Newtonmoor, Scotland: Into the wilds

July 18, 2015

DRUMOCHTER pass, says the sign set back from the road, is the highest rail crossing in Britain. It's only 450 metres high, which is nothing at all. But this far north - and nowhere in Britain is further south than the Canadian border, remember - it counts for something. The crossing can be snowed in well into spring and then again with autumn.

Whether it rates the warning at the start of the bike path, though, is less sure.

Beware, it says. There is no shelter and no food until you get to the top. And that made Karen laugh. Not only does she live all year in half-shadow until the sun clears the Rockies (I may have my geography slightly wrong here...) but, as she pointed out: "How can you be in that much danger when all you have to do is cross the fence and walk over to the road?"

Because the bike route is the old trail that the modern road replaced, it was sometimes cracked tar and now and then a narrow, broken track. It runs all the way within sound and often within sight of the main road north.

It wasn't easy, though. There were no gradients to make your thighs weep. Nor was it so long that it gnawed at your inner soul. But it had a bleakness that paid tribute to far higher mountains elsewhere. There was no doubt we were in wild country. And Karen was doubtless glad that she was on a new back wheel, that her broken rim had happened on a bridge near Pitlochry. There, a bike shop had replaced it. Out here, it would have been impossible.

It was on this bridge, maintained by the village it serves, that Karen's back rim gave up and cracked

It was an appealing bridge, too - except for Karen

We rode gently against the wind, and a powerful one. The higher we got, the crosser it got. It wasn't going to allow right of passage without a struggle. That and the deteriorating road made it demanding.

Our reward, though? The most majestic scenery since the Yorkshire Dales. But where the Dales wriggled and reared on its hind legs, here in the Highlands the land spread itself graciously before us. Rumpled like a used duvet, certainly, but proud of itself, defying all who passed to deny its grandeur.

Not just on that pass but all day, the scenery grew better and better. It was a day to ride slowly, to revel in our surroundings, to marvel at so much space in so confined an area. Over on the A9, the main road, they got just glances. They crested the climbs without changing gear. They hurtled down the other side, caged from the nature to their side by the long strip of safety barrier and the sagging fence beyond it.

There was no doubt who was having the better time. They were in shallow cuttings which made their journey shorter, faster but denied them the view. We were the view. If we moved, the view changed. We could feel the wind, the cold air on our cheeks. We sensed every slight rise or fall. At every moment we could turn or stop and stare. We were the scenery. It lived as we lived. And it was wonderful, spiritual.

At one moment Steph saw stags bounding over unadulterated land to our left. She shouted. I looked. They'd gone

For a while the road descended lazily. Then it changed its mind, and the wind with it, and we blew down the other side all the way to a simple campground on the outskirts of Newtonmore. The end of a glorious day.

National Cycle Routes guided us. We didn't set out to follow them but so often their choice was also ours

Today's ride: 100 km (62 miles)
Total: 2,277 km (1,414 miles)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	2
Comment on this entry	Comment	0