'Anging about in Angus

It is hard to make something this long-form both interesting for the general reader and for myself, who just wishes to have some form of travel-log. It would arguably have been better to write a couple of posts about just one or two of the events of my ride, but that would then have left me without any recollection of the minutiae, especially given my lack of photographs. I hope that the reader will excuse, then, the sloppiness of this post. It serves less to enlighten or entertain than simply to record, which, as poor a use as it may be of your time, may nevertheless be said to be essentially in keeping with the spirit of the internet.

Had I planned this?

The wood pigeons were cooing their good-night calls in the privately managed forest just west of Aboyne as I examined my printed maps by the blue light of my headtorch. I had made good use of most of them. Over the next couple of days, I would use a heavy proportion of the remainder. But not all.

Like this one, showing the roads out to St Andrews. Or this one, stretching out to Aberdeen. No – I had prepared myself for a number of sensible options, but I hadn't actually planned anything. There was nothing deterministic in these maps, any more than there was an inevitability that I was going to make it over the pass from Glen Esk. Soon, though, time would turn against me and choices would narrow. From almost an infinity of roads I would be reduced to a half dozen. Then maybe a couple. Then one, leading me home. When it came, most drivers would be patient, but bank holiday traffic would put pressure on the frequently blind-cornered A-roads leading back into the city and I would receive abuse from white van drivers without the presence of mind to realise that my destination was the same as theirs, and as such, I was liable to take the same roads. I would ride slowly and into the wind, and it would be an unfitting end to a ride characterised by wide-open space, scale, and freedom.

To avoid those same choke points, I had left the city at dawn on Good Friday. My rack piled high with camping equipment; my panniers bulging with warm clothes and food; encumbered by half my body weight I made stately progress to Crieff for an early lunch. By that point, I had already set new benchmarks for lack of speed – for the first time in I simply cannot remember how long, I was overtaken by a cyclist on the open road, and an elderly one at that. He was riding with someone who I presumed to be his daughter, and her cheery “good morning” so startled me on a minor road out of Dunblane that I almost swerved into her. I re-took the pair shortly thereafter, slightly embarrassed by my shock at the noise over my shoulder. It is more of a statement of the number and type of cyclists on the road than my own fitness that I have only ever been the giver of such greetings, rather than the receiver.

From Crieff, the roads were entirely new to me, and I soon took a turning off the A road to climb to Glen Almond. Almost instantly I was rewarded with near isolation. I was not passed by a single car as I wound along the road that threads the estate, noting the neatly-trimmed hedges and trees that served as signatures of the landowner's wealth.

Glen Almond

Perthshire and Angus were characterised by a huge, arable plain that the westerly breeze chased me down. The land was too valuable for the eponymous cattle, and I passed fields of turnips and swedes being harvested to make way for the summer crops. The fort on Kinpurney Hill, tiny and solitary, nevertheless attracted ocular attention on its steep hilltop purely by virtue of it being so regular and square. It would have commanded a sweeping view over the wide valley – at least, on a clear day.

Kinpurney Hill

On the basis that it had the county name in its own, I stopped for a coffee at Coupar Angus, which was considerably smaller than expected and featured virtually nothing of note. As it happens, Forfar is much more the county town, but, with an aim to visit Glen Esk the following day, and not wishing to reach the retreat before it opened at mid-day, I diverted around it, towards Arbroath. It was almost four thirty when I reached Glamis, which would have just gotten me in for the final tour, but I elected to carry on instead, rather than rush things. For some reason, the village name of “Inverarity” had caught my eye, so, with some swearing and stamping up a steep hill, I found my way through there to carry on my journey to the coast.

With the cloud descending and light failing, I could hardly wait until six before darting into a small stretch of woodland and setting up camp. I left myself with an easy downhill run to Arbroath in the morning, but would not be dining on herring that night – the tuna pasta bake weighing on my panniers was plenty. Not fancying them for breakfast either, I made just a quick pit-stop in the supermarket after rising with the dawn and rode directly out of town, pausing only momentarily to study the (still rather large) red remnants of Arbroath Abbey.

Creepy Red Castle

The coastal road to Montrose kicked, bucked and swung around the cliffs, as abrupt and sharp as a railing after absorbing the impact of an automobile, though allowing one brief stretch of rolling directness to lead you to ruins of the delapidated red castle, now more cliff remnant than fortified dwelling.

The roads had so taken the wind out of me that I neglected stopping at Montrose, electing for an early lunch/late breakfast and coffee at Brechin, taking the not particularly pleasant, but nevertheless direct, A935.

The town hardly seemed buzzing, and indeed probably never gets near the meaning of the word, but the old bakehouse cafe that I found myself in was deservedly popular, and allowed me plenty of time to study my maps, get my legs back and think about the next stage. I had essentially resigned to Glen Esk being a short curiosity tour – up to the retreat, to say that I had been there, followed by a rapid return (or retreat, one might suggest) to the old military road to skirt the Grampians to the east.

Into Glen Esk

 Fully recovered and ready for a hard climb, I pushed north into the glen, passing under the arch at Edzell, prim and trim as it is. The glen road didn't kick up instantly, but I was soon in recognisable highland country – shaggy coos and all. Snow streaked the peaks, following the shadowy rivulets of the burns and rills, but was not so much as to worry me. The ratio was inverted on some of the higher summits in the centre of the range, but I wouldn't be going anywhere near those.

The retreat, when I got to it, was nicely modernised, and would have been a thoroughly nice place to eat lunch, had I not already taken it. I bought a drink in the shop and had a look around, nattering to the owner before asking the killer question.

“Is there a way to get over the top to Deeside from here – save me going back down again?”

I knew from some of my older maps that there was some form of trail going across the mountain – the Fungle Road. Indeed, on my small-scale road map, it even showed it as passable to vehicles. It took us a good ten minutes and a longer conversation with some mountain bikers to ascertain the state of things, though.

“Should be fine. Most of it's just been resurfaced. Pretty much just fire roads”

“And the fords across the burns?”

“Should be alright. Might not be able to hit them full speed without suspension.”

The start of the Fungle Road

After a few more minutes explaining that my bike, whilst technically a mountain bike, was probably unsuited to anything more treacherous than a canal towpath, the verdict was maintained and I purchased an Explorer map with the track clearly marked on it. I hoped that it would be as clear on the ground

Almost the top

Wishing the friendly staff farewell, I headed out to the mountain. Almost instantly, I was in the granny ring for the first time on the trip, spinning over grapeshot gravel and picking lines around potholes. If climbing was hard, though, descending was perilous – so much weight being resisted by cantilever brakes holding back on semi-slick tyres meant the only safe speed was none at all. And then there were the gates. Nothing to lean the bike against, no desire to drop it, no ability to manouvre it. It took at least 5 minutes to get past every one.

 A couple of times on the ascent, I had to push – a concession to weakness that might have been humiliating, had there been anything other than grouse to observe it. I consoled myself with the thought that things would be easier once I passed the summit.

Every single ford

An hour later, and I was there. Or there abouts. 600M in altitude, I was now having to dodge snow drifts where possible, and plough my way through where not.

You'll be descending in a minute.

Well, maybe more than a minute.

I was descending for longer than I climbed.

The brakes and tyres were simply unable to stop the combined weight of luggage and rider, so I was forced to walk alongside the unwieldy machine very nearly the whole way down. The fords were frequent, deep, steep, and always covered with at least two feet of snow. Tackling them involved holding the bike on its brakes on the near bank, stepping out into mid-flow, dropping the bike into the ford, hoping against hope that it didn't slip over the inevitable precipice supporting the ford, then throwing yourself and the bike with all your might at the snow drift on the far side, scrabbling for purchase, until you could lever the whole contraption up the five-foot bank. Since the bike weighed about 30kg, with a balance point no more than an inch in front of the rear axle, lifting the bike involved counterweighting the handlebars with such force that you were essentially dead-lifting almost 50kg with your other hand. 

Shimano may have Icetech brakes, but I was
testing some prototype Hope Ice Hubs

I was exhausted. It didn't occur to me to take the luggage off and transport things bit-by-bit for the simple reason that I didn't know for how long these fords would continue, and the bike was just a tiny bit easier to roll along than carrying panniers by hand would have been – though, holding the bike on its brakes with one hand as I switched sides after a switchback, the veracity of this statement could be questioned.

Nevertheless, I made it though. A serious adventure – a quest into the unknown. A quest that I would absolutely not repeat if I had, actually, known. As I rolled along the road from Ballochan, I kept looking back and laughing giddily. The tiny goat track that sketched its way into the high reaches of the pass looked preposterously steep and rugged. That I had dragged a heavily-laden bicycle over it was both remarkable and ridiculous. As my achievements go, there are not many that get quite so close to the upper-right-hand corner of the graph of impressiveness versus foolishness.

In the woods just past Aboyne, I pushed the bike up the steep, muddy track to find some cover to sleep behind. I laughed again.

My arms hurt.

How brilliant was that? Here I was, on a bike tour to nowhere, getting the miles in my legs, seeing Scotland, breathing in the pine-fresh air of fresh cuttings, and my arms hurt.

It would be this night, and the next, and then I'd be home. I looked over my maps, and realised that my options were closing in. There were only a few choices left to make, and they were practically taken already.

Had I planned this?

I noticed that my hand holding the maps was shaking.

No. There was no way I would ever have planned anything so stupid, so tough – I'd have never done it. I certainly wouldn't do it again – even if I did know that it was passable.

Sometimes, the best surprise is discovering the ability to surprise yourself.

Top of the Cairnwell - no fanfare

The next day, I chugged my way over the Cairnwell, having fully appreciated my serene glide up the perfectly-sized River Dee. The previous day was obvious in my fatigue, but I carried on over to Pitlochry, which was so disappointingly crowded with tourists that I didn't explore as I had been planning, but instead headed directly onto Loch Tay. I was back on familiar ground now, but took the number 7 cycle route on the south side of the loch, rather than the road to the north, hoping to spy out a place to sleep with less than an hour's ride to Killin the next morning.

The south side road was incredibly frustrating, charging steeply up every bank before falling away again to the lochside, but it did provide some of the most beautiful views of the trip. The showery skies released bolts of sunlight onto the loch and surrounding mountains, haloing peaks with rain-mist and arching a rainbow over Taymouth. I found shelter from the strengthening wind in the lee of the sole remaining wall of a crofter's cottage at the highest side of a field opposite Ben Lawers, and set up my tent with one of the best views it has ever experienced.

The sun breaks through

The Crannog Centre

Shelter from the wind

Rainbow over Loch Tay

The final day's slog home was longer and more tiring than anticipated, as the number 7 cycle route appeared to be in competition with itself for providing the most pointless, steep climbs possible. After an enormous breakfast in Callander, I was ready for home, and pointed myself into the wind.

Loch Earn

Once again, the report peters out here. My epilogue has now been moved to the prologue – I shall waste no more time.