July 17, 2015
Dunkeld, Scotland: Rain, rain...
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YOU REMEMBER I was talking about the National Cycle Routes? Well, today they proved their worth.
Edinburgh isn't a huge city but it's big enough, and complicated, and full of traffic. But after a spell on Princes Street, seeing the sights, we followed blue signs along an ingenious route of back streets, old rail paths and then dripping country lanes to the foot of the Forth bridge.
There couldn't have been a better way.
Wet, though. The rain poured all night and left wide, deep puddles. It was still falling as we set off, although by then it had lost interest and was no more than drizzle. The rain made driving all the more miserable and we were delighted to see the long line of frustrated drivers waiting to pass through the Forth bridge toll booths. We, on the other hand, had a broad bike path to ourselves, the roadway trembling as heavy trucks passed to our left, kept at bay by a steel fence.
Down the river we watched tiny trains working their way across the rail bridge. Legend says there's so much steel on a bridge that is the symbol of Edinburgh that no sooner have the painters reached one end than they start again at the other. It's not true but it gives you an idea of the scale of the thing.
They went in for big engineering feats back then. They started it in 1883 and finished it in 1890. It stretches 2 765 yards, much of it over land. Our own road this morning didn't open until 1964. It's longer than the rail bridge - this is 2 000 yards - which makes it the 10th longest in the world. I know all this because I found it in a tourist leaflet!
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We stopped on the far side for breakfast. The women in the café referred to each other fondly as "hen".
Nothing like that in Kinross, where we sat on a bench beside the town bowls club for sandwiches. It didn't take long to be spotted. First a woman and then a genial old buffer walked round to see us. He was tall with a quiet, dignified voice. But hard to shut up.
"We're nearly all over 60 here these days," he said half-apologetically of a gentle game so much the essence of old-time Britain. "You have to start young to be good at it. It's hard to attract young people, though, and then you have to keep them. My son started when he was 14 and he was showing huge promise when he moved to Edinburgh to join the police and took up handball. He's a commander now.
"Years ago, he'd never have been able to play, you know that? You could only join if you were someone of substance, a Rotary Club type. The place was rolling in money."
He sighed.
"That was a century ago. It's changed since."
He talked of how he had retired and taken over maintenance of the green. He talked of almost everything. He was a delight but we did have to move on.
"Wait!" he said, and he walked away. When he returned, he presented us with a club badge, which Karen still has.
Perth was flooded. We rode a park path beside a river, a distinguished line of proud town houses to our left, swans to our right. And then nature took over. The path dipped under a bypass. And rainwater lay chest deep in the hollow.
It wasn't obvious what to do. We were just debating the situation when a cyclist up on the bridge shouted down at us and came crashing through the undergrowth on the embankment.
"It's a bugger, isn't it?" he sympathised. But he had an answer. Climb back where he'd just come, go a few steps to the left to get round the metal barrier, cross the road, then take the first left on a dark path that would link with the original trail.
"Only a cyclist would know," I laughed as I shook his hands.
"You're right there," he smiled. "Different world, isn't it?"
The countryside now is more expansive, wider, with larger fields. There are big, green, rounded hills. The Highlands approach. I'm excited.
Today's ride: 116 km (72 miles)
Total: 2,177 km (1,352 miles)
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