John O'Groat's to Land's End – Day 4
It's a drenching start on Britain's most challenging roads
Join two bikers, Stephen and Kevin, on a mad dash from John O'Groats to Land's End! When Storm Kathleen threatened their meticulously planned LeJog route, they flipped it to JogLe, hoping to outrun the tempest. Battling insane crosswinds, a dodgy GPS, and unexpected detours to castles and islands, they've faced closed roads, deserted bridges and Edinburgh's notorious roadworks. Fueled by adrenaline, black pudding, and the occasional whisky, they've charmed their way past parking wardens and amorous tour guides. They finally reached the starting point, John O'Groats, only to find it deserted. Now, the real journey begins—874 miles back to Land's End. Will their luck hold, or will they succumb to the madness? Buckle up and find out!
The glamping pod’s wooden roof rattled all night under the onslaught of Storm Kathleen. Even the wind seemed determined to tear the place apart. At dawn, I peeked through the toilet window, spotting two miserable sheep huddled behind the barbecue a few feet away as water streamed down the glass. I retreated back to bed, burrowing under the duvet.
A couple of hours later, suited up like deep-sea divers in our hi-viz gear, Kevin and I braved the storm's fury. Our destination: Tore, north of Inverness, retracing our route from the previous day. Visibility was atrocious; rain lashed against my visor, rendering it useless. Opening it a crack cleared the fog but created a personal cascade, drenching my face and sending icy rivulets down my neck. Torrents of water surged across the road, turning any dip into a treacherous puddle.
Our comms had failed again, leaving us to suffer in isolated misery. When I finally felt my backside wallowing in a pool of water, I knew it was time to stop. A service station appeared like a beacon, offering refuge. We filled our tanks and dashed into the cafe, seeking solace in bacon butties and coffee.
"Oh my God, dat was awful," Kevin declared, his Monaghan accent thick with despair. "How much longer is dis goin' on for?"
"I don't know, but it looks a bit better to the west," I replied, "Let's head that way. We can tackle the Bealach na Ba – you've always wanted to ride it."
I'd secretly hoped we'd get to ride some of the NC500 together, so this seemed like a good compromise. Eventually, we tore ourselves away from the cafe's warmth and wrestled back into our soggy gear. I was wetter than an otter under a waterfall.
Glorious A roads led us past Garve, Loch Maree and Beinn Eighe, one of my favourite Munros. These narrow roads lead westwards to the mountaineers’ playground of Torridon, the peaks towering above us, drifting in and out of the clouds. Few other vehicles were around, and slowly the rain subsided, allowing us to enjoy the views and the twisties.
By the time we reached Shieldaig, yesterday's lesson about sustenance had sunk in, and our stomachs were rumbling. It was lunchtime, so we dripped our way into the Bar and Coastal Kitchen. The aroma of smoked salmon from the nearby smokehouse filled the air, promising a delicious meal. We ordered Cullen Skink, a rich, creamy fish soup, and gazed out over the loch where the salmon had been caught. Our damp riding gear contrasted sharply with the maître d', a stick-thin Frenchman in a bright blue tweed suit and red waistcoat. He peacocked around the busy tables in gold lamé shoes that belonged on a Parisian catwalk.
For the second time that day, it took an effort to rouse ourselves back into the harsh outdoors. However, as we paid the bill, our Gallic friend's hand lingered a little too tenderly and long on Kevin's shoulder, prompting the fastest jacket-donning manoeuvre I'd ever witnessed and his headlong rush to the exit.
We left the mist-shrouded loch and its picturesque island behind, venturing westward along the narrow coastal road. The steely-grey sea stretched out on our right, a constant companion. Occasional bursts of sunlight pierced the angry clouds, transforming the distant waves into a shimmering silver, as if illuminated from above.
The road surface was deceptively smooth, a granite-hard ribbon that offered superb grip. But this came at a cost, chewing through tyres with alarming speed, as I'd learned from a previous trip. This wasn't a route for speed demons; it was a place to savour the breathtaking views and keep a watchful eye out for the occasional convoy of sports cars or classic cars "doing the 500." These drivers, unfamiliar with the rhythm of Highland roads, roared along with little regard for others, often forcing us to squeeze into passing places or onto the crumbling, cambered verge. Fortunately, campervans were few and far between. The drivers of these behemoths, it seemed, were oblivious to the fact that motorcycles lack a reverse gear.
At Applecross we turned inland to tackle the fabled Bealach na Bà, Britain’s most spectacular mountain pass, known for its hairpin bends and steep gradients. I’d ridden it a few years earlier and enjoyed it enormously. I thought Kevin would relish the challenge:
‘Right, mate, this calls for every ounce of your riding skill. It’s five and a half miles of motorcycling heaven.’
‘How high is it?’ asked Kevin.
‘I think the pass is six hundred-odd meters above sea level, but falling the first ten or so would probably kill you’, I replied.
‘Feckin' eejit.’
The narrow road climbed steadily at first and then more steeply, while the gentle curves gave way to sharply angled hairpins that demanded both concentration and no oncoming traffic. We were lucky – it was a quiet day on the Bealach – only a few cars and no vans to impede our progress. The stone walls of the lower reaches gave way to battered Armco, as the turns became ever tighter. Kevin led the way, and I admired his smooth riding style as he tackled each of the bends with aplomb.
Suddenly we were at the top and over the pass. The landscape opened out before us, and the views down to Loch Carron were magnificent. Even the clouds thinned, and the sun shone on the palette of black rocks, dark-brown heather and russet grass that covered the craggy hillsides. The engine purred beneath me, the bike leaned effortlessly into each corner, and I felt a sense of flow and connection with the road.
The final flat stretch of this sumptuous route passed an oil rig, incongruously moored in the loch. We pulled into a lay-by.
‘Got the heart pumpin' alright, did that! Can we do that again?’ he beamed.
Reader, we very, very nearly did.
There was, however, still a stretch to go before our bed for the night. Back on ‘proper’ roads we opened the taps and made rapid progress, stopping only to take a sneak peek at the chocolate-box castle of Eilean Donan at Dornie and the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge.
This long afternoon ride took us through the heart of the Highlands and past many of my most memorable Munro-bagging expeditions: the Five Sisters of Kintail (1991), the South Glen Shiel Ridge (1992). It seemed only yesterday that I had climbed those glorious peaks. It seemed incredible that it was well over thirty years since I’d stood on the summit cairns. I could barely keep my eyes on the road and I felt them moisten at the thought of those days before my knees began to creak.
A quick update on The Knee. It’s 8 weeks since I had my new right knee. The rehab and physio work hasn’t been a walk in the park, but my surgeon and physiotherapist are very pleased with progress. I can walk 4 miles or so on it, straighten it and bend it up to 125º. Today I managed to cock my leg over the bike, though it’s not a fan of being stuck in one position for any length of time. Hopefully, this will ease with time, as will the heat and swelling from which I still suffer. I’m now beginning to think positively about adventures for 2025 though on which machines is tbc.
