Sunday 11 October – “Born to be W-i-l-d”
A massively late bedtime followed by a massively late start (not to mention a couple of hours sorting out a still non-functioning “Sheep”) meant that our intended afternoon on the Glenelg peninsula was totally toast. Instead of a visit to the ancient brochs of Dun Telve and Dun Troddan we had barely enough time to drive up to Kintail Lodge Hotel and take The Fatdog for a quick walk before dark.
It was a fairly uneventful drive up to Loch Duich and I had showed uncharacteristic restraint in limiting my psychotic urges to the need to dispose of a trio of ancient Dutch motorcyclists near Onich, one of whom was towing…yes towing…one of his fellow “Hells Geriatrics” machine. I say machine but I’ve no doubt closer inspection would confirm that the “bike” was probably originally designed to be towed by horses and that the addition of the engine was on a whim a couple of centuries later. It has been a long time since I recall seeing hand signals from a motorcyclist…well, ones that didn’t imply I had been less than courteous when being overtaken on a blind bend by a two-wheeled numpty.
The flatlander trio had successfully ground vehicle speeds down to 10 to 15 mph and the ever lengthening queue was now of the opinion that the Netherlanders should pull their collective finger out of the dyke (on reflection a possibly hasty turn of phrase) and promptly take themselves off to the nearest scrap yard to pick up some more modern and more reliable pieces of kit. After 5 miles they eventually crawled into a lay-by to howls of derision from the passing queue who by now hoped that pulling the finger out of the dyke (I really must think of another phrase) had flooded the whole of the Low Countries with salt water thus ensuring terminal corrosion of motorbikes of a certain age. That was to be the one and only hindrance to our journey and three and three quarter hours after starting off we arrived at the Kintail Lodge Hotel.
This small three star establishment has provided a dependable pit stop for our past three trips to this part of the world and again came up trumps. The only disappointment was the lack of a major talking point. The last visit was marked by the appearance of Moby the Haddock and the previous by a weird pair of American/German hunters (scroll down to “Things that go Bump in the Night”). The latter was a wholly unpleasant experience while the former merely resulted in an almost unpleasant experience of the digestive kind.
After breakfast we made our way northwards to Achnasheen and from there via Torridon to Sheildaig just south of Gairloch. We were off in search of the “Fairy Lochs”, and the past…