March Bivi 2020 - on solitude

The Preamble

I have to admit, I thought this BAM might not happen.  There's been a lot of short rides on a new bike - the first one where I took it up to the pump track near home, just to make sure I actually rode it - once.  There was the ride where the cheap bit of plastic "chain protector" came loose and kept making the chain come off.  Then bags started to get added, tape to protect the frame, building the new dynamo wheel, adding the dropper post.

It was all building up to last weekend - meant to be the start to a beautiful holiday.  We would finish work on Friday and race to the highlands armed with a loaded mountain bike for me and a road bike for TSK to do whatever took his fancy.

I was looking forwards to reccying the new lines on the HT route and was poised to report back to organisers and friends, then the Government took over.  For future reference: This is the week Covid-19 took the UK into lockdown.  For now reference: this is the last time I will mention it this Blog.

2 Sundays ago we raced.  On Monday and Tuesday, in line with ambitious training, I managed to continue riding to work and on Wednesday I was forced to drive in so I could collect my desk, screen, chair and mouse/keyboard and set up my home office.  The holiday morphed into tentative, then a staycation.

TSK had always wanted to visit Ludd's church and so we thought that we'd sneak in whilst no-one was looking.  We took a packed lunch and unwittingly joined 1/6 of the UK in the white peak, the rest being in the Dark Peak, Lakes, Highlands or Yorkshire Dales.  I felt bad enough about travelling that far so on Sunday I went in search of solitude and a little bit of daylight.  I was successful except for a brief period around Derwent reservoir.  I empathise with folk wanting to enjoy the countryside but when it occurred to me that one in 10 of those big groups of people I saw could be from the hotspot of Westminster, I took a different tune and was glad I rode by quickly in search of further isolation on Cut Gate.

Success.  If we're never allowed outside again then I will dine out on that apple, eaten in a sheep ditch, for years to come.  I loped indoors late in the evening - my first (and possibly last) pass over Cut Gate this year left me prepared for Monday exactly how I like it - slightly exhausted.  We concluded that if we were stuck at home then we might as well offer to work.

I cycled though Tuesday's team meeting on my Turbo, getting 50km in.  I felt positive, maybe I would get a sneaky BAM in on my new bike - get the dynamo finished, figure out the baggage, pop out, use up some of the time work owes me - a quickie before lockdown and then the news came in on Tuesday.

Everyone knows by now how much of a goody twoshoes I am.  I dreamed of sneaking out to "that" bench for a night - the one in the valley I've had my eye on for ages.  But deep down I knew that in any kind of legally enforced lockdown I'd spend the night wide awake somehow paranoid I'd be arrested by the nature police.  I even lay awake in bed on Wednesday night, imagining which way I'd ride through the allotments to avoid capture.

The week seemed to drag on forever and I worked waaay more hours than I ever would have at work.  Things got busy and instead of  turning away for the daily commutes I had set myself, I worked longer and harder than ever before as BAM floated on the breeze outside my velux window in the loft office.

On Friday I had myself a glass of wine straight after work. It was bad.  HT was cancelled, BAM seemed off the cards and I'd lost all mojo.  I sat outside looking down the valley, hankering after what could have been in the glorious evening sunset and decided to check what was happening on the BAM notice board.

At first I expect a tough-luck approach.  If you didn't get out already then more fool you.  I'd already turned down Mr Landlside for a March BAM on the basis that I was feeling a bit off with hot flushes and a tickly cough which transpired to be high settings on the central heating, early menopause symptoms and hayfever.

I also expected some people would be out doing it anyway or using mates' gardens - none of which were on my radar for reasons previously described.

Sense finally prevailed and I realised Stu wouldn't be so irresponsible as to break with caution in the pursuit of a cloth badge and as I write this I hear the hipocrisy in the face of the legality of wild camping in this country but mental health and public health are, sadly, still very different things.

Tempting as it was to head off onto the moors on foot (emergency exception number 1) I opted instead for my Own Back Garden (emergency exception number 2), suddenly very happy to have one, as well as a plush new bench, fortunately purchased in last year's garden centre sales.

My rules

I decided to remain as close as possible to usual BAM experience - leave on Saturday on a fully loaded bike, camp in my own garden, get up and go for another ride on Sunday with all the gear back on the bike.  Only 2 changes:

• I wasn't leaving a brand new bike outside overnight in a city garden - lock-down or no lock-down
• TSK said I wasn't allowed to poo in the Compost bin - or anywhere else in the garden for that matter.

I would let myself in the house once to lock the bike in the kitchen and use the bathroom.

The First Ride

I spent most of Saturday still dicking about with wheels and wiring the dynamo.  As the day went on, my soldering got worse and the electrical tape got thicker.

As soon as I started to load the bags, the heavens opened and the cat bust in through the catflap a little soggy.  I'm glad I didn't open the blinds to take a look outside because, in retrospect, the noise was so loud because it was hailstoning.

Of course, I had bivi plans so, gone were the chily but clear sparkling spring mornings.  The forecast was for 1 degreeC, cloudy , windy, potential for precipitation.  I packed the largest sleeping bag I thought I could get on the bike, the Ugly Tarp, mat, bivi bag (warm one), the Thermatex blanket, big gloves, coat, thermals and for funsies, my stove to brew up in the garden.  I was wearing fleece bib leggings and my waterproof, wool top and thick socks so by the time I left the house I was glad to get into the cold air.  It was 10pm.

As soon as I set off I knew things were wrong.  I couldn't steer and nearly ploughed into the bin.  A little disapointing on a bike that had previously been so agile.

I'd strapped my big ortleib drybag to my bars in a harness and inadvertently looped the harness strap around by dropper post cable. I rectified it in the cold air and set off for the allotments to warm up again on the hill.  Things still weren't great but I put it down to the harness rubbing on the frame, cursed myself for getting distracted earlier in the day and not taking the time to add some frame protectors.  I resolved to make it a short ride and do something about it in the morning.

With dodgy steering I wobbled and hauled the bike over the usual terrain.  The only car I saw as I rode through the allotment at 10.30pm was a police car which made me smile about my plans to play keystone cops through the tomato plants and gardening paraphenalia of Western Sheffield.  I could imagine the conversation,

Policeman: "Where are you heading to then?"
Me: "Home"
Policeman: "What, with that lot?"
Me: "Yes"
Policeman: "Where's home"
Pointing behind me: "That way, just getting my exercise in first".

He didn't stop.  I grinned at the sense of freedom.  Being back on a loaded bike, the confidence that I could stop anywhere, the knowledge that I wouldn't.

I opted for the acquisition of height over whooping empty downhills and tested my new lighter bike fully loaded up my local Hike-a-bike training ground.  We've been doing it every morning unloaded so far but even with bags on it was an easier lift, more surefooted and an easier set down than with EmVee.

I crawled silently past the last houses in town and the first flecks of hail chilled me out as I rattled down the byway to Blackbrook farm where I had to carefully remove a caterpillar that seemed to be thinking of crysalising a bridge between the gate and its post.

At Long Lane I turned my back on the extended bridleway in favour of saving my bike frame, fixing my bags and getting some sleep in tonight.  I also relished the idea of clearing the Rivelin Valley path in the dark without a dog walker in sight.  It was 11pm after all.

The valley passed in between the highs of a clear run without walkers and the lows of: hitting a slab jump all wrong and slapping myself in the arse with my seatpost bag and; getting a narrow section of oversize "cobble"stones wrong and falling off into a holly bush.  I did manage to clear all the other obstacles and keep my feet dry, whilst others - unfamilliar in the darkness - were not on my route and deftly
avoided.

I stayed on the path all the way to the road crossing, passing the childrens' playground - normally closed at night and now eerily locked up with bulky chains and padlocks during the day.  Amusing given that the fence is low enough that I could step over it without me standing on my tiptoes.

At the turning for home, I wasn't ready to go in yet.  This eerie sense of armageddon, this aura of solitude, I was hooked, I'm addicted and at the moment it's impossible to find during the hours of daylight.  I don't begrudge people their access to the countryside, I begrudge my loss of solitude.

In the apocalypse movies when the star is exceited to find other survivors, I'm the one at the back saying, "Woah there, can we trust them".  I'm the bearded old man dressed in sacks with a staff in one hand and an AK-47 over their shoulder.

I carried on down the bridleway, across the stepping stones and out near Hillsborough fire station and crossed to head up the footpath opposide.  It's a push all the way up until I can get on and ride home.

Urban Push

The cobbles on the steeps make me look down and I realise my steering is compromised due to my electric cables which are under tension when I turn right.  My front light has been dimming and my phone hasn't charged so I fear the damage is already done but at least its a few quid in cables and not a hole in a £1300 frame.

The Bivi

When I got home, my bike announced our presence.  Having just been dragged through the river, brakes squealed past the living room window where the light was still on.

I quietly hoped that TSK wouldn't come out to say hello.  I wanted to concentrate on setting up my bivi before it rains again and I didn't want to be tempted by the thought of a warm, cosy bed.  Was that bad?  Was that nasty?  This was my wilderness break though, my chance to be alone, just being, I guess it was OK.

No one came outside except Mark next door, putting out the bin. He's seen me play this game before in daylight and as ex-army, probably, deep down, "gets it" so left me in peace.

I didn't need a headtorch.  One neighbour has an outside light, the other's kitchen light is on and the guy behind us has an outdoor light that burns with the light of a thousand suns.  Fortunately it's in the direction of the breeze so I pitched my tarp to add some shade from the light as well as the breeze, with the dog rose and spruce pine adding extra cover.

Sleeping bag, mat and bivi were set up for rain proofing and I decided to risk making a brew of herbal tea to enjoy the night air.  I got the water from the garden tap to add to the spirit of adventure and delay the inevitable incursion into the house and the jaws of temptation.

My hands were getting cold so I crouched down by the stove and warmed hands and gloves, realising just in time that two fingers were on fire before it reached my skin.  So you know, Sealskin gloves extinguish pretty well.

With everything set out for the morning, I took the bike indoors for the night and popped upstairs for a wee. I have no qualms about weeing in the garden except for kitchen-light neighbours still awake next door and I did not want to be captured sans-trou whilst Mark smoked his last Malbroorough of the night in the back doorway.

Otherwise, time was past 1am and the house was quiet indoors.  I saved my teeth cleaning for outisde then to add to the true bivi experience, completely forgot unless Landslide reminds me by doing his (I call it tooth shaming).

Indoors in full fleece leggings and waterproof trousers (for warmth) I resented the heat in the bathroom but did appreciate it giving me a few minutes to leave the shoulder straps of my bibs around my waist for any night time trips to the garden without removing all my layers. 

Hungry from my after-dinner ride, I necked the packet of crisps I'd been carrying around all week and finally remembered to drink my brew - still warm in the ti mug.

In dashing back across the garden to my cocoon I realised two things - my down booties were wet from a few steps across the grass and; we have some very hard bits of porcelain which have randomly surfaced in the garden.  I stuffed my feet in the sleeping bag hoping two layers of dry down would make up for one soggy one.

First adjustment of the night was to take my mat out of the bivi bag and give my feet some space to lie right and fluff out the sleeping bag.  I poured all my spare clothes out of my pillow and packed away my waterproof coat.

Mark crashed about at 1:40am with the recycling and finally I was settled in darkness.

It was no good, I still shivered. The devil whispered in my ear, "Look mate, there's too much going on in the world. You don't need this stress right now.  What are you trying to prove? The race is cancelled. You don't need to put yourself through this. There's a warm bed inside. You can try again later in the week."

Still, I didn't move. I waited. Something magical might happen, or at least, this would make me a stronger person.

I would have quite liked to see some garden wildlife and my brain really wanted to stay awake for it.  At the same time I was dreading it setting off "the light of 1000 suns" and also didn't fancy a fox trying to steal my crisp packet or getting caught in the cross-howling of a cat fight.

I did, however, fancy the company of one of my own cats for body heat if nothing else.  Unfortuantely they eyed me suspiciously from afar and the only presence felt was "Thursday" from number 95, jingling past in the night as my bivi was pitched right on top of the "catpath" that runs through our garden.

It was no good - I was still cold.  I took off the down booties to check for wet and added extra socks underneath. In doing so, I found my wool top and added that and went for another outdoor wee which always helps.

As I piddled under the twinkling stars and streetlights and watched the clouds flurry past high overhead, I wondered what the hell I had been thinking about the Highland Trail.  I'll never do that, I'm too soft.  I can't even manage a night in my own fucking back garden FFS, what a woos.  At these times, it's hard to remember the transformation that happens between March and May and the freaky weirdness of the weather in Scotland that has seen the HT 550 run in temperatures ranging from +30 to -7 degrees.

I walked back to my bivi - the Ugly Tarp fringed with a lace of hailstones - not just being soft then, it was genuinely frickin cold.  I hunkered in and waited for the wool and feathers to work their magic.  Starting out right could have got me 2 hours more sleep.

Finally at around 3:40 I went to sleep in the pleasant knowledge that I wouldn't need to rush off anywhere in the morning.  I was woken up by Mark letting the cat out.

The Morning After

My feet were still frozen. In fact it felt like I'd lost all feeling in the left one and the right, though in better shape, was aching from stepping on porcelain last night.  In my morning slumber, I had frostbite and a broken foot but I wasn't going to give up my cocoon that easily.  I rotated the joints and flexed and extended my feet to encourage blood flow inbetween dozing off again. It didn't work and I gently worried whilst doing nothing about it. I could have gently warmed my feet in warm water inside but that would break my rules.

Eventually at 8:30 I got up and went to the house to get coffee and porridge water.  The porcelain I'd stepped on last night was broken into 3 pieces.  The bench was comfortable given the ammount of times I will use it over these next few months it's an investment I am particularly hapy with.  Coffee was drunk and porridge eaten outside.

The Second Ride

Without foot circulation and a complete and utter ennui of the same trails I set off on the downhill to ride a gentle road climb to start the day off and warm my feet up gradually.  I'd liberated the handlebars and taken a skinnier bag out of the house to ease damage / restriction on the bike and I freed my electrical cables.  I passed the Rivelin pub, its sign groaning mournfully in the wind and realised how rare it is to get a tailwind along this road.  It would have been a perfect weekend for a ride to Wales and a train home.

At the bridleway where I usually stop for a faff, I got my second wild wee of the weekend and finally removed the extra wool and waterproof layers, rejoicing that circulation had finally returned to my feet.

I could have carried on to Strines but responsible thoughts about social distancing and practical thoughts about food shopping and sleep recovery stopped me.  Instead I took a picture of some horses and dropped down to Wyming Brook to distantly socialise.

I was getting peckish.  As I passed a bench I exhausted my mental inventory of food but the memory of a bottle of Jura in my rucsac had me grabbing the brakes and flopping into the sunkissed bracken with a smile.  At 10am I snuggled under a pine tree witha view of the reservoirs whilst sunshine occasionally flitted through the hail stones.

Instead of bouncing through reservoir-dogs walkers I carried on upto the Lodge Moor road where I stopped to analyse the phone charging results of wiggling a few cables.  I took another pic of some horses and got buzzed at 6 inches separation by a silent roadie that made me jump out of my skin.

At Lodge Moor I awaited patiently whilst 2 children wearing roller skates got off the stony dirt path - not sure who was taking more care of not ending up in A&E.  Was I hallucinating?  I don't think so.

A long inventory of people were out and about in groups and solos.  The sun was out, the temperatures up and it was time for me to go indoors again.

I mused on my future with the HT 550.  In the past, the Fisherfield forest had been my ShangriLa, the place I'd always wanted to go and held high as a bastion of remoteness and tranquility and then Karl told me, "I've never felt alone in Fisherfield".  When I finally went I was not disapointed but I realised he was right because it is full of people - as famous as it is as a Wilderness, it's become a victim of its own Wilderness success.

So while I will still look forwards to it, I'll look forwards too to the path after the Great Glen, the hill climb up to the hydro-bothy, the Northern Loop.  Places I can be alone, at least I can at my end of the race.  They may not even be places, but times - late at night or early in the morning.

I arrived back at the kitchen, exhausted from lack of sleep rather than physical exhaustion and just a little drunk.  It was 11am.

"You were up late last night", I say to TSK.  He had headphones on when I got home, screaming brakes past the window where he was sat.  "When I went to check the garden from the spare room you were huddled over, cooking something.  I thought I'd leave you alone and let you do your thing".

He's a fucking genius that boy.

Some women crave a man who dotes on them like a puppy.

Me: give me a man who loves me like a cat.

And prepare to ski

I am poorly again.  Third cold in 2 months and the chesty cough from the last one still has not gone.  I had an x-ray on Friday.

The work week has been a nightmare.  I gave up on exercise by Tuesday morning at yoga although I did manage Thursday morning's shapes.

On Saturday we drove to the ski shop... in Ilkley, to see the people who sold me my boots 3 years ago about the foot problems I experienced two years ago which stopped me running part-way into my Ironman training.  I don't want to go through that again.  In fact, I am still nursing the tendonitis that I acquired back then.

I had an appointment at 3.

I was seen at 5:30.  In any other shop anywhere else, this would have made me livid but somehow, spending the day surrounded by skis and skiers and climbing gear and like-minded folk made me super happy.  I chatted, joked and walked around in circles in my boots... oh how I love those touring boots and looked forwards to Italy.  I have every reason in the world to get well again.  I have every reason in the world to sink into a haven of training and nature and sanctitude.  I'd say solitude but this year, TSK will be with me on his touring skis and I am so excited for it.

Today I am sat on the sofa, buying ski maintenance tools and I am very very happy.

TSK on a sketchy black in Mayrhofen last year.

TSK's new bike ride

He's a kind man, my husband.  He bought a new bike so that we would have to go for a mountain bike ride together on the first beautiful winter Saturday of the arse end of 2015.  Here's how it went:

We woke to some snow and the last of the wedding rose

I brought Andrew up all the bumpy trails so he could try out his new suspension and 29er combination.

The Rivelin valley's looking beautiful in the sunshine with the snow on the fields and enough bracken still bringing colour through the whiteness.

Hairy bridge.

Whilst waiting for TSK to adjust his saddle, I discover I am now flexible enough to do a standing backbend over my saddle and repose.  Unfortunately my rucsac strap got latched around my saddle and I almost fell over when I tried to stand up.

Not laughing.

At Stanage Pole, the view was epic.

And the people were there.  Stanage Pole, conspicuous in its absence.

Looking towards Stanedge Lodge

And the way down

And a cold tiger

The scenery at the base of Stanage was stunning and we were glad to be riding the roads on fat tyres on ice.

Can't believe my glove invaded this shot but then my hands were losing it (circulation)

The stop at the Norfolk Arms was very welcome. Their mulled wine is really rather good.

Scottish Adventure / Cafe Holiday 2015

Friday:

We left work late as TSK had to finish his last day at his old job.  He will return to a new one.  By the time we reached the A66 we are tired and ready to stop – somewhere on the way, but where?  We cruised past the place that we had in mind and continue, eventually noticing a campsite sign at the last moment, braking in the car and swinging in.  They had room for us.  Can we book in tomorrow when the lady of the house is in? 

She clearly runs the show.  I clearly do not as I have forgotten the tent pegs.  I fixed it though and blagged some off a caravanner to save us the embrarrasment and inconvenience of trekking to Keswick, only to come back and proceed again tomorrow.

It was such a nice evening we pitched the Tentipi without its inner for the first time.  We layed the Thermarests straight on the ground because it was so dry.

I went out to do the dishes and captured a rising moon, bigger than I have ever seen in the UK.  It’s glowing orange.

We had a sleepless night.  It was windy and stormy and the tipi flapped uncontrollably (we later fixed this issue - User error!) and it lashed it down.  We survived dry and we cooked breakfast at 7 whilst the storm raged outside.  It got closer and at one point we heard crack-boom.  The closest lightening strike we’ve experienced since Quebec 9 years ago. The stablehand thinks the shed was struck.

Once things dried out a bit, we took the tentipi down, bundled it into the back of the car and returned the tent pegs with great thanks and an appreciation of the weather we’d all endured.  I was glad we tested ourselves (and the tipi) before we committed to Scotland.

Next stop: Gretna Green for tent pegs from the Sport Direct store where I was offered a magazine with Mark Cavendish on the front.  I explained I’d better pay my husband some attention whilst I’m on holiday. 

Karrera Island.  Always sunny when we're there

Saturday:

We’ve been to Oban before and really enjoyed it.  This time we signed up for a 4 hour wait at the ferry terminal.  Unknowingly, we were sold a standby ticket, with no more promise than guaranteed on the 8pm sailing.  We arrived at 3:30pm.  Personally, I’d have chosen a night in Oban and crossing the next day but I didn’t get a choice from the clerk on the desk.  There were a lot of disgruntled people - and not just me.

The Ferry to Mull

We arrived on the Isle of Mull at 9pm and set about choosing a campsite.  We had at least, by now, figured out where they all were and gradually discounted them.  If we’d turned left out of the ferry terminal we’d have been OK but I had to chose to be near the mountain so after rejecting a few as mere fields with no sign of sanitary drinking water, never mind toilets, we settled on Tobermory which I thought would be over-commercialised but was far from it.

The caravan site may have been but our tent field was occupied by one cycle tourist and he shared his midge coil with us.

After a lot of swearing putting the tent up and unpacking the car, we eventually burned all the little feckers to death before settling down for the night.  Dishes were done indoors.

Sunday:

Mull’s only Munro, Ben More.  We were surprisingly organised and on the hill by 10:30.  We ran up as much as we could.  The top was surprisingly cool but we persevered in shorts and fleece and ran to the top, waving to a couple who got so far with their baby then had to turn back down because it was cold and steep.

From the summit of Ben More

We stopped and ate and enjoyed the view and we reached the top in time for a late lunch.  There were plenty of sitting places on the way down.  I’d earmarked a pool in the stream for a swim. Realising I was wearing my shorts with the knickers sewn in and I didn’t want to get my only teeshirt wet, it turned into a skinny dip with me getting full-on in for a swim and Andrew making it in up to his nipples.

TSK hides from the breeze

As far as I know we weren’t seen but I didn’t care, it was immensely freeing and I swam up and down whilst Andrew got dry then prepared to give me my clothes, item by item. 

We were down at the car by 3pm and watching the cows mootch around on the beach.  I wrote in my diary that I was happy with that day and anything else was a bonus.

Monday:

First real day of holiday and we chose to tell the legs to shut up and set out for an 85 mile ride as a leg stretch.  That leg stretch was around the isle of Mull.  We set off in shorts and tees and headed for Calgary – one of the campsites we’d passed on Sunday.  In the village however was a café which (of course) we had to go in and admire the sculpture and art. 

There is no basking shark in this photo, honest

 We particularly loved the basking shark.  We photographed the beach at Calgary for later then made our way over to the pass leading back to Ben More - the road we had passed along the day before, stopping at the wall to watch two otters playing with a mollusc in the sea.  After a time, we reached our first col of the day, passing over the ridge that rolls down from the top of the peak we had climbed the day before.

There are otters in this photo, honest

We arrived safely on the other side, turned inland again and found ourselves in the widest, most open valley.  We stopped in an Audax hotel (bus stop) for a bite to eat whilst watching the traffic (occasional car) and then, noticing the hotel’s air conditioning was a bit keen (window missing), we set off with knee warmers / leggings and waterproofs at hand.

We had a long climb out of this valley to go.  Half way up I started to bonk and helped myself to the sesame snaps I’d been saving (forgotten) all day.  They are packed with energy!

Beautiful single track of Mull

Down the other side and back to the ferry terminal where we found the worst café on the island (early closing and surly staff) and then went on to discover there were two cafes and we missed the better one.

We soldiered on fuelled by a bad coffee and a twix each.  One inconsiderate trucker later and we were in a rainstorm.  It didn’t matter though, we hadn’t got far to go and we pushed our speed to make it go away.  We were fast into Tobermory and set about enjoying cooking our dinner in the cool air with the wind keeping the midges away (mostly and finally).

So by Tuesday we were properly worn out.  We did what every tired tourist should and headed to the whisky tour at the local distillery.  Happy that it was a small, local place steeped in tradition and interest, TSK enjoyed his first tour.  We paid to taste both the Ladavuglin and the Tobermory.  We walked away with a bottle of the stuff (though not the finest on offer) and a respectable shot glass to boot.  It beats the free, plastic one we have at home.

Ice creams and lunch in the cheese factory later, we could hardly walk but we climbed in the car with my wetsuit and headed over to Calgary bay for that swim I’d promised myself.  Andrew went for a brief paddle but it really was much colder than the stream.  I got properly in there, despite the grey skies (though no rain) and did three lengths or so.  Sadly, there was a little too much weed so I kept getting freaked out and wasn’t really able to put my back into it so got cold.  We dried off and sat on the benches enjoying the evening before heading back to camp for a late (small) dinner.

On Wednesday it was time to move on.  Our legs were still too tired to do anything major and we wanted to find a site that was a little more exposed.  Resipole is just the place and in the past my family’s caravan has almost blown away.  Never mind tents.  I sent a brief belated birthday card to my dad saying that is where we were going with the tipi and trepidation.

The drive to Resipole from Mull was beautiful passing through places I have not been before.  We arrived in good time and good weather and spent a lot of time trying to find our exposed, midge free spot.  We didn’t really, the lure of a quieter area of land overcoming our desire to be in the breeze.  We carefully avoided the multi-person tents that probably housed large (or multiple) families or indeed and entire scout troup or university group.

We did well to get away from the electric as later, stereos did arrive and children were terantering at will.  We snuggled into our quiet corner.  Once installed, we took a brief walk down to the pub which is now an art gallery (boo) before going to sit out on my old hideaway place, one of those places where kids go to get away from their parents, sit on a rock and watch the tides and the sea birds and dick about with seaweed… well you do if you’re an only child.  We sat for ages watching a little girl play in the tide, watch sea birds and dick about with seaweed and razor shells.

My old happy places - now shared

On Thursday we set out rectify our earlier mistakes and ride before running.  I would’ve preferred to do it the other way round because a clear day on the mountain is more rewarding than a clear day on the bike and a wet day on a bike is less dangerous than a wet day on a mountain but then, I remember Ben Resipole and have seen it on perfect days.  I do not, however, remember Ardnamurchan point that much so we set out to ride there.

There is a real shark in this photo

It was 60 miles to get there and back.  The road is not flat.  By the time we reached the turning point for Ardnamurchan point we were ravenous.  A café / craft / leather shop was our first available fuelling point.  Served by a man who looked more like he’d just come ashore from a month fishing at sea, we weren’t expecting great coffee but it was out of this world, topped up without thinking or charging and scrumptuous brownies which he proudly told us were made by “May” were proffered. 

They were moist and delish!

The lighthouse and perfect picnic spot at Ardnamurchan Point

We arrived at Ardnamurchan point in fine fettle and set down to polish off our lunch, saved up until that point.  Andrew did the most westerly trackstand and I insisted we went and walked around the lighthouse.  So glad we did as I don’t remember the fog-horn and 150m of cast iron compressed air pipework that feed it.  No longer necessary but highly attractive to engineering types.  Who can argue with a big red horn?.

This image, badly shows that my Gamin maps run out and that there is nothing East of us other than the Hebrides

Finally, we went to the visitor centre for a pee and more coffee before heading home on the bikes.  I saw another sea otter, though unfortunately TSK missed it.  It slinked into the water before he could come back.  We went up to Acharacle for provisions and cake to get us home then back at the campsite went in search of an ice cream to accompany our only laundry session of the trip.

On Friday it was mountain day.  I packed more food this time and both map and Garmin.  The old path had been replaced by new but thankfully I noticed the key turning point and instead of following the new quad-bike tracks off across the hillside and beyond, remembered to turn alongside a deer fence and cross the stream to access the higher ground.  I say “tracks”, more like, “crushed down ruts through the bog and heather”.

I snap a photo before I lose TSK in the incoming weather

We continued with our wet and sodden feet – no need to seek out a stream for a swim this time.  It was satisfying enough to hit rocky terrain so we could stop wading.  We ate some food before the weather truly turned then started to take bearings as the cloud lowered and we carried on up.

The plan to follow the stream to a lochan was formed then done away with as the lochan was not forthcoming.  We had missed a fork in the river and followed the eastern branch.  We headed North West as best we could.  I dispensed with low-tech and switched the Garmin on to get the day over with more quickly.  I didn’t fancy roaming about in the murk in waterproof trousers any longer than I had to… and TSK had just shorts and leggings.

We found what was the top – no higher ground around - and the technology concurred.  We pretty much headed straight down.  To be honest, we needed to look at something – anything – other than grey.

We found the old path to the lochan and got ourselves back on the original stream we had hiked up.  We’d already scanned a couple of lunch rocks which we made use of before re-swimming through the bog and heather to safety of the descent trail in all its rocky glory.  We even managed a bit of a run, after all the trudging it seemed so fast.  Mainly we walked all the flat and climbs though.  It had been a really tough morning.

Happy to have found the summit, keen to go and find some dry

Back at the campsite for lunch more or less, we enjoyed some really good food in the evening.

Saturday was still forecast to be a bit off, with things improving the day after.  For all that I wanted to move on on Saturday, our bodies were not going to allow decommissioning the tent and moving all that stuff so we resolved to take a rest day which may include some swimming.  It was dull and so was my mood in the morning.  I was having one of those days where I didn’t want to do anything but was on holiday so I felt pressurised to do something. 

A claggy and frustrating off-day

Andrew wanted to see Tioram castle and go for a swim.  I knew I had seen Tioram castle and didn’t want to drive (but I couldn’t remember Tioram castle and not driving would mean doing nothing now, wouldn’t it).

So we drove to Tioram castle.  All I took from it was how jealous I was of the kayakers, skirting around on the beautiful clear water – water that I wanted to swim in but just couldn’t be bothered.

We went to Kentra Bay and suddenly I was in the mood for a swim.  I remember the singing sands being great but couldn’t remember them exactly.  It was a long time since I had been.  We parked the car and packed the bags for walking in but stupidly I took the dry bag – not my rucsac so had to haul the damn thing on my shoulder for ages – probably 1.5 hours.

After umpteen false summits along the track which I didn’t remember at all, we finally found the path down to the beach.  It was sandy and promising looking.  Of course, it started to rain as soon as we arrived but, since we had the place to ourselves, I immediately unpacked the dry bag of my wet things, took all my clothes off and put them in the dry bag and then ran around in circles on the beach in the rain.  It was brilliant except I wasn’t wearing a bra so my boobs hurt.

A rain drop on a 180 degree view of our private beach

Finally, I got dressed into swimming clothes (and then noticed the yacht moored offshore).

Andrew had a little paddle as the sea was still very cold.  I set out in my wetsuit.  After skirting around the rocky patch, the sea at Singing Sands is perfectly clear and there’s no rocks or seaweed at all.  It is a tropical heaven in Scotland.  

I could’ve swum for miles – temperature permitting – but also I kept going so slow because I was completely mesmerised by it all.  Pure heaven. Pure bliss. As I got out, I quickly recalled that it had been the sight of my only otter sighting so far.  No otters today. 

I got out to get dressed and the sun was shining.  If we had any more food with us (lunchtime had passed) I would have stayed a while and gone back in the water and made the most of it this time.  I was kicking myself.  We had to walk back to the car still energised.  If only we’d taken our bikes… the list goes on.  I need to remember how much I love swimming in clear and beautiful water.

After our (seemingly much shorter) hike back to the car, we hit the café again for a lunch (at 3pm this time) and hearty coffee to rewarm.  A shower awaited at the campsite.  I went back to sulking because we’d run out of things to do in the area but had to travel on a good weather day the next day.

Indeed Sunday dawned clear and we packed up quickly and drove upwards through Fort William and into the Great Glen.

We visited a number of campsites along the way, in search of a gem  that we hadn’t seen before on many a visit. 

We drove through three campsites which managed to look both expensive and unkempt all at the same time.  They looked like residents campsites and we scurried away.  Our second-to-last hope being Invergarry.

Invvergarry was a haven.

A farm campsite on a steep hillside where little camping nooks had been chiselled and shorn into the slope to accommodate more tents than the open field at the bottom of the hill suggested. Let's skip over the old-aged Geordies with their TV on loud in their trailer tent and focus on the pitch that  we moved our entire camp to, just to get away from them.  (Let's just say that I do not want to be woken up at 7am on my holiday by the BBC Breakfast theme tune or hear Eastenders whilst I am eating my dinner).

At Invergarry the good weather finally returned so we sat outside, licking our wounds really - mending a puncture, yoga, preparing meals in the open air. TSK's wheel was not only punctured but thin-walled on the rim so we waved goodbye to going any farther North and accepted a day of blatting back to Fort William in the car to do bike shopping.

One shiny new wheel later and I set out for a run around our local lake.  TSK joined me so got to appreciate all the navigational wobbles that go with my running followed by a good hour of running, sodden footed across quad bike tracks in the heather, accompanied by the gentle swoosh of wind turbines which, to be honest, weren't turning that much. The lake didn't look too tempting for a swim, too brown and peaty. Eventually TSK left me to run on while he took the map to find his own way down.

My experience of the return journey stuck with how interesting this and that looked but I didn't investigate because I didn't want to leave the path and 10k felt far enough for a rest day thanks very much. TSK on the other hand, took the map and went off to have a look at what that was. His own particularly strong way of recovering.

This all left me back at the tent worrying that I had lost him, running 2 more miles to offer him company then coming back to put the tea on just in time for him to arrive back, happy and muddy.

Our sunniest day at Invergarry was a ride to Foyers on the East side of Loch Ness. Originally starting out as a ride to Inverness and then around Loch Ness, it got shorter as we realised how hilly the road was and how tired we were. Our first diversion from the main road along the Caledonian Canal was a big mistake of unrelenting crushed stone surface. It wasn't that crushed and on road bikes was uncomfortable and skittish. 4 miles of bone shaking gave way to lunch in Fort Augustus with all the tourists.

Then peace again along the quiet side of Loch Ness. We climbed one big hill for over an hour, I am convinced. By the time we reached the top, we couldn't even see Loch Ness. The descent looked fun but all those little rises gave for poor fun factor with a head wind also applied. I stopped half way down to put on a coat and watch a tree harvester making short shift of trees in the forest like a giant yellow girl picking daisies in a forest-sized meadow.

The Rolling Descent

 After we battled our way down the rolling hillside we turned onto more pleasant B roads for Foyers. Sure there were some sharp climbs but they were short and forested and enjoyable. The café couldn't come soon enough and was the most beautiful lodge in the middle of a field with a view of mountains, a farm and community of highland coo who were having a paddle. Almost everyone sat outside in the sun.

Face off at the cafe in Foyers

We felt good as one does after cake so continued North, both looking to find the best way out of the valley back to our A road home.

TSK suggested a route. I countered it with the next, which seemed to take us a little further North, thereby extending our lovely day out slightly and it seemed to avoid climbing straight over the big hill.

In fact, the way it tackled the big hill was a series of 8 switchbacks, inching over the steep face of the valley. We found our little Alpe.

To add to the intrigue, the road got narrower, the grass started to appear in the middle of the road and the trees overhead hung lover and lower. We persevered because neither of us wanted to go back down to do the other road as well. Just as it started to feel like a desperate off-road track through a sheep field with a farm yard at the end, the farm road appeared again and the surface improved just in time for the long descent to the main road.

A big, sweeping, open, freshly tarmacced surface took us back, at speed, to the long rolling hillside we had descended earlier.  The road surface a side effect of the wind turbines development just outside the Cairngorms national park.  Suddenly my legs felt good in the tail wind and we road raced back to the top of our journey for the second time.

The morning's climb was pure bliss on the way down, with all those freshly tarmacced bends and this time we hovered in Fort Augustus only to pick up desert and emergency bonk cake for the ride home before avoiding the Canal path and riding down the road instead where we were treated to seeing the cruise ship pass through the swing bridge (what else to do but eat the cake you just picked up).

Picnic bench and a boat garden

Afterwards we were treated to a display from Scotland's emergency services when an incident somewhere in the highlands had scrambled every emergency vehicle on offer from Ambulance to Fire Services HAZMAT truck and, by the time we arrived at the campsite, the rescue helicopter. This duly landed in the shinty field to take a poorly but thankfully not visibly injured man to hospital somewhere.

Excitement of the day offset by the pleasure of arriving back at our haven but the displeasure of discovering my first tick of the holiday chomping on my forehead.

Our last day of Scotland was reserved for mountains. Specifically Meall Na Teanga and Sron a Choire Garbh.

On Meall Na Teanga, proving that Treps are happiest on Mountains

I like a mountain where having a bike takes a good 7 miles off the day. Parking at Laggan Lock we cycled 3.5 miles along forest trails to the path. This time on a decent surface. We locked the bikes to a tree then hiked up to the saddle, passing no-one other than a mountain bike in the long grass and a tent pitched down by the stream.

We dressed like runners but after a week or two of beating ourselves up, walked most of it, even stashing our weighty rubbish of banana skins in the heather for collection on the way down.

TSK, getting into this fellrunning thing

The view from the top of Meall was worth the effort. Overlooking Ben Nevis with its sizeable compliment of snow and with a 360 view from the top. We lingered for some time before running back to the saddle and zig zagging across the moorside fell to Sron a Choire Garbh where we could look down on lochs and the campsite and tempting pathways that led into the depths of Moydart. There was no Lord of the Rings feeling though. It just looked like the Shire on acid.

360 off the top of Sron a Choire Garbh

With cold legs we descended back to the saddle. I felt like I had more left and should be on a longer day but it was about a good day out, no epics. We ate chocolate and drank coffee on a floating pub then returned to the tipi to contemplate the weather strategy for our remaining 4 holiday days.

Eagle's in charge cap'n

It was set to resort to gales and torrential rain on Friday but Thursdays forecast was clear and bright but we would be too knackered to do anything else. The forecast for England was 2 days behind so we made the controversial decision to screw Scottish weather and head for the Lakes to climb Blencathra.

Controversial you say?  Driving through Glencoe in fine weather was seriously distressing me.  Unable to live in the moment I wanted to go and run up every hill - despite being exhausted from the day before.  We stopped in Tyndrum and contemplated renting a pod and braving the weather for one more mountain day on Saturday in the pissing rain but the lure of a clear lakes day drew us onward. 

Once through Glasgow and into the Pentland hills I spent my time sitting in the passenger seat checking the weather for Scotland.  SURELY if the Lake District is going to be fine, then Durisdeer or Dumfries is going to be clear but no!  There was an invisible weather line that extended right across the Scottish border.

We arrived in Keswick and went shopping for some waterproof trousers as I had decided I wanted an upgrade.  We bought good food and set up our camp and went to the pub to eat fine food, drink a beer, play scrabble and enjoyed the sunshine.

On Saturday the day dawned clear and we set off up Blencathra again, wearing an illegal amount of running clothing for the quantity of speedy-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other we were actually doing.  It was a stripped down walk.  Fine.

As promised, from the top of Blencathra we could see the forceful showers sweeping across the Scottish foothills.  We experienced the occasional spot of rain and as evening drew in, winds, not gales buffetted the site about a bit.

The Tipi is actually in this photo

We walked down to the other pub to try some different beer and toasted the end of a rather fine holiday.