Helmsdale – Strath of Kildonan – Forsinard. 1 July
After a lovely breakfast I was introduced to my first ‘haar’. That’s persistent cloud that can apparently last all day. I was later delighted to find that this one did not. It did, however, rain for the first couple of hours. This is only the third time in six weeks that I have worn my wet weather gear!
The kindness of people was again demonstrated today. Mike from the Mirage cafe opened up early to make me a ham sandwich and salad to take with me for lunch. Furthermore he offered advice on my route, and refused to take any payment for the sandwich etc. It was ‘his contribution’.
The first part of today’s ride was to be a long drag up the Helmsdale river. The wind was more-or-less behind me which is a psychological boost if only because that means it is not against you! The road is narrow single track and is usually close to the river and overlooks the fishing beats which are jealously guarded. It costs a fortune to fish here in one of Europes best salmon fishing rivers. Imagine paying up to 9,000 pounds for a week’s fishing. One man, one rod, and you don’t even get to keep all you catch. In fact it isn’t even a week because it’s not permissable to fish on a Sunday. Even the salmon get a lie-in once a week.
The river has a clearly-defined flood plain with the railway line on the western side of it and the road on the east. I reckon, from my ancient and hazy recollection of geography, that the river dispays ’incised meanders’. If that is so then the mature river must have been rejuventated. That could possibly have happened, and maybe still is, by the removal of the weight of ice as the ice sheet melted at the end of the last ice age. So the land, even this massive and ancient land, will be rising up and causing the menaders to firm up and deepen. That’s my theory, anyway. It helps pass the time and miles on days like this to have a theory to daydream about.
The valley is also full of wildlife in the form of lapwings, curlews, oyster catchers and even a buzzard whom I startled from his fence-post perch when he didn’t see me coming. Farmsteads are few and far between. Traffic was very sperse. I took some time to wander round Baile an Or (gaelic for Town of Gold). This is the scene of the Scottish gold rush of the 19th century. There was a shanty town of prospectors drawn by the news of some gold being found here. It was real enough, but soon worked out. The Duke of Sutherland’s estate didn’t like it either because the miners were making too much noise and disturbing the grouse, reputedly. The charming legacy is that everyone is still allowed to pan for gold here as long as it’s not for financial gain. Several people still do so, and collect tiny bits of gold which can eventually be made up into a piece of jewellery. I heard tell of one man who built up his collection until he had enough gold to make a wedding ring.
Back to the long slog upwards. The road has obviously had a bad winter, and needs mending in places. I must remebe rto keep an eye on the road at all times in order to miss things. After Kinbrace the gradient slackened as I left the Helmsdale river and began following the Bannock Burn. I then stopped by the road to have my lunch, sheltering from the wind beside a conifer plantation. Mike’s generosity was clearly demonstarted in the size of the portions. It was at this stage that the sun began to shine, and I saw a herd of about 2o red deer in the distance. It was also the time when the midges found me. To be precise I think they were detered from me by the ministrations of the Avon lady but they showed a strong liking for ham sandwich on white, with french mustard. I didn’t want to spray my food before eating the remainder. Neither did I want to end up eating the midges along with the lunch. So I hurredly finished and got back on the bike.
As I reached the headwaters of the Bannock Burn and met those of the Halladale the ground leveled off. This is a true watershed. I heard a faint whistle in the distance and a two-carriage train came slowly up and passed me. It looked rather incongruous somehow, but was a striking sight. It was a pity that the train hadn’t passed me where the lines were adjacent to the road. It would have made a splendid photograph.
In glorious sunshine I cruised along into Forsinard. There isn’t much here, especially as the train halt is unmanned and the station building given over to a very worthy successor – the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds has a visitor centre here. The RSPB runs a large nature reserve hereabouts.
My lovely Forsinard Guest House B&B also specialises in free range eggs from hens, ducks and geese. Sue, the landlady, makes her own jam and marmalade and sells them by the wayside using an honesty box!
It was at this point that I will part company with the railway line. I contemplated how I had followed the line since Inverness, Dingwall, Allness, Tain, Golspie and Helmsdale. My mother and father had to use this same line for interminable train journeys when they were posted up here during WW11. Winter days are very short. I am travelling these parts in the best possible weather conditions. Imagine a slow train in the winter, in an old-fashioned compartment carriage, everybody smoking, blacked-out, and there is no-one in the station cafes to serve them.
Rain, rain. (..and the forefinger of the landlord who was seeing me off.)
The haar, looking out to the North Sea from near Navidale, near Helsdale.
End of ordinary road. Beginning of single lane with passing places for the next 40 miles.
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Must be getting near to St David’s
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Panorama of the Helmsdale River. I hope this illustrates my theory on incised meanders.
The bridge at Baile an Or, where the gold prospecting starts.
The watershed, with nothing in front…
…and nothing behind, i.e no people, no sheep, no cattle, no buildings.
It looks like a pile of firewood until you get close to it and appreciate the scale. This is new logging. You could smell the freshly cut pine for hundreds of yards downwind. Real pine smell – not like stuff out of a bottle.
Ten red deer stags ‘at bay’. Sorry for the poor photo detail
The train, silhouetted against the waters of Loch Lucy
The wayside stall, with honesty box
My B&B for the night. Houses are snuggled close to the gound in this part of the world
Forsinard Halt. Unmanned crossing with no gates, and a forlorn-looking former signal box. Even the platform is not high enough to match the trains – hence the yellow plastic steps. Charming in the sunshine. What a change in the weather since this morning!
Colin and Katy. The protectors of birds and educators of people.
26.36 miles. 2 hours 35 minutes Avge 10.2 mph
