Day Thirteen - The Kyels are Buteful

I'm almost embarassed to admit that I'm sitting in the sun by a sea loch, the Kyles of Bute in (I think) Argyllshire. Had a wet night on the moors above West Kilbride, including some biblical downpours (what, you mean that they got into a pulpit and started ranting at us?).

Still pretty damp on departure after a frugal breakfast of half a roll and a cuppa, we thrashed up the Clyde and skipped smugly past Glasgow before it noticed us. Ha! Roads pretty wet and treacherous on knobbly tyres, and roadside barriers made of steel in a cheese grater stylee make one feel like a particularly anxious carrot... We pressed on in intermittent rain through Helensburgh, and shortly after started what may be many days of sea loch bashing. Up one side, and down the other. This is where a big trail bike comes into its own, the Yamaha just mashing up the hills and thudding through the corners like a thoroughbred/shire cross, one of which I am priveliged to ride and hunt (am I allowed to use the "H" word these days?) . Hey Nick, how's the
princess, by the way?

Loch bashing tomfoolery continued until we stopped to watch a game of what looks like hockey but with extra ultraviolence, can't remember the precise name [I couldn't identify the sport from the photo, anyone who can, please leave a comment. - Ed.]. Then we realised that there was plenty of Bank Holiday free camping going on by the shore, so have joined in, hurrah, but boo sucks to the crappy techno, bah humbug! A ride of about 150 miles left us about 25 miles north of our departure point; it's going to be a long old job getting to Cape Wrath, that's for sure.

More tomorrow, boys and girls.

BTW, hi to the Spooners (and hi to ANNA, who reads this stuff, commiserations!) Hope the Hunt Show goes well, boy am I going to be missing that old burger flipping thing, ho ho...

Photos from day 13.