Distance: 65.39 miles

Time: 6:27

Elevation: 4200 feet

I awoke early, unsure if it was the cold, or the fear of today’s elevation profile that caused it. The campsite was already a hive of activity, with another two cyclists packing up for the final day of their soon-to-be-aborted North Coast 500 attempt, nearby.

Setting off at 8:45, the day started with an easy mile along the coast, before climbing steeply to meet the main road. The climb hit a 10% gradient for the last few hundred metres, and was made all the harder by the car crawling along behind me on the narrow single-track road.

As I approached the junction with the main road, the two NC500 ladies whizzed passed up above, soon to turn inland and head for the train. Back on the main road, I kept climbing at a more reasonable rate, and was pleasantly surprised when it topped out at a not-so-lofty 120m, with some free yards on the flat before the descent ensued.

Down into Coldbackie I went, and as I rolled to a stop, about to put my foot down for my next photo opportunity, the wind nudged me gently the other way. I had plenty of time to scope out my landing, but insufficient time to unclip my foot, before tumbling sidewards onto the tarmac. I’d cycled all the way from Cornwall to the North Coast of Scotland, and then ended up in a heap on the road 2 miles later. Luckily traffic was light on this particular section of the North Coast 500 at this time in the morning.

Feeling like a Tour De France rider, I dusted myself down and tried to ascertain whether there was any lasting damage. I’d banged my knee, but though it was painful to walk, mercifully, it didn’t seem to hamper my pedalling, probably for the best with 60 miles still to go until John o’ Groats.

The last climb over to Bettyhill offered a sting in the tail as the road ramped up to 10%, while passing Borgie Forest, and dragged on for almost a mile, up to over 150m elevation.

Reaching Bettyhill, after a very lumpy 12 miles, I looked out over the bay and remembered the German cyclists in Taliouine, Morocco, who spoke of this place in my homeland of which I’d never heard. This is where their journey had terminated but mine still had a few miles to go.

Keen to see how the NC500 was affecting development in this part of the world, I popped into the dated Post Office / Convenience Store, stopped by the ancient toilets, and checked out the dilapidated campsite; which was populated by a few aged static caravans and Google reviews tells me had a toilet block so unhygienic it had recently been demolished. It does look like they’re building a new road, however.

The next hill was the worst, not necessarily because of the gradient, but because of the road surface. A protective layer of stones had been glued on top of the asphalt, and was creating so much rolling resistance that I kept checking my back wheel for punctures. Up ahead, I saw a slow-moving figure labouring up the hill. Quickly making up the ground, I encountered a Spanish girl on a heavily laden bike. She had masses of kit on the bike which would have been bad enough, but the bike itself looked like the sort you’d find in the bargain aisle in a supermarket. All things considered, she was doing remarkably well getting up these hills at all. She too was doing Land’s End to John o’ Groats, except that she’d started in London, in May.

Turning inland, near the stain on the landscape of the decommissioned Dounreay Nuclear Power Station, a short climb led to miles of flat roads over open hillside. I thought I was dreaming, perhaps this day wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Stopping at a cafe in Thurso for lunch, I came across a couple of fellow End to Enders at the end of their penultimate day. They had also avoided the canal paths, and had spoken to someone else who’d had to keep making trips to the Jetwash after attempting those parts of the route. I felt partially vindicated in thinking that dirt paths and gravel shouldn’t feature on a ride suitable for road bikes.

Leaving Thurso, it was 20 miles to go, I climbed back into the hinterland, finding some long and improbably straight roads, before dipping back down to the coast at Castlehill.

A final foray back inland took me far into the distance with thick cloud obscuring the coast. I took a left to Canisbay, and jumped back onto the main road for the final few miles to my finish line, the far north-eastern tip of Great Britain, John o’ Groats. It had been 1035 miles from Land’s End, 18 days, and miraculously only two days of rain. In deciding to cycle the length of Great Britain, I had been prepared for the worst, and had received the best, I had really been very lucky.

After a long journey of their own, my parents were there to celebrate the moment, and to take me and my bike home. No trains this time. They also had the privilege of being my impromptu media team, when some motorcyclists graciously offered us the chance to take some photos with the John o’ Groats signpost, after one of them pointed out that I’d probably worked harder to get there than they had.

On the way home we enjoyed a pleasant evening with friends in Helmsdale, before taking the circuitous route home through the Great Glen and Glencoe, on another glorious day. And I couldn’t help thinking, that as much as I love to travel and explore the world when I can, it really is pretty great at home.

Distance: 69.07 miles

Time: 6:56

Elevation: 3113 feet

After an enjoyable breakfast in the Station Hotel, the road started as I hoped it wouldn’t go on, with a 12 mile climb up ‘The Struie’. The gradient was kind, and at 250m the views out over the Dornoch Firth were worth the toil.

On the descent, I stopped to take photos and got talking to a few people from a coach tour – who were on a cruise to Orkney – they liked the sound of my trip and deliberated whether they could do it on their electric bikes.

Plunging down to Ardgay, on the Dornoch Firth, the route led me past the Falls of Shin. Stopping at the falls, there was great excitement, as the Salmon were leaping up the river. I was lucky enough to see two during my short spell there.

Stopping in Lairg after a long tough morning, and 30 miles, I made for the Pier Cafe, feasting on an open ciabatta layered with black pudding, avocado, halloumi and bacon, drizzled with a sriracha mayo. I spoke to two cycle tourists on the way out, they had been on a similar length trip to mine, but had dotted about the north of Scotland, and popped over to the Outer Hebrides. It sounded lovely, but had they stayed in a Travelodge in Warrington, you have to ask?

After lunch, I settled in for the afternoon. It was 36 miles to Tongue, and the couple at lunch, had said that it was a good combination of flat with rolling hills. Unfortunately, that didn’t factor in the headwind; as soon as I set out across the endless miles of open moorland, I felt the force of the 12 mph block headwind, and then the rolling hills began to trend upwards and by the time I was passing the Crask Inn it was a fully fledged climb, back over 250m once more.

A nice descent followed, with ample opportunity to survey Ben Klibreck’s route options for my future Munro attempt. Then I passed the desecrated remains of a hill-side commandeered for a future wind farm project.

Through Altnaharra, a stiff climb ensued, and it was tough going, thanks to the recently returning sunshine, the headwind and the quality of the road. For every pedal stroke I made, it felt like I was moving mere inches.

Passing Loch Loyal, under the eastern flank of Ben Loyal, the plateau was flattening off and I was sure it would be starting downwards to the coast very soon. But then the road turned a corner and upwards it went, clambering up to 200 metres round the shoulder of the hill.

Only then did I get what I’d wanted, almost 70 miles of struggle and persistence, had led me to the prospect of it being all down hill to the sea.

I rattled down the steep lanes of Tongue, arriving at the Hostel and Campsite at 19:53, just 7 minutes to spare before the reception was to shut. Luckily the camping areas were plentiful, and have fantastic views over the Kyle of Tongue. And for now, this is the farthest North on Mainland Scotland, I’ve ever been.

Distance: 75.06 miles

Time: 6:45

Elevation: 3266 feet

Today was a day to put tourist-mode to one side and engage cyclist-mode I told myself. Then I trundled out of Kingussie and was immediately confronted with a fantastic perspective of the Ruthven Barracks. Queue photographer-mode, and that trumps all.

The route took the high road, across the Tromie and the Feshie, passed the forest of Inshriach, the Spey running through the glen below. Looking out over the flat lands of this high plateau, I was sure I could detect a hint of Autumn in the leaves.

Emerging into Aviemore, from the Rothiemurchus Estate, I spent an age deliberating where to have lunch, and in the end I didn’t go anywhere at all, picking up a few things at the Co’op on the way out the other side.

Next up, on the photographic tour of the Highlands was Carr Bridge, and really, how could I say no?

But now it was approaching 3 o’clock, and I’d still only covered just over 20 miles for the day, and next on the agenda was the climb over the Sloch’d Pass, at 400 metres, but the gradient was kind, and the weather was fair, as I gradually crept up the old road towards the summit, where old road, new road and railway line meet briefly in the passing.

The descent was joyous, and soon I found myself in Inverness, with a conundrum of sorts, of where to spend the night. So I went to the place where my plans form in haste, and yes I mean Burger King.

Ideally I would end the night in Alness, some 26 miles further on, but the campsite in Alness wasn’t taking tents this year because of Covid, so I started looking at options in Dingwall, before deciding that the 10 fewer miles to there would seriously hamper my plans to get to John O’Groats in two days. Luckily there was one room available at the Station Hotel in Alness, so I quickly booked it and got on my way. It was already 6 o’clock and now I had 26 miles to go.

Over the Kessock Bridge I went, and then across the Black Isle on the route 1 cycleway. Reaching Dingwall, the route took a fiendish turn as it climbed up to Old Evanton road, a mile long climb, with a 10% introduction. But when I was up I was up, and the views were really quite special, back to Dingwall and forwards to the Cromarty Bridge.

Arriving at half 8, I was in a house across the road from the hotel, and they had a lock-up out the back for the bike. There was a Chinese Takeaway a few metres along the road, so that sorted dinner, and when that was done, I popped across to the hotel bar – just as last orders were being called – and allowed myself one for the road. Tomorrow’s road, that is, through the empty heart of Sutherland.

Distance: 61.36 miles

Time: 6:30

Elevation: 2807 feet

I started the day by pedalling the half mile back into Dunkeld for breakfast, getting plenty of time to realise how attractive a historic town it was as I struggled to find anywhere for breakfast.

Ending up at a deli on the Main Street, I took my spoils to a bench by the river. Quickly polishing off a chorizo and goats cheese baguette, I turned to the pain au chocolat and pasteis de nata, I’d bought for later. Still hungry, it called for drastic action, so I ripped open a bag of Crispy M&Ms to see me through the 14 miles until Pitlochry.

Keeping to quiet roads, and old traces of the A9, I ducked and wove beside the new A9, before crossing it at Logierait, and one steep switchback led me to miles of tree-lined solitude.

Emerging just west of Pitlochry, I happened upon the Port-na-Craig Inn, with its fine river-side aspect, enjoying a burger in the, thankfully, shaded beer garden.

Through bustling Pitlochry I went, then onwards and upwards, over the Pass of Killiecrankie, then onwards again to Blair Atholl. On my approach, I was passed by 20 or more horse boxes, and then a sign for the Blair Atholl Estate International Horse Trials gave a clue. Thinking it must have finished and that I’d seen most of the horses leaving, I couldn’t believe it when I passed the estate and saw a field of horse boxes as far as the eye could see.

The House of Bruar was next on the A9 road-trippers itinerary, and it seemed like a good place for an ice cream. Typically House of Bruar, their range of ice creams were exclusively created by local ice cream heavyweight Mackie’s, with one customer moaning that she could have just taken a tub of vanilla out of the freezer. I chatted to a couple on a day out from Cupar, the man’s Dad had cycled the A9 in the 50s, perhaps when it had a few less cars on it.

Back on the trail, on a pristine bike path, a disclaimer was required, for what was to follow. And what was to follow, but a 20 mile foray over the Drumochter Pass, peaking at 462 metres.

Tracking the River Garry, the path climbed slowly but surely, up through the trees, and up again onto a high plateau, the ascent ever more gradual. The sun had been lost to cloud and the breeze had become a gale as I battled on upwards to the top of the pass.

Joining the road, to crest the summit, I took satisfaction from knowing that this was the highest point of the whole Land’s End to John o’Groats route.

Over the top, the landmarks became more frequent, passing the Balsporran Cottages, from where Munros have been climbed, to Dalwhinnie where my Dad’s favourite whisky is crafted, to Crubenmore Lodge, where my brother’s stag do was held, and on to Newtonmore, where family holidays were spent.

Reaching Kingussie, 60 miles in, and back at a slightly less hostile altitude of 250 metres, I looked for somewhere to stay, and came across a very basic camping field down by a stables. Accommodation booked, I dined in the chippy, before rolling down past the station and into the field. When I started to set up, it felt like there was a little rain in the air, but surely not, not this week…