We left the charming establishment of the National Hotel , (an american visitor's choice of footwear caught my eye - when he chose those white snakeskin boots what else did he decide NOT to purchase?) with me leaving behind 7/8th of a pint of mcEwans Best (ha!! If there was ever an inappropriate name) - the beer had been served by a rather unflattering over-tatooed member of the female race (allegedly) which brought on my morning contemplation - in England all bar/pub/tea room girls had qualities that can invigorate and support faculties of struggling cyclists. The landscape of England is in places charming, even pretty.
In Scotland the landscape is absolutely stunning, breathlessly out-of-this-world but the female attendants leave a lot to be desired. The aforementioned specimen in Dingwall may have been nested in the most beautiful tree in the most beautiful Forrest but something clearly happened when she left her nest. So I felt pretty certain about the validity of this theory as we progressed through the lush autumnal landscape towards Bonar Bridge. The mountain sides were covered in bracken and heather just past its most beautiful display of purple. We descended through thick mist to Bonar Bridge where we found a delightful tearoom with wonderful homemade cakes (chocolate cake AND velvet cake for me, toast for Paul, Mr Sensible!). This was served by a charming and pretty young girl, and as our next stop in the Boathouse in Lairg was of similar high quality (Adam, please note - the girls and the quality of the soup and sandwiches was impeccable ). So I have to come up with another theory!
We travelled on surrounded by beauty to Alt Na Hara where we hose an even narrower track up though the mountains (and the head wind had found us again). Fortunately the road followed a river DOWN-stream (it had not occurred to the great Contemplator that most rivers flow towards the sea!).
We arrived at our destination Betty Hill late afternoon and booked into our accommodation.
But the thrill of the day was seeing the North Sea in the bay - after 900 something miles we had bloodywellalmostdoneit!! We spend the evening surrounded by possibly very friendly locals whose every other word started with f and sometimes several words started the same way.
And having suffered poor quality beer for days (including that wretched Belhaven - I hope someone from Greene King reads this - if this was a game of Monopoly you would sell it immediately!- we were much encouraged to be reunited with that old favourite of ours, Dark Island from the Orkneys. Ah, bliss. And tomorrow for the final push!
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