café run by the delightful Annie. We then climb again to the grey town of Lairg. Out of Lairg I think I see a golden eagle. We certainly see lots of meadow pippets. We hear and see curlews and plover. I think I see several twites.
About 5pm one is beginning to get very pissed off indeed. Cold and soaking wet and ever climbing northwards, this time into a real wilderness – the Northern Highlands. A single track road from nowhere to nowhere. There are charming road signs eg Icing on Road which don’t seem so charkming at the time.
By about 6pm I’ve had more than enough of this whole stupid malarkey. However, it is difficult to pack it in on a single track road in the middle of nowhere. There are no houses, no vehicles, no people and no hope. Nothing apart from mountains, moorlands and rivers. Ever northwards, ahead of me the solitary figure of John some distance ahead in the gloom.
Eventually, and precisely in the middle of nowhere we reach The Crask Inn. An unremarkable building built in the year of Waterloo revealing a wonderful internal character – bar, lounges, dining rooms, bedrooms furnished in simple and heavy oak.
We fall in with an unlikely pair of brown trout fishermen, an architect from the east coast and a joiner who were on a long weekend’s fishing trip on the river Tirry. There are some 8 guests for dinner. We assemble in the littler bar. We wait until our host and his wife have cooked our supper and then we are ushered into the dining room. We have an excellent four course dinner including venison washed down with a bottle of Chilean Merlot. In the bar afterwards tales of the trout fishermen grow more uproarious. I drink French brandy and John drinks “The Spirit That Dares Not Breathe Its Name”
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