John 'Groats to Land's End – Day 3
We make it to the start of the trip proper – at last!
Battling Storm Kathleen, seasoned motorbikers and friends, Stephen and Kevin, change their planned trip from Land's End to John O'Groats. Now it’s JogLe. Their journey north is fraught with challenges: gale-force winds, treacherous roads, interspersed with the irresistible allure of castles and islands. Despite communication breakdowns and Kevin’s many detours, they persevere, reaching Edinburgh with hopes of conquering the Forth Road Bridge and finally reaching their elusive starting point.
Kevin's impulsive detours were fuelled by two things: his inherent Irish "go-with-the-flow" nature and a busted satnav. The first was beyond our control, but the second, thankfully, was fixable. A bit of online sleuthing led us to a nondescript lock-up with black roller shutters and no signage. We exchanged puzzled glances before rapping tentatively on the door.
The shutters rolled up to reveal a young guy with a buzz cut that would make a marine proud. "Whaddaya want, guys?" he drawled, a thick New York accent clinging to his words. He beckoned us in, quickly shutting the door behind us as if we were entering a speakeasy.
Inside, the brightly lit space was an unexpected Aladdin's cave of motorcycles. Gleaming Ducatis, both classic and modern, stood in various states of repair and restoration, each positioned with meticulous care. Unlike the usual grimy garage workshop, this place had an artistic flair. Bike parts were mounted on the walls like sculptures, interspersed with vintage memorabilia and neon signs.
It turned out that Tyler, the owner, hailed from Brooklyn and had been in Edinburgh for sixteen years. He'd clearly succeeded in bringing a bit of New York cool to the gritty streets of Leith. Kevin, a fellow enthusiast with a passion for restoring both buildings and bikes, was in his element. He charmed Tyler into taking a look at his malfunctioning GPS unit while I wandered off to admire the impressive collection of exotic machinery. (The discreet façade suddenly made a lot of sense.)
An hour later, with the threat of a full wiring strip-down looming, Kevin started getting impatient. "Eh, Tyler, would ya mind puttin' the bike back together now? We've gotta crack on to John O'Groats. Sure, even without a satnav, I'll know when I get there, by the fact that me feet'll be gettin' wet."
Despite his efforts, Tyler refused payment. A true gent. I offered to give his business a shout-out, but he insisted on maintaining his low profile. This blog will self-destruct in five seconds.
The Forth Road Bridge lived up to its blustery reputation, but with the road practically deserted, we were able to tack back and forth across both lanes, wrestling our bikes against the gusts. Giant yellow "High Wind" warnings flashed ominously from the overhead gantries as we joined the A9. I'd originally planned a scenic detour through the Cairngorms, eager to show Kevin some of my old Munro-bagging haunts. But those mountains are unforgiving, especially in this weather, so we pressed on north.
At Tomatin, the promise of fine whisky lured us off the dual carriageway. A distillery tour seemed like a welcome respite from battling the elements. Our guide, a charming woman of a certain age, took a particular shine to Kevin. Perhaps it was his Triumph riding gear, but she insisted on giving him a sneak peek of the "good stuff" hidden under the counter. Turned out her ex was a Triumph man, too.
Despite the temptation, we held firm to our "no booze and cruise" rule, though we did stock up on a few bottles for later celebrations. As we walked back to the bikes, Kevin, ever the charmer, leaned in with a mischievous grin.
"I asked her how big her ex-husband's was," he whispered.
"Kevin, you didn't!"
"She says 750," he chuckled. "I didn't tell her mine was a 1200!"
Our destination for the night was Lybster, a former herring fishing village on the east coast of Caithness. I'd stayed there years ago while riding the North Coast 500. We'd booked a couple of glamping pods – essentially well-appointed wooden huts. Cozy, charming and comfortable. I'd initially reserved one pod for the two of us, but a last-minute cancellation meant we each had our own private space. ( I'd hyped it up to Kevin as "luxury accommodation" but we both agreed it really was.)
We arrived in Lybster under a brooding sky, the wind finally beginning to relent. It was late afternoon, but with a grim forecast for the next day, we decided to make a dash for John O'Groats before the weather turned nasty again.
The road north wound along the coast, clumps of daffodils dotting the verges. The setting sun painted the sea a shimmering silver-grey, blurring the horizon as we carved our way through bend after bend. The monotony of the A1 and A9 faded from memory, replaced by the pure joy of motorcycling. If not for the occasional pothole, it would have been perfect.
We reached the iconic sign marking mainland Britain's most northerly point without ceremony. (Technically, Dunnet Head is a couple of miles further north, but who's counting?) The place was deserted, the shops closed except for a lone microbrewery.
"Well done, Kevin!" I said, clapping him on the back.
"D'ya realise we haven't had a cuppa or a bite to eat since we left Edinburgh, three hundred miles ago?" he replied. "I'm starvin' and thirsty, let's go find somethin'."
But our hopes of refreshment were dashed as the microbrewery's Visitor Experience Centre slammed its doors shut just as we arrived. Kevin patted his pockets for a stray snack but came up empty. Dinner would have to wait.
We snapped a few photos, turned our bikes around, and began the 874-mile journey to Land's End. Kevin had already ridden 730 miles, and we hadn't even officially started!
