Day once dawned and it was horrible. I spent most of last night suffering intense dehydration. I noticed that my demand for water increased with every day and my thirst grew acute quicker each time. Left alone half way up a 2 mile climb, something snapped. The world went pink. I lost my grip, dismounted and walked, Cry me a river? I could have drunk a river. For some reason I agreed to get the second climb out the way too (to ease the next day). The descent was perilous (see yesterday) the ascent: a hill too far. I overshot the end point, carried on climbing and begged a perplexed farmer for water. He came out with a half full chipped mug of water and I remembered that there is a war on. He told me where the llama farm (our halt) was ‘a way back down road’ and I reversed cursing.
My tanks were empty, my thirst disappeared, I wanted to pee but couldn’t, I felt as remote as the hillside I was on. Things got worse, feeling feint, nauseous, and very thirsty. I did the worst thing: 3 pints of best pub water straight. I couldn’t sleep, especially as the pub landlord cut up rough about us changing rooms and Paul got to the pre-emptive punchup phase with him until he agreed not to kick us all out.
We were heavily armed but it was his house (pram) in Nowhere’s Middle.
Cyclists beware the Belgrave Arms in Helmsdale.
There was no real sleep to be had , my waist ached and I went for a walk at 4am coming to terms with the fact that John O’Groats, a mere 40 miles off was 40 miles too far, couldn’t even walk it. I thought I could sit it out for a day, see what happens, but felt better for breakfast even if he served up the previous day’s coffee re-heated. A swift visit to the camp doctor set me straight; pills and potions later we headed off into dense fog. Though Dartmoor was dangerous, this was deadly.
Deadly? Perhaps. Stupid? Certainly sir.
Motorists drive without lights headlong into dense fog: worse than in India. Six people were killed on Scottish roads yesterday. Remote unknown statistics smeared over tarmac and bonnets, like jam on toast, etheir memory, their lives reduced to pathetic roadside shrines “Bunty RIP”
People seemed keen to add to the death count today: cyclists most welcome.
The sun came out in Wick. A jolie Frenchman ran a bistro by the bridge. He married a Scot and must love her muchly to move 1000 miles north 12 years past. His soup was flawless and filled my hollow legs.
This morning I thought the journey all over, now; just 17 miles to go. That’s my home to Diss. Simple.
All the ride I have been trying to set my own pace but when everyone else flies ahead your legs say ‘catch up’ I tried. I failed.
Welcome back both hee-bees and gee-bees (sadly no Bee Gees). Everything went pink again. I got off and walked. 4 weeks ago my trusty 1885 cycle fell off the back of my car at 70mph. John worked miracles on it and there it was beside me, 125 years old and in far better shape than me. Together we ambled into John O’Groats. The heather purple, The hills rusty. The cars gone and we were surrounded by sea and sky and sun.
I forced my iPod onto Guillemots ‘We’re Here’ and ‘If The World Ends’ and wept.
Everyone needs to see Scotland in this weather at some time in their life. Don’t put it off until it’s too late. Welcome John Of ‘Groat’ fame, I don’t know who you were but I didn’t think I’d see you today.
P.S. The ‘Journeys End’ cafe will sell you a salty mucus scone and then a pat of butter for an insulting extra 20p.
There must be a war on.
PPS. The SPICE Restaurant in Brora is a jewel in a crown brighter than any found in Royalist headgear. Ask for the Indian CD whilst you eat…
