Lochmaben to Lanark – 50 miles
It’s said that Robert the Bruce may have been born in Lochmaben. Or Turnberry Castle in Ayrshire. Or Writtle in Essex. Whatever the true location, Lochmabians have taken their tenuous claim to heart and erected a statue to the great Scottish medieval warrior king in their main square. We passed by it on our way out of town and stopped to take a few photos. Apparently, one of the lads at the pub that Phil and Jools went to for a pint last night, the one they were happy to leave in one piece, told Phil ‘Some people think Robert the Bruce was a turncoat, but it isnae true.’
The day was murky, the skies mildly threatening. It felt as if rain, so long absent, was edging closer. Our route for most of the day was intertwined with the A74(M), the main artery through this part of Scotland. The hum of heavy traffic was a constant in our ears, even if we couldn’t actually see the main road. We were confined to the old A74, which suited us fine. It was wide and reasonably well maintained. The only traffic that still used it seemed to be delivery vans and trade vehicles, motorbikes out for a scenic vroom, the occasional local nipping out on an errand. Practitioners of slow cycling happily confine themselves to the geriatric end of the road spectrum: old A roads that have been superseded, ancient tracks and lanes that are tarmac’d but deemed unworthy of A or B classification, old railway tracks that have been repurposed into cycle tracks. That’s the hidden world we’re comfortable in.
North of Lochmaben the hills grow broader and bleaker until their covering of trees and fields is replaced by bald heather that gives the landscape the appearance of a tundra, or a desert. The only things that protrude are road signs, telegraph pylons, communication towers, the occasional tree and wind turbines. Lots of wind turbines. Wind energy has become entwined with Scotland’s struggle for independence. Unionists and doubters taunt the nationalists with claims that North Sea oil is running out and with it any hope of an economically viable break from England. But the nationalists retort with their grand vision of Scotland as the main source of renewable energy for the whole of Britian, even beyond. The majority of Britain’s large capacity onshore wind farms are in Scotland, and over half of its turnover from onshore wind comes from Scotland. Turbines are everywhere, and more are being built. They either enhance this otherwise bleak denuded landscape, or rob it of any wildness it has left, depending on how you look at it.
The road rose steadily, mile after mile, up into that tundra. In a wooded area, we were overtaken by a 4×4 that stopped a couple of hundred metres ahead. A man got out and approached a bundle lying in the road that turned out to be a dead deer. Grabbing it by its hind legs, he heaved the carcass over the crash barrier and threw it into the undergrowth beyond. I came level with him as he was about to drive away and tapped on his window. ‘Could you eat it?’ I asked, though it wasn’t really my intention. I was just curious. ‘Yeah, if you want. Just chop off the hind legs and thighs,’ he answered without a hint of irony. ‘They’re very good to eat.’ ‘Thanks,’ I answered. He nodded and sped away. When the others drew level we stopped for a fag break and talked about how we might have ourselves roast deer for supper, speculatively of course.
The landscape we were cycling through wasn’t only a natural desert, it was a cultural and a culinary one too. Apart from that dead deer, we hadn’t seen any food opportunities since Lochmaben and the need for coffee and food was growing ever more acute. In the village of Crawford we found an independent establishment called The Heathergyll – Traditional Pub and Kitchen. Its empty cinder parking lot and general air of neglect gave us pause, but our immediate need overrode aesthetic considerations. A car was parked outside and a short man with a beard was unloading the boot of catering quantities of milk, bread, orange juice. ‘Are you open?’ ‘Not yet, but I will be in an hour.’ We contemplated waiting, but we didn’t like the cut of the man’s jib, as Phil would say. So we decided to press on to the services at Abington, six miles away. Six miles is quite a distance to ride on an empty stomach, but it was worth it. Abington satisfied all our needs: noodles, blueberry muffins, coffee. Tim would regularly pack away two muffins in one sitting, on top of his main course, a feat that earned him the nickname of ‘2 Muffin Tim’.
Shortly after Abington, the route crossed back over the motorway and then broke away to the east, up into the hills of south Lanarkshire. We were in open rolling farm country, not exactly beautiful, but wide and airy, with large populations of cattle munching sedately in fields that stretched away in every direction. The roads were straight and relatively quiet. The noise of the motorway was gone. A feeling of space and quiet enveloped us. I stopped to take a picture of an old farmhouse, and Phil began to sing ‘Oh Lord Won’t You Buy Me A Mercedes Benz’, a favourite ditty of his. I asked Tim if he knew the tune. He didn’t. So I found it on Spotify and we stood there for a while listening to it. It was a strange and powerful moment, listening to the aching croak of Janis Joplin float up into those quiet Lanarkshire skies. For Tim, it was a minor revelation. We segued into ‘Mirror In The Bathroom’ by The Beat, another favourite among us sexagenarians that we felt duty bound to make known to Tim. We revelled in our little DJ session, out there on the open road.
We were tired and the clouds were thickening. A helicopter droned in the distance. ‘Ah, here’s Archie,’ Phil quipped. Now that we were north of the border, Phil’s imaginary batman Charles had morphed into Archie, who was regularly invoked to fly us to our destination, or bring the white table cloth and silverware for our picnic, or close a particularly busy road so that we can ride it with more ease. Archie never delivered of course, but he kept us laughing during those long rides.
After crossing over the main railway line on an old stone bridge, and taking a wrong turning into an industrial estate, we finally arrived at the Scottish Equi B&B. It was situated on the edge of Lanark Race Course and most of its guests had come there to ride horses. Adjoining the B&B was a large stable complex where adults and children in jodhpurs and riding boots came and went tending to their mounts. We tended to ours and drank our arrival beers (Tim’s tipple was rum and coke).
Way back in March, I had booked two doubles rather than two twins (classic morganisation!), but the owner managed to secure us two single rooms and a twin. I was in ‘Aintree’, Phil was in ‘Chepstow’, and Tim and Jules were in ‘Ascot’. I was given fiendishly complex breakfast forms that we had to fill out and hand in to reception before 9pm. I managed to lose three of them, and the fourth one ended up looking like a page from a mad professor’s notebook. The rooms were on the showy side of plush, but comfortable.
As we walked to the local pub / restaurant for dinner, it started raining, the first rain of our trip. How lucky is that?
Andy Morgan.
Wonderful stuff Andy!! Best of luck for the remainder.