Beautiful day here. I set off from home about 11:15, and, seeing the wind was mostly south but seemed to be a touch westerly, headed west along the coast, over the hill to Kirkcudbright. I took the race bike because one of the things I need to do is work on my aero position. I'd passed five other cyclists before I reached the top of the first climb at Hazelfield; then out past the
Wicker Man festival site, getting ready for it's brief moment of glory in three weekends' time, and over the back roads to the top of Bombie Glen.
I carried good speed from the descent and was able to stay above 30Km/h most of the way up the short brutal climb of the Bar Hill, which I used to train over when I was twelve and thirteen. Then sweeping down through Kirkcudbright, bright in summer festivities colours, over the bridge and out down the river. A Sunday lunchtime in July, a bright sun, a full tide, a good southerly breeze... and although the marina was full there wasn't a sail moving anywhere in the bay. And what a shame, with the water dancing in the sunlight! Still, not my problem.
I followed the bay down to the sands of Doon, and without stopping to paddle went over the hill through the ancient Norse settlement of Borgue and out into the small lanes of the Borgue peninsula, which even by Galloway standards is extraordinarily enchanting and beautiful, with its rugged coast, its islands, its quiet winding lanes, its white cottages, its hedgerows piled high with honeysuckle and wild roses, as earlier in the year they would have glowed with blackthorn and then with bluebells. Maybe it's because for me it is the landscape of holidays as a very small child, but it seems to me a perfect landscape. Of course, lots of other people think so too, and too many of those cottages are now over-restored second homes...
And so to the
ice cream factory. Old man Findlay was a dreadful old Tory, but he got into the idea of adding value to his milk at the farm very early, and his family developed that by being one of the first farmers locally to go organic. Now the farm is almost overwhelmed by the visitor centre; the factory itself you mostly don't see until you take the tour, from the outside the buildings are vernacular in a solidly attractive workmanlike way. And at lunchtime on a Sunday in July, at least a dozen folk are working in the visitor centre alone, serving delicious home made food (as well as their excellent ice cream) to a host of visitors.
I had lemon curd cake and a cafe latte, both very good, and then got back onto the road. Out across the A75, the main road to Ireland, and towards Gatehouse of Fleet; I could have gone into Gatehouse and up over the cat 2 climb to Laurieston, but decided I didn't really have the time and cut hard right onto another brutal little brae up over the shoulder of the hill, once more across the A75, and down past the smithy into
David Coulthard's home village of Twynholm, where lines of cars were still parked outside the ancient kirk.
From Twynholm a good descent to the Tarff Water, and across it to Tongland; up by
the power station, down into the doach (gorge to you English folk) by the site of the old Cistercian abbey, across the river and out past that most unlikely of things to find in a tiny village deep in rural Galloway - an abandoned
car factory, where once upon a time the only production car ever to have rotary sleeve valves instead of poppet valves was made.
And then a long, gradual climb up the side of the valley; marred somewhat at first by the view of Tongland quarry across the river, but as I got higher and nearer home, increasingly glorious. And I was going very fast, maintaining above 30Km/h all the way up, which is a very good speed for me (and probably implies some degree of wind assistance!) Once through Rhonehouse I was back very much on home territory, down to Gelston, and up one last brief climb to Kirkland of Gelston before the run down to the coast down the unbelievably gorgeous glen of Potterland Lane, with Heston Island neatly framed in the notch in the hills ahead. Down through the lush greens of the forest, twisting sharply right over the little black and white bridge, carrying my speed down past the Screel Hill car-park back to the A711; then right, and thus home.
69.74 Km by the computer on my bike, slightly less according to MyTracks which inexplicably failed to map the first couple of k.
Oh - and I forgot the ice cream.
Map here
