Royal Botanic Garden

Our tour over, we said our goodbyes as people were deposited at the airport and train station in Edinburgh.

My plan was to extend my stay, and with the afternoon ahead I decided to explore Edinburgh's Royal Botanic Garden.

Dining alone is rarely boring. The flow in the Garden's café was unclear, so it wasn't surprising when a small group made their way to the terrace and seated themselves. When the hostess arrived and explained the protocol (i.e., wait your turn), they grew more and more indignant, till they stormed out. Another diner voiced his opinion: “Stupid English.” Long history here ...

The cool shade of the garden was most welcome. After so much rain and cool weather, today's temperature reached 84F. [Go figure.]

So many varieties, and colors, of azaleas and rhododendrons!

Towering, tree-sized rhododendrons.

With plants gathered from around the world, I wondered if there were any redwoods. [Yes, and healthy specimens, far from their native land.] Giant sequoias—a tribute to John Muir, of course.

I found the Queen Mother's Memorial Garden, which included a beautiful little building. The interior was studded with native seashells, pebbles, and pine cones collected by Scottish schoolchildren.

It took some circling before I found the “city view” area—an open expanse of lawn popular with families. Bonus on this hot day: an ice-cream stand.

As closing time approached, I wondered how they would flush all the visitors off the grounds. As I made my way toward an exit, a sonorous (but booming) voice began announcing “Clo-sing time!” No loudspeaker, no bullhorn; just a man with ample ability to project his voice.

I strolled through Inverleith Park on my way to the bus that would return me to South Queensferry (and my hotel).

There, the sun set on a lovely day, over the Firth of Forth.

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

Mabie Forest

My first job was in a bookstore: as a voracious reader, they saw me so often they offered to hire me. Here we were, in “Scotland's National Book Town” (Wigtown); how could we leave without visiting any of the shops?

The catch was that today's route would be our longest (100 km); normally we'd be rolling by 9:00 a.m., but the shops wouldn't open before that. Our guides heard our pleas: we rode into town, agreeing to rendezvous to begin our journey at 10:00 a.m.

Some years ago, I admitted that the best treatment for my book-buying habit was not to buy more bookcases. The contemporary approach is electronic, and having once run out of reading material while visiting a small town, many years ago, I appreciate the merits of the e-book. The Book Shop was well-stocked with both books and attitude.

On this trip, I had brought along a paperback novel with every intention of leaving it for someone else to enjoy. I was delighted to choose another title from a hotel's community shelf, in trade. (Iris Murdoch. Why not? I haven't read any Iris Murdoch.)

It was cloudy and cool, and thankfully—dry. Despite the distance ahead of us, I was relaxed. Finally, I could feel that my fitness was ramping up. Too bad I wasn't in this shape before the trip started ...

We stopped at a vista point overlooking a steep ravine at the Glen of the Bar. I was surprised to see a lot of logging, even on the steep hillsides; but evidently the trees had been planted—not native—and are dying. On this next-to-last day of riding, I finally remembered to keep my water bottle at hand, so it wouldn't get topped off prematurely (diluting my electrolyte mix).

We passed a few lakes today, and stopped for lunch at the Clatteringshaws Loch visitor center. The roadway was rough, in preparation for resurfacing. Our timing was either well-planned (or lucky), because the road would be closed to all traffic for two days—starting tomorrow. (Yikes.)

As we cycled quietly through the woodlands of Galloway Forest Park, we saw cautionary signs about the red squirrel (but no actual squirrels). Some of us spotted a couple of wild goats, and were excited to sight several red kites in flight, above us.

We were managing to keep up a good pace today, with a hope of making a late-afternoon stop at a farm shop (despite our late start this morning). We passed through an area where a new gas pipeline (linking Ireland and Scotland) is being dug into the fields. We often found ourselves on one-lane rural roads, crossing paths with giant tractors. I must say that, throughout this trip, I've shared the road with polite and patient drivers. Not one toot of a horn. Not one microaggressive acceleration.

We traveled a stretch of EuroVelo 1. The routes programmed into our Garmins kept us on course, though (amusingly) sometimes provided guidance like this: “Continue to Road.” [Uh-huh.]

We paused in Laurieston at a roadside memorial to the novelist S.R. Crockett. Really, you just never know what you'll find along the way; there's nothing like a bicycle to lead to such discoveries. Curiously, the accompanying placard included an illustration of a man pedaling a large trike, with a child in front (the author, and his daughter)—evidently from his book Sweetheart Travellers.

Conversation over dinner one night had turned to “How many bike jerseys do you have?” [Uh oh ... I don't want to answer that.] Before I fell asleep, I worked up a tally. [Um, quite a few .. and now one more.] We all had a new Wilderness Scotland jersey, but some riders were keen to add more local color to their collection, so we visited  a bike shop in Castle Douglas.

There were two things I enjoyed about our brief visit to the town. First was an electronic sign that flashed their speed at drivers exceeding the limit—but lit up with a bright green smiley face as I approached. Second was this sign in the bike shop's window, which sums things up quite nicely:

I was intrigued by another sign, promoting a specialized financing program for purchasing bicycles and related gear: Ride It Away. If money is an obstacle, you might take out a loan to buy a car; why not a bike?

We rolled into the parking lot at the Loch Arthur Creamery and Farm Shop with ample time to relax on their patio with our cakes and cookies and pots of tea, content to know that we were a short distance (a little over seven miles) from finishing our ride.

The day ended with one final climb to our hotel, and much excitement for those in the group who had just completed their first-ever 100 km ride. For me, this was the longest ride of the year to date: 100 km (62.4 miles), with a modest 2,505 feet of climbing.

If this adventure has a theme song, it was part of Sunday's road-trip playlist: The Acoustic Motorbike (Luka Bloom):

I never thought I could have come this far
Through miles of mountains, valleys, streams
This is the right stuff filling my dreams

Exactly.

Wigtown

We set out along the Giant's Causeway Coastal route, pausing along the way to admire the beach and views of the chalk cliffs at White Park Bay.

What's not to like about views of the sea? I do love the mountains, but if I had to choose just one, it would be the sea.

We had our morning tea at a waterside park in Ballycastle.

On this cloudy day, we had the place to ourselves.

When our guides joined us at the lunch table yesterday, they remarked that we seemed awfully quiet. “That's because we just reviewed the description of tomorrow's ride. Toughest cycling road in Ireland!” it says. They looked at each other.

The Torr Road. It started out gently enough.

They're always scenic, these climbs. I declined the offer to ride in the van. It was cloudy, but not raining; and the steep section (16% grade) was short. I walked, until it leveled out a bit. Luka Bloom's lyrics played in my head:

Ah go on, get up on your bike.

The switchback ahead was steep, but I'd get there faster if I pedaled.

And if I pedaled, would I make it? My legs were as balky as yesterday. I dug deep.

The van was parked above. “It's clear, you can go wide!” shouted our guide.

Instead of walking, with great determination, I pedaled. I powered up one steep bit, at last!

I was, of course, off the back again. Fragments of Irish fiddle tunes (the soundtrack during Sunday's long drive) played in my head, and helped me keep turning the pedals. [Note to self: listen to more of those.]

One benefit of climbing slowly is all the time you have to admire the view. And here, there were plenty of views to admire.

I drew closer to some cyclists who had stopped ahead; close enough to see that they were not part of our group.

“Are you the lady from California?” one asked. (Evidently they've met the rest of our group.)

“Near San José,” I replied. One of them pointed at his arm warmers: San Jose Bike Club. And then, things got really surprising. He noticed my club jersey ... he was wearing a different one. We are members of the same bike club. What are the odds, that we happen to be on the same remote road in Northern Ireland, on the same day, at the same time? It's been years since we've crossed paths on a ride in the Bay Area, as he's a much stronger rider than I am.

Just as I was getting back on the bike, our guide circled back to find me. With a little more climbing ahead, he gallantly offered to take my handlebar bag. “People pay money to shed that much weight from the bike.” I handed it over. “I'll try to keep up on the descent,” he joked. (My reputation has been solidly established.)

We were on the clock again today, as we had to catch the ferry that would take us to our fifth and final country, Scotland.

To reach our destination for tonight, Wigtown, we cycled 20 miles across a peninsula. Along the way, right next to the road, was the Torhouse Stone Circle.

Whenever I visit an ancient historic site by bicycle, I can't help but wonder what its people would make of us and our machines. And wonder at the labor (and the thought) that went into the creation of this monument, during a time when it would seem a luxury to do anything more than the work needed simply to survive.

Our longest day, so far: 52 miles, with 3,350 feet of climbing.

Yet, I was not eager for this day to end.