Gravelfoyle

Gravelfoyle Aqueduct Trail 

Loch Ard Rob Roy Cave loop

I was in the Ribble Bike Store in Clitheroe last October, eager to purchase a Gravel Bike after being urged to do so by a friend during rides up gravel trails to some of the remotest Munros. She had one of these lean machines that was only half the weight of my 20-year-old Mountain Bike. The carbon fibre bikes were the lightest and looked the best, but they were not set up for panniers, and I had a notion to cycle the Western Isles as a reprise of a trip I did almost fifty years ago. I couldn't decide between steel and titanium, and the delivery time for a Ribble bike was 3 months. Additionally, there was a £300 charge for choosing a colour.

A fellow customer from Derbyshire encouraged me to get the carbon fibre frame, which had the best colour range. He told me that he visited Gravelfoyle in Scotland every year to enjoy the amazing bike trails there. "Where's that?" I asked, thinking it was a name for somewhere in Dumfries and Galloway. "It's in Aberfoyle, near Stirling, that's where I go for my cycling holidays on my Gravel bike, it has miles of trails". I had lived in Aberfoyle for thirty years and usually would run on the 200 miles of "Gravelfoyle" trails in the Queen Elizabeth Forest Park at least four times a week. There were a few other runners, and when our children were young, the only cyclists other than us were local families out for rides on bikes that were meant for surfing the asphalt. 

I bought a Saracen Mountain Bike in 1990, mainly to access distant hills when climbing the Munros, but I used it on the local trails on days that I did not have the inclination to run. When the back stays broke, I bought a heavier Trek Mountain Bike with front suspension and it is still serving me well, although it has worn out lots of tyres and is a real heave to get on the roof of the car. I was keen to purchase a new bike, but time passed, and I gave up the notion in March after a viral illness that left me listless and legless. I have even had to stop my morning run/walk up the local hills. The six weeks of sun-blessed spring weather, perfect for hillwalking, were spent in the garden repairing patios, chopping trees and planting hedges.

My daughter and family came up for half term, and on the only decent day, we decided to visit Aberfoyle and hire some bikes for a ride on the trails where I had run over 20,000 miles on the forestry trails that were now referred to as Gravelfoyle. The Queen Elizabeth Forest Park had been my playground, gymnasium and escape from the daily grind of work. I knew all the routes, but they now have names and are visited by legions of trail bikers. My daughter and grandson had to hire bikes so I decided to hire a Gravel Bike rather than take my faithful but heavy Mountain bike. The son of Cindy, an excellent physiotherapist and potter, was working in Aberfoyle Bike Hire shop. He kitted us out and sent a message to his mum saying we might visit her after the ride. He provided me with a featherweight GT Gravel Bike to snake the trails. 

We had three hours, and I decided that we should use the route I used to run when preparing for marathons or mountain marathons. An easy cycle through the village and Manse Road and on to Lochan Spling and Duchray Castle. It was hilly at first and then segued into a series of gently undulating sections towards the aqueducts over the Duchy Water that carried the water supply from Loch Katrine to Glasgow. The cycling was perfect as I shuffled through the gears and enjoyed watching the others as they revelled in cycling somewhere totally different from their normal rides on the London bike lanes. We stopped for a snack by Duchray cottage, and another cyclist zoomed past on his descent to the aqueduct. The only other cyclist we saw all day. There was a route sign for the Aqueduct trail, the very same route I had used when training for the Snowdonia Marathon in 1988.

We began the return journey by dropping down to a bridge at Blairvaich over the Duchray Water, where locals bathed in the Black Linn waterfalls on summer days. The sun had emerged as we headed back on the Statute Labour Road towards Loch Ghleannain. Kit had got his second wind, fuelled by an apple and some water and was charging up the inclines. We took a turn down to Loch Ard before returning on the trail alongside the shore. There is a spectacular loop down to Rob Roy's Cave, which was the highlight of my regular 8-mile run for many years. Arriving at Milton, it is a mile back to Aberfoyle on a path initially and then along the road. I used to take the children running on this route when they were at primary school. Gregor ran the mile in 7 minutes 40 seconds as a 7-year-old. I wish I could still do that. We passed our old house and arrived back at the Bike Shop with half an hour to spare. Perhaps I should have a rethink about buying a Gravel Bike. 

After returning the bikes and catching up on village news we headed home over the Duke's Pass, dropping in at Cindy's pottery where a milk jug was bought by my daughter and then past the Trossachs Church where both myself and my daughter had been married and then past Loch Venachar where we had visited Aileen's parents at ther cottage almost every weekend. It was the end of half term for the family, and with some sadness, I dropped the family at the station early on a wet and windy Sunday morning for their return to London.

My hired Gravel Bike

Lochan Spling

Towards Beinn Bhreac

Ben Lomond

Rob Roy Loop

Alongside Loch Ard 

Kitchen Iris

Leaving for London

 

British Grand Prix 1955

Stirling Moss wins in a Mercedes-Benz.

Before the Monaco Grand Prix, Max Verstappen described it as the most boring race on the calendar. He was right, although there is fierce competition from other race tracks in the Formula One multi-million-pound climate change generator. As a small boy, I had been obsessed with racing cars when Grand Prix racing was rooted in mechanical inventiveness and fearless men with moustaches. Dinky Toys provided my generation of children with models of mechanic-built cars from the 1950s, including Ferraris, Alfa Romeos, Maseratis, Coopers, Talbots, and Vanwalls. I had them all, mainly as birthday gifts or as recompense from my parents following hospital visits for childhood accidents when I was stitched up after jumping out of trees or bike crashes. 

As a treat, my father took me to the 1955 British Grand Prix at Aintree in Liverpool. It was the first time that Aintree had hosted the event. He worked on Saturday mornings, so we cycled 8 miles to his work at the Lostock Hall gasworks. I was on my new bicycle received a few months earlier on my seventh birthday. I had fitted a cyclometer and was cycling up to 200 miles a week, mainly around the housing estate but occasionally taking longer rides that were supposedly out of bounds. Dad arranged a lift with Alf Brierly, a burly lorry driver, who was delivering coke from the gas works to Ormskirk, where he dropped us at the station. 

My dad arranged with the Ormskirk station master to leave our bikes in the station waiting room. They had been transported to the station on top of the coke in Alf's lorry. A steam locomotive pulled us to the Aintree Station. The Grand Prix circuit was at the same location as the Grand National horse racing circuit owned by the formidable Mirabel Topping, who wanted to capitalise on the large crowd capacity at Aintree to generate more income. Entry was cheap to sit on the grass banks, and we found a spot on a sunny afternoon within 20 metres of the race track. We were in time to watch the warm-up laps when the cars seemed to cough and splutter around the 3-mile circuit. The mechanics were fiddling under the bonnets of the cars to tune the carburetters and pouring in petrol from large jerry cans whilst the driver's were having a last fag before the race started. Safety was a concept yet to be acknowledged in motor racing.

Fangio, the five-time world champion, and Stirling Moss were driving the works Mercedes-Benz cars and taking on the Maseratis and Ferraris that had dominated events in recent years. The silver Mercedes looked sleeker and bigger; it was German technology versus Italian flair, as the remarkable video Aintree British Grand Prix that I discovered on YouTube shows. 

For the first time that a British driver, Stirling Moss, won a British Grand Prix, although Fangio was within a couple of cars' length for the whole race. It was alleged that he allowed Moss to win; they were on good terms, unlike many of today's pairs of drivers. The next two cars were also Mercedes. Mercedes was virtually unbeatable but withdrew from Grand Prix racing at the end of the season following fatal crashes at the 24-hour Le Mans race. 

Given the number of breakdowns and pit stops for repairs of the other cars, there was plenty to watch. Dad had brought a water canteen and an aluminium sandwich box with some meat paste sandwiches in his ex-army haversack. The whole day out must have cost less than 10/-(50p) for both of us, and that included the entrance, the train fare from Ormskirk and back and the meat paste sandwiches. The ordinary public had arrived by public transport in their thousands, and we were able to walk over and see the cars and rub shoulders with the drivers at the finish of the event. It was an egalitarian event, a far cry from the cheapest tickets in Monaco that cost €2350 on the Monaco Ticket website and that would not get you within shouting distance of the grandstand, let alone the cars and drivers.

The stationmaster had kept our bikes in the waiting room, so just a 21-mile cycle home on main roads. It was more excitement for a 7-year-old, the chance to be passed on the main roads by speeding vehicles. The next day, my dinky toys were lapping around the perimeter of the rose-patterned carpet before breakfast. I didn't have a Mercedes; Dinky die-casts had not yet been made. I let the Aston Martin (22) sports car win, beating the Maserati and the Ferrari. The Grand Prix had been a grand day out, but the ride in the lorry, the steam train and the long cycle home were a part of that. And I got nearer the cars and drivers than anyone paying for the cheapest ticket in Monaco would manage. Egalite!

Stirling Moss in Mercedes-Benz

My Maserati Dinky Toy

Lytham and Ribble

Lytham Promenade

Ribble Gravel Bike

I decided to visit my sister and brother, the first time I had been to my home town(city) this year. I intended to visit the Ribble Bike Emporium that had started life in Preston but had moved to Clitheroe, where a well-equipped shop had all the bikes on display and facilities to measure you for a new bike. I also had a yearning to visit Lytham where I had spent many a day as a toddler when my parents cycled there on the family tandem with me strapped into a rear metal caged seat.

The first evening, I spent time with my brother-in-law at the local cricket club while my sister was at a Pilates class. The beer was from a microbrewery in St Helens called Howzat. Not out; it was an excellent pale ale, and we stayed for a second innings.

The next morning, I drove to Clitheroe, a charming town in the Ribble Valley that is the headquarters of the Ribble Valley Council. It boasts a healthy town centre, fine sandstone buildings, and a well-heeled population. The Bike shop was a couple of miles away in a new commercial centre next to furniture showrooms, fast food outlets, and Screwfix. I spent half an hour drooling over the complete range of bikes before an assistant could measure me for a bike and help me consider the options. 

Was it to be a CGR bike (Cross, Gravel, Road) or a Gravel bike? An aluminium, steel, titanium or carbon frame and what groupset? Did I want an electric bike? It used to be a lot easier to choose a bike in the 1960s - a Dawes, Claud Butler, Holdsworth or Mercian frame ideally with 10 Campag gears, Mavic wheels, Werinmann brakes, Stronglight chainset, Christophe toe clips and a Brookes saddle. All for £21 for a Dawes and up to £30 for a Holdsworth.  The price range at Ribble Bikes was from £1099 to £7000 and Ribble is supposedly among the best value bikes. 

Whilst looking at the bikes and waiting for the assistant, I chatted with another customer who lived in Derbyshire but was Scottish. He was green with envy when he heard that I had lived near Aberfoyle for 36 years; he referred to it as Gravelfoyle, one of the best places in the UK for trail riding. He convinced me to get a Gravel Bike and encouraged me to spend as much as possible because Ribble bikes were excellent value. He had brought his friend to the shop who was being measured for his bike as we spoke. I still have to decide which Gravel bike, both carbon and titanium are lighter and more expensive, and steel was my first choice, but I am currently thinking of aluminium with a better groupset. I would have liked to choose the colour but that cost an extra  £350. That would have bought 12  Holdsworths back in the day. 

On leaving the Bike Shop, I decided to visit my brother who had just returned from a ten-week tour of northern Europe from France to Denmark, up the Norwegian Coast to the Arctic Circle and back via Sweden, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Slovakia, Austria, Germany, Holland, Belgium and France. I drove from Clitheroe by the less travelled roads to the Ribble and Hodder valleys, taking in places that had been the backdrop to my early years. I had gone trout fishing on the River Hodder, walked along the frozen River Ribble in the deep-frozen winter of 1962, cycled around the Trough of Bowland, written a university geology dissertation on the area, and raced half marathons and 10k races during my running days. It was a trip down memory country lanes. I crossed the river Loud, where I had camped for the first time with my dad as an 8-year-old and where my parents had their Ruby Wedding celebrations in the hotel. I  spent the afternoon with my brother and invited everyone for an evening meal at Great Eccleston. It was close to the market garden where my father cycled 15 miles to work every day after leaving school before he joined the army and spent the war years in Africa, Greece and Italy with the Eighth Army.

The following day, I persuaded my sister and her husband to make a trip to Lytham, the salubrious residential town facing Southport on the other side of the mud flats of the Ribble estuary. As a youngster, I had spent many summer days here when my parents would cycle out on the tandem and where I would play in the paddling pools, admire the windmill, and discover ice cream. It was a fine but breezy day; the tide was out and the mud flats were no more appealing than yesteryear, nor had Southport got any nearer. 

Blackpool is only 5 miles away but is socially and economically more distant. It has declined from the UK's top holiday resort with a wealthy, rapacious business community to a tumbleweed seaside town with the highest level of deprivation in England. It is a sad reminder of the days when the pleasure beach, donkeys on the sand, saucy postcards, and sticks of rock made a holiday. Only the trams, the tower, and the annual Strictly pilgrimage maintain any sense of pride today. 

Unlike Lytham, where the well-maintained and busy 5-mile promenade along the shore to Fairhaven and St Anne's was alive with dogs and their elderly owners, the centre of Lytham was buzzing with baby boomers bursting the capacity of busy cafes. My sister was welcomed by an Italian cafe owner with the brio that Italians are famous for, and we had an excellent late lunch. 

Returning to Preston, I became perplexed by the numerous new housing developments and a road network that baffled me and Google Satnav. The logical morphology of a twentieth-century town has been exploded by thousands of new houses, and the school catchments have about as much logic as most social media posts. It was time to return to the simple logical geography of the part of Scotland where I am fortunate enough to live. 

Lytham, then @ 5

Lytham, now @ >5, with sister

Lytham Windmill

Ribble Estuary and Southport if you put your specs on

Spitfire at Fairhaven

Mute Shadow

Ribble Estuary and some timeless Beach Art

 

Lurg Mhor and Bidein a' Choire Sheasgaich

Sunday, 22 September 2024

Ascent:     1447 metres
Distance:   41 kilometres cycling, 26 km walking, 15 km
Time:         8 hours 10 minutes

Lurg Mhor.                                987m.   4hrs  12mins
Bidein a' Choire Sheasgaich.    945m.   5hrs  31mins

It was the prospect of revisiting these two hills, along with Maoile Lunndaidh and Sgorr Ruadh and the tantalising forecast of superb weather that had prompted me to offer to accompany Anna on her quest to complete the Munros. She hoped to climb these distant Munros before winter and preferred not to walk alone on these two extremely remote hills. We had a couple of email exchanges and agreed to meet after we had both driven up and climbed different hills on Wednesday. I did not know what to expect following our previous casual encounter on the Glomach Falls path, but her enthusiasm and determination to finish climbing the Munros were infectious. I had been similarly driven when finishing my Munro rounds. My passion for the mountains, which had languished since COVID, was reignited. 

After we had both managed 3 hard but brilliant days in the mountains and checked that the Indian Summer would extend to Sunday, we decided to take a rest day on Saturday. We had a lazy morning, eating, talking, looking at photos, sorting our stuff, drying our shoes and checking my bruises and the bikes. I was urged to remove the toe clips from my bike to reduce the probability of any more strapped-in somersaults. We drove to Plockton for an al fresco lunch and meandered around the village, pottered around Lochalsh, walked across the Skye Bridge and did some food shopping. We arrived back at the house by 6pm and prepared an early dinner compared to the three previous nights. I was told to be up by six for the big day. We managed to get off by 7:20 and we were cycling from Attadale well before 8am.

The weather was cooler, and there was a morning breeze but then we hadn't started any of our previous walks before 11am despite being on the doorstep of the mountains. Another car was already parked, and a walker wearing a stalker's hat was setting out on his bike. We left about ten minutes later, after unloading the bikes and donning appropriate clothing for the cooler conditions. The first couple of kilometres were flat, and apart from slowing to watch a large stag hiding in the bracken, we were rolling along fine. 

We caught up with the man in the hat, let's call him George, he was perplexed about which track to take at a junction. I identified the right route by OS maps online after remembering that I had taken the wrong track on this route when climbing Beinn Dronaig three years ago. Anna was unfolding and refolding her paper map that was 20 years old and does not show the more recent paths but hey ho, some people are still fixated by analogue technologies. We found and crossed the metal bridge over the river and began a ferociously steep climb on the other side. George, his real name, had joined us; he was also heading for Lurg Mhor. We all pushed our bikes up the next section. I was pleased that George's hybrid bike was as old but probably not as heavy as mine; we had excuses when superwoman rode off on her lightweight steed. 

George was a geordie with only half a dozen Munros to go, including Lurg Mhor. Anna made a breakaway once we reached the rideable section so she could stop ahead to take photos of the two of us as we chatted away in an animated conversation about our common interests. George had done the Bob Graham round in the Lake District, and we both had competed in marathons and similar races 30 years ago. We were called a pair of sweetie wives for blethering whilst riding. When she rode past us again to get another set of photos, she asked if her bum looked big on the bike. Yes, we both retorted. 

After some longer, flatter sections, the track ramps up again, and the gravel gets bigger and lumpier.  We were all reduced to pushing bikes again to reach the high point of the ride at 340 metres. There are then 3 or 4 kilometres of mainly downhill cruising to the bridge over the Black Water. Our schussing was interrupted by some sensational views of Sheasgaich and Lurg Mhor peeping out of a duvet of white clouds. The glens were green and golden, lit up by shafts of the sunshine that we were also blessed with. The temperature inversion had shrouded Beinn Dronaig in clouds, and to the east, a large bank of white clouds completed the canvas. 

We stopped at the Black Water Bridge to admire the deep gorge, take more photos and, well, chat whilst not riding. The final two kilometres were easy cycling past Ben Dronaig Lodge, where we saw an eagle circling over Creag Dhubh Mhor. It was already a magical day with the best yet to come as we chained our bikes in a butterfly configuration and set out on the path leading to Loch Calavie. Beinn Sheasgaich and Lurg Mohr had been recaptured by clouds, but it was only 10am, and there was time for this to be burnt off with the chance of breaking through the clouds and discovering a temperature inversion. 

Shortly after reaching the shore of Loch Calavie, there is a sign for the steep but good path up the grassy slopes to the bealach between the two Munros. We made steady progress as we entered the cloud layer, which continued until the bealach, a 380-metre climb. The path between Sheasgaich and Lurg Mhor crosses here and there is a final 260 metres of ascent to Lurg Mhor. We emerged from the cloud and gazed down at our Brocken spectres. Anna was more excited by the temperature inversion and spent the first fifteen minutes at the summit taking photos of the vista of the peaks as the top of the cloud layer descended to reveal a wrap-around horizon of shapely mountains against the hooloovoo blue skyline. It was a photographer's heaven. 

Back in the real world, George ate his lunch, and I tidied up the cairn. George was on a mission to get back to Newcastle so it was time for farewells to someone who had been good company. If he reads this, thanks and best wishes for your final Munro next year. He insisted on taking a photo of us against the parade of mountains emerging from the white cloud. We stayed for a while and had some lunch before beginning the descent to the bealach, which was still shrouded in the cloud. The ascent of Bidein a' Choire Sheasgaich was an easy 230 metres of climbing. There was no rush; we had spent 45 minutes on the summit of Lurg Mhor and another half hour on Sheasgaich as we identified the myriad of peaks. Anna had an app that did it for you. She's also fixated on digital technologies apart from online maps!? I tried to name them by memory and it prompted some differences that weren't going to be resolved by Anna's map reading.  The main advantage of the app is that you can download the results. (see photo below) There is no cloud for my memory; it is on my hard disc (brain), which is near capacity, and there are no upgrades available yet.

We descended by the southwest ridge to Sail Riabhach facing into the afternoon sun. We occasionally stumbled on a faint path, but the direction was obvious along the walk highland route. It was 4 kilometres back to the bikes where we slaked our thirst from a waterfall on the Black Water. There was talk about bathing, but it was 5pm and we had a 13-kilometre cycle ride back to Attadale. The cycle to the Black Water Bridge is easy going, but there are 3 or 4 kilometres of ascent, which involved some pushing before we reached the high point of the track. The descent on the chunky gravel was far too steep for my brakes to hold me, and I had no desire to repeat any accidental gymnastics. 

The final few kilometres allowed us to let speed be our friend and we were back at Attadale before 7pm. It had been another wonderful day. The last five days have given us perfect conditions and visibility, the longest continuous spell of radiant, sun-filled hillwalking days since 1993. John, Keith and I had 7 consecutive days of sunny conditions as we completed the whole of Knoydart, the Skye Ridge. John and I did the Aonach Eagach Ridge on the way home, giving us 25 of the more difficult Munros in the week.

This time as well as the weather and stunning views, the more sedate pace, stops to enjoy the moment and the company made it an equally memorable trip. After a year or more of treading water and reflecting on the past, the last few days inspired me to rediscover my free spirit, thinking about the future and the need to get out more. 

We returned to the house elated by what we had achieved in the last few days. Anna now has only 8 Munros to go. She is a force of nature, and her iPhone is a digital wand that produces magical photos.

It began to rain as I left for home the next morning after we had packed and cleaned the house. My mood was of huge contentment laced with a melancholy that the jaunt was over. From the last thirty years, I know that hillwalking doesn't get any better than what we have experienced over the past four or five days. 

Sweetie Wives

Yes

Gravel and Gravity

The path up from Loch Calavie

The climb from Loch Calavie, Beinn Dronaig behind

Approaching the summit of Lurg Mhor

Meall Mor, the Lurg Mhor top

Sheasgaich from Lurg Mhor

George having lunch on Lurg Mhor

Cheesecake and the Analogue Princess

Lurg Mhor from Sheasgaich

Sheasgaich summit looking to Torridons

Anna's app that identifies Mountains

Bike shed

Drink time

The long and lonely pedal out past Bendronaig Lodge

Speed Bonnie Bike

Descent from the high point

Golden Day(s)

Maoile Lunndaidh

From Maoile Lunndaidh

 Friday, 21 September 2024

Ascent:          1080 metres
Distance:       30 kilometres
Time:             7 hours 11 minutes

t   Carn nam Fiaclan         993m.    3hrs 38mins
m Maoile Lunndaidh      1005m.   3hrs 54mins

After the late finish yesterday we had decided to leave Anna's main objectives, Lurg Mhor and Bidein a' Choire Sheasgaich, for another day thinking we would need an early start for two of the remotest Munros. They would require a 26-kilometre return cycle ride with a couple of intermediate steep climbs reaching 350 metres before descending to 230 metres, dumping the bikes and starting the walk. 

She thought we should go to her other remaining Munro in the area, Maoile Lunndaidh, as it would be easier with just one Munro and a 16-kilometre bike ride to Glenuaig Lodge. The walk traverses some boggy ground before the steep pathless ascent of Maoile Lunndaidh and would be energy-sapping in the September sunshine. I had previously climbed it along with Sgurr Choinnich and Sgurr a' Chaorachain which is longer but a sweeter round of Munros that gives an easy climb of Maoile Lunndaidh from the west. I figured that it would be a pretty tough day with both the cycle in and the steep climb, but I decided to let it be.

Despite our good intentions, it was once again a late start after we chatted over breakfast and loaded both bikes onto my car, taking care not to scratch Anna's much-loved carbon cross-country bike that is about half the weight of my twenty-year-old Trek mountain bike. She has an impressive cycling palmares that includes Mont Ventoux, several of the classic Alpine and Pyrenean cols and Land's End to John o 'Groats. I was worried that I would have difficulty keeping up; I had hardly cycled all year. 

The single-track road to Achnashellach was chock-a-block with oncoming delivery vans, so it took about 45 minutes before we were parked and ready to go. I searched for my trail shoes, but I had left them back at the house, and my sandals were not ideal for the adventure ahead. I was awarded a minus two for stupidity. I suggested Anna carry on, and we agreed on a route up the mountain after we dropped our bikes at Glenuaig Lodge. I would return to the house to collect my shoes and serve my penance. It took an hour and a quarter even driving as fast as the roads and traffic permitted. I figured I would lose another ten minutes or so on the bike as there were two seriously steep sections where I would be pushing my bike up.

Despite the beautiful day, I was in the doldrums as I pedalled up the track. It was steeper and stonier than I remembered on the three occasions I had walked into the hills from this direction. I dumped my bike about a kilometre short of Glenuaig Lodge to avoid pedalling an uphill section on the return. I couldn't see Anna's bike, she had hidden her treasure. I felt that I had let her down on what would be a tricky ascent on a wild, remote mountain. I began the tough walk over undulating boggy grass and heather, skipping over three burns and some drumlins before a stiff climb up the pathless rock-strewn hillside. We had agreed on an anticlockwise route, up one broad ridge and down another. 

I had assumed that Anna would be at least an hour and a half ahead. I tried to phone or message, but there was no mobile coverage on the flank of the remote hill. I thought about re-routing and going clockwise to meet her on the descent but didn't like the look of the route, so I made as fast and direct an ascent as possible. After 45 minutes of steady progress, there was a ping: "Just got to Munro summit, 15:48". She had taken a longer route up the Allt an Fhuar-thuill Mhor (a narrow glen) to the Munro top, Carn nam Fiaclan, on her way to the summit. In my usual optimistic way, I replied that I was approaching Carn nam Fiaclan and would be with her in half an hour. I only then realised it was over 3 kilometres and another 170 metres of climbing to reach the summit. I upped my pace and made it in 40 minutes. A purple-clad, possibly angry person was walking around taking photographs. However, she seemed quite content when I arrived, having retrieved her supposedly responsible adult. 

I quickly ate some food and we set off down the second ridge at what I now know as the golden hour, after 5pm when the shadows and light are the best friend of creative photographers. By serendipity, we found a good line down the hill roughly along the route shown on the walkhighlands website. We found a boggy track at he foot of the hill and stone hopped the river to get back to Glenuaig Lodge and reclaimed our bikes for the descent. Despite being the responsible adult, I was given a few tips for the descent on the bikes.  "Keep your weight on both pedals whilst off the saddle, go low, look ahead, and speed is your friend." We hurtled down the bumpy track, Anna showing me the posture as she overtook me, "Put your weight over the back wheel like this", as her posterior disappeared into the gloom.  The light was fading fast and I was asked to ride past her on several occasions whilst photos were taken against a backdrop of yesterday's hills backlit by Trumpian orange skies.

As I gained confidence, I began to loosen my grip on the brake levers and tried to follow the advice. I overtook my instructor whilst reciting 'speed is my friend'. With the light almost gone I hit a large stone and performed a forward somersault on my bike that Simone Biles would have been proud of, possibly because my legs and feet were held in place by my toe straps. My landing was a different matter, head first onto the stony track, handlebars crushing my ribcage, and my hand cut and elbow bruised. Stoicism took over. "Yes, I'm fine", I muttered, somewhat surprised that Anna had not captured the accident on her phone. 

After a couple of minutes, we were back on the descent. I realised that 'speed is not your friend in the dark when you have no head torch and lousy brakes', but that is too long-winded to make a good mantra. Boris would have come up with something crass like 'go slow in the glow. ' It was only a couple of kilometres back to the level crossing and the car park. We were back at the house before 9pm after another sunny, hard but eventful day. It was too late to go out for a meal we had promised ourselves so it was pasta and salad followed by fruit and ice cream washed down with some wine. Tired but happy, we decided to give ourselves a day off tomorrow before a big day out to Lurg Mhor and Sheasgaich on Sunday.

Start of the trail towards Sgurr nan Ceannaichean

Looking back from the trail to the Coire Lair Munros and Fuar Tholl

Glenuaig Lodge and Sgurr nan Ceannaichean

My ascent route to Carn nam Fiaclan

Anna's alternative route to Carn nam Fiaclan

Carn nam Fiaclan summit

Approaching the summit

Purple-clad Anna at the summit against a hooloovoo blue sky

The descent from Maoile Lunndaidh

Speed is your friend.

Just before the forward somersault