Over the last few months, I have travelled extensively around North East Fife and I can not contain myself any longer. The amount of aluminum cans, the contents of which, if marketing men are to be believed, gives you wings, and after drinking such a liquid, even pigs can fly, Aye right. Whatever the merits of the contents of such a beverage, please, please, please, once the can is empty stick it in the back of your cycling jacket and take them home with you. One thing I do know, there are no fairies, with or without wings, coming during the night to pick up all those empty cans, I see at frequent intervals along the side of the road.
The sea fog hung over St Andrews as I removed the bike from the back of my van, lights on, cycling top zipped up to the neck and I was off. The air was cold, a big change from yesterday, but I seem to peddle stronger in such conditions.
The thing I love about cycling, you are given time to yourself, time to look around at the world, make up silly little rhymes in your head, dream up new adventures. Back in the 60s, we were told that machines would take the grind out of our working day and we would all be working a three day week (we did for a time during the strike, could never understand why that did not continue, we produced more as a country in those three days than we did in five, where was the Unions?) Then came the 80s the age of the digital revolution. Again we were told how that would change our lives forever and for the better, what would we do with all this leisure time?
I was on a construction site some years back and overheard the site agent and the foreman in conversation. The agent seeing a drain layer stop and roll a cigarette commented on the amount of site time that must be wasted rolling cigarettes. I’m sure the same agent if he were on a site today would have the same comment, not about cigarette rolling but mobile phones. I can not help but wonder if all this automation and digital technology have really given us any more freedom? How much of our day do we spend on a mobile phone, talking, texting? On a computer e-mailing of involved in social media, or simply staring at a television screen?
The lockdown has given me the opportunity to cycle around North East Fife on relatively empty roads, what a treat. Alas, my cycling has been far more successful than the publishing of my log, it has been somewhat neglected. I hope to make a menses by posting some of my trips over the next, days, week, and by so doing redeem myself.
The air was still, so as good a day as any to do my run along the coast from Elie to Anstruther via Killie Castle and Kilconquhar.
The A917 out of St Andrews, at Brownhills I wheeled onto the B9131 for Anstruther. 8 miles on my first port of call the Dovecote at Pitkierie, the structure is situated out in the middle of a newly sown field of potatoes, so long-distance shot.
Then on unclassified roads as far as Kellie Castle. As you can see from the photograph it, like everything else, in lock-down. I wanted to walk over to the Kellie Castle dovecot but I did not like the look of the Lamas, they looked placed enough, but it’s the quiet one you have to watch.
Kellie Castle is one of the most homely of all the Fife castles, and much of that is down to James Lorimer, father of the architect Sir Robert Lorimer, it was he that did much or the restoration work after he bought the property in 1878. The earliest part of the castle dated back to the 1500s and was built by a member of the Oliphant family. The castle passed to Viscount Fentoun, later first Earl of Kellie in 1617 and various changes were made over the following years, Several fine plaster ceilings were inserted, one dated 1617 and another 1676, whilst other alterations were made in the course of the eighteenth century. But what is most remarkable when you look at Kellie Castle is how all of these alterations seem to compliment each other.
A few cyclists on the road today, one serious, the others like me tourists. The road from Kelly Castle to Kilconquhar, was very quiet. Kilconquhar the land the time forgot, and where I meet a horse and buggy, the owner having a chin-wag with his close neighbour.
The church here is particularly beautiful built-in rich red sandstone, not the best of photographs.
It is only a couple of miles from here down to the start of our coastal trip, Earlsferry. The ruin to the west of the chapel is those of the hospital of Ardross (not Elie or Earlsferry). This was the north end of the ferry from North Berwick, and used by travellers and pilgrims alike. Founded in 1154 by Duncan, fourth Earl of Fife, and granted by Duncan, fifth Earl, to the nuns of North Berwick. There is little left of what could have been the boundary walls of a hospital but the photograph is of the chapel that was here and possible a cemetery attached to the hospital as the earth around it is full of human bones. The chapel was built by MacDuff, Earl of Fife, in 1093 and repaired in 1830. now a ruin.
Elie was my home for many years and I know it well having walked most of it. I decided to take a trip out to Elie Ness where the lighthouse stands. The path is simply that, a path and I am no off road cyclist, this is hard work and a bit scary. The lighthouse was commissioned in the early part of the 20th century, the reason put forward for the lighthouse here was that when off Elie Ness in bad weather they could not see the light at the Isle of May and Inchkeith. The builder would be David Alan Stevenson B.Sc. F.R.S.E. M.Inst. CE, and if that was not enough – grandson of Robert Stevenson of Bell Rock fame and cousin of Robert Louis Stevenson.
In September 1907 permission from the admiralty was received to approach Coast Guard to Become attendants and on 16th October 1907 financial terms were agreed with HM Coast Guard and reserve Edinburgh that the Coast Guardsmen Stationed at Elie would become attendants of the light. Work on the lighthouse started in December 1907 and was completed by June 1908. On the first of October 1908 notice was given to mariners that the light would be exhibited form Elie Ness, flashing white – one every six seconds all around the horizon.
Just one hundred yards or so further on is Lady Anstruther’s Tower. It was built in 1770 for Jenny Anstruther, daughter of a Scottish Merchant. She was renowned for her beauty, and reputed to be a bit of a flirt. She used the tower to relax in after her skinny dipping activities in the sea below, changing in the man-made cave there. Prior to her immersion she would send a servant into the town of Elie to ring a bell to let residents know to stay away.
A bell would ring around the town,
To tell the folk that Lady Jenny was going down,
For a wee dip in the sea,
Now since the Lady preferred swimming starker,
She wouldn’t want no nosy Parkers,
Do you see?
Back onto the main road and a mile or so up the coast we find Ardross Castle although little now remains.
The ruins of Ardross Castle, dating back to at least the 15th century, the castle occupies a fine defensive coastal position standing high on sandstone cliffs overlooking a sandy beach below.
In 1068 a Northumbrian knight named Merleswain came to Scotland, and was granted lands in Fife. The first mention of Ardross seems to occur in the mid-12th century. Merleswain’s grandson, also named Merleswain, was granted a charter of Ardross by William the Lion in the last quarter of the 12th century.
Sir William Dishington married Elizabeth Bruce, sister of Robert the Bruce, around 1309, and one of their sons, also Sir William Dishington, later became the Sheriff of Fife. Some historians have the first Sir William as the builder of Ardross Castle, while some have the second Sir William. Although the remains of the castle have often been ascribed to the 15th century, it seems entirely possible that it was built at an earlier date, and for either Sir William to have been responsible it would certainly have been built in the 14th century.
Certainly in 1402 the second Sir William’s son, Thomas Dishington, received a charter from Robert II granting him the barony and castle of Ardross after they were resigned by his father, while also referring to him as “dilecto nepoti nostro” (our dear nephew). The fact that the castle is specifically mentioned certainly suggests it was in existence in the 14th century.
The castle has had a few owners over its lifetime and in 1853 Sir Wyndham Anstruther sold the Elie estates to William Baird, son of Alexander Baird of Lockwood, and as such Ardross Castle became his property.
Following Baird’s death in 1864, the Elie estates, including Ardross Castle, passed to his son, William Baird of Elie.
In 1928 the estates were sold to Sir Michael Nairn, and they are now owned by the Elie Estate Trust, which is under the stewardship of Sir Michael’s grandson, Sir Michael Nairn.
The Fife Coastal Path passes through the ruins of Ardross Castle, between the two buildings, and so it is freely accessible.
At the roadside and in the grounds of Ardross Farm you will find a dovecot, it appears to be a modern building and has a skylight installed in the roof so clearly, the owner has found a new purpose for the dovecot.
Again only a hop, skip, and jump up the road from Ardross Farm is Newark Castle. You can get to the castle easily from the coastal path and the nearby bee-hive dovecot. But I was not on the coastal path. My way was fenced off and guarded by some cows, I am not sure the farmer would have taken kindly to me passing through the field so again long distant shots of the castle and dovecot.
The last time I walked the coastal path I did enter part of the ruin, or at le
ast the vaulted chamber below the castle proper. The castle probably dates from the 13th century, a time when Alexander 111 (1241-1286) was known to have spent some of his childhood there. However the current building did not come into being until the 15th century by the Kinloch family. In 1649 it was sold to David Leslie, a prominent figure in the English and Scottish Civil Wars, and was given the title Lord Newark. Following his death in 1682, the castle passed to the Anstruther family, and finally the Baird’s of Elie. Sir William Burrell (Glasgow shipping magnate, of the Burrell collection fame) wanted to buy the castle and restore it, plans were in place, drawn up by Sir Robert Lorimer, but Mr. Baird of Elie, refused to sell. It now along with the dovecot is a scheduled monument.
On now and into St Monans, I did not stop off at the harbour or the windmill not while things are the way they are. However if you get the chance visit the windmill just east of the village on the coastal path and climb up into the viewing room at the top for some magnificent view. Below the windmill are the Salt Pans. Salt was the third-largest export from Scotland after wool and fish. Salt pans were not only here but all along the north shore of Fife, mainly because of the abundance of cheap coal. The metal pans were flooded with salt water and fires burned underneath to evaporate the moisture, leaving behind the sea salt. The windmill above was used to pump seawater into the pans. There is little left of the house that would have covered the pans, and although the practise of boiling seawater for its salt content was known from the seventeen hundreds, the one we see at St Monans is dated from the eighteen hundreds.
Pittenweem is another town well worth a visit, and where you will find St Fillan’s Cave. St. Fillan was an Irish holy man, and it is said that God gave him a glowing left arm, so that he could read and write, in the dark cave with the light from his left glowing arm. There are all sorts of tales about the cave, having been used for smuggling. You can enter the cave but you will have to ask for a key at the local cafe, but again lockdown, so I pressed on to Anstruther and onto the B9131, and the ten (hilly) miles home.
It would have been good to have spend time in each of the little villages, and once the lock down is over I may try the same circuit again, for it is pleasant cycling on quite roads and no hills.
Such a beautiful day. I could have happily cycled on and on to the ends of the earth. It was the kind of day that could not be hurried, and the day that would determine distance, and direction of travel. Out to Strathkinness, and down through the dell to Pitscottie, sunlight slanted like spears through the latticework canopy of mature woodland striking the road ahead like points of polished steel. As the woodland gave way to a more sparse canopy the branches were silhouetted into beautiful, stunning patterns, bringing back fond memories of my trips to Paris where the intertwining branches of the plane trees would make similar patterns on pavements.
Dandelions have lost their heads,
No longer can be called “Pee the beds”.
Hawthorn hedges and trees were heavy with Mayflower. I believe it is known as a mass year, the strong scent from these snow-covered trees assaults your senses. And the Copper Beech shone like a burnished pot in the bright sunshine that flowed from an eggshell blue sky down upon it like a golden waterfall.
Even the stinging nettles today were at their best, reminiscent of when I visited Knoydart, a remote area on the west coast of Scotland. We were following a path that would have been taken by the carts that carried the barrels of Herring from boats that would have unloaded at Barrisdale and made their way over the Bealach (pass) and onto, what would have been the main road south, and the markets of Glasgow. It would have been a hard pull up and over the crest between the two high mountains, so extra ponies would have been used on the steepest parts and then when over the worst they would return to help the next wagon up.
It was winter and the days were short, and cold, but we were assured that there was a five-star bothy, about halfway across, where we could spend the night. It was the early hours of the morning when we entered what would have been a small village but every building we came to was less than a yard high, so we eventually put some old corrugated sheets over a corner in one of the abandoned ruined buildings and slept under that. Crawling out of my sleeping bag the next morning I found the five-star bothy only about 50 yards away. We must have walked right passed it, in the dark. My boots that had been splashing through bog and stream the day before, were now frozen solid. As we travelled on that day we passed many a home that had been abandoned (possibly during the clearances) but what was remarkable, in this wild and remote part of Scotland covered only in heather and grass, was that we found each and every ruinous building we came to had at its side, a neat square patch of nettles, easily three feet high, and black with frost. Each and every household must all have kept hens.
Then on up to Ceres, Cupar, and back down to Pitscottie for home. The roads were the busiest I have seen them for weeks, but it is OK, all the cars had stickers on their back windows to tell us that they were Tory Government Advisors.
The butterfly handlebars I had ordered from Amazon arrived a couple of days ago and having fitted them to the bike I took it for a spin to try them out.
I would normally ride a bike with a 21 to 22-inch frame and a 21 to 22-inch top tube, the one I have has a 19-inch top tube. This puts the rider in a much more upright position, almost a sit up and beg. Extending the top tube means a much flatter posture on the bike.
Setting up your bike, two things are important; saddle height, and the distance from the seat to the handlebars. Optimum saddle height is achieved by placing your heels (flat shoes) on the pedal and then turning the pedals backwards, your heel should just about start to lift from the pedal. HSS (high saddle syndrome) and LSS (low saddle syndrome) will cause knee problems. The other size that is important is the distance from the seat to handlebars. Ideally, this will be measured by placing your elbow in front of the saddle and stretching out your fingers, they should just graze where the handlebars fix to the steering head. When drop handlebars are fitted you have the option of sitting up with your hands on the top of the bar, with your hands over the brake/changer, or down on the bottom of the handlebars (cheating the wind). On mountain bikes this is seen as less important so the handlebars are straight. This is fine for control on rough ground but will be painful on the wrists after a while on the road, hands permanently in one position. This was the type of handlebars that came with the bike I am riding at the moment. Having mountain bike changers, I could not fit drop handlebars, but butterfly handlebars have become more popular; they are designed to take the mountain bike changers and still give the rider a variety of holds around the wings of the butterfly. The other advantage they have is that they are covered in a thick foam rather than bar tape so they absorb much of the road shock. Last, but by no means least, they extend (in a sense) the length of the top tube by around four inches, giving a much flatter riding position.
You really have to ride the bike to understand the difference it makes. As I came home along the straight out of Pitscottie I was able to simply rest my forearms across the bars (time trialing style), very relaxing. Really pleased that I made the change.
Today the wind was from the north so that is the direction I chose, it should give me a nice easy run home. I fought the wind all the way to St Michael then turned off onto the Tayport road. As soon as I did the wind disappeared, sheltered now with trees, the ridge and a hawthorn hedgerow now dressed in springtime leaves. Soon they will be covered in white, sweet-smelling flowers. The day was clear and bright, skies deep blue, with fluffy clouds setting near the horizon.
Tayport was quiet and I soon found myself down at the harbour, I peddled my way over to the Northside to see what boats were there. There seemed to be no hurry to have them back in the water. The majority of the boats here are fin keel, fine here in Tayport where the harbour never dries out but a bilge keelboat would be better around the harbours of Fife – every harbour on the north side of the Forth dries out.
I spotted a large Ketch, now there was something a bit special, a blue water sailor. I was already on board imagining myself taking her down to the Canaries in December. Catching the trade winds across to the Caribbean, to spend some time there before heading for the Panama Canal. The currents and wind now with you all the way to Fiji, Loyalty Island and Brisbane Australia. A course north and around the tip of Australia, into the Indian Ocean for the long haul north and west chased by the wind for Christmas Island and on to the Maldives. Socotra and into the Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea and the Suez Canal and into the Mediterranean. Two years later to arrive back at Tayport. Then again, after such an adventure why would you want to return?
Dreaming over it was time to head home. I decided to return by the forestry track to Morton Loch, this is where the first Mesolithic, hunter-gatherers were known to have settled around 8000 years ago. The first stone tools from this period were found here by a local archaeologist, one Reg Candow. Then in 1970 a team from The University of Cambridge excavated the site and found good evidence of a settlement here. Today the sea lies about four kilometres to the east, but 8000 years ago this was the seashore. The site was probably an island cut off by the sea at high tide. We know they had boats for in their midden Cod bones were found in great numbers and could have only been caught out at sea.
Back onto the forestry track, which was in much better shape than many of the roads around here. A harvester had been thinning trees and stacking them along the side of the road for collection, the smell of newly cut pine filled the air all the way to the minor unclassified road that would now take me into Leuchars. Once out onto the A919 for Guardbridge I was flying along. I did not bother to go onto the cycle path, the roads being as quiet as they are I took the A91 all the way into St Andrews.
For a day that had not been planned it had turned into a very pleasant ride. The bike is doing well, it seems to have loosened up a little and feels much freer to ride. Then again maybe I am just getting better at riding it.
The last day of April dawned. I needed milk and bread so popped out early to avoid having to queue to get into Tesco. Above the empty St Andrews streets, the black skies look down and weep.
Breakfast over I decided that the trip down and along the coast was not on for today, but what had taken my interest over the last few days were dovecotes. Dovecotes were originally built by lairds to provide secure accommodation for flocks of rock doves. The dovecotes, or in Scotland, doocot’s purpose was to provide estates with a delicacy for the table, but of course only for the laird’s table. Rock doves were prolific, needed little space, living in nesting boxes that lined the inside walls of the dovecot. Even the guano made excellent fertiliser and they foraged for their own food, mainly the tenant farmer’s crops, – some of these doocots housed upwards of 2,000 birds so did not endear them to the tenant farmer, often causing friction when the freshly-sow seed was eaten. Dovecotes increasingly fell out of fashion during the 1700s, largely because of the problems created for the community when the birds decimated crops.
However, many continued to be built for purely decorative reasons well into the 19th Century, seen as a status symbol and possibly why so many are still with us, There is a fine example of one such dovecot in the grounds of Glamis Castle. As ever there was this old wives tale that demolishing a dovecote brought bad luck to the household.
We know the Romans kept pigeons, (sometimes used for a sacrificial offering to their gods) but it was the Normans who introduced doocots to Scotland in the 12th and 13th centuries. Today, Fife has the largest number, with East Lothian a close second. It has been claimed there were 360 doocots in Fife during the 18th century and 106 examples exist today and form an important part of Scotland’s rich heritage, but since they are difficult to put to any other use it begs the question “For how much longer?”
I decided to visit an A listed dovecote near here, once the doocot for Leuchars Castle. The wind was slack when I set out and since my trip to Leuchars and back was around 10 miles in total I decided to dial up my cadence to jig-time and went beadling off along the cycle track for Guardbridge. As I left Guardbridge behind a wind rose out of nowhere and tore at the skies sending the clouds scurrying off up the Fife coast. I had been to the site of the castle and dovecote last summer but the field was planted with barley then so I could not get close to the structure, situated as it is in the middle of the farmers’ field. This time I was lucky, the field was being used to grow silage or hay.
Now canvas deck shoes are brilliant on a yacht’s deck and make a good pair of cycling shoes too, but they have their limitations and walking across a field of foot-high grass, wet through with overnight rain, is not one of their attributes. By the time I had reached my destination they were waterlogged, still, I had my pictures. The building was seriously in need of restoration, with large cracks running from foundation to roofline in both the front and rear. Large steel bands have been placed around the structure to preserve it from further damage until funds can be found for its reconstruction. The cost of repair will be high, although possibly not as high as the surveys and technical reports that will be required before the National Lottery pays up.
Whilst here I snapped a couple of photographs of Leuchars Castle (Motte). The best way to see the Motte is to go to the roundabout and down the side of the hotel that leads you along the old railway embankment. You can’t get to the castle from here but it is clearly visible only a hundred yards or so into the adjacent field. The site consists of a man-made oval, flat-topped mound, about 80 metres long by 50 metres wide and standing 8 metres high. Originally it was topped by a mediaeval wooden tower dating to the 12 century and would have been the work of one of the Norman lords, who were given lands in Scotland by King David 1. Later the wooden structure was replaced by a stone castle itself demolished in the 18th century.
Homeward bound and into a crosswind all the way to Guardbridge, the smoke from the chimney at Eden Mill was never going to be given the chance to rise, it was torn from the stack almost as soon as it broke free. The smoke signals were clear to read, headwinds all the way home, ho-hum. Knowing it would be a short day I was able to push hard all the way there and back, very exhilarating.
The morning was overcast and the wind out of the east and bitter cold. I pedalled my way to St Andrew’s castle at the end of the Scores for the start of my journey. My first digital camera was a great little camera. Simply point it in the right direction and press the button and it would produce brilliant pictures every time. Sadly when the battery would no longer hold its charge I found it impossible to get a replacement. Looking for a new camera was a nightmare; there are so many out there and the jargon that comes with such cameras is way above my pay grade. I did see one, that rather than charge up the internal battery, you could replace the two AA batteries when they were depleted. This would be better for traveling abroad, no need to recharge at the mains. Camera at the ready and as I snapped away, up popped a message to tell me that the batteries were depleted, ho-hum back to the house for new batteries and add two spares to an already overloaded courier bag. Must get myself a pannier bag.
There is so much written about St Andrews Castle that little needs to be repeated here. It was built around 1200 in Bishop Rodger’s time as his residence. Totally destroyed in the Wars of Independence in the fourteenth century it was rebuilt by Bishop Walter Trail (1385 – 1401). Archbishop James Beaton (1521 – 1539) modified the castle to make it more suitable for artillery defense, adding two circular gun towers, known as block-houses. Further additions were made by his nephew Cardinal David Beaton (1537-1546) at the time of his murder. The siege that followed the young Beaton’s murder was to have far-reaching consequences for the castle.
The Earl of Arran, Governor of Scotland, attempted to break into the castle by a mine, which was eventually intercepted by a countermine; both of these can be seen today. Eventually, the castle was taken as the result of a French artillery bombardment in 1547, which largely destroyed archbishop Beaton’s block-houses. After the siege, the last archbishop before the Reformation, John Hamilton (1546-1571) repaired the castle. His greatest effort was on the entrance front, which he reconstructed in a progressive French Renaissance style, with elaborate dormer windows – a good idea on the continent, but not so much in seaward-facing St. Andrews.
Next port of call, Dairsie Castle, that sits just above the River Eden. With a tailwind out of St Andrews, it was an easy pedal to the top of Knock Hill then a fast descent into the valley below (the computer recorded 31.8 mph)- the man knows no fear. Then a short sharp climb up to the castle. For much of its life it was the property of the Bishop of St Andrews. Until I returned to Fife I had only known it as a ruin but in 1993 an excavation had taken place, the expense born by the Fife Regional Council, that turned up a lot of information on its past. The castle was rebuilt and it certainly is a fine looking building today but I have little knowledge of who now owns the castle, however, it does look much more like a dwelling than a fortification.
Close by is the little church of Dairsie. No longer used for public worship, it is now owned by the St Andrews Preservation Trust. The church was built at a time when Scotland was going through a Protestant phase, although there has been a church on this site from as early as 1160. It was Archbishop John Spottiswood of St Andrews that commissioned the building of the church we now see today, more in keeping with the reformed episcopalian worship. It is a stunning building and although a simple buttressed rectangle, it is lifted by the ornamentation of its windows, echoes of medieval church windows, and an impressive bell tower. The church has also been given a classical entrance. War Graves from the Second World War are to be found within the cemetery. A church worthy of a visit.
Even the climb up onto the A91 into Cupar was a breeze today because the wind was at my back, then the long descent into Cupar. The road was a little busier today, I met a pair of cyclists coming up the hill out of Cupar, they seemed to be making heavy weather of it.
Into Cupar that once had a fine castle but nothing remains of it now. The castle that did stand here, was built by the Earl of Fife in the 11th century. King Alexander 111’s wife Margaret died at the castle on 26 February 1275.
After the castle was surrendered to the English in 1296, King Edward the 1 of England stayed at the castle. In 1306, Scottish forces led by Robert Wishart attacked the English garrison at the castle and besieged it. Wishart was captured by the English at Cupar.
In 1308 the Warden of Cupar Castle, Sir Thomas Grey was ambushed on his way back from Edwards 11’s coronation by a follower of Robert the Bruce called Walter de Bickerton. Although heavily outnumbered, Thomas routed Bickerton’s men through the use of cavalry charges and by deceiving his enemy that they were greater in number than they really were.
In May 1336 English forces, led by John de Strivelyn, relieved the English forces occupying the castle after driving away the Scottish forces, led by Sir Andrew Murray, that were besieging the castle. The castle was surrendered by the English constable Sir William Bullock in 1339.
The court of the Stewart of Fife sat at the castle until 1425.
I passed Kilmaron Castle (ruin). Kilmaron lies about 2 miles outside Cupar but was not really a castle in the true sense of the word, since it was a manor house built in 1820 to the designs of James Gillespie Graham (1776 – 1855) for the Dundee textile manufacturer Sir David Baxter (1793 – 1872). since it is in the middle of a farmers land and although I passed within yards of it, I give it a miss.
Cupar was quiet and I moved fast up through the town and turned off onto the A913 and started my long climb up to Kilmaron Farm. The road was pretty sheltered so I never saw the computer drop below 9 mph, which I felt was good considering the hill. The unclassified road marked Moonzie, is only a few yards further on and as soon as I turned off onto this road the crosswind hit me, the homeward journey was going to be hard work. On reaching Lordscairnie Castle there was a big notice on the field gate to tell me it was private land and not to enter. What? After coming all this way? You must be joking!
Lordscairnie Castle, an L-shaped tower-house was one of the castles of the Lindsay Earls of Crawford, and was in their possession by the mid-fourteenth century. It is most likely the fifth earl who built such a fine castle as this was in its day. He was far less picturesque than his predecessor the fourth earl (Beardie) that history was rather fond of, and supposedly one of the ghosts who haunt Glamis Castle.
Lordscairnie was entered at the base of the stair tower, and the doorway was afforded protection by what is known as a machicolation at the wall-head; that is a projection through which missiles (or boiling oil) could be dropped on unwelcome guests. The original building had five stories including an attic. The rooms (all but the great hall) were large enough to be subdivided by a party wall. The castle was originally enclosed by a courtyard wall, but of this, only the single round tower of a gatehouse remains.
The long climb out of Cupar into a biting headwind saw the computer drop below double figures for the second time today and it did not really recover all the way back into St Andrews. Strangely enough, I met up with the two cyclists that I had seen struggling out of Cupar, they were now breezing along the cycle track and I was the one making heavy weather of it. We exchanged greetings. All in all a good ride.
After reading ‘the wee castle tour’ a friend sent me this e-mail. My memories, as a small boy going off camping with dad to the berries fields of Fife, the berries picking, during the fair fortnight, I seem to remember through much more colourful spectacles, Then again the lad is now in his nineties, so was possibly talking of a time before the war when things were no good, much unemployment in Scotland.
Walter. Thanks for the memories and the interesting photos, the castle at Dairsie is owned by a syndicate and closed to nonmembers. If you are on the main road Leuchars to Cupar passing through Dairsie there’s an Inn on the left, turning left passed the inn, the road leads towards the river. Many moons ago dad and I camped near the river (source of drinking water) along with a friend of dads, John Mac Phial and his family, no facilities were provided. We were there to pick raspberries all for much-needed money. 8.0-5 0 each day sall meal cooked by dad on an open fire. Midweek dad left the field early (farmer not happy) I had to stay in the field picking, dad walked into Cupar and back for bread, sausages, and tatties. We picked berries for a week, every penny made was a prisoner. On Friday, we were due to return home, dad filled a lugy, (small pail) with the best berries and sealed the top. We sneaked in passed the grieve man to the tent, where it was hidden in dad’s kit bag till we cleared the farm field. To save money we walked into Cupar to catch a bus for home. Back home mum turned the berries into raspberry jam, the homemade jam lasted a long time through the winter months.
Santiago lies in the Province of Galicia in Northern Spain,the name a shortened version of Santo Iago, or in English, Saint James. The disciple, James the Greater of Biblical fame, later to become Spain’s Patron Saint arrived in Spain as an evangelist, and his bones are now believed to be in a casket housed under the Cathedral’s altar in Santiago, brought from Palestine by his followers after he was executed by Herod. The word, Compostela, translated as ‘field of the stars’ refers to the legend from the 1X Century that a star indicated the point where his remains were to be discovered, the present-day site of the cathedral.
In the middle ages, when Jerusalem was besieged and impossible to visit and Rome, just as difficult, Santiago de Compostela became the leading destination for Christian pilgrims. It would have been a long and difficult journey at that time, across this mountainous region of Spain. Pilgrims would have to deal with wild animals, robbers, sickness and injury, and for that reason, Pilgrim Refuges sprang up across the country. Many are still in use today. The Cathedral of Santiago would witness thousands of unwashed pilgrims who had journeyed for weeks without a change of clothing on their long treks to visit the tomb of Saint James. Enter the giant incense burner known as a Botufumeiro and principally used to try to mask the smell of a church full of unwashed bodies.
There is not one but many pilgrim routes from all over Europe and the one rising in popularity is the Camino Frances and the Camino del Norte sometimes called Camino de la Costa. As the name suggests this route follows the coast along the French border at Irun before turning inland at Ribadeo or thereabouts to reach Arzua and the main route into Santiago.
There is now a chain of pilgrim refuges along the coast; where else would you get the chance to sleep in a monastery? The scenery is superb, it is not too hot for pleasant cycling, there are plenty of interesting towns and architecture and because so many new motorways have recently been built in the north of Spain, there are miles and miles of superb roads with hardly a soul on them.
I first did the Compostela de Santiago back in 2007 not long after my mother died and my caring duties were over. It is a journey I would like to repeat one more time if I can and if I have a little more time left. The following is my account of my first journey.
The idea to cycle the Compostela de Santiago had come about after watching a documentary on television about a long distance pilgrimage across northern Spain. I decided this was a trip I must go on. To qualify the pilgrim must complete at least the last 200 kilometers into Santiago, on foot, on horseback, or cycling. Furthermore, the Pilgrim’s record card must be stamped with the sello, a rubber stamp, obtained at monasteries, churches or refuges along the way. It was also significant that a member of my cycling club, Eric Walker, was a leading light in the Confraternity of Saint James, and a great help in the preparations for my trip.
"But those who trust in the LORD will find new strengthThey will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint." Isaiah 40:31
How many times will that verse have been recited, at the start of a journey such as this? A thousand, possibly hundreds of thousands of times down through the ages.
In the early days of May, my tickets arrived from the European Express, along with departure dates and labels for my luggage. For the first time it all started to feel real, I was going off to Spain. The next weeks saw me charging around bike, clothes and chemist shops purchasing everything from a soap dish to puncture repair outfits and an ever-growing pile of stuff started to appear on my living room carpet. All this would have to find a home in two greedy pannier bags on the rear carrier of my bike. Everything was now ready, bike serviced, panniers bags packed and packed again. I did intend weighing myself, then the bike, but decided against this idea, the shock may have been too much.
I had to be at the European-Express pickup point in Bramham by 07.45. Not wishing to be late I did several dry runs and calculated it would take me around two hours from my house to Bramham. What if I have a puncture? Yes, maybe I should add half an hour for unexpected breakdowns or punctures, headwinds, well yes, better add another half an hour for headwinds and half an hour for tailwinds. It seemed unfair to leave out tailwinds since they are such helpful friendly souls.
At the Club run to Otley CC on the Wednesday before my departure date, Eric asked how the preparation had gone and I had to admit my concerns about reaching Bramham on time.
“Why don’t you take the van?” he asked.
“I was not all that keen on leaving it sitting out at Bramham for over two weeks,” I told him.
“If you don’t mind me driving your van, I could come with you and drive it home, then simply drop the keys through your letterbox.”
I could have kissed him, well maybe not.
The Journey Over
The large double-decker coach pulling an equally large bike trailer arrived in good time and quickly and efficiently my bike was on board, (the coach will take any size of bike, tandem, tricycle even tandem tricycles without them having to be dismantled in any way). The coach was extremely comfortable and squeaky clean. By the time we arrived at Dover, I had made new friends and all were excited about their planned trips. I, however, was the only person on the Compostela de Santiago; do they know something I don’t?
The European Express dropped me off in Bayonne (just inside France near to the Spanish border). I traveled on the D 932 to St Jean–Pied–de–Port the official start of the Composite, and a small town nestling in the foothills of the Pyrenees on the French side of the border. I found my first refuge at the top of a very steep narrow street, and close to the castle. It was around noon and all the staff were seated at lunch when I arrived and kindly invited me to join them. Would I be staying there tonight they asked? It seemed absurd to me that I should stop in the middle of the day with lots of daylight in front of me. After my Pilgrim’s record card was stamped and I said my goodbyes I wobbled off down the hill once more. What was in that wine? I only had one glass full.
After a long coach trip and riding in the hot sun into St Jean-Pier -de-Port I really should have stayed at the refuge there, inexperience really. I paid for it on the climb into the Parageneses. The route was simple enough to follow the D135 upwards. The heat was like a baker’s oven in the gorge as I climbed the twisting road ever upwards; not a breath of wind to comfort burning lungs. After some 30 kilometers from St. Jean Pier de Port I finally came to the top, at 1087 meters above sea level. What amused me was the notice by the side of the road, which read Attention – Horizontal. The only thing that was likely to be horizontal was me lying at the side of it gasping for breath, this heat was going to take some getting used to. I had now crossed The Pyrenees into Spain and was feeling fine, the heat of the day now subsided, a respite for the unaccustomed and after many long hours’ I cycled into the square of the small town of Espinal. Outside the café were a few tables and chairs, I chose one making it possible to eat and watch my belongings at the same time. When the waiter arrived I ordered something, I had no idea what dish I had just ordered, neither I suspect, did the non-English speaking waiter. I found a campsite and gladly booked myself in, maybe I should have stopped at the refuge but I had been told priority would be given to walkers so decided on camping.
The route was simple enough to follow the D135 upwards. The heat was like a baker’s oven in the gorge as I climbed the twisting road ever upwards; not a breath of wind to comfort burning lungs. After some 30 kilometers from St. Jean Pier de Port I finally came to the top, at 1087 meters above sea level. What amused me was the notice by the side of the road, which read Attention – Horizontal. The only thing that was likely to be horizontal was me lying at the side of it gasping for breath, this heat was going to take some getting used to. I had now crossed The Pyrenees into Spain and was feeling fine, the heat of the day now subsided, a respite for the unaccustomed and after many long hours’ I cycled into the square of the small town of Espinal. Outside the café were a few tables and chairs, I chose one making it possible to eat and watch my belongings at the same time. When the waiter arrived I ordered something, I had no idea what dish I had just ordered, neither I suspect, did the non-English speaking waiter. I found a campsite and gladly booked myself in, maybe I should have stopped at the refuge but I had been told priority would be given to walkers so decided on camping.
Estella Lizarra was to be my refuge for the night and I estimated to be there around 1pm. It had been suggested that I take the minor road the NA172 rather than follow the N135 and skirt around Pamplona before joining the N111 (the new number for the N135) all the way into Estella Lizarra. Somehow I managed to get lost and ended up climbing some of the steepest hills in the area between Erro and Agorreta and ended up where I did not wish to be, in the middle of Pamplona. I was given a map by the girl in the travel agent in Pamplona and managed to find my way back onto a minor road that took me into Urroz then onto Eunate and onto the N111 for Estella Lizarra. It had been a terrible – hot – mountainous – and frustrating part of my journey and it was 21.30hrs by the time I finally pulled up at the refuge in Estella hot and despondent. This was my first experience of refuge having camped up until this point. The staff made up of a Dutchman and two lads from Belgium took pity on me, since the building was in almost total darkness, as everyone was already in bed or by now preparing for bed. I was shown the bike store, where to shower and a bunk bed pointed out to me for the night. I was instructed to join them in the dining room after I had showered, where a meal would be prepared. The meal turned out to be everything leftover from an earlier dinner reheated. Macaroni and cheese, then sausages and salad this was followed by cabbage and French bean soup. Boy, what a feast for a starving cyclist.
Next morning around 0500hrs I was awakened to a rousing choir of male voices. I turned to the person in the bed next to me, bunk beds were pushed together in sets of four to save space and your sleeping companion was only a matter of a foot or so from you. The he I had expected to find was, in fact, a she, oh well when in Rome; she had no idea what they were singing either. At breakfast, I found myself alongside a mother and daughter from Australia.
“You’re from Australia” I said,
“And you’re from Scotland,” she suggested. We talked through mouthfuls of hard toast like slices layered thick with margarine and runny jam washed down with mugs full of tea or coffee. The song I had thought was a Comino song was in fact a Basque song since we were now deep in Basque country. This piece of information came from the mother since she had already completed the Compostela once before and had been invited along on this one by her daughter, on her first Compostela. Unfortunately, the young maiden had caught the eye of a rather handsome Dutchman and they wished to go off together and meet up with her mother later on in the day. Mother felt inclined to say yes but it was clear that she was not all that happy at being left on her own. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprising, a large percentage of those doing the Compostela are in fact women and around 75% of those are single girls alone or in small groups. Most walk around 25 kilometers a day, carrying oversized and overweight haversacks, with little effort.
Leaving the refuge at around six o’clock it was just getting light. The digital clock at the side of the road told me it was already 25 degrees in the shade. I made a mental note to stay out of the shade and pressed on to Najera for the night. I was really getting into a rhythm now and the loaded bike seemed so natural that I could happily trundle along at 10-mph with little effort and put in my120 kilometers a day by around noon. This I calculated would have me back in Bayonne in time to catch the bus home. Miss it and it would be another fortnight before the next one.
It was Sunday when I arrived in Burgos, around midday, a very large city indeed with a most beautiful cathedral. The refuge at Burgos was set in the middle of a park, on the grounds of the old military hospital. Wooden huts set out in a rectangle amongst trees, I have no idea what type of trees they were however they had white down like seeds, which fell like snow onto the dry grass. A fire had started and rapidly spread through the park. I sat at a table outside the refuge eating lunch, my floor-show a troop of firemen beating out the small fires that seemed to spring up almost as soon as they had been extinguished.
After lunch I set off into the city and found a fiesta in full swing. In the park surrounding the square children who had just attended their first communion were dressed up to the nines. Girls like young brides and boys in a form of military uniform covered in gold braid. Doting mothers, fathers and uncles were blissfully photographing the children in front of every conceivable fountain and flower bed. The girls happy enough to undergo all the attention lavished upon them, the boys less so and it showed on their faces.
It was a great day for sightseeing since the plaza was full of traders dressed up in medieval dress selling mostly craft goods. There was a baker, cooking these rather flatbread rolls with a sauce inside. The oven he had was made from clay and straw, fired by wood. I bought one cooked in seconds in this furnace, so hot, almost too hot to hold, however, it tasted superb. The crowning moment for me, however, was walking around the corner to be greeted by a long avenue of plane trees with their branches intertwining with each other to form an arch along the broad pavement. In their shade, people sat around outside the cafés. Why was it so special? I had seen that same scene as a boy. My Primary teacher had a painting on the wall of her classroom, it was the same picture, only this was in real-time. I now felt like Mary Poppins, when she and the children had jumped into the picture on the pavement. I was now inside that painting. I had to savour the moment so I sat down at one of the tables and ordered a glass of wine.
The next day I was buzzing around making porridge when this rather well turned out elderly lady came forward and peered into my cooking pot.
“Oh how lovely!” she exclaimed, “Porridge. My husband is from Scotland and makes us porridge every morning, how I do love my porridge”
When I answered, of course, she realized that I was, in fact, Scottish, and went off to tell her husband. Soon I was blessed with the company of an elderly man with a most welcoming wry smile.
“I hope you don’t intend to eat all of that on your own?” he said by way of introduction.
I scooped about half the contents of my pot into a bowl and pushed it towards him. We chatted and ate, and he told me how his daughter had married an Italian and moved to Italy.
“We seemed to be spending more and more time traveling backward and forwards to see them then later on the grandchildren. Our home in Scotland was becoming a liability so we finally sold up and moved to Italy, now the children and grandchildren visit us. It was the best move we ever made”.
It became plainly obvious to me at that moment that Scotland was not a place on a map or a place where a piece of coloured cloth flew from a flagpole. Scotland was in us, those who were Scottish, it was in our genes. Here in this small part of what they call Spain was Scotland. I will never meet him again but every time I think of Burgos I see the face of that old Scotsman with his wry smile.
“Thanks for the porridge” he said as he made to leave, “Just like mother used to make”, and after the perfectly timed pause, as if he was kindling up memories of his reverent old mother stirring the porridge with her spirtal, he said,
“The woman was a terrible cook”.
The joke was as old as he was but his timing was immaculate and I had to laugh.
The N120 took me over to Sahagun then on to the LE232 north to Cea and a minor road west again to St Miguel De Escalada and into Leon, where I stayed the night in a nunnery. It was a beautiful city and my new German friend and I visited the cathedral there. From there it was back on the N120 most of the way into Astorga and then on to the NV1 into Ponferradaand onto Leon. From there it is a hop-skip-and a jump along the N547 into Santiago de Compostela itself.
The journey back to Bayonne followed the coast along the north coast of Spain, I thought it would be flattish, being near the sea, but I was wrong. I did made it back into Bayonne with a day to spare though – this is a beautiful city and the coast has miles and miles of pristine sandy beaches, (and lots of daft laddies riding mopeds one-handed carrying a surfboard in the other, and crash helmets pushed up – the front now on top of their head, – must give them some sort of street cred).
I could go on forever about my trip and of course, it was my trip and will be very different for everyone who takes it on. You will never be alone on a trip such as this; the road to Santiago is a well-trodden path and you will all too soon find yourself in the company of like-minded people, whether you desire it or not. However, be warned, you will not go on the Compostela and return the same person.
I shall always remember the two girls that I met, one crying by the side of the road and carrying her rucksack on my back to the next refuge. The hippies that lived high up in the Sierra de Ancares Mountains in a wigwam. Chatting with two girls from Holland, in the next bunk to me, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I never once heard a cross word in all of the time I was away. There were no papers, television, or radio, it was an isolated world, yet open to the world. I met people from South America, Australia, Holland, Germany, France from just about every corner of the globe, all living in harmony, (there must have been no politicians amongst them). There were no cooking facilities in the refuge at Leon, possibly something to do with insurance since it was a very old convent run by nuns (and no hot water not even in the showers). There was a kitchen but no stove however there were lots of large pots, so I cooked up a sort of stew from tins of meatballs, packets of soup and fresh vegetables on my camping stove. Scooping out a bowlful for myself I passed it around the table to be eaten along with loaves of French bread. A Canadian lad had made a fresh fruit salad, dressed with yogurt, for us. Ulrich Kraussel from Germany managed two bottles of wine. However one of the most unforgettable memories for me came on my last night in a refuge. A group of German Girls who had been traveling together, whether part of a group at home or not, I never found out, but they sang a German lullaby that night just at lights out. Dropping off to sleep I could almost see the Austrian Alps with snow-covered peaks. You ask me what is the Compostela de Santiago and for you, I have no answer, for it is different for everyone who goes on this life-changing experience.
Thursday’s headwind had abated, but it was still there, and very very cold. Having struggled to recover from yesterday’s ride I decided to change my route and headed for Guardbridge on the cycle track and then over to Balmullo onto the A914 for Dairsie of Osnaburgh. At the roundabout, I turned left onto the A19 for Clayton, rejoining the cycle track at Guardbridge once more. It was a pleasant change and most enjoyable; a leisure cycle, free from hills and around 20 miles. My top speed today was 18.8 mph and my average over the course was 10.4 mph.
Generally, the CTC will do a ride out at the weekend; the distance, normally in the region of 40 – 50 miles. Our cycle club would have a test ride out each spring to knock us into shape, 100 miles was normal. Audax rides will start at 200 kilometers (120 miles) and that distance has to be covered in a time limit. Under normal circumstances, 20 miles would not even be worthy of a mention. However, my story is all about coming back into cycling after a long lay off and no longer in the prime of life, you have to take baby steps. Keeping yourself fit is the hardest thing to learn, for we are all built differently.
I had been cycling for many years and considered myself a good club rider. I decided to join Audax UK and my first Audax ride was up around Nidderdale. Not flat, but I had no problems at all, a little dehydrated possibly but I had always found it difficult taking on water, and at that time had no idea about what food worked for me. I had a few 200K Audax rides under my belt when I decided to move up to 300k.
I remember it was a beautiful summer’s day. We set off from Newcastle and headed north out into the countryside, crossing the border into Scotland for a few miles then returning back towards Newcastle. About 25 miles from the finish in Newcastle we stopped at a cafe. I could not eat anything but felt I should get some liquid into me so I ordered tea, and when it arrived I put sugar in, although I have not taken sugar in tea since childhood. Hardly had it reached my stomach, when I found myself flying from the cafe and all the contents of my stomach came up in a fountain. I could not hold anything down, even my emergency rations, Jelly Babies. Somehow I managed to get back to the van at Newcastle, out of time to qualify for a finish, but by that time I couldn’t have cared less. I curled up in the passenger seat of the van and pulled a blanket over myself and slept for a couple of hours before heading for home. Mum would be expecting me at around 8 am. When she saw me she was clearly shocked. I said I was fine. A shower and a couple of hours in bed and I would be right as rain.
“No,” she insisted,” I’m calling the doctor for an appointment,” and when mum insisted it was better just to do what you were told.
Being Sunday it was an emergency doctor’s appointment. Turned out that the doctor I visited that day just happened to have been the doctor for the British Olympic Team, (sometimes things happen for a reason). He was brilliant at putting me right about taking fluid on board, and telling me how I must eat small quantities of food for the duration of the run. What he also said was that this was a reaction to my body literally eating itself. I still found it difficult to drink lots and lots of water when cycling so supplemented this with sports energy drinks and from then on carried half a dozen small energy bars in the rear pocket of my cycle top. My favourite turned out to be banana flavoured. I bought that one by the boxful. I never had any problems from then on in, thanks to mum, and that very special doctor.
Strange as it may seem I heard a lady on the car radio one day talking about the making of the stage show Billy. A boy from a mining family who wanted to be a ballet dancer, the story was set in Yorkshire, during the miner’s strike. She said they had around five boys to play the part of Billy, and they had them bouncing around for hours and often they would spew up like fountains.
When I was on the Compostela de Santiago, I came across two Dutch girls by the side of the road. One was sitting down, the other was most unhappy that her friend would not get up. I stopped and asked if I could help.
“She won’t walk,” the standing girl said.
“I can’t walk, I have blisters” the other retorted.
I knew immediately that the girl on the ground was dehydrated and simply spent, the blisters were not the real reason for her not wishing to go on. I went over to my bike and came back with two energy bars and a sports drink. I handed them to the girl who set about them without question. I offered to take her backpack to the next refuge for her.
“The refuge is only 5 kilometers away,” I told them, “Without the backpack, you will make it”.
“Take it, take it”, her friend said, without hesitation.
However the lass was not keen to see all of her belongings go riding off, but in the end, she took her passport and money from the backpack and handed it over. I knew instantly why she was having difficulty when I tried to lift the pack, it must have weighed around 60 – 70lbs!
When I reached the refuge I told the staff there what had happened and said the girls would be in later. When they finally did make an appearance the staff went into overdrive. They had the girl in a bunk, her blisters were attended to, and food was prepared for them. Six o’clock the following morning I saw them bounce out the door without a care in the world. I wished them well and reminded them to drink lots of water.
Well the Coronavirus pandemic has well and truly put a spoke in the wheel of my big adventure any time soon. However, always the optimist, I have started training anyway. That way I will be fit and ready whenever things settle down again. If nothing else it gets me out in the fresh air and exercising (while I can) and I enjoy it, there can be no better reason than that.
Last week the weather was so springlike I pedalled all the way to Tayport. I had overstretched myself for by the time I returned to Leuchars I was struggling. I still had not learned to pace myself. At Guardbridge I dismounted at the barrier and pushed the bike up the slight hill and into the car park at the top before remounting, using different muscles helped. The wind was light but now like a gentle hand on my back propelled me into St Andrews. I stuffed the bike in the back of the van and headed for the shower, allowing hot water to massage my body. My batteries were flat, lungs burned, my stomach was cramping and I had a thirst that could not be quenched, but I also had a brain that was sparking at one hundred miles per second. I thought I was too old and my fitness levels such that I could never feel this way again; that heightened awareness that comes through sheer exertion. I can only imagine how professional athletes must be on a permanent high, that keeps them pushing forward, above and beyond the call of duty.
When Generals returned to Rome, in triumph, their servant would whisper in their ear
“You are not a god”.
I must find a small voice to sit upon my shoulder and whisper,
“You are now 78 years old”.
On Friday I set out for Strathkinness, a slow climb from St Andrews that gets you warmed up. From there I intended dropping back down to Guardbridge and home along the cycle path, just a short circuit to keep the legs flexible. But as always happens I was feeling good on reaching Strathkinness and decided to visit the Broch at Drumcarrow Craig. Crossing the B939 you start to climb, a climb that only gets steeper as you go, and soon I was twiddling away in my bottom granny gear. There is a little metalled road that takes you up to the Craig, and as I neared I could hear the sound of off-road motorcycles. I left the bicycle at the base of the crag and made the short climb up to the top.
The view was spectacular, you could see all the way to the Forth, the Tay and all the way west, across Fife. The Broch itself is long gone but the outer foundation ring of stones is still there (I stepped them out at about 13 feet in diameter) and clear for all to see and much bigger than expected. Even the entrance is visible. Seems they knew what they were doing, the people that built this Broch, for the door is away from the prevailing winds that come from the south-west. I must try to find out more about the (Iron Age) people who built this structure, from its size they must have been a large tribe. As with all these relics from the past the stone was re-used to build or extend farmhouses and barns. It makes sense. Why would you quarry stone when it is already there in a handy pile? But that is for another day, this was only a scouting trip.
Dropping back down to the B939 from Drumcarrow Craig, was a big Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, all the way home. It is times like this I am thankful I don’t have a computer on the bike, heart attack territory. I remember coming home from a trip, I had climbed up from Braemar and was now coming off the hill at the ski slope heading for Bridge of Cally. I was going so fast I dare not touch my brakes – at home the computer registered 53 MPH – a bit quick for an unstable tricycle loaded with gear. Best not to know these things at the time!