Rode up on Thursday to Ullapool. Fairly eventless trip up, although there were signs that there was something quite splendid, riding wise, in the area. The campsite was quickly found as was the chip shop. Typical tourist town prices though, I guess that they make money on people who visit once. It’s not a trip that has generated any Unchained recommendations, although I always felt it should do and that’s a disappointing outcome.
With no obvious pitch up for bmws I put my tent up next to another bikers tent. He was broad Scots and his accent was so thick it would have blunted a Sheffield steel knife. He may have fore warned me, but if he did I dinna ken, that during the night he would demonstrate an ability to whistle, snore, sing and fart in his sleep.
In the morning I moved.
The early morning was glorious and so I set off on a ride. It was spectacularly good and the down side was that I wasn’t sharing it. Still with my own agenda I could stop when and where I wanted and so took copious amounts of pictures and I’ll share them with you.
There’s a 12 mile stretch from Lochinver back to the Ullapool Road that I defy anyone to not nominate in their top 10 roads anywhere. A tin of corned beef, a slab of cheese and a couple of bread rolls with a loch and a few mountains as a back drop and it’s almost idyllic.
Since being forced out of the USA, this was the first place I’d found where there wasn’t the sound of traffic. Even on the Yorkshire Moors, the echo of sports bikes pervaded the solitude. You knew they were somewhere, even if you couldn’t see them. Here on this road, nothing. Only the noises of nature. Space, space like I’ve not experienced since leaving the spaces of the USA and Central America. It felt clean, fresh, liberating.
I got back to find that the GSer camp had built quite considerably and a gathering had formed around one particular tent. It was full of Scots in various states of drunkenness, some vertical and defying gravity, others obviously having lost that particular challenge, several times…wee drams passed hands and Jaeggermeister was quaffed.
The chippy beckoned a second time.
That night I found that my camping neighbour didn’t have the range of my earlier sleeping buddy. He did however have mastery of the snore and had a volume that beggared belief, even with my ear plugs rammed home the rhythmic intrusion was insufferable. If you know you do this, why park your tent slap bang in the middle of everyone else’s,, why not be unselfish and set up on the edge?
The following day’s organised ride mirrored my solo ride, so I was off, alone, again, going my own way.
Drizzle in places, stunning throughout. The pass into or out of Applecross, is as near to anything vertical that there can be to ride in the UK. It’s the highest pass. Easy peasy to start with but there’s a few switch-backs and blind bends that just tickle the vertigo buttons.