Drumlanrig Castle

The last day of our tour dawned with fog overhead. (A familiar sight, back home.)

A propped-up sign heralded our turn onto a National Cycle Route.

After three long-ish days, today's route would be shorter—but eventful.

The fog began to burn off, striping the fields with sunlight.

A curious lamb bounded over to check us out when we regrouped. (Or maybe it just wanted that fuzzy head of dandelion seeds.)

We kicked back with our morning tea break next to the river that feeds the Glenkiln Reservoir, near the (former) Glenkiln Sculpture Park. (After one piece was stolen, they were removed from public display. This is why we can't have nice things.)

On the outskirts of Dunscore, we voted in favor of detouring into the town, hoping to find a restroom. The pub was closed. Our guide spotted a man in his front yard: “Hello, is there a public restroom in town?” “No,” he replied; “but you can use ours!” We pointed out that there were eight of us ... He opened the front door and called out to his wife “Company's coming!”

Apparently he time-trialed bicycles in his youth; in his retirement now, he carves walking sticks. Extraordinary works of art. See the glistening trout atop one in the photo? In his workshop, one piece in progress featured the head of a black Labrador retriever with a limp pheasant in its mouth.

Among the stranger sights of the day were these cows atop the only hillock among acres and acres of flat pasture. Could it be, flat is boring?

Our final ride would end in style, at Drumlanrig Castle. We spread out in a line across the width of the long drive leading up to the castle, attempting to finish in close formation. We were a rag-tag line to begin with (some riders more comfortable with riding elbow-to-elbow than others) when ... the roaring sound of an approaching fighter jet got louder ... and LOUDER ... It passed between us and the castle, just above the treetops . And I do mean just ... above ... the treetops. It couldn't have been in view for more than a second or two, but that was long enough to discern the detailed contours of its underside. It was so loud and so fast, there wasn't time to be startled.

Forget the red carpet, give me a fighter jet flyby any day.

Our picnic spread was a special treat today, sourced during yesterday's visit to the Loch Arthur Creamery and Farm Shop—topped off with strawberries and cream!

While we were there, the Duke's flag went up—meaning, he was there.

We had hoped to tour the castle, but it was closed for a private event. The gardens were open; the women went exploring. The men napped.

There were formal gardens, as well as woodlands, and glorious rhododendrons in full bloom.

There was a playground area, where we got into some mischief.

And of course, thistle. What trip to Scotland could be complete without a nod to the thistle?

The long drive leading up to the castle is flanked by trees along its entire length.

Wait a minute ... the castle was closed, how could I capture this view?

It turned out the Duke had noticed us frolicking about the grounds and was curious. Staff members ushered us through the gate to pose on the grand staircase. We were interviewed, and might even be featured in one of his newsletters.

Before reaching the castle, we had visited another historic site today—the blacksmith shop once owned by the family of Kirkpatrick Macmillan, who may (or may not have) created the first pedal-driven bicycle around 1839. Apart from a plaque and an explanatory poster, there was little to see there; the building is privately owned.

Our good fortune continued when the Duke's staff generously unlocked the visitor center so we could see their replica of the machine. The pedals are connected to rods that, when pushed, cause the rear wheel to turn.

I was charmed by the horse's head at the front; earlier machines were apparently known as “hobby horses” (though they bear little resemblance to the toys that more commonly share that name).

On the last ride of our Five Countries Tour, we covered some 34 miles and climbed 1,745 feet. Our guide warned us to expect a hillclimb; when we reached the top, another rider blurted out “You call that a hill?!” (just as I was about to utter the same words). After humoring us through so many trepidatious days, our guides laughed at our disdain.

The picnic gear was stowed, the bikes loaded up for the last time.

At dinner, our guides surprised us with a slide show featuring memorable moments shared over the past 11 days. The following story was told: “Every evening I'd clean the bikes, scouring brake pad residue from the rims. Except ... Pat's bike. Her rims always looked like I'd already cleaned them, and her brake pads were hardly worn.” (Ah, well ...)

Despite my wretched condition, I managed to bike more than 387 miles, over hills and dales, climbing more than 23,000 feet.

Pedal on
Pedal on, pedal on, pedal on for miles
Pedal on

- Luka Bloom