Final Day, part 2:
The first view of the coast and islands beyond. Shivers up the spine-moment!
John O'Groats House Hotel- very sad to see it standing derelict
He did it! 909 miles, 9 days.
Celebrations
*few more bits n pieces to come...Silly moment of the day: Popping a massive party popper the wrong way into the wind and watching the little foil coloured bits dance away across the car park.
Poem/song of the day: Whenever I've thought of my trip to John O'Groats and Tongue all those years ago (1994? Dad will know.) the scenes imprinted in my memory have been soundtracked by Idlewild's album The Remote Part, in particular the final song Scottish Fiction. The song didn't come out til 2002 so its not like I listened to it at the time, but the music and lyrics just went perfectly with the images in my head. Its only now that I've tracked down the spoken word part by the poet Edwin Morgan. The combination of his voice and the words is just so haunting and Scottish. So it was with a lot of happiness and full of emotion that I played the song while we drove towards Tongue in the sunshine through awesome scenery, quite lost for my own words.
Scottish Fiction
It isn't in the mirror
It isn't on the page
It's a red-hearted vibration
Pushing through the walls
Of dark imagination
Finding no equation
There's a Red Road rage
But it's not road rage
It's asylum seekers engulfed by a grudge
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction
It isn't in the castle
It isn't in the mist
It's a calling of the waters
As they break to show
The new Black Death
With reactors aglow
Do you think your security
Can keep you in purity
You will not shake us off above or below
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction
Scottish Fiction
It isn't in the mirror
It isn't on the page
It's a red-hearted vibration
Pushing through the walls
Of dark imagination
Finding no equation
There's a Red Road rage
But it's not road rage
It's asylum seekers engulfed by a grudge
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction
It isn't in the castle
It isn't in the mist
It's a calling of the waters
As they break to show
The new Black Death
With reactors aglow
Do you think your security
Can keep you in purity
You will not shake us off above or below
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction
The town of Dornoch reminded me of a French or Belgian town where a main street opens into a wide town square. If this was Europe there would be tables and chairs everywhere, but North East Scotland in May hardly made it likely. Instead I found a wonderfully cosy restaurant where the landlady was in thrall to serving Ben and doting on him. The food was ever so good (and homemade, as she told us about five times!) and it was really encouraging to have someone so in awe of Ben’s achievement, even though she said lots of people seemed to stop there who were doing the same thing. I think it was Ben’s time of 9 days that impressed her most; she said it was usually 12 or 14 for cyclists. Ben has taken the whole thing in his stride without any problems (so far, touch wood!) and so I keep forgetting what a big achievement this is. I felt extra proud when we left the restaurant to waddle back to the van .
I think I got a bit carried away though because it soon became apparent from the sat nav that Ben would actually beat me to the lunch point. The roads leading through the Trossachs and up the side of Loch Lubaig made it impossible to make up the extra time. I did resist many photo opportunities, otherwise I’d have been seriously late. The most wonderful view emerged from thick forest north of Glasgow – suddenly the whole horizon was just peak after peak after peak, stretching back into the mist as far as the eye could see. 
The whole journey was breathtaking and I particularly liked the look of the Falls of Dochart, it felt like a little Austrian village. But I ploughed on up the banks of Loch Tay to meet Ben in the rather swish restaurant of the Kenmore Hotel, overlooking the River Tay. I think he was rather relieved when I turned up, sat there on his lycra-clad own among quite posh surroundings! Kenmore was a beautiful village, all black&white, even the Spar sign! I think that’s when you know there must be some serious conservation orders in place. 
The whole area seemed interesting, lots of little villages and crafty places. I was really flagging behind the wheel (loch-side roads require a LOT of concentration) and was lucky to stumble across a gorgeous little coffee shop on the way to the A9. It was full of wonderfully mis-matched furniture and nick nacks. Not kitsch in a Cath Kidston way, but just lots of really interesting bits from the 1920s and 30s. 
I was revived after a cafetiere of Clan House coffee and homemade shortbread and ready to start the rest of the journey to Invernahavon. On this leg of the journey I DID allow some photo stops. At times it felt like the snow-capped peaks were close enough to touch! You could certainly feel the chill in the laybys, but it was worth it for the dramatic views. 
The campsite at Invernahavon was wild and free and we had a really wonderful evening there. The huge trees and mountains dwarfed the near-empty fields, just us and a few caravans dotted around. No barriers, no STOP signs, no toilet keys. Unfussy, simple and quite awesome! Owls started hooting once dusk fell and, because of the thick mist around the mountain, it was pitch black in no time. I tried to scare myself thinking of animals coming out of the wood, but being in the van is just too snug and cheerful!
Before leaving Gretna I decided to pay a visit to the Old Blacksmith’s Shop…or should I say, complex. Actually it was nowhere near as bad as Land’s End, it was much more discreet and tasteful plus a tartan shop really doesn’t offend me much. Except that the ‘clan’ computer denied any knowledge of the Steeles. I did snatch a look at the MacLean tartan, dodging Japanese tourists who seemed to be buying the stuff in reams. Apparently you can do ‘joke’ anvil weddings which appealed to me, but the only suitable chap was pedalling into the wind about 20 miles north of the place. Ah well!
