2008 Scottish West Coast Islands Tour.

The Will's Wheels CC is not traditionally a pannier laden group of bike riders. There are those amongst us who couldn't even imagine the concept of riding a 55lb bike, never mind leave home for over a week on one. However, you don't have to commit any sort of crime against being cool to increase the width of your tyres and head off into what little wilderness is left in this country. The 10 mile TT, the chaingang and another 17th place in the bunch will still be there when you return. The chance of a unique ride only comes once in a blue moon. The chance to sample a snippet of that 1950's CTC ethos and see some of Britain's wildest areas was planned earlier in the year and a group of Hardy Will's Wheels riders set sail for the Scottish west Coast on May 25th.

There ends any sort of analogy or reference to the CTC and times gone by. This was a tour put together with all of the usual attention to detail that our rides are well known for. Nine days of tough riding along a route purposefully chosen for its rugged terrain and difficult off road connections. And whilst we might have carried our bags either side of our bikes, we stayed in pre booked hostels and ate in some of Scotland's finest restaurants and cafe's along the way. This was a tour through splendid landscapes further enhanced with fine wines and freshly prepared fishes and meats to die for. Venison, Aberdeen Angus, Salmon, Trout and a whole array of sea fishes and crustaceans to choose from. This was a ride not to be missed.

Hitting the ferry port of Ardrossan, eleven of us boarded one of a series of Calmac ferries that were to move us back and forth from Island to mainland throughout the week. White tipped rolling waves under blue skies cast a spell upon the trip that was to remain largely unbroken until our return some nine days later. With all of our warm clothes and wet weather gear stowed away, we hit the Isle of Arran as if we were riding motorbikes and were soon steaming along the eastern coast out of Brodick. The descent into Lochranza was a fast road with some of the riders touching speeds very close to 50mph and some of the others burning several millimetres of rubber from there new brake pads, a little unwary of how the laden bikes might behave at speed. There was enough time for a cup of tea and a slice of cake before we were once again riding the waves on our way to the Kintyre peninsular.

Crossing over to West Loch Tarbert was lovely with the wind blowing and the sun shinning. By the time we hit the western shores of Loch Fyne and Dave Burton had managed to relocate his shoes, the pace picked up and we were tanning along at a steady 23mph on the road to Kilmichael Glassary. There was no sprint for the finish and despite some overly keen pace setting we were fresh and ready for our first belly busting feed washed down with a glass of wine or two. Dessert was by the way of a gateaux that was brought on with a rendition of the birthday tune for my recent 40th. I did have to share the cake but there was plenty to go around.

The road north from kilmichael Glassary was narrow and twisting. Small freshwater lochs covered with early season lilies and gurgling burns appeared through clusters of trees around every new turn in the road. Janet pointed out the lovely forest road along the shores of Loch Awe and Loch Alvich. Loch Awe is a freshwater loch and is nearly 25 miles in length. Its steep wooded sides make for some tough bike riding but the views are the very essence of tranquillity and spirits were further buoyed by the luxurious weather we were experiencing.

The main road to Oban was no busier than any of the Cheshire lanes and despite some doubts, Janet and Bob made the ferry in good time despite a tea stop that the rest of us decided to omit. The sailing to Craignure was just enough time to let us enjoy one of Calmac's finest lunches before landing on Mull for the final 20 miles to Tobermoray.

Some hostilities began on the final run in to Mull and climbing up high above the Sound of Mull a Tour de France showdown began to unfold. The narrow, gently ascending twisting road was made difficult by the heat of the day and the soft, sticky melting tar on its surface hissed as the sweat dropped from our arms and faces. When I saw the top I was pleased that it was nearly over because I was struggling to set the pace by now. Bob's mountain bike lurched past taking the sparkling green machine of Will's bike with him. A rapid acceleration saw Will pull clear for the summit and take the mountain points. The fast run down to the town was just as silly and letting Chris Yates tow us to the sign I managed a sprint victory of sorts despite pulling a foot from a pedal in my haste to go clear. Ridiculously sweaty and buzzing from another great ride, the setting of the Youth Hostel and the excellent restaurant along the Tobermoray multi coloured seafront was the perfect end to a stunning day in the saddle.

An early start the following morning enabled us to catch the first ferry to Kilchoan on the eerie Ardnamurchan peninsular. Climbing high in the first few miles the road traversed the lower green slopes of the towering Ben Hiant. From the higher parts of the peninsular we could see fine views over the northern edge to the Cullin's on Skye and the Sleat peninsular we would be crossing later that day. The drop back down to the south side was quick and the coast road from here ambled between rocky coves and boulder strewn gullies covered by thick Rhododendrons and Silver Birch woodland. The shoreline of Loch Sunart is sheltered and its lush vegetation is assisted by the warm currents of the gulf stream swirling around the Islands and peninsulas. It is truly a wondrous place to pass through.

We had a few cross words at Ardshealach were the cafe was a few miles further than Janet had anticipated. It was all a storm in a teacup though and cake and coffee soon hit the spot. Skirting the wilderness of Moidart we made good time to the junction with the Mallaig road at Lochailort. Some highly complex roadwork's to this section of twisting single track road had the traffic gnarled and tangled among traffic lights, passing places and cones galore. It was impossible to ride as a group and following Harry Shaw, the pair of us hit the open road to Mallaig on our own at Arisaig. The others weren't far behind but they were going to have to catch me if they wanted to take the sign at Mallaig. It was a torturous effort into a stiff headwind with several long drags sapping the strength from my legs with every pedal revolution. Only the knowledge that Harry was suffering behind me and the chasing idiots further back would be hurting even more kept me going. A highly competitive Harry clung on over the last climb and obviously had designs on the victory at the Mallaig sign for himself. He might well have got it too had the sign not been concealed behind a well placed bush.

After a good lunch at the open air cafe and a ferry ride to Armadale on Skye, we flew across the Sleat peninsular for the last 17miles to Broadford. Greg had gone up the road looking for the town sign and despite my efforts to get across and take another sign, we were both laughed at by Will who flew by with ease. Beating a heavy drinking ex-international and a 40 year old tourist can't really be that satisfying but a wins a win, and it does add to the stupidity and fun that you can have with a fully loaded barge on two wheels.

Another cracking feed at Broadford finished off in style with a chocolate lumpy bumpy cake that really hit the spot for a choco freak like myself. The stalag style cramped rooms at the hostel were a little uncomfortable and the methane cloud that grew throughout the night created an intense heat and unearthly aroma. By the time morning arrives your ready to pack up and hit the road just for the fresh air.

The Cullin Mountains and Loch Sligachan looked very similar to the image I was left with the last time I was here. Although dry and warm, clouds were rolling in and the black mountain sides and rocky pinnacles looked dark and foreboding. Harry set a blistering pace and we were passing Glen Drynoch toward Bracadale in no time at all. The minor road to Portree turns sharply to the east where an iron wind sapped the strength from our legs as we climbed up onto the high ground that separates Portree in the east from Dunvegan further to the west. Hanging on to Will's wheel was hard but I didn't think it would be any tougher than struggling into the wind under my own steam. Whilst Hugh made it look easy, Harry was on his arse after the earlier pace he set was beginning to take its toll and by the time we arrived at Portree a cafe was much in need.

The run back along the coast and back toward Sligachan and Broadford was tough with the wind hampering our efforts and rain beginning to fall. My legs were beginning to stiffen and by the time we arrived at Broadford again I was ready for a coffee and some food. As I looked out of the window at the falling rain and darkened skies above, I heard myself reciting the "it will clear up soon" mantra, but it didn't look likely. By the time I was ready to go everyone had left and remounting my bike in the rain I had lost contact with my legs. Will waited for me and towed my broken spirit back up to the group who were crossing the Skye bridge to the mainland. By the time we arrived in Plockton I was wet, miserable and very exhausted. This was to be my lowest point on the trip and only one thing could help bring me around now.

The restaurant was just the medicine I needed and the injection of fine foods and wine began to thaw my aching spirit. In particular the homemade ice cream and after eight smoothie. The bunkhouse had its heating on and the tumble dryers whirring which of course blasted the temperature up to unbearable levels. Fighting my way through the sea of pubic hair that littered the shower floor I drenched myself in cold water in an attempt to lower my core temperature. Opening the windows and doors had been banned to keep the rampaging midges at bay and to further eradicate any chance of a good nights sleep a couple of Aussie backpackers stayed up all night talking very loud to the background murmur of Greg and Dave Burtons loud snoring. Roll on the morning.

We'd looked forward to Bealach na Ba for some time now and the famous "Pass of the Cattle" wasn't about to disappoint. Rising to a staggering 624 meters from sea level along 5 miles of rutted road, this is as close to an alpine climb you are likely to see in this country. The good weather was back on our side but the huge pass between the near 800 meter peaks was a dark and hellish place funnelling cold winds between the black rock buttresses and towering columns. On a bad day it would probably be impassable to all but the hardiest of the stags that roam the surrounding landscape. Stopping sporadically to film the progress of each individual I was given good reason to stop and take a breather. Each rider has his own tale to tell from this part of the ride and watching some of the riders, particularly on the section before the hairpins were the wind beat you hard in the face, I could see that people were reaching their upper limits of endurance and strength. Watching Harry dressed in red on his red bike turning his 22 tooth chain ring was like watching a money spider climbing a boulder. The scale of the scene around you was mighty and awe inspiring. A piece of Scotland non of us are likely to forget for this lifetime at least.

The descent to Applecross was a little hampered by the wind and the cafe was out of electricity and not offering the kind of service we were about to stop for. Heading in a more northerly direction, the days southerly winds blew us along the coast. The Isles of Raasay and Rona were bathed in sunshine and the winding road was very quiet and ideal for some good cycling. Turning south east along the shores of Loch Torridon the mountains towered high into view. By the time we reached the junction for a return to Lochcarron there were some tired faces amongst us. "Phil needs a cafe" piped up a lame excuse from one of those that was really gasping. Phil was just fine and still smiling so we pressed on into the fresh southerly wind.

Rounding the Kishorn the road begins to climb steadily up the glen. Chris Yates was setting a fine pace until Bob put the half wheel on and began the duel. Bob's head became redder and redder as he began to yo yo back and forth. When he'd finally popped just short of the top, I could see Chris sniggering to himself. Phil "needs a cafe" Bridge wasn't far behind at all and within a few miles we were all smiling and enjoying tea and cake on the shores of Loch Carron.

The day out to Applecross was 92 miles but well worth the effort. The weather had played into our hands once again and staying in Plockton for as second night had enabled us to leave our bags behind which further enhanced the days riding. Another crack at the restaurant from the night before was equally as satisfying and cooler conditions in the bunkhouse enabled us to get a good nights sleep.

Probably the grandest feature of the trip was the planned route to Fort William. It began with another crossing of the Skye Bridge only this time it was bathed in sunshine. Crossing through Glen Arroch the road plummets down to Kylerhea where the mainland lies only a third of a mile across the sea. The last time I had been along this road it had been in a Triumph Herald that had struggled with the incline, I think it was 1978. Descending at close to 50mph we were soon at the jetty and able to catch the first ferry of the day. The boat is the original ferry and is 40 years old. It resembles a conventional boat with a rickety wooden turntable on its deck. Once moored on the jetty the two crew men manhandle the turntable and lower the doors onto the concrete to allow its vehicles off. It didn't appear to have much room for more than two, maybe three cars and with a maximum of 12 people for safe passage, only one vehicle was allowed to cross with us.

Weaving around the headland the road makes its way around Loch Hourn to the far flung settlements of Arnisdale and Corran. At Corran we were able to get tea and toasties at the "Tea Hut" which was a green, doorless hut run by an old lady who was less than chuffed to have to make nine sandwiches. Whilst eating our snacks the local stag came to see what tit bits he could scrounge (I'm pretty sure our toasties were made from the titbits the lady might normally feed him) whilst an attention seeking sheep gnawed at the rubber hoods on our brake levers. It was a good break before the next challenge.

From here on the road would give way to a track passing through Glen Arnisdale which climbs to 270m before plummeting through woodland and rejoining the road at the head of Loch Hourn some 9 miles away. There is no other way around. The lady pointed out to us that we didn't have the right kind of bicycles to cross the Glen and bid us farewell. I kind of knew that she was right but I'm sure that Columbus didn't really have the right kind of boat to cross the Atlantic and he was alright, besides, we had one great ally, the weather.

The road gave way to gravel and following the river north we passed highland cattle drinking from the cool waters. At first all seemed well and we were making good time. We crossed the river and the track twisted its way through the trees becoming more difficult to ride. A stream crossing the path forced us to dismount and the severity of the gradient beyond saw us having to resort to walking, or a more accurate description would be desperately scrambling. The heavily laden bikes were awkward to push and the loose surface broke away from under your feet very easily. The path continued ever upwards and around every corner it went ever higher and steeper. It was exhausting and dare you stop to catch your breath the midges would pounce like jackals and feast on the sweat ridden skin of your face, arms and legs. Hugh was first up to the top with a stressed looking Chris Yates not too far behind. Further back, Harry and Mike had resorted to separating the luggage and carrying it up separately. It was sweat infused carnage as each one of us made the top in a state of severe physical distress.

The broken surface of the path wasn't great but some downwardly facing sections made for some exciting riding as we progressed further into the glen. There wasn't another soul in sight. There was a river crossing via a wooden plank bridge and a little further up a waterfall crashed down blackened rocks into a deep pool of clear cool water. It didn't take much thought and in no time at all Will, Greg and Phil were stripped off and splashing around the pool. Dave and myself followed and boy was it cold. It was very refreshing and in the heat of the day a much welcomed tonic.

Higher up the glen we regrouped and debated the possible course of the route as it opened out into a huge expanse of open hill country. Some rapid descending saw rocks and stones flying everywhere and my bombproof heavy duty monster of a bike was coming into its own. The weight of the bags held the back end firm whilst the big studded continental tyres only needed pointing in the right direction and the rest followed beautifully. That's not to say I didn't have my moments and I came off on several occasions as loose rocks and rutted pathways interfered with the delicate nature of that great gift to cyclists called balance. Harry bumped into a stream crossing and lost his pannier bag whilst Chris Yates battled with his bike rearing up like a wayward horse and throwing him flat on his backside into the water.

Further up, the pathway climbed higher into the trees and behind us was a scene of pure serenity. The mountains in the distance and the calm still waters of the loch high up in the valley. All of the different levels coloured in a multitude of greens and browns of ferns, grasses and fledgling heathers. The blue skies and mid afternoon haze presented a picture of great depth and one that probably isn't all that common in a land where the rain gods are usually never very far away.

The steep rocky path from the top was treacherous and both Will and myself fell almost simultaneously at the same point. The wooded section was also very steep and hair raising. Greg lost his footing and tumbled a full 360 degrees bike over his head down the steep hillside. At the bottom of the woods the path became a Landrover track and some houses came into view. The head of the loch was clear and we once again touched tarmac. There was a small cafe and somewhere to reflect on our safe passage through the treacherous glen over a plate of beans and cups of tea.

It doesn't get much more remote than Kinloch Hourn and the nearest main road is 22 miles away at Invergarry. The climb up onto the High ground is tough and fine misty clouds rolled down onto the sea. Once over the summit and following the banks of the mighty Loch Quoich the clearer skies ahead prompted some pace in search of drier tarmac.

By the time we regrouped at Invergarry there was a lot of tired legs amongst us. The group split as everyone made their way to the Great Glen and the final run to Fort William. We used another six miles of dirt road alongside Loch Lochy and after fixing more punctures in Greg's beaten and battered rear tyre we finally hit the last sections of hard tarmac. With a snow covered Ben Nevis standing tallest of all, high above the town of Fort William, we had a marker to head for. It was getting late and we were beginning to dream of the meal that awaited us.

Mike Bridge had pretty much organised all of this trip and booked all of the restaurants and evening meals in advance. The show so far had been magnificent and it was going to have to be a bloody good establishment to compete with the quality of service and food that we'd already experienced. It had been a long day on the road and Will was suffering from a lack of food and was pretty much on his arse when we arrived at the youth hostel at Glen Nevis. Within 20 minutes we were out of the showers and into the Glen Nevis restaurant and it wasn't about to disappoint. Haggis, a cracking burger along with apple pie and custard as well as excellent company, all of that in the shadow of Ben Nevis by sunset. What more could you ask for.

The hostel was by no means the most comfortable of accommodation. As was becoming the norm, it was bloody roasting all night long. Late on it transpired that Chris Yates had bedded down in an already taken spot. You might think that the mild mannered Chris that we have all come to know would have upped sticks and moved beds very apologetically. No way buddy............!

Having to use the A82 out of Fort William was not something I particularly wanted to do but it is the only way in and out of this mountainous region. It particularly turned my stomach after Jason Macintyre had been killed on this very same road only a matter of months previous to planning the trip. We singled out along the shores of upper Loch Linnhe and sat behind Wills back wheel which started to roll along at quite some pace. It was too fast for a lot of the group which served to split us up and make for less problems with passing traffic. The 18.5 miles to Glencoe village at the start of the famous pass took just short of an hour to reach. It made you realise that weight issues between carbon cranks, titanium bolts and other over priced trick bits was pretty irrelevant as Will powered along at a steady 23mph and more when the road allowed, all of 55lbs of bike in tow.

Climbing the Glen was an unusual experience. It was busy but the road is wide and it is not really that much of a problem. The sun was beating down and the gradual gradient allowed you to keep a good pace going. The sweat rolled off your arms whilst banks of snow were clearly visible on the 1000m peaks to the right of the Glen. The piper was playing at the head of the pass although the throng of coaches and tourists trying to get near him spoiled the ambience a little. Shortly after the piper Greg began tapping out a storming rhythm and rode cleanly away from the rest of us, cresting the top of the Glen as he might well have done in his days as an international rider.

Peaking at around 450m, the stretch of the West Highland Way from the top of Glen Coe heading south across the western edge of Rannoch Moor was a welcome change from the busy A82. The track begins a little broken and boulder strewn but you are soon descending rapidly and once again back into the wilderness. The mountains to the west were all snow capped whilst the numerous lochs along the route rippled with active trout stocks feeding on the myriad of insects. Will and myself were probably best equipped to traverse such terrain and as the track dropped we picked up speed rapidly. I saw Will look back and accelerate but I jumped in there and attempted to draw along side. The clock passed through 30mph and the bikes crashed across the rock strewn path blasting aside loose stones and rocks. You had to grip the bars for dear life and just hope that you had a little luck on your side.

Re grouping towards the bottom and after a puncture in Phil's rear tyre, we headed down the stunning Glen Orchy toward the head of Loch Awe that we had last passed several days earlier via its western end. Phil's tyre gave up again and the damage from the off road abuse to the wheel and tyre became apparent. After some patching up we were soon on our way again toward the last climb of the day.

Will powered down again with Chris Yates and Phil on the front. We lost Harry and Phil first as the pace and heat of the day began to take its toll. The next rise saw Yates ease off and as Greg did what he could to limit his losses to Wills blazing trail, I hung on in a very uncomfortable and tortured place. Will was in great shape and as soon as the gradient increased he was away again. This time Greg cracked after a valiant effort and the two of us rolled up the hill as best we could. By the time we regrouped at the top we were very hot, sunburned and knackered.

A little local knowledge allowed me to pull off another sprint for the sign at Inveraray and coffee and coke on the stunning sea front was just what the aching bodies of tired cyclists needed after another tough 70 miles. The evening meal was another stunning success of culinary skills served in the fashion we had by now become accustomed to and all in the beautiful setting of a very old wooden panelled Inn. The wine flowed and the puddings were great, particularly as the piece of cake I was served was considerably bigger than the morsel given to Chris Yates.

The room at the hostel had appeared fine. Very basic but cool and not overcrowded like the 25 bed dorm at Glen Nevis. I felt assured that I was in for a good nights sleep here. I sunk my head into the pillow and a deep slumber clouded my mind, I was out for the count....................Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! I awoke in the eternal flames of damnation. My arms and legs, sunburnt from massive overexposure the previous day were on fire and the air was dripping with melting oxygen. How could this be, I had to get out of this infernal fire. I made my way out of the room in a haze of exhaustion and dreamlike state. I saw Yates standing in the corridor, matchstick rolling between his teeth from one side of his face to the other. "You like it hot ladies", was it all a nasty nightmare? I made my way to the showers and turned on the cold water and immersed my burning carcass. It was cold but I wasn't getting any cooler. I didn't need a towel, the droplets of water turned to steam and looking around I could see all of the windows clamped tightly shut keeping the flames of hellfire locked inside and the midges of death in the black of the night on the outside. Upon returning to bed I attempted to sleep again bit it was no good. The sweat poured off my face and the torment became unbearable. I ripped the sheet from my bed and headed for the door. Tearing along the corridor I found my way into the large open space of the lounge area. The clock said 3am, it was relatively cool and I lay down along the series of chairs that made up something of a settee. Finally I had found a cool haven, finally I got some sleep.

Our final full ride followed the shores of the awesome Loch Fyne. Stunning weather turned the sea into a glassy smooth shimmering body that finds its way deep into the heart of the inland greenery. Tea and shortbread by the Loch is the height of civilised behaviour as the group is all together for the first time since the middle of the previous week. The routes over the previous few days had been tough and anybody with tired legs could sensibly opt for shorter or easier/less ridiculous routes on a daily basis. Not that you might miss out on anything, the alternative routes offer there own stunning landscapes and challenges. Today however, everyone was together and running down the wooded loch side on the minor road was a great sight. For sure we must have been the smartest looking group to pass through these parts for some time, probably years.

A great pub lunch at Otter Ferry before climbing over the narrow peninsular on route to Colintriave. It was the last climb of the tour and exceeded 300 meters into the dense pine forest above Loch Riddon and the Kyles of Bute. The ferry at Colintraive took us across the narrow waterway separating Bute from the mainland and left us with an easy eight miles to do before reaching Rothesay. Greg and Dave took off for the final sign with Dave taking a sneaky back seat and slipping by for the sign at Port Bannatyne.

The Ardynne hotel on the Rothesay seafront was superb for the last night and hats go off to Mike for such an excellent choice. Clean, grand and spacious with lovely cool rooms. The view from the dining room across the bay and across the mouth of Loch Striven was haunting as the low clouds loomed low over the land and light rain fell. A piece of steak so tender the weight of the knife sliced through it. Wine a plenty and coffees in the lounge bar. Some of us further anaesthetised ourselves with peaty single malts. The clock ticked by and as the evening melted away so came the end of another tour.

The ferry from Rothesay took us back to the mainland and another 20 miles of pedalling brought us back to where we had started nine days previously. It had been a stunning and very surreal tour. The planning behind the route flourished as the sunshine and warm temperatures made all of the journey, a plethora of rugged, wooded scenery punctuated with lochs of trout filled freshwater and the long arms of the sea reaching far into the landscape, a beautiful experience. Anyone of us who hadn't been to that part of the world before might well think it is always like that. Anyone of us who has will know that some of those scenes are rarely seen in sunshine and anyone who knows Glencoe will almost certainly have seen the fierce driving rains across Rannoch Moor and the crashing river through the Glen. We were very lucky and along with the benefit of a good organiser in Mike we had as much near 100% perfect tour as anyone could have wished for.

Many thanks to Mike for organising all of the accommodation and great restaurants. Thanks to Will, Mike and Greg for driving us to and from Ardrossan and everyone who was there for creating such a good fun and harmonious group. Will Wright, Mike Bridge, Phil Bridge, Hugh Joseph, Rob and Janet Shaw, Dave Burton, Harry Shaw, Chris Yates, Greg Newton and myself, Chris Riley.

May 25th. Ardrossan to Kilmichael Glassary. 42 miles.

May 26th. Oban and Mull to Tobermoray. 68 miles.

May 27th. Arnamurchan, Mallaig and Skye. 74 miles.

May 28th. Circuit of Skye, Portee, Plockton. 80 miles.

May 29th. Aplecross and the Pass of the Cattle. 92 miles.

May 30th. Skye, Glen Arnisdale, Fort William. 94 miles.

May 31st. Glencoe, West Highland Way. 72 miles.

Jun 1st. Loch Fyne and the Isle of Bute. 58 miles.

Jun 2nd. Wemyss Bay to Ardrossan. 20 miles.

Best part of the trip for me was:-Swimming in Glen Arnisdale and experiencing the surrounding Wilderness. Visiting many places my Mum and Dad took us to when my brother and I were children. Feasting on great food every night and every lunchtime. The company and some great laughs.

Worst part of the trip for me was:-Picking ticks from my skin that were burrowing in and starting to suck blood, you should try killing one of those little suckers. The savagely hot nights in some of the accommodations. The rain on Wednesday afternoon. A series of painful and unsightly cold sores that erupted on Wednesday night.

PICTURES FROM THE TOUR CLICK HERE.

Chris Riley.