North By North West: Bikepacking Scotland’s Western Isles

Measuring progression in terms of distance in this vast, bleak expanse of Rannoch Moor is soon impossible

Like all good escapes, this one started with a familiar routine: the furious bashing of laptop keys, the sending of partially completed emails and the relieved shutting of screens. This, followed by the inevitable agony over the order in which we loaded our bikes. For the next ten days we’d enjoy the sense of freedom that comes with self-sufficiency on two wheels, familiar to us both but desperately missed over recent months.

Nationally, right now – late summer 2020 – there was a calm in the Covid storm, and while something close to resembling normal life seemed to resume, we weren’t sure for how long.

Today, our only task would be to cross Rannoch Moor, a swathe of rock, heather, bracken and bog surrounded by peaks and lakes. The desolate landscape was once the heart of the last significant icefield in the UK. Today the ground is dry and dusty – if only on this gravelly single track path – and there’s barely a cloud in the sky.

Measuring progression in terms of distance in this vast, bleak expanse is soon impossible. The ever-changing scenery and constant stimulus of fast rolling valley roads, short steep passes and hard pack fire roads and forest tracks have been replaced by a single panorama. The going is slow and tough.

I stop to deflate my tyres in the hope it might ease the fizzing in my palms. With no shade from the sun, under the extra strain of climbing fully loaded, my temples pound. It’s late September and both my headache and the salt-stained t-shirt on my back are testament to our good fortune with the weather. I filter water from a trickling stream at the side of the trail, doing my best to absorb the grandeur of the landscape around us.

The steady, unrelenting gradient eventually slackens off, marking the summit of this exposed rocky byway. What looked to be a simple and fairly and quick crossing of Rannoch Moor has taken us almost to sunset. Now having reached the top, and restored with the energy of a fast and wide-open gravel descent, we fly through the long shadows of the surrounding Munros. The evening glow takes form as we pound our pedals across the densely packed forest tracks of the Corrour Estate, home to the UK’s highest and most remote railway station. Along the shores of Loch Ossian, our bikes fall back into rhythm; the sense of urgency courtesy of the changing light reignites our excitement for the task at hand.

The first days of any multi-day self-supported trip like this are always faced by uncertainty. How will my legs hold up? Have I packed the right kit? Is my bike mechanically sound? Later that day though, we’re sat in a pub on the outskirts of Fort William. As I wipe the creamy foam from a pint of Bellhaven Black from my top lip, my cheeks hot from sunlight and windburn, my thighs with a buzz from the day’s expenditure, it feels as though we’re settling into the tempo of the journey.

In the dark, travel by bicycle feels almost ghost-like. Silent but for the gentle buzz of rubber on asphalt, few words are spoken as we glide undetected through the small settlements along our route. With enough motion to keep our bodies occupied, we quietly spin the pedals in the void of the pre-dawn light.

From Skye, our plan had been to make our way back to the mainland, the famous switchbacks of Bealach na Bà that we figured was sure to provide one of the trip’s highlights. As we watched another sun fall behind distant mountains of the Isle of Harris, the decision to hop another ferry required little discussion.

Scotland in September was undoubtedly a game of weather roulette. Touring on bikes with a view only to wild camp, we’d be exposed to whatever the weather threw at us. Fully aware of what we were signing up for, we made our peace with what lay ahead the best we could. The following afternoon as we climb Quiraing pass to dissect the north of the island, we’re reminded of the volatility of conditions in the North Atlantic.

Clouds gather at a rapid pace as we board our ferry. The islands which once looked so close and inviting now sit behind a curtain of rain and mist. The wind starts to blow and whitecaps cut across the open ocean ahead of us. Apprehensively, I make the feeble justification that in these conditions, at least we’ll see the real Scotland.