Christmas dinner with a difference

Christmas message

It’s Christmas day – I wake up with the Cliff Richard song “Mistletoe and Wine” rattling round in my head. This is not a good thing – since the beginning of December I have been forced to listen to endless Christmas songs played on the shop’s radio station. While some tunes played at this time of year will always be classics e.g. “The Power Of Love” by Frankie goes to Hollywood and “Fairy Tale Of New York ” sung by The Pogues and Kirsty McColl; there are only so many times someone should be subjected to “Santa Claus is coming to town” and “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”. Being charged last night with working the late shift, the evening passed in a blur with an endless stream of customers, many seeking what they had no hope of finding in a small convenience shop on Christmas Eve. A feeling of relief descended upon me as I turned the key in the lock and walked home with only the twinkling stars in the sky to keep me company.

We decide to go to White Port beach for an alternative version of Christmas dinner. Our desire to make the most of the sunny, still day is such that we leave the presents unwrapped under the Christmas tree. Nature produces it’s own present for us – putting on my walking boots at the entrance to the Almorness estate , I notice a bird of prey swooping above the trees straight ahead. It is a red kite and is soon joined by two others – a rare sight over this part of the country. They soon fly off and we start the hour long walk to the beach. This does not go without incident as we take a different route and end up faced with climbing a barbed wire fence. I refuse, as not only do I hate climbing fences, but I have no desire to rip my skin to shreds and have to possibly attend the nearest Accident and Emergency. We retrace our steps and get back on track. Pheasants, sensing that a shooting cease fire has been declared, strut their stuff in the fields and the harsh sound of their “karork – ok –  ok” call fills the air.  We pass Horse Isle Bay and admire the view over the water to Kippford and Rockcliffe, imagining the Christmas feasts which will be enjoyed in some of the grand houses there. In places the ground is extremely boggy and it is necessary to work out a route where ones boots are not likely to disappear under the mud. I hear a strange roaring and quickly realise that it is the sound of the incoming tide lapping the sand. Just over the rise is the beach and it is deserted; no one has walked on it at all today.

Time for Christmas dinner – the disposable barbeque is lit and while we wait for the coals to develop some heat we explore the beach.

Restaurant decorations

Then we get down to the important task of cooking dinner. Two people and a dog arrive, but seeing us, don’t come down to the beach but walk on.

Festive sausages

The sausages are served between rolls with dollops of tomato sauce, washed down with tea as we sit enjoying the tranquillity looking out to sea.

Wave watching

As the sun begins to dip behind the hill we do the “washing up ” and head back to the car. Once more approaching  Horse Isle Bay we see a further four people, two of them are having a more sophisticated version of our dinner – they have a picnic blanket, plates and proper cutlery and I would not be surprised if they had Christmas crackers hiding in their rucksacks.

Screel Hill gets ready for bed

Back at the car it’s muddy boots off and we head for home and the opening of presents.This has been a Christmas day that will never be forgotten. Tomorrow it’s back to work…..

Peanut Butter and Coriander

In all the years I have been a road cyclist the period between November and March has only ever seen me once go out riding on the open road. This is a shocking statistic, especially since I have no problem getting on the mountain bike and being chilled and soaked to the skin or covered from head to foot in mud. This winter I have decided to try and break the pattern. The rear mudguard has been fitted again and I have the added incentive of a new energy bar in my collection of cycling food. I mull over a few routes; trying to steer clear of the more remote, narrow roads as they are likely to be covered in surface water and a layer mud from the farm vehicles that use them. The deciding factor once more concerns food – we require fresh coriander for the Thai themed dinner and since the only herb available in local shops is parsley, a trip out of town is required. We head to Kirkcudbright in the hope that the supermarket there will have some.

A few kilometres into the ride and I am already feeling hungry so I delve into the back pocket of my jacket and pull out the peanut butter flavoured bar. I further justify starting to eat so soon as it is cold and hence I surely will be expending more energy. The salty taste is in sharp contrast to my usual sickly sweet snacks and pleased with my new discovery the 30km to the shop pass quickly. While waiting in the small supermarket car park I finish off the snack. Eunice finally emerges from the shop clutching a packet of coriander – the last one on the shelves.

Long distance shopping

Cold is beginning to penetrate my bones so the pace out of town is stepped up and with Mute Hill coming up I know I will soon be warm. At the foot of the hill we are greeted by the sound of repeated gun fire. As we are close to the military training area this is not unusual but today the red warning flags are not flying. Instead, glancing to the right, two gun dogs wait patiently with their handler – a pheasant shoot is in progress. The birds’ feathers litter the road, having fallen from their frantically beating wings as they flew across the road thinking they were escaping danger only to find themselves flying into a hail of bullets and almost certain death.

The sight of birds falling from the sky does not seem to have affected my appetite. Remembering that I have one more food item left, I once more reach into my rear pocket and pull out a gel. It is not the most exciting thing to eat and it takes seconds to open and squeeze the contents into my mouth but it is sweet and tastes of banana. There is nothing left now but to put more effort into turning the pedals and get home as quickly as possible. Dinner and a warm fire awaits.

Lunch on the move

Letting go

The cycle to Moniave ( the hill of streams) has as its main attraction The Green Tea Room and the fact that the route wends its way through a variety of terrain. Crossing over the A75 the road climbs steadily through picturesque green fields contained within intricate, neat, dry stone walls. This is cow country but as height is gained a cattle grid signifies the start of the moors. Here sheep rule and with no fences even the road is theirs. Exiting the moor the terrain quickly changes back to pasture before Moniave is reached – a village populated with artists and musicians and where, unlike my home town, the pubs look inviting and along with a list of refreshments advertise free Wi-Fi.

Our first trip to Moniave was towards the end of May. The promise of summer was in the air with fresh green shoots still bursting from the trees.

Looking forward

Up on the moors the lambs shadowed their mothers and occasionally spooked by our presence, caused us to slow down as we waited for them to decide whether making their escape from us involved running across the road. The Green Tea Room served grand cheese toasties, eaten while looking out across the gentle rising hills. After lunch the dark clouds threatened rain but only managed a few drops. The old man of Bogrie was smiling.

Stony smile

Now we are entering a season of transition and three months on from the last ride to these parts there is a definite chill in the air. Autumn colours are starting to appear on some trees, the bracken is turning golden and up on the moors the flowering heather has added a purple tinge to the grass. I mourn the passing of the summer wishing I could cling on to it for just a few months more.

Some things don’t change though – the sheep have still not learnt the Green Cross Code and the tea room at Moniave is as welcoming as ever. Today’s toastie seems even bigger and is served with a pile of exotic salads. Getting back on the bike I know I have overeaten and am thankful that I had not been tempted to choose the Haggis filling. Luckily the wind is behind us and we speed along the narrow, twisty single track roads.

Meandering wall

The village of Corsock looks unusually busy – it is The Great Corsock Show. For those with no flowers or produce to exhibit there is an opportunity to enter the scarecrow building competition. This has fired the villagers imaginations and the best exhibit hangs from a mini crane outside the local pub.

Crow revenge

In the final hour of the ride I slowly start to let go of summer. I begin to run through the layering options in my cycling wardrobe, think of walks to deserted beaches and then collecting drift wood to make a fire and huddling round it. Nights spent sat in front of the wood burning stove, whisky in hand while the wind howls outside and rain lashes the windows. Before this the changing colours of autumn mean the shy larch trees once more get their chance to show off before letting their needles drop to the forest floor to form an orange carpet. And more immediately I look forward to our own Flower and Produce show in the town hall tomorrow – unfortunately minus a scarecrow competition.

 

 

Homeward Bound

A new day dawns – the wind has lessened but it is still raining. Lying in my sleeping bag I try to psych myself up for the wet cycle back to Stranraer. I huddle in the tent while Eunice sets about making breakfast. The well travelled tin of custard is opened and served hot with cereal. Wrapping my hands around a warming cup of tea my mood picks up and it even stops raining. As we pack up camp I notice the two fisherman are moving on as well. Before they drive off one of them takes a large bag of litter and hides it behind a rock. Thinking they have not been seen they wave at us as they go past – another clean up job for the already fed up farmer.

Passing the Drumore shop again I insist on stopping for a packet of biscuits. This is so I will have something to eat if my bicycle decides to self destruct on the return journey. The shop is still untidy but there is a new shop assistant who is as dour as the one yesterday. Knowing we need to be served she decides to make a phone call. She sets about ordering a 10 x 6 pink and white birthday cake for Elsie, who being a nurse needs to have something relating to her career displayed on the cake. I decide the manager of my own shop should feel blessed at the quality of staff she employs.

The route back is straightforward and less hilly the we have come to expect and with the wind at our backs the kilometres get eaten up. Just after Sandhead the road turns inland and when we reach the outskirts of Stranraer my thoughts begin to turn to lunch. The van is a welcome sight so it’s a quick change of clothes in the back before the bikes and panniers are stowed away. Heading up to the heart of the town we select a cafe and to celebrate our safe return I opt for an all day Scottish breakfast. The toast arrives first and quickly spreading it with butter I watch as it melts and oozes into the bread. I take a bite – pure heaven ……. !

Zigzagging

The rain has stopped but overhead the clouds are still thick and grey. A blanket of cloud hovers over Ireland but between the two land masses there is a patch of clear sky hopefully coming our way. This is breakfast with a majestic view and we round it off by eating the syrupy sponge cake which was meant to form part of last night’s dessert, postponed due to the rain.

Moody skies

With a tin of custard and some breakfast cereal now our sole supplies, we enquire at the campsite office where we are likely to find shops as we head down to the Mull of Galloway. The man thinks there is probably one in Port Logan and definitely one at Drumore. As we start cycling up the first steep hill I wonder why my usual obsessive planning of what to eat and when has deserted me. I have no gels, energy drink or bars – only water. Lack of food makes me tetchy – this could be a long day.

The roads are narrow and relatively traffic free but suffer from a lack of any directional signs and junctions don’t seem to quite match those on the map. Here we learn a useful navigational aid – farm names. These always appear on Ordinance Survey maps and all farmers display their farm names at the roadside. The layout of the roads is such that we have to ride to the east side of the peninsula before zigzagging over to Port Logan on the west. Approaching Ardwell two cyclists wave cheerily as they rest on a bench outside the church. Hunger is now beginning to bite but spirits pick up as a shop comes into view. It is a chandlery shop but amongst the signs advertising fishing bait, wet suits and boats for sale is one saying “Snacks”. Entering the shop I see nothing but fishing equipment, then I spy a fridge in the corner containing ice creams plus a few bars of chocolate and cans of drink. Fancying none of these it is back on the bikes destination Port Logan. Arriving in the village the beach looks inviting and I can imagine resting my climbed out legs while eating a Scotch egg and a bag of salty crisps. It soon become obvious this will not become a reality – there is no shop. However, there is a pub with a sign saying “open every day of the year” – not today though as it seems to be undergoing renovation.

Forty percent of Scottish dairy cows apparently live in Galloway. The lush green fields are full of fat contented cows quizzically watching as we zigzag back to the east coast in search of food. Along with the farm names are signs indicating the final destination of the milk supply. I keep seeing signs saying “The Caledonian Cheese Company” and start fantasising about eating slabs of extra mature cheddar or devouring toast covered with a thick layer of melted cheese. The views help distract from the hunger pangs – on one side the Whithorn pensinsula on the other Ireland. This is an area of luxury holiday cottages perched at intervals on the high ground, boasting of their 5 star status and mod cons such as wi-fi.

Drumore does indeed have a shop – the most southerly in Scotland. Running my retail eye over the shop I see the shelves are in need of a good facing and worse still the selection of snack food is poor. The shop assistant is dour and does not return our greeting – perhaps it has something to do with my strange outfit. Clutching our supplies we head off to the shoreline for lunch.

Lunch at last

It is at this point that the clouds decide they can no longer hold on to the rain they have been carrying all morning. We are now faced with a dilemma – the plan is to wild camp on a strip of land next to the sea at East Tarbet. However, being wet in the middle of nowhere does not fill us with enthusiasm. The Queens Hotel across the road from the shop looks basic but dry and inviting and they have a room. The man in the tourist office suggests a caravan site on the edge of town which may allow tents and gives us a phone number. This does not prove helpful as there is no mobile phone reception so we ride there to check it out. The site has a pub attached – yes they do have a tent area, the toilet block is out of order but the ones “round the back of the pub” can be used. Before committing  we take a look at it for ourselves. Although there is a view of the sea, the small square of grass is metres away from the window of a caravan. A man sat inside waves and smiles at us and looks excited at the thought of two Lycra clad women younger than himself living just outside his caravan for the night. Decision made – with the rain lessening camping in the wild seems preferable.

The land at East Tarbet is owned by a farmer who allows camping but apparently his patience is wearing thin due to the amount of litter left by some campers. Access is via a steep rough track and I just about have my overladen bike under control when I see two people walking up the hill with four bad tempered looking dogs. One tries to bite Eunice and since the owners seem unable to calm them I get off and walk, giving them as wide a berth as the narrow road allows. There is a small tent and white van at the far end of the beach. Nearest to the road is a building which contains a boat and also seems to double as basic holiday accommodation for the dogs and their owners. After their walk the dogs disappear into the building and mysteriously are not seen or heard for the rest of our stay. We set up camp half way between the tent and the boat shed.  Two fishermen own the tent – one of them walks by carrying an array of fishing equipment. I try to make eye contact with him but he pointedly looks the other way as he drags deeply on his cigarette. I think him rude but later put it down to shyness as we manage to engage him in conversation . He proudly tells us he has caught two dogfish but since he has thrown them straight back into the sea we have to take his word for it.

Close to the building there is a small display board informing of the historical significance of this area. Tarbet means “to draw boat” and rather than risk the wild seas between Luce Bay and the north channel, boats would be pulled from either side across this narrow strip of land.

High grazing

We walk down the main road to the now automated lighthouse at the tip of the Mull of Galloway, then return cross country.

Safety for sailors

The wind is strengthening and blowing straight off the sea. Young sandpipers are scurrying across the sand but as we try to get closer to them they are hurriedly ushered away by their parents. Dinner is cooked and eaten quickly as once more the rain arrives and we shut ourselves in the tent to escape the weather. The rain beats down and is amplified in the small space, while the tent is constantly buffeted by the wind. I begin to feel uneasy and this begins to grow into full blown panic. It is now almost dark and too late to move anywhere else so I go out into the wild weather to reason with myself. Returning it is decided to leave the inner door of the tent slightly unzipped so I feel less claustrophobic and I manage to quickly fall asleep. I wake in the night feeling calmer in spite of the weather still being wild. At regular intervals the lighthouse lamp reflects within the tent and I know I am not the first person to have felt uneasy in this beautiful but wild place.

 

 

 

 

A castle by the sea

Even by my own standards the chosen outfit for the trip to the Mull of Galloway looks ridiculous. I wear baggy mountain bike shorts over three-quarter length Lycra cycling shorts. I try adjusting the shorts at the knees to make it look less like my legs are about to take off. This only makes things worse so I give up. My fully laden bike leans drunkenly against a lamp-post in the long stay car park at Stranraer – it looks like I am setting off to cycle around the world instead of  35km to the southernmost point of Scotland. Quickly glancing at the street map of Stranraer, conveniently displayed at the far end of the car park, we work out how to get onto the road to Portpartick. At first we seem to have taken a wrong turning as we appear to be passing through a housing estate but soon a sign comes into view pointing to our destination and the first hill of the day. The terrain can best be described as undulating but I comfort myself with the knowledge that since Portpartick is by the sea the last part of the day’s ride should surely be downhill? I begin to run out of gears but stubbornly refuse to change into the easiest one – I keep it in case an even steeper hill rears up before me. Giant wind turbines loom at intervals over the countryside, their slightly curved blades slowly turning.

The road leading to the campsite skirts the edge of Portpatrick and yes unsurprisingly it is uphill. My “what goes up must come down” theory of earlier was wishful thinking as the campsite actually sits on top of high cliffs. Two women chat to each other from their respective gardens and look on interestedly as we pedal slowly past. I am forced into my easiest gear but there is still a point on the last few metres of the hill when I think the bike will come to a grinding halt and then start to go backwards. Pursing my lips and puffing out my cheeks I push hard on the pedals and reach the summit still sat on the bike.

The entire camping field is ours so we pitch the tent on the outer edge, out of sight of the caravans and campervans. A large flattish rock serves both as a seat and a table. Nearby, the sinister crumbling remains of Dunskey Castle look out over the sea to Ireland. Built in the 12th century these walls have witnessed much. A colony of Jackdaws are nesting in the ruins and there is the constant sound of their “tchack tchack” call. Occasionally one comes down to strut on the grass near the tent in search of food. Curiosity seems to get the better of the campsite workers as well. A man driving a sit on mower circles around the tent. The grass looks like it has recently been cut and he gives himself away as the blades of his machine are raised and therefore incapable of cutting anything.

A ten minute walk along the cliff top path takes us into Portpatrick.  This is the official start of the 341km Southern Upland coast to coast walk. Pride of place in the small picturesque harbour goes to the blue and orange RNLI lifeboat. Seventy shipwrecks in the space of 150 year bears testament to the dangerous waters of this coastline

Wrecked remains

Dinner is eaten sat in the sun outside a local pub. The table is covered in fine grains of sand blown over the road from the small beach. Angry black clouds start to appear heralding a change in the weather. Quickly purchasing a tin of custard for dessert from the about to close local shop, we hurry back along the cliffs reaching the tent just as the first drops of rain fall.

 

 

Testing equipment

With the summer plan being to explore Galloway using a combination of cycling and camping; we decide on an overnight trip to test equipment and technique. My faithful hybrid bike, which when living in England had been used on a daily basis to commute to work, has for the past year been cooped up in a garage. I lovingly wash and polish it. However, lack of use has caused the front derailleur to jam solid. Not wanting to spend vast amounts of money to repair it, I spray it with copious amounts of lubricant, joggle it about and leave overnight. Success – next morning it is free. The brakes still work, the gears seem to change and the tyres don’t look too worn so with the weather favourable the trip is on.

Having lived in three different houses over the last ten months it takes some time to find all the camping equipment. Some years ago my first combined cycle and camping trip taught me a valuable lesson – when fitting panniers to the back rack always check the pedals turn without your foot hitting them. Arriving late by ferry on the Isle of Mull and knowing we needed to reach our pre-booked campsite by 20:00 or we would not be let in – I discovered that the only way to pedal was by using my heels. So short of time this is how I cycled the five or so kilometres to the overnight stop. Determined for this not happen again I take the panniers up to the garage and check they fit properly.

On the day of the trip I load the bike up – pannier on either side with the tent on the back rack. I have forgotten how unwieldy and back heavy this makes the bike feel and I am relieved I have chosen the flat instead of clipped in pedal option. Mounting the bike I travel for all of a few metres before realising my feet are hitting the panniers. Preparation has obviously not been thorough enough. The bike is unpacked – at which point it starts to rain. After a few adjustments with a screwdriver, but still not entirely happy with how it fits, we finally hit the road. At least the rain has stopped.

It’s a slow 12ish km ride to the campsite and I begin to realise that the bike is possibly in need of a proper service. Gear changing is far from crisp and the brakes could be sharper. The destination is Taliesin. Nestling on the lower slopes of Screel Hill this site is owned by the South West Community Woodlands Trust. Passing under the archway leading up to it I hear my first cuckoo of the year.

Welcome Arch

There are two partially open sided bunkhouses on either side of the communal fire area. Unfortunately some of the bunks have been removed and used for firewood. An outside kitchen area has a sink with water piped from a nearby spring. Various kitchen utensils hang from hooks above it.

All mod cons

On the far side of the clearing is a compost toilet. The small thatched hut is built from wood and mud, the seat is comfortable and in addition to a small sink with spring water there is a wooden sign indicating whether the facility is in use. There is a gap between the roof and wall so while sitting on the seat it is possible to take in the fine views over to Potterland Hill. Habit makes me look for a handle to flush it with.

Toilet with a view

 

Sign of occupation

A flat piece of ground is selected and the tent is pitched. With no other humans here the bikes are allowed to stay in the bunkhouse.

Perfect pitch

Firewood is legitimately collected and soon we have a roaring fire. Dinner cooked and eaten, an old kettle is fetched from the “kitchen” and used to boil hot water for the dishes.

Washing up

As the sun goes down we toast marshmallows in the flames. Practice makes perfect and by the end of the packet we seem to have mastered the technique. With the moon rising over the shoulder of Screel Hill we head for bed.

Moonshine

Getting up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night an amazing sight greets me. It is if the sky has been lightly white washed with cloud, off which the moonlight reflects. Visible through the thin clouds are hundreds of stars and from the forest I hear the hoot of an owl. Climbing back into my sleeping bag I suddenly feel very small and vulnerable out here in the wild. I imagine I hear strange noises outside the tent but soon sleep takes me again.

We awake to a myriad of bird song and the cuckoo seems to have moved to the other side of the valley. Camp is packed up slowly – a full Scottish breakfast awaits at a cafe in the village of Palnackie on the route home but it only opens at 10:00. The test expedition has been a success and over breakfast a plan starts to formulate for a trip to the southernmost point of Scotland.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beaches, books and a birthday

It is my birthday and my body has started to feel old. Whether this is due to the number of years I have lived or the battering I regularly dish out to it, I am undecided. Nevertheless, birthdays need to be celebrated and since it coincides with my day off it is an opportunity to explore new territory – The Machars, a peninsular in Galloway.

First there is work to be done. We stop off near Sorbie to collect logs from a man who looks after a wood. Loading the lengths into the van I keep getting distracted by the newly arrived swallows as they dart across the sky above the disused farm buildings.

The plan is to walk from Garlieston along the coast to Sliddery Point, which sounds like an interesting place to have a birthday sandwich. On the way into the village I am intrigued by the notice setting out green fees for the bowling club – women pay less. Is this because they play less or a discount for their refreshment making duties?

Cheaper rates

A few cockle boats are tied up in the small harbour, their rusty, flaking paint work testimony to a hard life at sea.

Ageing rustiness

Another view

My continuing failure to read a map is soon evident. I had pictured a cliff top walk – instead the path meanders gently at sea level passing between ancient trees beneath which bluebells still flower. A few dairy cows are sitting next to the shoreline, chewing cud and looking out of place. There is a pungent smell of wild garlic in the air which at times becomes overpowering.

Woodland walk

Rigg Bay is reached and with Sliddery Point some way off and hunger setting in, we find a comfortable rock away from the smell of garlic and eat. It is here that the artificial Mulberry harbours were tested and modified before being used in the Normandy landings of World War Two.

The grounds of Galloway House, once the seat of the Earl of Galloway, back onto the bay. Since there is no sign saying private property and the gates are open, we walk through. I fear we may be shot as trespassers but it soon becomes evident that visitors are encouraged to visit the estate grounds. Large Rhododendron bushes of varying hues are in full bloom but the famous Handkerchief tree is not. Minus its flowers it looks very nondescript. We head out of the gardens back across farmland to Garlieston.

Hidden flower

I love books – not just reading them, but the smell of them and the feel of their pages. So the final stop is Wigtown – Scotland’s national booktown. With fourteen second hand bookshops and numerous tea shops what more could a birthday girl want? The musty smell of old books mingles with the earlier smell of wild garlic in my nose. Faced with floor to ceiling bookshelves, I manage to remain disciplined and buy only one book.

Reflecting

In the cafe I wonder what Russian Caravan tea tastes like before deciding to opt for the conventional kind and a scone. I leave thinking the scone could of been bigger. Unfortunately, the nearby Bladnoch Whisky Distillery has once more shut due to financial woes. A visit there would have been an even better end to an already perfect birthday.

No longer hanging around

For over a year the road bike’s mudguards have remained in their packaging. At first they hung from the leaking roof in the garage. Wet summer roads last year resulted in spray in the face of any following rider, and as a reminder of my laziness, a wet dirty mark up my bottom and cycling jersey. They made the journey to the new house and took up shelter from yet another leaking roof in an old chest of drawers which had been left in the garage by the previous owner.

Hanging around

With the coming of spring my mind starts to turn towards getting back on the road. I have missed the therapeutic rhythmic turning of the pedals, the ever changing scenery which comes with covering long distances and the compulsory cafe stop part way through the ride. I conclude the mudguards need to be fitted and I carry the bike down the steep driveway into my workshop – the warm kitchen. Reading the instructions carefully I easily fit the rear mudguard. The front one proves problematic and no matter how I adjust it, still touches the tyre. A quick look on the internet confirms that other cyclists have had the same problem, so I abandon the idea of a front mudguard  and resign myself to dirty overshoes.

A sunny, dry day dawns. I toy with the idea of changing the clear lenses in my cycling glasses to ones that will shade the sun, then decide against it. I want to both experience the brightness of the light flooding my brain and see my surrounding in their natural colours. Yellow daffodils wave at us from the grass verge. Looking down at a clump of purple heather I notice a bumblebee looking for sustenance. We stop briefly in a layby next to  a field of young sheep. Still too young to produce lambs this spring, they concentrate on nibbling the new shoots of grass. Further on newly born lambs look unsteady on their feet as they take in their new world.

A rural rest

I slowly start to feel at one with the bike and relax into a pedaling rhythm. The wet winter has resulted in the appearance of many new potholes, some of wheel swallowing proportions. Vigilance is required to avoid hitting any and at times I am slaloming in and out of them feeling more like a mountain biker. Sections of road still have water running down them and in spite of my new mudguard I do my best to steer clear of it.

At the Loch Arthur cafe a solitary bike is leaning against the railings; an old straight handled model with no sign of modern day carbon. The pedals have traditional leather toe straps and hanging from the saddle is a large battered leather bag. Settling down at our table to peruse the menu I hear a voice say “It’s good to be fit”. The bike’s owner reveals himself – a man who looks well into his 70’s limps past on his way to the counter, his old brown leather cycling shoes gleaming with polish.

I am starving but not wanting to get back on the bike feeling stuffed and lethargic decide to order only half a bacon, vegetable and cheese pie. This is a mistake as it is served on a plate the size of a saucer and there is more salad than pie. Still hungry I remember an energy bar in my jersey pocket. It was meant to have been eaten five months ago but the warmth of my body has softened it and it tastes delicious washed down with a hot cup of tea.

Taking a new route home we end up riding past the local sawmill. The road here is coated in a layer of brown muddy water and although my bottom stays mud free and dry the bike ends up coated in a layer of gunge. Before any post ride relaxation can take place its out with the hose pipe in order to restore the bike’s pristine whiteness.

 

Going with the flow

The met office has announced a yellow be aware warning for heavy rain and possible flooding. Ignoring this we set off on the half hour drive to the trail centre at Kirroughtree. It is now all just water off a duck’s back. The clouds are getting ready to part with their excess water. In preparation they have rolled down the hillside and even the tops of the trees on the lower slopes are hidden.

Although now complete, the impressive visitor centre is disappointingly not open. I already begin to wonder where my traditional post ride tea and cake will come from.  The large car park contains only one other vehicle, so at least the trails will be quiet. It begins to rain with almost the first turn of our pedals. Having only ridden here once before I am soon completely absorbed by the flow of the trail. Lost in the moment I no longer notice the ever increasing heavy rain, the mud or the cold. For two hours we just ride.

Entering “The Last Tango” near the end of the trail my body starts to protest – my thigh muscles burn and my left foot starts to cramp from the efforts of being out of the saddle for most of the ride. A small rock chute nearly proves my undoing. Fatigue means my concentration is slipping, and with the bike not properly aligned I seem to go through it sideways like a crab. For once my inclination is not to grab on the brakes and the bike seems to sort things out for me. The rock spits me out, still upright, and heading in the right direction downhill.

As we pedal slowly along the wide, smooth final section of trail, I look down at myself for the first time. My clothes are soaked and covered in mud. Water is dripping off the peak of my helmet and I begin to realise how cold it has become. I glance across at Eunice, and realise that my face too must be flecked with mud.

Muddy, wet smile

Arriving back at the van we notice a third car. A man, woman and a dog are getting ready to set out on a walk. They fail to make eye contact – possibly horrified at the sight of two middle aged women on mountain bikes, soaked to the skin and plastered with mud. Leaning the bikes against the van, we change quickly into dry clothes, start the engine for some warmth and devour the sandwiches which we had the foresight to bring with us. We ponder where the nearest open cafe will be.

Fed but not watered we load up and head for Creetown and the Gem Rock Museum. A welcome sign outside declares “Cafe Open” and tea is taken sitting on a comfortable sofa whilst looking through a glass table at a display of gemstones and rocks.

Gem tea

I drink my pot of tea slowly, reluctant to head home to a house with no heating ( the boiler is being replaced) and knowing that a lot of cleaning lies ahead.