Having all survived a slightly soggy (but lurvly) time at the Farmyard Party we all prepared for the Big Tour of Scotland. Now if you've never been to Scotland on a bike your missing out big time. The people are great, the roads are brilliant and not too many of them, which is handy for a navigational lemming like myself.
Anyway on with the storey. Our intrepid heroes this time where:
Andy Bell - now the owner of a nice shiny Fireblade (and if he ain't careful a licence with lots of kisses of it).
Dav - possessor of THE TURBO (Z750 turbo in a modified Z650 frame) and really old enough to know better, but fortunately manages to resist the temptation at every occasion.
Mark the Idiot - GPX600 and sense of humour so warped it's buckled. Carries more shoes and boots when he tours than I have at the best of times.
Martin - ZZR1100 and a worrying urge to ALWAYS be in front. Which is fine till you realise his sense of direction and navigational skills are even more hopeless than mine. In fact its rumoured he once spent a week in bed cos he couldn't find the way out. Likes to sleep in gutters and headbut lamp posts.
Morag, Hussy of the Glens - denizen of Glasgow and pillion to Martin. Has had extensive surgery to enable her to drink and breath at the same time. Totally incomprehensible.
Jos - Have I the heart to say anything nasty about Jos? Of course I have, Beer Swilling Saggy Arsed Woman will do quite aptly.
Me - intelligent, witty, charming, hung like a ... OK OK. I've still got the GSXF and despite the slagging she occasionally gets these days I still love her.
The bikes (and Morag) line up in Glencoe
An early start and its raining. I think the correct term is "Bollox". Anyway we've got waterproofs (at least we're all hoping there waterproof) so off we go. Cos we're on holiday we take Dav's advice and take the backroads via Alston towards the M74, which to be honest is a bit of a hassle when your loaded up and the roads are slippery. Still all goes well and we reach the motorway in time to loose the worst of the rain (hooray) and catch the first gales (not hooray). Eventually we reach Glasgow and the M8 without getting lost, (sounds difficult I know, but I have magical powers for getting lost) and the sun comes out. Game on. By the time we reach the Erskin Bridge I'm starting to fry so we stop and ditch the waterproofs. Now I feel like I'm on me hols proper, - bikes and sunshine.
Once across the bridge its a short blat to Loch Lomond and the Weavers
Coffee Shop. Martin and Morag are already there and troughing. Hangovers now
gone and the rain with it, a severe feeding frenzy ensues.
Thus refreshed it's time to give the bikes a bit of welly. As tradition
dictates we all pull in at the Green Welly Shop (I assure you it does exist and
that's what it's called - go and see for yourself) for petrol. Now the fun
starts - Rannoch Moor and Glencoe await us, if you aint rode a bike over there
get off your arse and go and do it.
does or does it not make you want to go to a pub?
So we did.
The Red Squirrel Campsite in Glencoe provides our first stop. Its a shit hot site with one of those great pubs just down the road, The Kligarken(?) Inn. Eventually we head there and get pissed up. There's a singer/guitarist doing his bit, he starts off with "Fisherman's Blues" which is my favourite song, the suns still shining, I'm hundreds of miles from work, I'm ecstatic.
Speaking of which :
Me pissed at the bar spotting a likely looking ale "I'll
have a pint of the Grenman please"
Barman after a furtive wonder up and down the spirit rack "Do you mean
Glenlivet?"
Me "No, Grenman, its just there"
Mark "Its Greenman you fucking idiot" (or words to that effect).
Me to barman "Sorry mate, Greenman. Guess I must have dropped an 'e'
there"
The barman, barstaff and anyone else within earshot turns and gives me a "have
you got any left" look. Mark bursts out laughing behind and I decide to act
innocent and retain the expression I'm wearing, which turns out to be a stupid
grin (not the relaxed smile I had hoped for).
Later Mark regained his "village idiot" reputation with the most unrythmic piece of dancing ever seen this side of a rabid stoat with piles. Eventually we all go back to our luxurious mobile hovels for some Z's.
oh sod it, get off yer arse and go and see these thing for yourself
Sunday morning and its hot and sunny. We rise and head to the cafe, pack and then head north towards Plockton and then Applecross. The traffic is virtually non existent and, consequently the ride varies between the sensible and the illegal. So I will take this opportunity to apologise to anyone out there scared by a ZZR, Firebucket and Turbo howling about, Mark, Jos and I of course was following at a perfectly legal speed stopping occasionally to remove flies from the back of our lids, BMW Road Captain style.
Plockton, and Jos, doing her teapot routine - again.
Plockton is as pretty as ever, so we stopped for lunch before heading to
Applecross. The pass over to Applecross rises to about 2000ft and is big fun
with hairpins and everything (similar to the Alps in fact, but smaller,
obviously, and everyone speaks English, sort of, well OK some Swiss are more
intelligible but you know what I mean. ... Where was I? Oh yes... Anyway some
bastard in a camper van sat lurking at the hairpins spoiling our fun. Git. Still
the view from the top is good.
The campsite at Applecross is brilliant. The first field has caravans etc.
but if you go to the next field your sorted. Huge and empty except a couple of
other tents and a bloody great stag, although it did bugger off shortly after we
arrived.
We pitched the tents and eventually went to the pub and got
pissed.
Andy Bell, Dav and Mark, doing what they do best
Next morning the weather is pretty shit. Oh well, fortunalty the large
greenhouse on the site turns out to be a cafe with loads of scrummy grub. After
monstrous breakfasts we all feel a bit lost due to the rain. Martin and Morag go
for an aquatic ride, the rest of the party goes for a walk along the coast. The
rain buggers off and, oddly enough, we all arrive back at the pub during the
afternoon.
About teatime Martin's bike is returned to the safety of the
campsite and we all get into gibber mode for an evenings debauchery.
Later
back at the site the weather has started to change so we all pile into Dav's
spacious tent to continue the party. Top entertainment. Eventually we all
retired for fitful rest to be woken a few hours later by gales. I'm laid (not
that kind, no such luck I'm afraid, sheep shortage or something) there in me pit
hoping my tents not going to go into orbit and wondering how the fuck I'm going
to get the bike back across the pass. Next morning dawns and I'm now knackered
and in no mood to tackle a windy pass.
inside Dav's spacious. and well equiped tent ...
After another serious stuffing session in the cafe we decide to take the pragmatic option, i.e. the one not threating death by wind and gravity, and take the low road. About 30 miles longer but a fun twisty bouncy sort of road with more stunning scenery, apparently.
Next stop the Isle of Skye and the Old Inn at Carbost for B&B&B (beer & bed & breakfast). We have 2 rooms, in one Jos, Morag and Martin, in the other - the Room of Scum - Mark, Bell, Dav, me and marks Richter scale snoring. When I'm in charge of the world there will be a compulsory operation for people who snore, it will include tongs and rabid ferrets. Needless to say we all head back to the Room of Scum to make too much noise until too late. I pity the poor sods next door, once the party stopped Marks snoring started. At least I had ear plugs.
loading the tents after a serious stuffing at the Old Inn, Carbost, Skye.
Wake up and hurtle to the dining room to get our moneys worth of breakfast.
Later the bikes, now groaning under the additional weight of excessive
breakfasts, wobble off towards Portree. Once past Portree and on the road to the
Quarang the speed starts to pick up a bit into the realms of extreme silliness.
Martin cracks his back brake disk - you shouldn't slow down so much ya wus...
the Quarang, Skye
We park up at the top of the twisties and lock the bikes, swarthy local type may be about, and walk along the path to the Quarang. Now I must confess the 1/2 mile walk was as I remembered but the final scramble up into the Quarang was a bit further than I remembered. Still we all got up there except Mark who has, no doubt, some perfectly sensible excuse. Once the wheezing and hacking coughs had ceased all agreed that is was indeed worth it. If you go to Skye have a look at the Quarang cos its brill.
Another severe engine howling session saw us camped back at Portree. Jos, having spotted a vegan restaurant, threatened to scream and scream till she was sick unless we took her. So we did. Except Mark, Andy Bell and Dav who slopped off to a pub instead, which was shite apparently, alegedly, and then managed to loose Dav's life support system on the way back. But not to worry it later reappeared thus saving us having to call out the I.S.R.Service.
my beloved Suzi (and Jos lurking)
Another mad howl down the side of Skye and a stop for a photo session, then
over "That Fucking Bridge" (technical term) back to the mainland. Loch
Ness disappeared in blur, till we reached the campsite just before
Drumnadrochit. We pitched the tents then set off to see the Dolphins in the
Moray Firth just outside Inverness.
The man at the Dolphin Watch explained
that due to weird weather conditions the tide, and the dolphins with it,
wouldn't be up till about 6:00. So we went to a cafe. 6:00 and the tide still
hadn't turned so we went for a pootle about. By 8:00 the tide still wasn't
coming in, the locals where as puzzled by this as us, so we thought "sod it"
and decided to head back and get wasted.
adrenaline crazed the lot of 'em
On the bikes (pootle, pootle), through Inverness (pootle, pootle), onto the A82 down the side of Loch Ness. Not pootle. Very much not pootle in fact. Sorry. We're very sorry, I'm afraid we may have transgressed the odd traffic regulation relating to maximum velocity. Some time later seven adrenaline crazed people where sat outside the Smiddy Bar giggling like idiots as the bikes happily tinked away to themselves.
After a pint we take the bikes back to the site, and then head back to the other pub. Later we head back to the site, some of us chill out by the tents, some head into an adjacent field to continue the party. It doesn't get dark, just dusk, followed by the dawn - excellent.
Jos, very upset cos she can't see Nessie
A mellow end to the hols. Martin and Morag head back to Glasgow. Dav
eventually heads off to Darlington and then the Skipton Rally. The rest of us
just slob about, go for the odd ride and generally take it easy.
The
evening sky treats us to a stunning display of clouds, I'm wasted and
mesmerised. Later we are all woken up by a bunch of noisy gits in a couple of
cars. Early next morning the farmer kicks em off site.
looking cool
...but in need of a louder pipe...
We all go home. Jos and me take the East (A9) route, Andy Bell and Mark take the west route. We have the most fun cos we avoid the motorways and play with the A68 instead.
Rights what's next?