112 Never been to Scotland? Neither had Luke Warren….
Luke Warren (who’d never been to Scotland), his dad, his girlfriend’s dad, and his mate Dave try their very best to make the most of scenic bounty north of the border
ONCE IN A LUSH valley near Zermatt, Switzerland, surrounded by mountains, a Dutchman told me Scotland was the most beautiful country he’d ever seen. A bold claim, given what was around us then. I’ve been lucky enough to see much of Europe, the Alps, Pyrenees, Sierra Nevada, and the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. At that point, five years ago, I’d not been to Scotland. Now, I’d made it, and remembered the Dutchman. He had a point. In terms of stunning scenery that just keeps coming, Scotland competes with the best. And even if you live at Land’s End, it’s still almost on your doorstep. Obviously, we celebrated these breathtaking landscapes by riding through them as quickly as we could. But even at 60, 70 and other mph, you can savour the sights. Day three we shot through the Cairngorms National Park, with sloping mountains curling either side and greys, oranges and reds flashing in the corners of my visor. The bends brought out the best of our riding and sheep chewed grass on the roadside. Sheep in the road – and even Highland cattle at one point – would become normal on this trip. We’d ridden up skirting the flat fens of Cambridgeshire, the rippling wolds of Lincolnshire, across the Humber bridge to beautiful Beverly, Yorkshire. I’d pulled crazy dog faces at truckers on the A1(M) as I began to lose my mind through boredom and then got so lost with wonder at the landscape off the A68 I nearly missed a tight right-hander. Further north, the A832 from Garve and the A890 onto Lochcarron are
perhaps the best roads I’ve ever ridden. They were so fast, wide… and you could see ahead for miles. I thought I was making good progress – but we were overtaken by another set of bikers, led by a Hayabusa. This gang had overtaken us the day before through the Cairngorms. No matter how fast you think you are, there’s always someone faster. We headed to Lochcarron to meet Dave, who’d been on Orkney, diving the scuttled German World War One ships in Scapa Flow. We, being me on my Ducati Scrambler, my dad Mick on his Kawasaki Versys and my fiancée’s dad Andy on a Suzuki V-strom. Our plan was to meet Dave and for him to ride back with us, on his Honda Transalp. Dave was staying with a dive-school friend, Ellis, who kindly let us stay the night at his family’s holiday home on the bonnie banks of Loch Carron. Brilliant sunshine sparkled across the loch the day we arrived and we all went for a ride to Applecross, with Ellis comfortably keeping up in his BMW Z4. The Bealach na Bà, Gaelic for ‘pass of the cattle’, is a Temple-of-doomstyle, runaway mine-cart of a road. As it leaves the A896 to wind up and down to Applecross, a sign warns: ‘This road rises to a height of 2053 feet with gradients of 1 in 5 and hairpin bends. NOT ADVISED FOR LEARNER DRIVERS.’ It’s single track with passing places, chunks missing on either side of the road and loose gravel. It lived up to its name – it’s where we saw three Highland cattle just chilling on the roadside – and it was the biggest test of my riding skills to date. At one point I felt like James Bond chasing Ellis in his Z4 up the mountain. At other points I just felt scared. I shot some videos of the day on my helmetcam, too, which may find their way onto Youtube, and which, watching them back, make me feel drunk. As we pulled over at one point, Andy dropped his V-strom on an angled lay-by. After me wrecking a roll bag strap when it caught in the rear sprocket and dad toppling off on gravel in a car park, it brought us our three counts of bad luck. The views of shining sea below mountains and candy-floss cloud from this stop were worth it, however, and the award-winning Applecross Inn and its delicious seafood once you reach the village, a glorious reward. And there was still Glencoe to come. Glencoe, one of the reasons for the trip. Glencoe, a rare beauty; a glowering landscape, brewing with natural energy, which seemingly could snuff you out if you ever dared take a chance with it. We woke at Invercoe campsite in Glencoe village, the sun slowly appearing between peaks, lighting slope after slope to the east, wood smoke rising, and a fog hugging Loch Leven looking west. Earthly beauty was all around us; it completely absorbed us as we took the A82 through the glen itself. It was cold, but we were heading south, towards Glasgow and eventually England and home. I felt Scotland could have shown us more and more. We got to the Lake District, camping way above Ullswater, before hitting the M6, A1(M) and M25, where, at 5pm on a Friday, we filtered for miles between lines of parked cars. Despite not being an adventure bike, my Ducati Scrambler had coped ably with this adventure. The only drawback was having to take all my clothes out of the roll bag every day to put my tent in the bottom, and then pack my clothes back on top. My dad, Andy, and Dave, were patient, and while they showed off their fancy top boxes, I undoubtedly had the bike that sparked the most interest from other riders and passers-by, and I think, the coolest of the four. Oh, I did run out of fuel once, but a borrowed petrol can and sawn-off water-bottle saved the day. As I flicked my Scrambler between lines of traffic on the M25, I realised I’d not bought my fiancée Shannon a present from Scotland, 600 miles too late. I can now reliably inform you that Sainsbury’s West Green, in Crawley, roughly a mile from my home, sells haggis.
‘At one point I felt like James Bond. At other points I just felt scared’