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TRIPPIN: Scotland on Sprint STs, Part II
Written by: Neale Bayly   
02/22/2009
Charlotte, NC
 
Brekkie in the morning was fortifying, nurturing and washed down with lashings of hot tea. Elegantly served by a lovely young Eastern European waitress on a summer work program, the thought of baked beans, sausages, fried bread and fried eggs was too much for Dennis and Sam. "Tender Americans" I said digging in. Leaving the hotel we enjoyed a rousing ride up to Mailag on the Western tip of North Morar, before passing the tip of Loch Shiel, where we photographed the monument of Bonnie Prince Charlie raising his standard here in August 1745. Although his rebellion ultimately failed, the statue featuring a kilted Highlander was erected by the wealthy descendent of a Jacobite in 1812. There is also an incredible concrete viaduct constructed in the early 1900's for the railway that is 416 yards long, with 21 arches, the tallest being 1000ft high. The mood was festive as we made it to the lonely port town, perched at what seemed like the end of civilization. As nothing but a big harbor, with all the houses ringed around the surrounding hillside looking down onto the fleets of tough, hard working fishing boats, our ferry to the Isle of Skye was an hour away so we headed into the small town to explore.

The journey across the Sound of Sleat was wonderful, the thickly clouded sky punctuated by patches of pale blue sky and a salty breeze blowing in our faces. Lady luck gave us the opportunity to meet and photograph a genuine Scottish Bagpiper when we docked in Armadale, and with our ears still ringing from the sound of this most interesting of instruments we stumbled into our next accommodation. Sitting just off the A851, the Toravaig House called as an inviting beacon in the harsh landscape we found ourselves riding through. The sun had disappeared, and it was damp and cool as we went looking for a base for our Isle of Skye adventures. Quickly realizing in wet touring gear we weren't going to cut it the lounge over tea, we disrobed and quietly took our place with the houseguests. Waiting for our warm beverage to arrive, a well-dressed elderly Scottish Gentleman with jet black, dyed hair was sipping his pint, while engaging a couple of elegant English ladies in a rousing conversation next to the piano. Of indeterminate age, they had most certainly used up their three score and ten. Sitting bolt up right sipping tea, and politely nodding at the appropriate moments, they made a point to take little notice of the motorcycle rabble that had burst into their space.

Tea taken, rooms reserved, and most of our equipment stowed, we motored off to discover the Isle of Skye. By now the terrain had grown mostly treeless and much harsher than the mainland, and passing through the Cuillin Hills it became darn right cold. The roads varied from narrow single track affairs, where we had to wait for oncoming traffic, to open two-lane which allowed us to get the big Triumphs singing around 80 mph without another soul in sight. The scenery was out of this world. Barren, and at times bleak, it was always breathtaking whether we were following a Loch or twisting through the cold mountains three thousand feet above us.

Late afternoon found us at the most northwesterly point of our ride in the town of Dunvegan for a visit to the famous Castle. "Rising sheer from the almost perpendicular edges of the rock, its massive gray towers and hoary battlements stand forth against an unrivalled background of sky and mountain and islet-spangled sea," it is amazing to think its origins began over 1000 years ago. And, that it has been continually been worked on through every century since the 1200s. Featuring magnificent wooded gardens, and an interior featuring portraits, priceless heirlooms, trophies, weapons and even a lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie's hair, it is said to be the oldest inhabited castle in Scotland.

Motoring south for Portree across some flat barren ground, the temperatures plummeted further and the light began to fade as I crouched in behind the fairing. Noticeably shivering on arrival in the small fishing town of Portree, young Sam was not in good shape. Even with the thermal liner in his adventure gear, sitting high on the back of the Sprint he had been getting cold on the run up to Dunvegan and the ride to Portree had not been fun. We added layers, forced a hot steaming meal of fish and chips down his neck and headed out into the cold evening. Even in summer time, Scotland can be a harsh mistress.

Peering through the twilight gloom, the Triumph's fuel light burst on with some 30-40 miles to go, causing some mild concern. Motioning to Dennis, he made me aware he was in the same situation and it was time to roll out of the throttle and ease our way through the Scottish hills. Time ticks slowly by when you are waiting for the tank to run dry, and I knew it would happen to Dennis first. Occasional cottages dotted the sparse landscape, and we wondered if they might have a wee drop of gas. Thankfully, with little more than fumes in the tank we made it, slammed down a chocolate bar for some instant fuel and pressed on for the Toravaig House. Firmly ensconced in the luxurious armchairs after a scalding hot shower, with a wee pint of heavy in hand, it was time to reflect on a wonderful day of riding, and all of the many varies sights we had seen. No one took much rocking this night.

Off to the usual breakfast confusion for the American contingent, as they struggled with teapots and the strange order of the food service, before a refreshing morning blast en route to the Kyle of Lochalsh, which would take us off the Isle of Skye. A long bridge soars out across the Plock of Kyle, and the stunning views across the mist-shrouded water were very reminiscent of the Fjords of northern Norway. The air was crisp, the sun doing just enough to bring a little warmth as we made our way onto the mainland and along side Loch Alsh. Calmer than a millpond in the morning air, Dennis was about to experience his personal highlight of the tour: Eilean Donan.

As one of the most photographed castles in Scotland, not some Highland sweetheart, Alexander III built Eilean Donan between 1214-1250 to protect the area from Viking raids. Falling into disrepair after being pounded by the English Navy in 1719, it was nearly two hundred years before John MacRace Gilstrap claimed his ancestral home and set about restoring it. Taking twenty years to finish, the castle opened to the public in 1934 and has been receiving visitors ever since. Standing majestically at the union of Loch Long, Loch Alsh and Loch Duich, our visit to the castle added a new member to our traveling party in the shape of a young German hitchhiker called Charlotte.

As a bike aficionado, and also someone who had missed her bus, we agreed to take her with us as far as the City of Inverness. This involved one of the quintessential Scottish motorcycle experience for Dennis and I as the next couple of hours were spent scything down through the magnificent Glen Shiel on some seriously challenging,
two lane roads. Overhead the sky was a deep blue with barely a cloud as the Five Sisters dominated our sideways view. Rising up to various heights about 3,000 feet, they are not the biggest mountains in Europe by any means, but they sure are beautiful. Riding as if in unison, the pace was swift and the road nearly devoid of traffic, save the odd fast moving motorcycle in the other direction. In my mirror, the blue Sprint ST stayed locked in range, as if he were a picture glued to its surface, while we put the sport back in sport touring. Turning south at the junction with the A887, thirteen more miles of twisting paradise found us lying on a bank of Scottish grass absorbing the stunning views of Lock Garry, while listening the haunting sounds of a Scottish Bagpiper. As someone who seemed like he might be a little more familiar with the old Scottish malt, than music practice, his often-squeaky performance was entertaining to say the least.

Back down at sea level we opted to pass through Invergary and pulled in at Port Augustus to watch the fascinating lock system lower various sailboats out of the Caledonian Canal that leads from Loch Lochy into the world famous Loch Ness. Enjoying a hearty Ploughman's outside the local Pub, featuring sweat inducing sharp cheddar cheese, eye wincing vinegar soaked pickles, and half of loaf of hearty bread, the warm sun and gentle pace of the lock system all conspired to send everyone for a swift nap in the soft grass. Waking refreshed, we remounted and took off in the direction of the town with the coolest name in Scotland, Drumnadrochit, to visit Urquhart Castle for a chance to see the famous Loch Ness Monster.

As you might imagine, Nessie decided the sight of Dennis' handlebar moustache after battling 80 mph winds was a tad too shocking, so she didn't make an appearance. We didn't mind though, as the view across Loch Ness was just so calm and peaceful that it took a major league effort to not find another nap spot. With our young friend needing to be on a night bus for Glasgow, we had to make a little haste. Riding north up the A82 and into Inverness, we began to fight with tourist traffic for the first time on our trip, and actually got stuck in a Scottish traffic jam. Not as pleasant as it sounds, it was brutally hot and we were most happy to exit the modern city and set our sights on the more sparsely populated town of Aviemore deep in the Cairngorm Mountains.

This task was achieved by taking the A9 and after an hour or so we actually picked up some Dual Carriageway. Running south with the sun hanging low in the western sky sending rich golden light to the surrounding countryside it was good to be out of the traffic. Aviemore is a very famous skiing town in winter, and still enjoys a thriving tourist trade in summer, so we put Dennis to work as he bargained for a good room rate with the local Hoteliers. While this was happening, young Sam and I took the Sprints back out into the countryside for one last ride before the sun disappeared behind the solid wall of mountains framing out the town, and hatched a plan to play a ruse on Dennis.

About 15 miles out of town we pulled over and swapped riding gear, before returning to town. As we thought, Dennis was waiting and looked relieved to see us. Seconds later, as I launched the Sprint onto the back wheel and blasted past our hotel, the expression on his face was far from happy. He did manage to see the funny side of it after a couple of beers at a local hostelry, but it was definitely Sam and I who got the most fun out of it. Sleep came easy, as I lay down in my immaculate room, and drifted off back into the steep sided Glens, the sound of Bagpipes playing in my head.

The last day of our tour, burst through the curtains early in the form of a cloudless day, with hot sunshine and yet more breathtaking scenery. The first order of the day, after our last 3,500-calorie Scottish breakfast, was to take a slow ride to the Rothiemurchus Estate. Here we enjoyed the most leisurely stroll of the trip, as the stunning natural beauty of the ruined Castle on Loch an Eilein became our next favorite place in Scotland. Said to be over 600 years old, the Loch was flooded to float timber down river many years ago and there are over 30 miles of walking trails, as well as a well stocked gift shop and a very run down limestone kiln.

With time standing still, we bobbed and weaved our way up the steep curvaceous mountain roads to the skiing area at the top of the Cairngorms. Alpine fresh air filtered through my vents, the horizon stretching away through my visor as we climbed to the road's end. Affording magnificent views for as far as the eye could see, it was with a little sadness we began to make our descent. As much as we didn't want to admit it, home was beginning to break the spell as approaching deadlines, flight reservations and work schedules punctuated our thoughts. Rallying around to fight off the demons, we picked up the tiny B970 and meandered through thirty miles of rolling farmland, and across small rivers with old, stone bridges barely wide enough for a single car. Lazy cows munched in the fields, as ornate farmhouses blended into the gentle landscape. All too soon our world opened up as the impressive sight of Ruthven Barracks came into view, framed out by the heavily trafficked A9.

Built in 1715 as by the Government to house troops in their attempt to quell the Jacobite uprising, it was burned and left in its present condition in 1746 by a force of 3000 Jacobites who had amassed to wait word from Bonnie Prince Charlie. With the rebellion failed, they dispersed and the Barracks burned, leaving behind a peaceful ruin for passing travelers to wander around and try to imagine Scottish life 250 years ago.

As relaxing as it was, it was our last major stop with our next mission to make it back to Mrs. Clean's for dinner. With tardiness not an option, we exploited all the virtues of our Sprint STs as we hustled up hill and down dale, straightening out the sinuous stretch of tarmac that would lead us home. By late afternoon, we had once more found the rest of society and were doing battle with hordes of four wheeled commuters, but there was one last ray of brilliance left before the end. A traffic jam on the Erskine Bridge meant we crossed the massive cable-stayed structure at walking pace. This allowed us some simply stunning views down the Clyde from our high vantage point and a fitting farewell the Scottish Highlands behind us. We had made the most of the long mid-summer days to do and see as much as we could have possibly done in our short visit. The roads had been superb, the scenery impossible to put into words, and the hospitality from the locals beyond reproach. With a farewell meal that would see us through the next couple of weeks waiting, we gunned the big triples onto the Motorway and slotted into the fast moving traffic as we rode into the setting Scottish sun for the last time.
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