With an old bike ...
... by Bill McLaughlin?

Glasgow to Ullapool via the West Coast and back down Loch Ness side! I don’t know why I wanted to do it, but I wanted it so bad, it hurt at times. It probably began with a the determination to go somewhere on my own, under my own steam with the my faithful bicycle. I was 15 years old; it was a Dayton Roadmaster. I had borrowed it from time to time When my oldest brother, Davy and his wife Margaret, stayed with us after they got married I borrowed it from time to time. When They eventually got a place of their own in Maryhill and the bike went with them. I had used it so often I kind of regarded it as mine anyway, especially when Davy was away on his National Service with the Royal Air Force. I think the old man intervened on my behalf, but because somehow the bike ended up as mine. It was brought back from Maryhill. and I loved it and cared for it, it was probably my first love! I stripped it and cleaned it, endlessly polishing the wheel rims until I could almost see my face in them. I oiled the hubs, checked the brakes and greased the brake cables. I oiled the pedal spindles so much that when I twirled them they seemed to spin for ever, just like the wheels, on and on and on! A couple of weeks before the trip I got some money together from the my part time Job I had as a Van boy with Beattie’s bakery. and Off I went to the big Dales cycle shop up in Dobbie’s Loan. I bought a saddlebag. Hopefully it would be big enough to get me by without being too large to be overweight. My Ma kicked in with some money she said was from Dad to buy me a cape. She said it was from Dad. I can still smell the oilskin; it was bright yellow and when I wore it, which, would be often in our weather, was often, it covered the bike and me so perfectly, I would be was like a mobile tent! I Joined the Youth hostel association as a full member in my own right, not as a ‘family member’ as it I had been until then. I bought my own Youth hostel map, and checked and rechecked the routes I might take. Some further savings went on proper cycling shoes. I left Barrowfield in the East End of Glasgow, quietly, on a one Saturday morning. The old man was at work, Ma said ‘Cheerio’ before going out to the shops. We weren’t big on sentiment and anyway I had been going away every year to school camp every year for about three years. This was different, I had organised it myself, saved some money and I was doing it by myself. An early Jack Keruoac! I was ‘On the road’. Into the Gallowgate, past Glasgow cross with the old Mercat clock watching me come, watching me go, turned up High street, stood on the pedals to get me round the steep twist as I passed over Duke street. Up and by Burrell’s Lane where, family legend had it, that Andy, one of my older brothers had let me spin out of control on in my Pram, all the way down and across Duke street! Now Next, (avoids using now twice) past the Cathedral and the oldest house, Provand’s Lordship, once a bishop’s palace, then a hospital, now a museum with no artefacts. Up Cathedral street and along Sauchiehall street, Cowcaddens, past the ‘daft school’ New City road and up to Maryhill. All the time watching the wheels didn’t skid on the greasy cobbles and didn’t get trapped in the Tramlines. On and up, it felt like climbing. It was climbing! This was getting to heading for the highest part of Glasgow, like Rome, built, like Rome, on hills. Once past the old Tram Terminus, I cleared the City boundary at the top end of Maryhill, just at the fancy church with eaves which reached so near the ground it resembles a large triangle. I passed the sign, then I looked back to make sure I had left it behind, ‘Glasgow City boundary’. Ifelt alone. Not lonely. For the first time. I was getting free! (tasting freedom?)

The City gently turned into the greener, more genteel area of Bearsden. I had often passed this way often on the back of my old man’s motor bike, but Now I had time to see it at the slower pace of my own energies. (at my own more leisurely pace ?) Everything seemed larger, the houses bigger, the gardens more cultivated. In later life I would come back to work in this area and realise become conscious of the smell of money coming from these surroundings. Right now my priority was to get out through to the Blanefield road and out towards Drymen. I pushed harder on the pedals to take me over the hill and past the reservoir. and At last, I cleared the last of the big country houses. Open road! Hissing along I counted my breathing. and Apart from the tyres, all was quiet. No traffic, no people. More aloneness. and More freedom! This was as we say, The saying goes ‘a long road for a short cut’, I didn’t take the direct route to my first day’s stop, at :Inverbeg on the west bank of Loch Lomond at the foot of Glen Douglas. This The road I took me an extra was10 miles longer. But I was on holiday and had all day. and I didn’t want to miss the road through Gartocharn to Balloch. I had passed the road end so often on trips to Rowardennan with the family to Rowardennan and seen Seeing the signs for Gartocharn I was drawn to it like a magnet to iron.(unnecessary perhaps) Eventually I passed came to the village. Literally. It was a case of ‘now you see it, now you don’t!’ so quickly I was disappointed and like a lot of things in my life till then, put it behind me. I saw the sign but little sign of life, the village was kind of off the road a bit and there was little sign of life. suddenly I only saw the sign as I left, What a disappointment! I cycled on and like a lot of things in my life till then, put it behind me. Sometimes you are better having wishes unfulfilled! Through Balloch and where I decided to stop for a ‘drum up’ Tea and sandwiches. I unpacked the Primus stove the old man had allowed me to borrow for the duration. He had laughed when he gave it to me .me it. "We’ll see you back when it gets dark". I found myself drawn to the park at Balloch Castle, scene of an earlier trip when I was in the Life Boys, a junior adjunct to the Boys Brigade,(is the explanation necessary?) all drilling and marching up and down, I remembered the junior leader of the Life boys. junior leader She was my big brother Andy’s girlfriend, Jean. She had hauled my pal Robert Hagerty and myself me away from the rowing boats after we fell in the water. Dried us off a bit before we had to go went home and then lied to our parents about the accident! That dayI was proud that day to think that my brother was smart enough to have such a good storyteller for a girlfriend. I left Balloch and turned north with only about 14 miles to cycle to my first night’s hostel and rest. At Inverbeg the Warden was a big bluff kind of guy fellow (to avoid repetition of guy) with a huge beard, an army sweater and a Kilt! I just knew I would love this guy! I found my way to the dormitory, 12 to Twelve in each as I remember and no mixing of the sexes! Dumped my saddle bag on the bunk and went down to the kitchen to cook some grub, some kind of tinned rubbish I had picked up in Balloch. But I made prepared it and I was going to enjoy it, Or else! While a bunch of us sat talking about our plans, the warden started with his tales. The layout of the Hostel was like a two level log cabin with some stairs leading to the upper level, which serves as a kind meeting place for everyone. I appeared to be the youngest resident and took a bit of stick. ‘Dis yer Mammy know your oot, son?’ was the favourite and I was to hear it a fair number of times over the next two weeks. According to Big Jim - I will call him that, for I only met him the once and his name is long forgotten -and I only met him the once the place was haunted, stalked by the ghosts of two previous wardens. One of whom them had hanged himself from the open-work beams, dropping from the upper to the lower level and only stopping short when the rope ran out! I discovered that the talk was for my benefit, as I discovered Most of the other Hostelers hostellers were regulars and paid no attention. One of them told me ‘Don’t listen to him he’s only trying to frighten you son. Two wardens! A lot of shite son, there only ever was one hung himself and that was in the dormitory, not out here’. I stayed up late that night! As I watched the fire glow and I listened to the tales of all these experienced travellers. until Soon I was too tired to worry about bumps in the night!

The next morning I was up early. At that time you first up got the easiest chore from the warden. It was a hostelling tradition in hostelling, that before leaving you had to perform a chore to help him out the warden. It might just be sweeping out the floor. or It could be fetching logs to restock the fire. It was A good tradition, made you feel part of everything. The early rise meant I could watch the lifting mist rising like smoke smoking up the slopes of Ben Lomond. In the morning light, the east (superfluous) rising sun shone through the clouds, creating ‘searchlights’ where it pierced. The effect When these shafts hit the water of the loch, the effect was breathtaking. and This sight accompanied would accompany me for the next 12 miles as I rode alongside the loch on that infamous narrow road with its blind bends and humps, which twists twisting all the way to Ardlui. Taking the right fork, following the loch side, I was heading for Glencoe. I left Loch Lomond behind me and started the long drag up Glen Falloch. I stopped long enough stopping to walk through the woods to for a look at the Falls of Falloch. Quiet, only me and the moss and trees. and The river paying paid no attention to its admirer as it ran, mad rushing over the rocks to join Loch Lomond.(‘as it ran wild, rushing over’ or ‘as it ran rushing madly over the rocks) Back to the bike and on towards Crainlarich. climb again Another climb! God it was easier when I was sitting on my old man’s motorbike! This was one of those hills that you don’t realise where you only realise how steep it is until when you get to the top. Having I had stood on the pedals most of the way, not wanting to get off and walk in case passing professionals laughed. I hit the top and almost collapsed as when I looked back down and realised the extent of the climb. A good cyclist would have made it look easy, but hell I was unfit and on holiday. I vowed I would walk when things got tough in future. What the hell, there was no point killing myself! And anyway it was a good excuse for a cigarette. I had started smoking a weird oval shaped smoke that went by the name of ‘Passing Clouds”. No filter and a gut buster. I guess I had some kind of romantic notion of sitting under a tree, lighting up after a hard days graft! I crested the hill, remounted and freewheeled almost all the way to Crainlarich. That was a blast! At times I was going so fast I had to veer over to the other side of the road to take the bends. Isle of Man TT races, eat your heart out! Onwards! Swing left. Run past Tyndrum and head for the Black Mount across Rannoch Moor. It was a Sunday and I met no one. Nobody overtook me, not because I was fast, just up early. Too early yet for the cycle harriers who would race to Glencoe and back to Glasgow in a day, as sport! 190 miles round trip! Headcases all! I had just passed through the Bridge of Orchy when, on the moor, I saw my first red deer. A small herd of about twenty. At first they appeared not to notice me, humming as I hummed along on the bike. They were strolling. stopping from time to time to munch at the reindeer moss humps. Casual, not a care in the world. The young buck with twelve-inch single antlers saw me first. He stopped, nosing nose in the air, stared for what seemed an eternity, then took off, alerting the rest others. As they ran, their hooves drummed on the turf and moss so loud loudly, I stopped to listen. I had never heard that kind of sound before, except maybe in some old cowboy movie when the a cow herd of cows stampeded. But this was real! Enchanting! And a lot of noise for twenty or so animals. They disappeared into the distance, faintly the drumming growing fainter.and the That sound has never left me. I decided to eat and felt that the roadside at Loch Tulla was just for me (an ideal spot ?). A long barren vista across the Rannoch Moor was the backdrop. Lunch was a sandwich, a biscuit and tea brewed on the Primus; I was beginning to feel like a real traveller. I had a little tin container, separated with a separation in the middle with and a lid at either end embossed with the words ‘Tea’ and ‘Sugar, in case you couldn’t tell the difference when you opened it! My teacup was a tin, better known in these parts as a ‘can’. It had a wire handle which had to be kept away from the flame of the stove. Once the water, taken from the nearest burn or loch, was boiling away, the tea was added, poured into the hand, roughly measured in my hand and dropped into the can with either a matchstick or a small twig. This These apparently attracted the tea leaves and made it easier to avoid swallowing them. It never worked for me! Yugh! I was now ready then for the long climb up the Black Mount, that part of the road leading which leads in to the heart of Glencoe. The road winds upwards. There’s with a severe bend christened, at some time ‘the other devil’s elbow’ by my old man at some time. I got so far along then decided to get off and push the bike to the top; a couple of miles! At the top, looking back, it the view was breathtaking. I gazed on the panorama back across the moor, the break in the clouds, Loch Tulla and all the little tarns and lochans, waiting, then glistening when it was their turn to catch the sun