GrumpyGregry
Here for rides.
The day dawned bright. I threw back the curtains and was, frankly, gobsmacked. Not a cloud in the sky. What a contrast from the blanket of grey we had ridden under the day before.
Breakfast. With table service. Drinks bottles topped up, sachet of salt 50% fruit juice 50% tap water in once. Plain water in the other. Finished, the usual pre-ride faffage began. Mintyarselard applied. Layers put on. Today we would ride with bags on the bikes so the first major task was to put the bags on the bikes. Then the repeated self-frisking began to reassure ourselves we had wallets and maps and ‘stuff’ secreted about our persons in case it was needed.
Off we roll, retracing our steps from yesterday to begin with. My bike starts ghost-shifting for no reason I can think off. We stop. I tinker with the mech cable, we ride a little further, another stop, another ¼ turn, and it is sorted.
We pass a sign. The Pass of Killiecrankie. The road goes up. High above the Garry River we toil on cold legs. I focus on keeping momentum, using the weight of my bags to some advantage, the others focus on cursing and sweating. Layers are removed. We roll through the valley of the Garry, down through Blair Atholl with its picturesque castle and dead straight road and my now dim memories of mtb’ing on the estate. What? 5, 10 dear God is it really nigh-on 20 years ago? I’m getting old. It occurs to me that the Blair Atholl Distillery is in Pitlochry and not Blair Atholl. Odd.
Into Calvine, and it doesn’t seem possible that this little road was once the A9, the artery of the Eastern Highlands. We’ve been riding for a while sandwiched between the railway line and the A9 road. The railway has a tidy service judging by the number of trains we see or hear. Shortly after Dalnamein Lodge the A9, up above us, becomes a dual carriageway. The assault on Drumochter has begun.
Now steep it is not. No Ditchling Beacon, not even a Ditchling Road, but the wind is being channelled down the pass right into our teeth. And trust me, that wind pushes at your chest, and makes you curse the brick like shape of your panniers, and makes you dig, and deep. Layers are put back on.
Past Dalncardoch Lodge and the old road gives way to a path, which gently swings north, sometimes running below the railway and road, sometimes running alongside the road. Elevenses are taken on the path. Nature Valley granola bars. The summit, and another sup of A’Bunadh to congratulate ourselves.
A wonderful stretch of tarmac path. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Lovely. We rejoin the road to run into Dalwhinnie. We pass a petrol station on the southern edge of the village. I’m a bit disheartened to read a sign “Thank you for visiting Dalwhinnie. Please call again.” We haven't really got there yet, surely, and they are already saying goodbye. Off in the distance we’ve been able to see the Distillery for some time, the most prominent feature on an otherwise almost lunar blank landscape.
The hotel we pass on our right is shut. Boarded up shut. A sign points down the road to the station suggesting somewhere sells hot and cold food. We decide to go to the distillery and see if the visitor centre has a café. What naïve fools!. It does however have lovely toilets and I suggest, after a comfort stop, that we retrace our steps a kilometre or so, investigate the sign and then, hopefully refreshed, come back and do the tour.
Back we go, the wind shoving us south like a helping hand. Sure enough just off the main road is a café. Doing a thriving trade given Dalwhinnie is a one horse village that the horse left some time ago. Ken has the obligatory cheese sandwich and chips. Kenny and I go for Pepper Steak Pasty and chips. Coffees and cokes all round. We round the bill up to £15 and out we go. The wind hasn’t got any warmer.
The tour is interesting and delivered enthusiastically and well worth the money even though, as the distillery shuts down in May for maintenance, it was frankly bloody freezing. Back to the visitor centre for our tasting. I liked the Oban; a new dram on me and the Dalwhinnie itself was a drink I thought the lovely Helen might enjoy. Smart people them that built the distillery here. Lowest mean temperature in the UK it seems. Keeps the angels share down to a minimum.
Down Glen Truim we roll. Warmed by the heat of the water of life, and the lovely chocolates they serve with it. Behind us are the snow capped tops of the Grampians, in front the Monadhlaith. Once again we are on a country lane sized road, complete with worn out double white lines and missing cats eyes. This was once a trunk road. How are the mighty fallen. The wind ensures we have to pedal, and we duly do so into Strathspey and through Newtonmore. The dual use path beside the A86 comes with a couple of ‘bollard’ moments and suddenly we are in Kingussie (pron Kin-ussie the ‘g’ being silent).
The Hermitage, our B&B is but 100 yards off NCN7 and within minutes we are shown to our comfortable and spacious rooms. Minutes later bikes are being fettled and mickled and put in the ample shed and with one eye on the clock, for tonight is the evening of the H Cup final, I shower. Kenny is an Edinburgh fan and I ask the landlord where might have the rugby on the TV. He directs us to ‘The Siverfjord’ by the station, and bang on NCN7, and explains there’s a 10% discount on meals there for his guests.
Ken says he will join us in a bit, and Kenny washes up and we make haste. We enter the bar, passing the local shinty team along the way. Kenny explains we are in the heartland of shinty and that Kingussie have a reputation as fine players of the game. The bar is full of very merry Scotsmen celebrating, or drowning their sorrows, after the Scottish FA Cup Final between Hearts and Hibs that afternoon. A very jovial crowd and not a touch of The Slaughtered Lamb’ despite the intimacy of the bar which would fit in my living room. No one bats an eyelid when we ask to watch the rugby but the only thing missing is the sawdust on the floor.
Ken arrives and buys a round just as Leinster put the game beyond doubt. Ken duly sends a pint flying. Mortified. Barman promptly pours another one, and comes over and cleans up the mess. We apologise and offer to pay. “Dinna be se daft!” he says.
After the third pint my stomach wants something more substantial. But where to go? No sign of any food in the bar we decide to go outside and try another of the entrances, expecting nothing more elaborate than scampi and chips.
As we step into the ‘hotel’ entrance we can still here the raucous crowd in the bar. “Have you booked?” asks a charming young lady. I’m thinking “Booked. In this place. You’re having a laugh” but answer “Err no, three of us, can you fit us in?” She checks her diary. “You’re in luck, if you can be quick and be gone by half nine” It is about six thirty.
She leads the way. Knock me down with a nouvelle cuisine feather. We enter a restaurant dining room that would do chi-chi Brighton or London establishment proud. We are shown to our seats and look at each other, astonished, expecting this to be some form of collective hallucination.
Drinks order is taken. And served. The food is ordered and arrives. Wow! It isn’t just the décor and the ambiance that is great; the food is fantastic. Ken makes a schoolboy error and orders something very light and fluffy. I end up giving him a big lump of my ribeye and some of my chips when he finishes his and still has a hollow look in his eye. Cheese course and a glass of port to follow. We liked it so much asking for the discount seemed churlish. Or maybe the banker was pished. Amazing, and well worth a detour to visit if you are up that way.
Ken and Kenny decide they are going to sit up and watch the Champions League Final. Or was it Match of the Day? Who knows. I decide that watching my eyelids is preferable and take to my bed. I’m asleep in seconds.
Vital Statistics
Distance : 75km
Ascent: 617m (merely)
Nips taken : Three
Drams taken : One and a half
Pints drunk : Three
Wine drunk : 1/3rd bottle
Port drunk : 5cl
Nature Valley Bars eaten : Four
Breakfast. With table service. Drinks bottles topped up, sachet of salt 50% fruit juice 50% tap water in once. Plain water in the other. Finished, the usual pre-ride faffage began. Mintyarselard applied. Layers put on. Today we would ride with bags on the bikes so the first major task was to put the bags on the bikes. Then the repeated self-frisking began to reassure ourselves we had wallets and maps and ‘stuff’ secreted about our persons in case it was needed.
Off we roll, retracing our steps from yesterday to begin with. My bike starts ghost-shifting for no reason I can think off. We stop. I tinker with the mech cable, we ride a little further, another stop, another ¼ turn, and it is sorted.
We pass a sign. The Pass of Killiecrankie. The road goes up. High above the Garry River we toil on cold legs. I focus on keeping momentum, using the weight of my bags to some advantage, the others focus on cursing and sweating. Layers are removed. We roll through the valley of the Garry, down through Blair Atholl with its picturesque castle and dead straight road and my now dim memories of mtb’ing on the estate. What? 5, 10 dear God is it really nigh-on 20 years ago? I’m getting old. It occurs to me that the Blair Atholl Distillery is in Pitlochry and not Blair Atholl. Odd.
Into Calvine, and it doesn’t seem possible that this little road was once the A9, the artery of the Eastern Highlands. We’ve been riding for a while sandwiched between the railway line and the A9 road. The railway has a tidy service judging by the number of trains we see or hear. Shortly after Dalnamein Lodge the A9, up above us, becomes a dual carriageway. The assault on Drumochter has begun.
Now steep it is not. No Ditchling Beacon, not even a Ditchling Road, but the wind is being channelled down the pass right into our teeth. And trust me, that wind pushes at your chest, and makes you curse the brick like shape of your panniers, and makes you dig, and deep. Layers are put back on.
Past Dalncardoch Lodge and the old road gives way to a path, which gently swings north, sometimes running below the railway and road, sometimes running alongside the road. Elevenses are taken on the path. Nature Valley granola bars. The summit, and another sup of A’Bunadh to congratulate ourselves.
A wonderful stretch of tarmac path. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Lovely. We rejoin the road to run into Dalwhinnie. We pass a petrol station on the southern edge of the village. I’m a bit disheartened to read a sign “Thank you for visiting Dalwhinnie. Please call again.” We haven't really got there yet, surely, and they are already saying goodbye. Off in the distance we’ve been able to see the Distillery for some time, the most prominent feature on an otherwise almost lunar blank landscape.
The hotel we pass on our right is shut. Boarded up shut. A sign points down the road to the station suggesting somewhere sells hot and cold food. We decide to go to the distillery and see if the visitor centre has a café. What naïve fools!. It does however have lovely toilets and I suggest, after a comfort stop, that we retrace our steps a kilometre or so, investigate the sign and then, hopefully refreshed, come back and do the tour.
Back we go, the wind shoving us south like a helping hand. Sure enough just off the main road is a café. Doing a thriving trade given Dalwhinnie is a one horse village that the horse left some time ago. Ken has the obligatory cheese sandwich and chips. Kenny and I go for Pepper Steak Pasty and chips. Coffees and cokes all round. We round the bill up to £15 and out we go. The wind hasn’t got any warmer.
The tour is interesting and delivered enthusiastically and well worth the money even though, as the distillery shuts down in May for maintenance, it was frankly bloody freezing. Back to the visitor centre for our tasting. I liked the Oban; a new dram on me and the Dalwhinnie itself was a drink I thought the lovely Helen might enjoy. Smart people them that built the distillery here. Lowest mean temperature in the UK it seems. Keeps the angels share down to a minimum.
Down Glen Truim we roll. Warmed by the heat of the water of life, and the lovely chocolates they serve with it. Behind us are the snow capped tops of the Grampians, in front the Monadhlaith. Once again we are on a country lane sized road, complete with worn out double white lines and missing cats eyes. This was once a trunk road. How are the mighty fallen. The wind ensures we have to pedal, and we duly do so into Strathspey and through Newtonmore. The dual use path beside the A86 comes with a couple of ‘bollard’ moments and suddenly we are in Kingussie (pron Kin-ussie the ‘g’ being silent).
The Hermitage, our B&B is but 100 yards off NCN7 and within minutes we are shown to our comfortable and spacious rooms. Minutes later bikes are being fettled and mickled and put in the ample shed and with one eye on the clock, for tonight is the evening of the H Cup final, I shower. Kenny is an Edinburgh fan and I ask the landlord where might have the rugby on the TV. He directs us to ‘The Siverfjord’ by the station, and bang on NCN7, and explains there’s a 10% discount on meals there for his guests.
Ken says he will join us in a bit, and Kenny washes up and we make haste. We enter the bar, passing the local shinty team along the way. Kenny explains we are in the heartland of shinty and that Kingussie have a reputation as fine players of the game. The bar is full of very merry Scotsmen celebrating, or drowning their sorrows, after the Scottish FA Cup Final between Hearts and Hibs that afternoon. A very jovial crowd and not a touch of The Slaughtered Lamb’ despite the intimacy of the bar which would fit in my living room. No one bats an eyelid when we ask to watch the rugby but the only thing missing is the sawdust on the floor.
Ken arrives and buys a round just as Leinster put the game beyond doubt. Ken duly sends a pint flying. Mortified. Barman promptly pours another one, and comes over and cleans up the mess. We apologise and offer to pay. “Dinna be se daft!” he says.
After the third pint my stomach wants something more substantial. But where to go? No sign of any food in the bar we decide to go outside and try another of the entrances, expecting nothing more elaborate than scampi and chips.
As we step into the ‘hotel’ entrance we can still here the raucous crowd in the bar. “Have you booked?” asks a charming young lady. I’m thinking “Booked. In this place. You’re having a laugh” but answer “Err no, three of us, can you fit us in?” She checks her diary. “You’re in luck, if you can be quick and be gone by half nine” It is about six thirty.
She leads the way. Knock me down with a nouvelle cuisine feather. We enter a restaurant dining room that would do chi-chi Brighton or London establishment proud. We are shown to our seats and look at each other, astonished, expecting this to be some form of collective hallucination.
Drinks order is taken. And served. The food is ordered and arrives. Wow! It isn’t just the décor and the ambiance that is great; the food is fantastic. Ken makes a schoolboy error and orders something very light and fluffy. I end up giving him a big lump of my ribeye and some of my chips when he finishes his and still has a hollow look in his eye. Cheese course and a glass of port to follow. We liked it so much asking for the discount seemed churlish. Or maybe the banker was pished. Amazing, and well worth a detour to visit if you are up that way.
Ken and Kenny decide they are going to sit up and watch the Champions League Final. Or was it Match of the Day? Who knows. I decide that watching my eyelids is preferable and take to my bed. I’m asleep in seconds.
Vital Statistics
Distance : 75km
Ascent: 617m (merely)
Nips taken : Three
Drams taken : One and a half
Pints drunk : Three
Wine drunk : 1/3rd bottle
Port drunk : 5cl
Nature Valley Bars eaten : Four
