Homeward bound, part 1. Balmacara to Knutsford

Crikey! It's a long country when you travel the length of it in one go.  In fact, from Balmacara to about half way down the country is seven or eight hour's drive alone, even without breaks, so I put in one last overnight stop.  As I've said all along, there's no point raising a few shillings for Cancer Research if you then go and cost the NHS thousands by getting overtired and having an accident.

A nice spot for yet another full breakfast; the Balmacara Lodge.

After a hearty breakfast - though slightly unconvincing coffee - at the Balmacara Lodge, I proceeded in earnest down the A87 then A82, all the way to Glasgow, then the M74 and M6.  


Once again, I failed to call in at An T Sraid (which I have an idea is gaellic for 'The Street') where my old friend Peter - motorcyclist, musician, medic, all round good egg - lives in highland splendor.  Having promised for ages that I would come and visit him on my motorcycle, the very week I come by is when he is away on some far flung oil rig.  NEXT time, then, Peter! 


The route swung by many another interesting spot, but there was little time to stop and stare this time.

Hotel at South Ballaculish

There was, for example, South Ballaculish, which is noteworth for being further North than Ballaculish, as well as being the place I made Mrs S cry - in a good way.


The Ballaculishes are at the end of Glen Coe, which, according to the folk song, is swept by a particularly cold snow.  

Maybe that's why this mountain is called the Pap of Glen Coe

Can't come to Scotland and not take a picture of some pipes.

One of several quick stops on the way was at Inveruglas on the banks of Loch Lomond.  This is just opposite a very fine hotel at Inversnaid, which can only be accessed along several miles of barely car-wide tracks, and then only by those brave enough to dodge the monster luxury coaches of the Lochs and Glens holiday company who base their tours there.  (Give them a google if you fancy a cheap, no-frills holiday in the Highlands.)  But rather than romantic waters or distant hotels, here is a much more interesting picture of the hydro-electric installation at Inveruglas.  Water is pumped up to a man-made loch behind the mountain in the background, then allowed to gush down again to generate a blast of juice when there is a surge in demand.


The song I mentioned there - 'Cold is the snow that sweeps Gen Cloe' - got me thinking irreverent and disrespectful thoughts.  
"Aren't the Scottish lucky.  Every little town and village can lay claim to some historic internecine blood bath or, as with Glen Coe, scene of outright ethnic cleansing.  And with not too much of a selective reading of history, the blame can usually be laid entirely at the feet of the English.  So lucky; scenery, history and an easy conscience."


Well, you can tell I hadn't had an adequate coffee fix that morning, can't you?  I was probably also on a bit of a downer having come to the end of such a wonderful journey.
My mood was not helped by an icey rain that started as I crossed the already desolate Rannoch Moor and kept on more or less solidly until after Glasgow.  Glasgow in the rush hour in the rain when you've already got the last-day-of-holiday blues is a particularly depressing experience.


But eventually the rain gave way to a sunny late afternoon as I trundled down between the Pennines and the Lake District, and this started to work its magic, chasing out ungenerous thoughts. I was just starting to think how nice it would be to continue on through the Peaks and over the Cotswolds to home on a pleasant early summer evening, but I noticed that a pleasant weariness was descending upon me.  The sort of 'pleasant weariness' that has you suddenly realising that you are 20 feet from the truck in front and closing without knowing how it got there.


The next services with a hotel will do for an overnight stop, I thought.  Of course, it had to be Knutsford.  It features in my personal map of Britain, as I mentioned in passing in last year's blog, for being what I thought was the tackiest, nastiest, shabbiest, most shameful motorway services in the whole of Britain - and there's a lot of competion for that position.  But I lucked out in that the nearest Travelodge is actually outside the services, a couple of miles off the motorway towards Knutsford itself.  (Not actually in Knutsford; that's far top posh a town for a cheap hotel.)  


Not wanting to give the services a miss altogether though, I called in in the morning for a blast of Costa's overpriced brew and to make use of their free internet connection to upload this posting.  


One further post tonight when I get home will contain the stats - distance covered, petrol burned, etc. - just for the record.


Thanks to all my readers and generous contributors.  Hope you've enjoyed reading along with me as much as I have enjoyed the journey. 


Now it's back to the poorly Mrs S, hoping to enthuse her with the idea of doing it all again with me when she gets better.