Mull '98

22 - 25 May

Prologue

Way back in '95 a good friend of mine died in tragic circumstances. His ashes where scattered on the Isle of Iona off the southern tip of Mull. We visited Mull and Iona in '96 but in truth the pain was still to much to even start to come to terms with events.
This trip was something I felt I needed to do to lay some ghosts to rest and to pay homage to the best friend and greatest guitarist it has ever been my honour to know.
Rest in Peace my friend - there is no music without you.

Friday

It's warm and sunny, Martins got a gammy elbow, so no ZZR11 to play with and Dav is staying home to look after Sue who is a bit poorly. Hilly is taking his bike but has arranged to meet us in Glencoe 'cos he's not setting off till later. That leaves Andy B. with his newly mended arm and myself. Blade vs RF9.

It's just got to be the A68 ...

We make good progress and then lose all the time we've made up every time we stop to giggle about how much fun bikes are. The A68 changes to the A72 to Peebles et al, traffic is demolished with the slightest twist of the wrist. Suddenly we're on the M8 through Glasgow, don't ask how it just happened. One moment I'm fretting thinking "mustn't miss the M8 this time" when I glance up and realise we're on it! Over the Erskine Bridge, through a bit more of Glasgow and, bingo, it's Loch Lomond.
This is the first time I've taken SuziToo this far north and she's loving it. The Green Welly shop comes and goes and now, at last, Rannoch Moor and Glencoe. All those nights in the garage whispering to her about the joys of Big Scotland have driven her to fever pitch.

Morag fiddles, everyone else runs for cover ...

Fuel consumption plummets, revs and adrenaline levels rocket in accordance with the old laws of action and reaction (or something like that). Eventually we stop at the garage in Glencoe village for essential lubricants ( beer ) and then it's back up to the Red Squirrel camp site.
We meet up with Martin, Ian and Morag (Hussy of the Glens) for food, beer and talking bollox. Later we wander to the pub. Along the way we hear a bike approaching. It's Hilly, hair blowing in the wind, and his trusty XJ900.

The night slid into a beautiful beer drinking session in one of the nicest pubs I know.

Tobermory, Mull. Race track not shown

Saturday

We set off for Mull in dribs and drabs. Martin and Ian in the car first, Andy and Hilly last due to breakfast and general faffing respectively. Morag has grabbed the spare lid and deposited her buttocks on SuziToo and threatens tantrums if I don't allow her to stay there. Looks like I've got a pillion for the day.
Two ferries and a delish egg butty later (thanks Morag, you've earned you keep) we're on Mull and trying to remember where we camped last time. The answer is leave Fishnish, turn right, give it big throttle to Salen, take the B road to the west coast and find a suitable spot to pitch the tents. Ian and the car are waiting, Martin has scurried up a nearby mountain. We pitch the tents then Morag and I blat off to Tobermory.
The road to Tobermory is narrow, twisty and scenic. About 3 miles from the town some kind soul has built a nice, new, smooth road of the type you dream about (and wake up in a sticky mess). There are a collection of little signs saying, rather optermistically, "20 mph". Hummm.

SuziToo looking cool

I've got a theory that someone in the local Highways Dept. has just got himself and new toy and wanted somewhere to play. Unfortunately I didn't get a photo of it because SuziToo didn't want to stop.
Tobermory. Wow, what a brilliant place. It's like a cross between Portree on Skye and Plockton - well worth a visit. We stock up on food and beer and head back and cos we're having such a good time keep on going through Salen, past Fishnish and down to Craignure for a beer in the pub. Eventually we get back to the tents and get roped into wood gathering duties for the evening bonfire.
Believe it or not a couple of blokes, one in nice creased slacks, jacket and flat cap, have decided to pitch their tent within 20 metres of our camp. Fortunately they don't complain about the noise - which is a good thing, with the whole of Mull to pick we would not of been too understanding of their plight.

A fire is started by the simple expedient of pouring petrol onto a pile of wood and then lobbing a match at it. Beer and whisky gets drunk, bollox gets talked and a merry time is had by all. About midnight it's still light and I realise it's summer.

Sunday

It's cloudy and drizzle, but sod it, it just makes the place all the more impressive. Puts things into perspective. Martin, Ian and Morag take the car down to Fionnphort with plans to go across to some island to fondle Puffins and break Findles Cave. Andy, Hilly and myself take the bikes down the east coast and round to Fionnphort to get the ferry over to Iona.

Inside the Church on Iona

Iona is as magical as ever. We wander about and visit the church. It's a melancholy place, and although nobody talks about it, I think we're all sharing similar thoughts.
I remember the good times, the gigs, the parties. Hanging onto the seat of a speeding Lancia Turbo, having a smoke on top of Liathac, the Mr Bumble new year gig, my wedding, getting to our honeymoon cottage and finding a bottle of champagne, a pile of beer and a letter (still don't know how the bugger found out where we where staying).

Somewhere out there on Iona Swanny's ashes are still blowing about and it's fine place to rest.

Eventually we leave Iona and head back round Mull. Once on the east coast me and Andy start to up the pace. Eventually we stop in Craignure for a pint to calm us all down. It doesn't work, back on the road and all good intentions disappear as we head back to Salen. We stop in a wood on the way to photograph the carpets of bluebells - rufty tufty bikers yer see - then eventually get back to the camp site.

Hilly and me enjoying the outdoor life ...

It's another evening of beer and bonfires. This time three campervans have turned up to be treat to the sight of huge black clouds when I used a tad too much petrol getting the fire going then drunken behaviour in the rain aided by some classy whisky Hilly had produced from somewhere. Hope they enjoyed the show.

There are few things better than a good campfire
... and if you drink enough you can even see the trails just like in the picture ...

Monday

It's still a little bit shitty weather wise as we pack up but by the time we've reached Craignure is starting to look better. Thankfully the booking office accepts the plastic so Andy and me didn't get marooned.
Eventually the boat turns up and we're off to Oban. Despite us been next to the doors when we dock some twat in a uniform still decided to unload all the cars and trucks before letting us three motorbikes off. We now have to contend with a ferry load of cars ahead of us before we can get out of Oban. Wonder if us biker types have done something specific to warrent this kind of behaviour or shall I put it down to simple stupidity?

The art of gently waking someone by shoving a flashgun in their face
Wakey, wakey Morag

Once out of Oban on the A85 to Crianlarich the fun starts. Sunshine and lovely roads only the scenery's so spectacular I keep forgetting to "make progress" and, in all possibility, might have had a que of irate caravaners stuck behind me. Serves 'em right.
At Crianlarich we decide to take the A85 and A84 to Sterling because non of us have travelled through this bit of Scotland before. What can I say, how did I miss it up till now? I will be back. I guess it's because we normally make a beeline for Glencoe and further up and tend to forget what's before.
At Sterling things start to get a bit boring because we end up on one of those motorway things, the M9, until we pull off to cross the Forth Road Bridge. Now some of you may have spotted the tiny flaw in this scheme, namely that the M9 goes to the south end of the bridge. Oh well, so what, bikes are free across the bridge and it is an impressive bit of engineering.

Monday morning, kettle boiling and boots steaming.
A fine sight to wake up to.

Once round Edinburgh's, erm, interesting, ringroad system we pick up our old friend the A68. Somewhere, don't know exactly where, we stop at roadside cafe for tea. The place was empty and the girl serving looked a bit bored but to three unshaven bikers in need of baths, she was an angel providing us with heavenly egg and chips.
Sometime later on a series of big, sweeping, uphill switchbacks I come extremely close to encountering ground clearance problems with my panniers. This particular left hander just kept on left handing, all I could do was keep on gradually accelerating and leaning further and further over. Braking would have sat the bike up and it would have been "hello oncoming traffic" time, throttling off would have pushed the front with equally 'orrible consequences.. Guess it's time to start hanging off again. Thank you Metzler for keeping me sunnyside up, £250 well spent if I may say so.

At long last we ride back into Darlington, bikes are put away it's time for beer, bath and bed.

Dedicated to demon guitarist extrodinare Ian Swan.

Andy about to sample Hilly's quality whisky (best served luke warm from the plastic bottle
Or about to thow up shortly afterwards ...