This was meant to be an early start. Up at 6.30, breakfast at 7, leave at…8.45. Damned chatty landlady! It would have been rude to break off the conversation though. Leaving Dingwall, I passed a road sign. Tain was a whopping 25 miles from there, so it was definitely a good thing that I had not tried to get there the night before! Besides, having studied my map, I had now changed my route, and Tain was about 10 miles off it!

The start was fairly quiet and very flat, and the road along the side of some woods. All of a sudden a golden eagle emerged from the trees 10 metres ahead of me, and proceeded to ride along the road for a short while before veering off again. That was one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen, on or off a bike - riding right behind a golden eagle, the wing span of which covered the better part of the lane! It certainly eclipsed the red squirrel I had seen the day before on the climb out of Drumnadrochit. And yes, it was most definitely an eagle - I've checked in various books to compare eagles and buzzards. And no, I didn't get a photo.

The A9 was a busy road. Well, no, I lie, it wasn't anything like my usual concept of busy, but it was busy by local standards. It was also very wide, so there was no problem with traffic, and besides, I soon left the A9 again to take the B9176 across Easter Ross to Bonar Bridge, thus cutting out the long coast route via Tain. This was a lovely quiet road rising high up only to descend again to Dornoch Firth. But why did they have to signpost it as a tourist route? Let the cars stay down on the A9 where they belong! The road rose up and up and up. Oh, and occasionally it dipped down pointlessly just to rise up again. But the scenery was wonderful, and made the climb well worth while. But I needed the loo. I found a nice quiet, secluded spot near a rock bearing a plaque. It was once attached to a tree, which was planted by the Seaforth Highlanders and the London Scottish to commemorate the latters' march through the Highlands in 1937, or so the plaque informed me. A second plaque told me that the tree was destroyed in 1985, hence it was now on a rock instead. Fascinating stuff.

There followed a long plateau with stunning views to the North, with the road sweeping elegantly across it, and featuring what must surely be the world's longest cattle grid. I built up my speed as I approached in order not to grind to a halt on it as I freewheeled across. As I passed over it I feared the shuddering would never end! The sun was now burning its way through the high-level cloud, and the colours of the moorland started intensifying. I pulled in at a viewing point overlooking Dornoch Firth. A group of bikers, three from Perth and one from Wick, had also stopped there, and we all had a wee natter before setting off again. There was also a young boy there with his mother. This boy had the audacity to show more interest in the motorbikes than in my recumbent! I stormed off, indignant.

The charge down the hill was one of the most magnificent of my entire trip. It was glorious. The only sticky moment involved a blind bend, a logging truck and a narrow bridge. But my V brakes didn't let me down. Before I knew it I was in Sutherland, my ancestral homeland, and in Bonar Bridge, with its bonnie bridge. I stopped in the store by the bridge and found the most amazing bonk fuel ever. Sadly, I can't remember the name exactly, something like Walker's Scotch Bun, basically something on a par with Christmas pudding. It was brilliant, and got me through Sutherland feeling strong like an ox! A postman came over and asked me about Mercury, and how much he cost. I told him over £1000, and he answered that he realised that, but how much exactly. I shouldn't be surprised if mail is being delivered in the Bonar Bridge by recumbent cycle by now!

Bonar Bridge is a pretty little village, and I suspect has benefited aesthetically if not economically from the building of the A9 Dornoch Firth crossing from Tain, relieving it of congestion. I set off, the weather improving constantly and bathing the Kyle of Sutherland in glorious sunshine. Lairg was my next destination, by way of the Shin Falls. I'd have to stop before too long, as I was again wearing my tights and therefore overheating my legs. But this time I had them on on top, so they'd be easier to remove! I passed the magnificent youth hostel at Culrain, an old converted castle. Then I followed the signs to Shin Falls, which were 2 miles away. I could live with a 4 mile detour. But to my delight I found that the little road to the falls subsequently continued all the way to Lairg, so there was no detour involved at all. This was my first stretch of single track road in Scotland, but it was nearly deserted, so I could keep my momentum going without constant stops to let traffic pass.

The car park and gift shop at the falls looked ominous, and were full of Dutch and German tourists. I noticed 2 German looking tourers propped against some trees. No surprise there then! I stripped down a layer and popped down to the falls, leaving Mercury in top gear to deter anyone trying to run off with him. By the falls I spotted 2 cyclists sitting on the rocks watching for salmon jumping up the falls, and matched them to the bikes. I chatted to them for a while, and yes, as predicted, they, too, were German. Then I had to dash - plenty more miles to eat, and besides, I didn't like leaving Mercury out of sight.

Lairg lies at the end of Loch Shin, and this makes its location very picturesque. I stopped at a shop for lunch, and picked up some bananas. Again, I notice how much I like the Highland accent. Well, OK, so I'm biased! I noticed the hotel where I'd eaten the last time I was in Lairg in 1993 was now all boarded up, which was a pity, as it was a pleasant little place. The real trouble with Lairg, indeed the Highlands as a whole, however, was mobile phone reception, coupled with an absence of credit card phones. I tried to book my return trip on the Caledonian Sleeper from Lairg, but couldn't get any reception. As I left Lairg a policeman crossed the road ahead of me and called over hello, and asked where I was heading. "Lairg" "Good for you!" What a cheerful chap! A little further up the road I stopped for the wonderful view over Loch Shin and the Western Sutherland mountains.

The rest of the day's mileage would be along single track roads. The road wound its way dramatically over the beautiful high moorland, scattered with occasional stretches of woodland. I was stopped alongside one such wood when I heard the noise of a jet engine, but thought little of it. The noise got louder and louder, and all of a sudden an RAF Tornado came thundering across directly overhead at a height of about 50 metres, all very dramatic. Another passed by to the South. This is their prime European training ground, now that they have stopped flying low in Germany.

Passing through another large wooded section I encountered a large number of lorries as there was extensive forestry work going on there. This made the journey quite unpleasant, as I kept having to pull in for oncoming trucks and trucks coming from behind. One sticky encounter involved 2 trucks meeting head on, and me sandwiched in between. This really wouldn't do! I saw a motorbike parked by the side of the road, and approached the rider to ask him where the trucks were coming from - if the Bettyhill road, I'd head for Tongue that night, and vice versa. Before I had had a chance to stop and open my mouth the bloke asked me "Aus Münster?" What??? "Nee, aus London". We got chatting in German, and it turned out that he was from Münster, where there are loads of recumbents, indeed where, according to him the recumbent was invented (utter rubbish, actually). So, upon seeing a recumbent he reached the reasonable conclusion that I, too, must have been from Münster. Logic was obviously not his forte. I stayed chatting for about quarter of an hour (mainly as he had a lot to say for himself!) before I hit the road again. They had come down the wee road through Strath More to Altnaharra, so they couldn't tell me which road the trucks were using.

I passed the "famous" (?) Crask Inn, and was tempted to go in for a drink, but feared I'd end up staying there, so I pressed on, across beautifully bleak moorland. Next I passed some Highland cattle by the roadside, who didn't seem particularly cheerful, and then a series of signs warning of lambs on the road. Alternating in English and German! The descent into Altnaharra, where there is very little indeed to see, was good fun, and then I was hit by the dilemma - Right to Bettyhill, or straight on to Tongue? Bettyhill made more sense, as it was nearer John O'Groats, and the road looked less hilly. But the Tongue road looked more dramatic and bleak, and if my memory served me right Tongue was a nicer place than Bettyhill. So the Tongues had it. Straight on it was.

The road out of Altnaharra just climbed and climbed over a bleak moorland. Perfect! I saw a bird circling in the distance, and fetched out my binoculars. Another golden eagle, how boring, what a common bird! Then I caught some movement on the ground in the distance, which only turned out to be a deer. My main preoccupation on this road, however, was trying to spot Ben Loyal. It had to be one of the hills up ahead, and I think I accused every hill along the road of being Ben Loyal before finally spotting the correct one. Tongue lay somewhere not too far behind it. The road wound down towards Loch Loyal in a series of sweeping bends before ending up alongside the Loch, its colour deepest of blues in the late afternoon sun. One final climb at the far end, one last look back at the gorgeous Loch, and then the anticipation that had been building up for the past three weeks finally bore fruit - my first glimpse of the Northern ocean. A beautiful sight to behold after all that effort, surely a more fitting place to end up than at John O'Groats. OK, with hindsight, maybe not, as the route up from Wick does hold some charm, as you crest a hill half a mile from the end of the road to behold John O'Groats and the Pentland Firth below, with Orkney beyond.

My first glimpse of the Northern ocean - centre right, above the croft

A fast descent into Tongue brought me past the Ben Loyal Hotel to the campsite I was seeking. I paid my £2 and pitched my tent in the most exposed site I could find - bye-bye midges! I also turned the tent inside out and shook it vigorously just to make sure any surviving Fort William midges were strewn to the four winds. Whatever you do, never kill a midge - 10,000 will come to the funeral! At the site I encountered owners of a white Passat I had seen near Altnaharra with a pair of tractors in the boot, and which had passed me along Loch Loyal. A pleasant young couple from Beverly in East Yorkshire up here for a walking and cycling holiday.

I did some washing (shower 20p, hot water in sinks 2p) and then went for food. The Ben Loyal Hotel did haggis (Look, I like haggis, OK?), but I thought I had better check out other places. But then I realised it was 8.06, and the Ben Loyal Hotel stopped serving food at 8.15, so I'd better just go in there. I ordered my haggis, and asked for an extra large one, explaining that I'd just ridden up from Dingwall and needed to replenish my energy supplies. The barman tells a guy sitting at the bar where I'd just ridden from, and he promptly adopted a lion tamer's stance with the stool, saying he didn't like to be on the same side of a bar as a madman. I ordered an onion soup too, and the barman promised me extra large helpings.

I sat down at a table next to that of another bloke who looked like a cyclist to me. In walked a French girl, from Toulouse, called Emmanuelle, who had just arrived that day to work in Tongue for a year. Did the lass realise just where Tongue was when she applied? My haggis arrived, and we explained to her what a haggis was. The official version, clockwise mountains, the works. Meanwhile the lion tamer, a guy from Gloucestershire who now resided in Tongue, asked me if I was riding that funny looking trike he had passed earlier that day on the road from Bettyhill. Er, no. Turned out the guy at the table next to me was indeed a cyclist. He was End to Ending from John O'Groats on a Trice! So, finally, on my last night before finishing I actually finally met a recumbent rider on tour! Not only did he ride a Trice, he also had a Streetglider from Future Cycles. We chatted for a while, and then the couple from the campsite joined us and I finished the evening with a double Glen Ord, which was more like a quadruple as the barman freepoured it "somewhat heavy handedly" by his own admission. Oh, the hospitality around these parts! I resolved to stay here another night and climb Ben Hope (a nearby Munro peak) the following day rather than finish the ride - after all, it was a bit of an anticlimax now, having reached the Northern coastline.

I headed back to the campsite. The wind had dropped, and the midges were back. So my best efforts were in vain. I took a couple of photos in the dusky gloom (At 11.30!) and then sat in my tent writing postcards until the light faded at about midnight.