John O'Groat's to Land's End – Day 5

It's biblically wet on the long. long way to the Midlands

Join Stephen and Kevin, two bikers on a wild ride 874 miles from John O'Groats to Land's End! When Storm Kathleen ambushed their meticulously planned LeJog route, they flipped it to JogLe, hoping to outrun the tempest. They've already battled insane crosswinds, a dodgy GPS, and unexpected detours to castles and islands, facing closed roads, deserted bridges and Edinburgh's notorious roadworks. They even survived the treacherous Bealach na Ba, a road so tricky Kevin swears he saw his life flash before his eyes! Fueled by adrenaline, black pudding, and the occasional whisky, they've charmed their way past parking wardens and amorous tour guides. Reaching John O'Groats, their "starting" point, they found it deserted. After a night swapping stories and pints with hikers at the foot of Ben Nevis, the real journey begins — back to Land's End. Will they make it, or will the road trip madness consume them? Buckle up and find out

My bleary eyes opened reluctantly as dawn’s first light shone through the large bunkhouse window. The air was thick with the smell of damp wool and stale sweat. There was a sonorous shuffle and a Kevin-shaped bulge in the top bunk above me. A few seconds later a deep fart reverberated amidst the snores. ‘Time to get up and hit the road’, I muttered, easing myself upright and pulling on my cold, damp leathers. ‘What's with the whisperin'?’ said Kevin. ‘Sure, there's no one here but the two of us.’

He was right. The Ben Nevis Inn, nestled at the foot of the mountain, was deserted this early. We'd stumbled in late yesterday, exhausted after a brutal day of battling wind and rain along Scotland's rugged coast. Every muscle screamed in protest with each step as we'd made our way to the bar, the wind whipping at our faces and the rain soaking us to the bone. Over a few pints of something dark and local, with a roasted malt aroma and a hint of peat, we watched weary hikers limp in, their faces etched with the effort of conquering Britain's highest peak. A pang of envy hit me; I'd spent some of my happiest days bagging Munros myself.

The aroma of venison, rich and gamey, wafted through the air, and soon we were tucking into thick steaks, the juices mingling with the peaty notes of our beer. A ten-piece folk band cranked up, filling the room with a whirlwind of fiddles, pipes, and drums. The air throbbed with energy as the melodies bounced off the wooden walls. Kevin, a man who never met a tune he didn't like, was in his element, tapping his feet and drumming on the table. One of the walkers was Craig, a bagpipe-playing Scot in exile in Bedfordshire and an ex-police motorcyclist. He’d joined us on our bench as we were tucking into the venison, followed by clootie dumpling.

The band in full flow in the Ben Nevis Inn

Kevin winked. ‘I swear, I saw me whole life flash before me eyes, and most of it was just me ridin' that feckin' road! There were moments, I'll not lie, when I thought I'd be meetin' me maker, wearin' a helmet and leathers, mind you. But by the grace of God, and maybe a bit of Irish luck, I made it down in one piece.’ He patted his chest dramatically.

He took another swig of Skull Splitter (8.5%) , a twinkle in his eye. ‘Though I'll tell ya, lad, after that, this pint tastes like the nectar of the gods themselves!’ He grinned at Craig, his tall tale spun. ‘So what about yourself then, any near death experiences on two wheels to share?’

We set off on the long trek southwards with no particular destination in mind other than arriving somewhere close to Manchester. The clouds were low again and rain threatened as we rode through magnificent Glencoe. We stopped in Tyndrum for a hearty breakfast, the warmth of the cafe a welcome refuge from the chill.

In the snowy background: Bidean nam Bian, Glencoe (1,150m). I climbed it on 23 March 1991.

Buachaille Etive Mor, one of the most iconic Munro’s, which I climbed in September 1990

‘Was that your number on that slip of paper I saw you giving those German girls last night, you sly fox?’, I asked over our porridge.

‘Ah, no, 'twas the name of the band who first did some of that music - The Pogues, so they were.’ Kevin’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

The miles rolled on and after a diversion to see the Kelpies, those magnificent steel horse heads rising from the water near Falkirk, we found ourselves on the M74, battling ferocious winds and rain again. Storm Kathleen was not done with us yet, it seemed. The spray from lorries was blinding, forcing us to keep bobbing off the motorway for safety. We still had Craig’s recounted real-life near misses ringing in our ears. Fortunately, the old road ran alongside the motorway for much of the way south in Scotland and we took the road less travelled by traffic whenever we could. By Moffat our leathers oozed and the Moffat Toffee Shop, an Aladdin’s cave of glucose, drew us in for some restorative sweeties. The sugar rushed us on our way soon enough but south of Abington the weather was so bad we nearly abandoned ship. The wind howled like a banshee, and the rain lashed down, blurring the road ahead. It was only the fact that neither of us wanted to be the first to wimp out that we made it over Shap, nearly 1,400 feet above sea level, the wind threatening to rip us from our bikes. Today was a grim exercise in determination, concentration and not a little luck. There are the fine days of sun, warmth and gentle breezes on a bike and then there are ones like this. I thought of Kipling’s If and simply hung on.

The Kelpies, near Falkirk

By late in the afternoon, we’d made it further than Manchester and pulled into Keele service station for a fuel-stop. We both agreed we were done in. Nearly 420 miles had passed beneath our wheels today. Kevin’s old university was just round the corner. We slipped off the M6 up a secret shortcut, avoiding a big round trip. I nipped home to Derbyshire to change into some dry gear while Kevin went on a nostalgic journey, until he was woken out of his flared trousers and platform shoes reverie by a security guard wanting to know why he was poking around the halls of residence. He blagged his way out of trouble with every inch of his Irish charm and beat a retreat to the Keele Student Union Bar for the cheapest pints he’d had in years.

A late-night text pinged up on my mobile:

‘Think I might stay on for few days here. If I don’t emerge tomorrow just carry on.’

I began to think I should have stayed with him.