On the road again at last, and time for another big push. My legs were working well, having been well rested, and I had also overestimated the day's distances, so when I reached my intended target of Glencoe I just had to keep going. In the end, I was only 8 miles off my second century ride, and I do confess I was tempted.

Anne had offered to take my baggage for some of the way, as she was taking Grandma and Uncle Gordon up to her croft in Sutherland and was therefore going the same way as me. I planned to set off at 7 in order to get in as many miles as possible before they caught me. In the end I was on the road by 8, which really wasn't bad going. The others were planning to set off at about 11, so I reckoned I'd make it to Crianlarich, about 38 miles, before they caught me.

The early part of the ride was tough. Ferox was back with a vengeance, howling down Loch Long. Then, after about 3.5 miles, so far too early for me to be fully warmed up, I hit the massive hill of the road to Garelochhead. There are two roads to Garelochhead from Kilcreggan, the reasonably flat one all along the Loch, or the shorter one which rises high over Gare Loch and Loch Long. Despite the effort involved, the latter is the more logical to take. I had to push for much of the way up. About halfway up a car passed and the driver waved at me. Now I'm not sure if this was someone I'd met at the boat club, or just a cheerful native.

Once at the top of the climb the views were magnificent. I got a particularly good view of the Royal navy base at Faslane, with its Nuclear submarines and escorts. The carrier Illustrious had been there a couple of days earlier, but had left again. The descent towards Garelochhead was a long, steady one, which then steepened as the road dipped towards Loch Long. At one point it reached 1 in 6, but the wet conditions, bumpy surface and poor sight lines meant I had to brake all the way down.

Along the shore of Loch Long, Ferox was back again. This road, the Arrochar road, may be a terrible road if you're travelling by car, but it's wonderful for cycling. The surface is not nearly as bad as it appears in the car, and the constant undulations, which make me so sick whenever I'm a passenger in a car along here, are actually very good for cycling, as they are just the right size to keep the momentum going. I thoroughly enjoyed this stretch, as I spun along at a fair pace - 12-15mph - while trying to picture the Viking in their longships sailing up the Loch to Arrochar, where they brought their ships ashore and dragged them across the isthmus to Loch Lomond. The absence of modern buildings on the far shore and the wonderfully calm water made this quite easy to visualise. I passed the Royal Navy station about halfway up the Loch, where the enormous RFA Fort George was taking on provisions. I have no idea what purpose this ship serves, but it is very imposing, whatever it does!

I got to Arrochar and stopped for a fuel and toilet break. Arrochar is a pleasant village at the head of Loch Long, but at 9 on a Monday morning there isn't much to do there! I took the road to Tarbet and down to the shore of Loch Lomond. This road was not as long or steep as I had anticipated, and I doubt it could have taken the Vikings much more than a day to bring their boats across here, so they must have had a considerable element of surprise when they suddenly appeared on the Loch!

A little way up Loch Lomond there is a large car park, which was full of coaches. A pleasure boat offers cruises of the Loch from here, and the views down the Loch and of the surrounding mountains are magnificent, so I had to stop here for a few minutes. Along this stretch of the A82 they had just built a nicely paved path, separated from the road by a strip of small sharp rocks (which invariably ended up on the path). I sincerely hope that this is a footpath, and they haven't subsequently put up signs proclaiming it to be a shared use path, as it's only about a metre wide with very few access points from the road.

The A82 along this stretch is quite narrow with poor sight lines, but traffic wasn't heavy when I rode it, and drivers generally behaved themselves impeccably, so I never felt uncomfortable. At one point the road narrowed to single file traffic controlled by lights. The age-old problem of traffic light sensors not spotting bicycles was solved by means of a push button for cyclists. When I arrived there was no vehicle behind me, so I pressed the button, and the lights changed almost instantly. I felt almost like royalty as I sailed past a long queue of cars heading the other way, with me being the only vehicle heading North!

Beyond Loch Lomond the road widens again, and although it rises up a long steady climb, it's quite sheltered, so I could keep up a fair pace of about 11mph. I somehow managed to miss the Falloch Falls, a few miles short of Crianlarich, which was a pity as I remembered them to be very picturesque and I had intended to visit them, as time was still very much on my side. I probably missed them as I was much closer to Crianlarich than I had thought, and therefore hadn't started looking out for them when the road suddenly dipped sharply and I found myself in Crianlarich after just 36 miles, 2 less than I had estimated. Crianlarich is little more than a glorified railway junction, with nothing notable to stop for, so I pressed on to Tyndrum.

This stretch came as a very pleasant surprise, and yet was awful too. I had calculated that Tyndrum was 50 miles from Kilcreggan. In fact, as I left Crianlarich, the sign said it was just 5 miles away, so just 41 miles from Tyndrum. I have no idea how I could have made such an enormous mistake, but it certainly helped me in terms of making progress through the highlands. Glencoe was now just 30 odd miles beyond Tyndrum, so I'd probably be able to make Ballachulish that day. However, the 5 miles to Tyndrum were sheer hell, a long, hard climb being accompanied by Ferox doing his worst. I crawled into Tyndrum at a snail's pace, and stopped at a little garage shop for some food.

Tyndrum is a little village, which appears to exist only as a supply base for walkers and other travellers in this part of the highlands. Not unattractive, there doesn't appear to be much to do there, just a couple of restaurants, hostels and shops, plus two railway stations - Upper Tyndrum, on the Fort William branch out of Crianlarich, and Lower Tyndrum, on the Oban Line. It was rather odd to ride up from Crianlarich to Tyndrum flanked by railway tracks on either side!

Tyndrum was also rather busy, and I felt this was not the best place to look out for Anne's car, or for her to spot me, so I decided to have my lunch a little way out of the village. It had just gone 12, so I imagined they'd be along before too long. There was a little climb up out of Tyndrum, just past where the A82 Fort William road and the A85 to Oban split. Just beyond the top of this climb there was a lay-by, from which I could easily survey the road below, and where I'd be visible to Anne as she approached. So I stopped here and had my delicious lunch of a cheese sandwich, a giant Yorkie bar and a bottle of Irn Bru.

Why do I buy Irn Bru whenever I go to Scotland? Normally I wouldn't touch the stuff with a barge pole. Yet the moment I cross the border I think "Oh, Irn Bru, why not? After all, it's typically Scottish." Well, it's more than that. It's revolting. Also it repeated on me several times as I rode off again after lunch. Too gassy!

So, still no sign of Anne and company. Not to worry, they'd be coming up this road, so they couldn't miss me, and then all they'd have to do is pull into the nearest lay-by. The road carried on climbing steadily through beautiful scenery, some of the finest on offer in Scotland. Passing the Bridge of Orchy without seeing my baggage train, and carried on, climbing up the long drag up the Black Mount. I pulled into the large car park overlooking Loch Tulla and the imposing Stob Ghabhar. A horde of kids swarmed around me, and I let one of them have a go on Mercury, though with some misgivings. He was really far too short to be able to control Mercury properly. At first he did OK, and got going on the second attempt. But I was right - he was too short, and lost control as he stopped. The fall pushed the bars askew, and something didn't feel right. In the end I worked it out - the brake lever had also been skewed by his fall. I decided it was time to reclaim Mercury, and the teacher accompanying the group was not keen to let others have a go either. Still, the kids seemed impressed, so I must have gained some brownie points!

Finally Anne and co pulled into the car park, though they nearly missed me and appeared to be about to carry on up the road! They hadn't left till 11.45 in order to give me more time without being encumbered by luggage. I made good use of this time, as I had come 52.7 miles by this point. I rigged up all my luggage, said my farewells, and set off once more. Soon I was in the Highlands, and stopped for a photo, and shortly afterwards I was crossing Rannoch Moor, a wonderful, bleak, windy, beautiful place. There was a sign at the summit, 1141 feet up. Having started at sea level, I knew that I had climbed 1141 feet more than I had descended that day, and as my target destination of Ballachulish, or maybe even Fort William, lie at sea level, I'd be coming down 1141 feet more than I had left to climb. This felt good! Time for another photo. As I tried to rejoin the road after this photo, the bow wave of an oncoming tanker truck blew my hat into the ditch. Thanks a bunch. Back to the sign, I propped Mercury against it and went chasing my hat. My second attempt to rejoin the road was more successful, and I made for the mists that perpetually surround Glen Coe.

The weather had been very kind up till now, with only the odd drizzly shower here and there, most notably entering Tyndrum. But the road ahead looked more ominous - well, it always does in Glen Coe, doesn't it? The rain started increasing, with worse ahead. So, as I approached the ski station, the big question was, to don waterproofs or no? I dithered for some time, unable to make up my mind, so I decided to leave it to fate: if the next car to pass me was light coloured, I'd carry on, if it was dark I'd stop and put on my waterproofs. It was brown - is that light or dark? I decided that it was dark, but only just, so I'd stop to put on my waterproof trousers and jacket, but not my overshoes, which I didn't like wearing at the best of times, on account of my feet overheating as well as the loss of grip on wet tarmac. Remember the near miss in Penzance? Well, it had not been the only time I'd felt my foot starting to slip.

Donning waterproofs was a good call, as the more I rode into Glen Coe, the wetter it got. But it was the wrong sort of rain, as the more it came down, the more cheerful it got. Or maybe I just took pity on the poor sods passing me in their hermetically sealed cars. They might as well have stayed at home and rented a video of Glen Coe, for all they were experiencing of the place! As if singing "Loch Lomond" to myself earlier on in the day, as I rode up, you've guessed it, Loch Lomond, I now churned out the likes of Lindesfarne's non-hit "The Fog on Loch Fyne", and "Singing in the Rain". As the heavens opened, I reverted to whistling the old classic "Steptoe & Son", for some inexplicable reason. The few hikers I passed must have wondered what the hell was going on. I shouted "Gorgeous scenery" (for it was truly magnificent) over to a group of backpackers wearing long ponchos over their rucksacks, who had stopped to watch me go by. A couple high up on a hillside also stopped to watch me, so I gave them a cheery wave, and they waved back. I was on an absolute high, with good reason: this was one of the most magnificent stretches I had ridden all trip. The rain only added to the atmosphere. Besides, clad in Gore-Tex, I wasn't going to get soaked by this light rain (it was nothing like the drenching stuff in Tintagel).

I adore Scotland. The scenery is among the finest in the world, the people are much more friendly than down South (the number of people who waved or gave me the thumbs up on any given day North of the Clyde exceeded the total of all my journey through England). Yep, this is God's Own Country, no matter what Yorkshire folk tell you.

There's a bit of a nasty climb up to the top of Glen Coe, and I stopped at the top of it to catch a final view of Rannoch Moor, and then it was a most adorable glide down the other side to Glencoe village. I had one hairy moment when I turned a blind corner to find a coach doing a three point turn, but I didn't have to slow down too much before a gap appeared for me to nip through. The pillock driving the coach then proceeded to sit right on my tail for the next half mile of the descent, before overtaking me and promptly slowing down and pulling into a car park. It takes all sorts...

I was tempted by signs to a pub advertising a wide range of real ales as well as accommodation in Glencoe village, but decided that I had time to get to Fort William if I pushed on a bit. I did stop off in the visitor centre though, mainly for the loo. I also wanted to know more about the infamous Glencoe Massacre, so I paid my 50p admission and went in. Unfortunately I couldn't find any information about the massacre. They did have a lot of information on local wildlife, and a 14 minute film about the area, but I didn't want to leave Mercury unattended, so I forewent this, bought some postcards and left again. Outside I was assailed by a group of women who had passed me in their car not long before. They asked all manner of questions about Mercury and my journey, and appeared to be most impressed. I felt quite flattered by this admiration, as I always found it encouraging and gave me heart, especially in moments of doubt. So well done and thank you Joe Public for keeping my morale up!

The next stretch down to Ballachulish was hard work, as Ferox had invited Rapax along for a bit of a race. At least I had some entertainment for the first while as I watched a rescue helicopter hovering around the top of Meall Mór, either conducting an exercise or maybe actually engaged in a mountain rescue mission. Whatever it was doing, the flying looked quite precarious, especially in that wind, so I took my hat off to the skill of the pilot. Passing Ballachulish, it felt like cousin Atrox had joined the race. I got a little respite crossing the bridge over Loch Leven, taking the lane on account of the strong headwind - I had no desire to be blown sideways into a passing vehicle! Approaching Onich I bonked badly, and stopped for emergency peanut and Lucozade rations (the best they had on offer) at the local post office. It was interesting to read the notices outside the post office, as most of them were bilingual in English and Gaelic, the first public notice board of that nature I had seen.

Moving off again in a light shower, I encountered a pair of idiots in ponchos coming the other way on heavily laden tourers - on the pavement! Unfortunately the sight of the red and green capes blowing in the wind conjured up the Superman music in my mind, which I subsequently spent ages trying to exorcise again…

The final push up to Fort William was beautiful. The road was quite flat, and ran alongside the beautiful Loch Linnhe. The rain had stopped, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. All colours took on a crystal clear quality - the deep blue sky, the green, purple and grey of the hillside opposite, the dark blue Loch which looked incredibly inviting (and was, no doubt, freezing cold!). I had to stop to take some photos, which naturally are pale imitations of the true scenery.

The road into Fort William was lined with acceptably-priced B&Bs, making me wonder why I should bother camping. But I decided to camp nonetheless - I hadn't done so since Dent, so it was high time, frankly. I made for the tourist office in the town centre, but it had just closed by the time I reached it, and the sign outside was utterly useless. So I went shopping instead, and bought myself a silly See-you-Jimmy hat (for the rugby world cup, of course). I also found a potential place for dinner, a restaurant serving haggis. I'd had a craving for haggis all day, despite not seeing any frolicking in the heather on Rannoch Moor. The restaurant also promised a Scottish Show every evening, so I had to check what time it was on - so I could make sure I avoided it!

Consulting my campsite guide, I found an attractive sounding site on the banks of the Loch, about 4 miles out of town. While heading towards it I found signs to another, closer site, so, having already done 92 miles, I decided that enough was enough. I rode down Glen Nevis and found an attractive campsite nestled in the shadow of Ben Nevis. It was by far the busiest campsite I'd been to all trip, but not too busy, so I checked in and found myself a nice little sheltered spot. The campsite shop only sells tinned haggis, which in my experience is vile, and I couldn't cook there anyway as there were far too many midges. Especially in the nice sheltered spot where I had pitched my tent! I must confess that I am a bit of an amateur camper, especially in Scotland, so I didn't know that midges congregate in sheltered spots. Or maybe they just congregate in my tent.

I was all set up just in time for "I'm sorry I haven't a clue" (which I'd missed in Dent the previous week), so I listened to that while doing my necessary washing duties. I think I attracted to odd weird look from the people washing up around me as I giggled and guffawed while doing my washing. Never mind, they were only Germans, what do they know about humour?

The Germans

The Germans were everywhere. There must have been more Germans in Scotland than in Germany at the time. The campsite was full of them, the roads were full of them (I even saw a Triumph Spitfire Mk 4 with Darmstadt plates, just like the one owned by our neighbours when we lived in Griesheim). There was a tent next to mine with a washing line, with all socks paired up nicely, and everything held in place by clothes pegs. I saw the owners later on that evening…Germans, who else? That evening in the pub I was surrounded by them, as they wished me "Good Appetite" as I tucked into my dinner. The only cycle tourists I encountered in the Highlands were End to Enders or Germans. Still, if they want to come over and buy our over-valued pounds, good luck to them!

The pub attached to the campsite did haggis, so I was happy. One large portion of haggis and a couple of pints of McEwan's 80 I was very happy indeed. I picked up a leaflet from the company that produces Fraoch heather ale. They also do a series of other interesting looking traditional ales. I decided to try the Alba, made from Scots pines (well, the sap, I presume), and allegedly a good digestif. Unfortunately the pub had run out of all of these special ales, so it was keg McEwan's or nothing at all. So I went back to bed instead. I had come over 90 miles, but I felt quite sprightly for it. Gareth kept me up to date with the latest Tour de France news, which was good of him, as I really needed to take my mind off cycling from time to time…