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Pitlochry to Kinnaird Castle, 61 miles

As I mentioned in the previous post, my attempts to tour Blair Athol were thwarted. The first I heard about it was when I was shopping for supplies in Robertsons (my kind of grocer: half of shop for fine whisky, the rest for everything else you might need to live on.) It seems their silent season had been brought forward and I’m afraid you won’t be able to tour the distillery until July. The man recommended I head along anyway, because they werew still offering an explanation of the process and a free dram.

I got there but everything was largely shut up. The man in the office said he could call the guides but I didn’t think it was really worth my while to be told about a distillery I was in. I’m all about the showing! The basics are £5 entry, with an exhibition for Bell’s whisky and a dram of the 12YO at the end. 

I headed for Edradour, then, and it is such a beautiful distillery (see tour review below). The sun was out, a fresh breeze was blowing and you feel totally removed from everything. It is your quintessential farm distillery with oodles of character.

That done all I had to do was cover the, as I thought it, 50 miles to Kinnaird Castle outside Brechin, where my aunt is a tenant and had succeeded in securing a room for me in the castle itself which are normally rented out by holiday-makers. So what better motivator was there than great food, my own room and bed, and above all someone familiar?

The route was an exceptionally picturesque one, heading north out of Pitlochry onto seemingly the roof of Perthshire with suitably strained breathing. The sun was strong and ever-present again. I passed many little communities, encountering very few cars. It wasn’t until I joined the road to Blairgowrie that the road deteriorated and the traffic worsened.

My Mum, always with half a mind on my stomach, had found a nice stop on my sparsely-populated course. I pulled up at the Old Cross Inn just within Blairgowrie and as I was getting myself sorted out a man appeared. He asked if he could help and I said I was after a drink and some food. He said that unfortunately the chef was away and the kitchen was closed. Obviously he took pity on my sighs of dismay and generally ragged appearance. “I can put the fryer on and do you a bowl of chips.” It ended up a bowl of chips, a pint of Coke and a cheese and ham toastie. I enjoyed my chat with Liam, for that is his name, just as much. Your hospitality will not be soon forgotten.

So taken was I with the charm of such encounters that upon leaving I neglected to secure my backpack to the rack. A massive honk from a truck behind me told me as much. It was in the middle of the road. Lesson learned, and reflecting on how life is instances of good and bad luck, I carried on to Brechin.

I’d said in my phone call to my aunt that I’d arrive by 5PM. Kirriemuir only just went by at 4.45PM. The road out of Forfar, connecting with the one to Montrose and Brechin, seemed to go on forever. 55 miles came and went on my odometer. I began to notice familiar views, however, and I took the turn off to Farnell knowing I was home.

The food was extraordinary, the room palatial and the bath lovely and hot. The company, though, was what I began pining for even before I left the next morning.

***

Kinnaird Castle to Fettercairn, 15 miles

A very necessary shorter day, this one. Had the itinerary been any more severe, I might not have left at all. Why leave such comfort for more stress, exhaustion and strangeness? I didn’t answer this inward enquiry, just saddled up and left.

Before Glencadam which my aunt had arranged for me, I wanted to check my brakes. The descent into Pitlochry the day before had reminded me that brakes wear out, and having that happen coming down a Cairngorm would not be advantageous. The man in Tayside Cycles reassured me that they had bags of life left.

After my Glencadam tour (see below) it was a very short – and pleasant – ride to Fettercairn. I had been promised by my Dad, who works in Aberdeen and stays in Fettercairn when he does so, that the treatment to be had with Mike and Denise at Kishmul, my B&B for the night, was second to none. The road on which it sits was divine, and the atmosphere of the place so very tranquil. I’d already got some excellent photos of the distillery against the mountains and the daffodil crops but went for a walk to get a closer look.

I had my lunch beneath a majestic monkey puzzle tree, watching the light breeze tickle the early cherry blossom on the tree just in the distillery yard. After a cup of tea and some carrot cake at ‘the arch’ (no capital letter), and asking at the Ramsey Arms for public computer access (no chance) I returned to the distillery for my tour. For the second time that day I was accompanied solely by the guide and what a nice tour it was. Being part of the same group as the wonderful Dalmore made the trip to the shop especially interesting. I shall post up my review of the tour later.

After dinner at the Ramsey Arms (super scrummy) I retired for the night, but not before checking out my route to Aviemore on my maps. I knew that the following three days would be tough, and that if I survived them then my continuation of the tour would be with some momentum, the worst being, for now, over. Obviously those three days which had troubled me so greatly in mental preparation will now look very different. The first of them, however, went ahead (almost) as planned.

***

Fettercairn to Braemar, 54 miles

Denise, as promised, set me up as best she could with a stonkingly excellent breakfast. I’m not sure that’s an official adverb but it ought to be when associated with that kind of food. She had also taken my request for a packed lunch (just a couple of sandwiches) and gone to whole new levels of accommodation. There were three sandwiches, a banana, apple and two chocolate bars. Without such a sack of vittels, I don’t think I would have made it.

Cairn o’ Mount is a famous hill in the area, often closed in winter. I wish it had been closed on Friday. Long, and unreasonably steep in parts. I’d like to brag and say I didn’t get off and push. That’s true, but only because to have done so would have been far more dangerous than simply carrying on. The gradient was so severe and the camber of the road in the final bend before the merciful parking area so inhospitable, I had to ignore my screaming legs bursting lungs and incoherent thoughts and just push on. I rolled into the car park and let the wall at its perimeter stop me. I have never been quite that destroyed.

The view south and east from the parking area on Cairn o' Mount.

I carried on after a few minutes, the view from the top sea and farmland on one side, the snow-capped Cairngorms on the other.

Royal Deeside: simply spectacular. Murderous to cycle through, however.

Until Aboyne the road did nothing but writhe up and down. There were many hobby cyclists out for a spin, and from either direction they all looked as if they would rather be mowing the lawn. The wind was what did for me. As I continued to head west, so it continued to gust at me. This only became a physical problem after I finally made it to Royal Lochnagar. Despite the sandwiches and banana I had finished with the distillery cat before the exemplary tour (more details later), I came out deeply tired. The nine miles to Braemar were some of the longest I had ever attempted. The road followed the banks of the Dee, so was fortunately flat, but was essentially long straight sections, with a cheeky bend at the end which I prayed would reveal the town, but instead promised more trees.

My knees had been registering some complaints intermittently all day, and now it was the re turn of my face. My lips felt rather raw, so I stopped to apply some well-known petroleum jelly. My fingers came away covered in blood. I was bleeding, and a lot. Mercifully, finally, I wobbled into Braemar. The hostel was at the other end of the town, of course, and I rasped up the steep drive to the front door. Abandoning the bike, I went to find the reception. It was busy, so I checked my appearance in a car window. I looked like I’d been in a fight. Congealed blood came from my nose, my face was ashen white and unsightly build ups of goodness-only-knows were at the corners of my mouth. Had I been in a fight? I felt like I had, only I was mssing the adrenaline. As I said to my parents, surprisingly matter-of-factly, when they phoned, I was at zero. Languishing at the bottom of the barrel, utterly spent, is not as unpleasant as many people make out. My exhaustion shielded me from many haunting realisations. I had a shower, then an enormous pizza from the Hungry Highlander and was in terrific spirits. I’d encountered my first real set-back. This tour felt like it was my own at last, after I had no option but to make the pragmatic decision to change the route. It was almost a relief to be so run-down, liberating that it truly was my decision to sacrifice my grand plans for the sake of the whole experience I can still have. Yes, I wanted to do a full tour. But these things happen when one is on the road.

Unfortunately, I could not maintain such equanimity into this morning. It dawned grey, cold and snowing so had yesterday been a normal day, I probably would still have had to call off my trip to Aviemore. Coming to terms with my fatigue and the imperfect nature of my journey, however, I couldn’t see any of the pluses anymore, hence the post of earlier today. My aim is to get to next Sunday (for my Speyside distances are largely quite modest) and then see how I am. I’m keen to be moving again, and Diane at Tomintoul sounds like she can sort me out.

***

As for the photos, dear readers, I have done what I can. An hour (£3) of uploading and only the picture of Glenkinchie would load onto my photostream – check it out, it’s beautiful. I have deleted four fifths of the pictures on my camera so that I had less to upload, but still, the other nine images I wanted to show you wouldn’t transfer. I tried again and zilch. I have done my best folks. Technology is just not on my side.

Apologies also for ay typos or tautology. I’m writing these posts straight onto the computer – no drafting – and haven’t time to read back through. With less than two minutes of credit left, I shall see you all when I see you.

Right folks, there are a few things I need to tell you about. I’m typing from Braemar at the moment, which is only the most immediate clue that things aren’t quite right.

I made it from Fettercairn to Braemar yesterday, via Royal Lochnagar, but only just. I was exhausted, I had a nose bleed, my knees had been intermittently complaining throughout the day and I’m pretty sure I’m still rather dehydrated. I was up and down the Grampians for 53 miles yesterday and decided that discretion was the better part of valour. I want to do as much of this trip as I possibly can, and two days with a combined mileage of 102 just to visit Dalwhinnie had the air of madness about it. Not that I have been able to tell you about the serious derailing of my plans which had occurred just a few days previously, but Blair Athol isn’t doing tours until July, so already the “complete” nature of my whisky odyssey was destroyed, and gone for ever. That was outwith my control: in this instance, on the other hand, I have made the decision to skip Dalwhinnie. No-one is more disappointed about this than me, but the disparity between what I planned and how the last week has actually evolved means that it is either attempt the 55 mile hike to Aviemore and slide further into chronic fatigue and discontent, or give myself a bit of a breather before Speyside. I repeat, having to retract some of and limit my intial aims is agony for me. The sensation of sitting here typing instead of cycling is repulsive, but I realise that I have found my limits. I overestimated them on paper. In practise, this is the hardest challenge I have ever faced, in general and on the level of the minutiae: just forcing myself to attempt each day, each hour. Contemplation about the West Coast and the gauntlet-running through Glasgow creates a mental abyss.

I have tried to upload my photos. After five minutes waiting for one to upload to Flickr, then realising that the 15 items I had selected exhausted half of my 100MB monthly allowance and I have easily over 100 photos, I simply don’t have time at the moment to refine my image choices and display them for you. Every time I try something that seems to demand more computer concentration, the page crashes and I’m back on the SYHA home page, in any case. Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. I want to share with you the better aspects of this trip, having promised them before I left. Know that I am trying my best to fulfil my responsibilities. My passion for whisky is genuine, and my will to complete this to the fullest is equally authentic. Unfortunately I am struggling to adjust to the practicalities of pitching up in a new place every night with little energy and mood swings that would take me across Loch Ness. All this time alone is unaccountably taxing. Forgive my feeling sorry for myself but I felt I owed you an explanation as to why the “Scotch Odyssey Blog product” isn’t all you or I had hoped it would be. At present. Maybe I shall have to wait until home and work through my photos for you then. This unheralded change needn’t mean an inferior experience. I believe even this, plunged to the very depths, has its positives. It’s only a week, but that equates to 248 miles and seven distillery tours. I can also use this as motivation, however: I’ve made it this far.

I mean to finish updating you on the tours I have taken thus far later today. Even then I am anxious, for I worry I am missing out some crucial detail in my summaries. Once more I ask for a little bit of patience so that I might pull myself round. Tomorrow is another day, after all, and I mean to get to Tomintoul from where I begin my adventures on Speyside. The plan is to update maybe every three days. No promises, however.

Just at the moment I have the feeling that my whole gap year is falling down around my ears. But moping didn’t get anyway anywhere, least of all over the Lecht ski resort!

This isn't fitted out like the other distilleries which are officially open to the public. I think this lends a feel of authenticity to it, though.

Brechin, Angus, DD9 7PA, 01356 622217. Angus Dundee Distillers. www.glencadamdistillery.com

Cost: Free, but tours must be pre-arranged.

Time: Roughly 45 minutes

APPEARANCE AND LOCATION:      **

THE RUNNING COMMENTARY:      **

THE PROCESS AND EQUIPMENT:      **

Notes:      Within the filling store are large stainless steel vats with lots of casks at their feet. Here is where lots of the stock components for the Angus Dundee blends are created.

GENEROSITY:      **   (Three drams: a taste of the new make, the 10YO and the 15YO.)

There were some very delicious aromas in here.

VALUE FOR MONEY:      **

SCORE:      8/10 *s

OTHER TOURS: N/A

SPECIAL MALTS:      The distillery doesn’t have a shop so if you want something exclusive head down to your finest spirits store and have a root around in there. In 2009 two limited releases were released, one a 25YO and the other a 30YO.

COMMENT:      Having the distillery manager take you around on a one-to-one basis makes for a very different experience indeed. Douglas Fitchett took time out of his busy 7-day week to take me round and it is clear just by trying to find the reception that this is a working distillery first, visitor attraction second. The tour itself was very brief, from the mill (working and noisy) to the stills took next to no time at all. In the tun room, he lifted a washback (stainless steel) lid in which the switcher was working and out flew spumes of frothy wash. He inspected it for a few moments and then replaced the lid. Out we went to one of the warehouses where casks were emerging and being rolled down the concreted slope to a waiting truck. Inside the smell of Bourbon wood was very strong. This wasn’t one of the maturation warehouses, though. This was where the Angus Dundee blends are conceived (they are then sold to others who put their own brand on the label.) On the way to the dunnage warehouses, I asked Douglas about maturation. His opinion was voiced in the same manner as his others that day: forthright and no-nonsense. He rubbished the romantic ideal I hold that the site of maturation affects the flavour. Douglas believes (and who am I to argue with a distillery manager?) that because of the pressure in the casks, air isn’t circulating as much as Islay distillers (these he singled out) would have us believe. In the warehouses the atmosphere was top class, whether he thinks it influences his spirit or not. Jim Murray, it turns out, chose the casks for the new 15YO and recommended bottling at 46% abv. “I don’t like it at that strength,” says Douglas, “I prefer 40%.” There was a wee tirade against the “lawless” Diageo, one he is qualified to make having worked for them. He predicts dire things should the new and gargantuan Roseisle go into full production. They can make eight different malts there, and Douglas feels there is a real risk of five Speyside distilleries shutting down as Diageo juggles with overproduction and cost-effectiveness. He is a fascinating character, with none of the words coming out of his mouth put there by the marketing men. This was a very differently different distillery tour, and one I appreciated very much.

It would be a joy to simply stand at the whitewashed wooden fence and merely observe the changes of season and weather in this tiny glen with the distillery quietly working away in its midst.

Pitlochry, Perthshire, PH16 5JP, 01796 472095. www.edradour.com

APPEARANCE AND LOCATION:      *****      This is such an achingly pretty distillery. If you want small and traditional, you are hard-pressed to find better in Scotland. However, this is also, paradoxically, one of the busiest sites on the central Highland tourist trail. Annually, they receive nearly 100,000 visitors. 19 other people joined me on my tour.

TOURS PROVIDED:

‘Standard Tour’: £5. See ‘My Tour’ below.

DISTILLERY-EXCLUSIVE BOTTLINGS:      The distillery being owned by Signatory means that if you don’t like the standard 10YO or the cream liqueur they offer you at the beginning of the tour, there is almost certainly something tasty to be picked up from the almost exhaustive range of single cask, cask strength, non-chillfiltered or more standard bottlings Signatory offers from other distilleries. The range of Ballechin whiskies (the peated Edradour spirit, and finished in a variety of woods) is comprehensive, as is the collection of Straight-From-The-Cask malts which are very distinctive indeed, and available to sample in the bar further down the hill from the shop where the tour commences. Current as of 21/01/2011 there are two distillery-exclusives and one otherwise restricted to the Spanish market but available at the distillery, too: 14YO Barolo finish (50cl bottle), £50; 26YO Port finish, £149, and a Spanish red wine finish, £45.

My Tour – 15/04/2010

THE RUNNING COMMENTARY:      ***

THE PROCESS AND EQUIPMENT:      *

Notes: A Morton’s Refrigerator is used to cool the wort from the mash tun. A very old piece of equipment most commonly seen in dairies. They are building a warehouse at present.

These are the smallesy stills in Scotland and a charming presence.

GENEROSITY:      (One dram, the 10YO.)

VALUE FOR MONEY:      *

SCORE:      5/10 *s

OTHER TOURS: N/A

COMMENT:       Again, it was the good-humour and character of the guide which made for an extra special experience. Jim was a great host, whose impression of a Highland cow fed on the draff and pot ale will live long in the memory. I think there were far too many English folk on his tour for his liking, and he made gentle jibes at the contingent from south of the border. No racism, just good fun. He explained that distilleries shouldn’t allow visitors into the duty free warehouses unless there was a sealed area. It’s harsh to penalise Edradour for not making the attempt because they are still building their warehouse! A truly gorgeous distillery which is, as the video said, little changed since its inception. Unfortunately they have introduced a £5 fee since I visited in October. A good economic decision for just on our tour there were 18 people but charging that much to see it when its only real claim to fame is as the smallest distillery in Scotland? I’m probably just OK with that because it is quite a contrast from many encounters with the industry. There is a tasting bar where you can sample the many different boutique expressions from this distillery. I wanted to try some of the single cask wine finishes but time was pressing.

A pretty, at times modern and at others deeply traditional distillery.

The Hosh, Crieff, Perthshire, PH7 4HA, 01764 656565. Edrington Group. www.thefamousgrouse.com

APPEARANCE AND LOCATION:      ***      The distillery is tucked away in a very snug wee glen with the river crashing happily below and thick trees behind, almost hiding the warehouses where the coaches park. The area around Crieff is particularly beautiful with the Highlands truly on its doorstep.

TOURS PROVIDED:

‘The Experience Tour’: £8.50. See ‘My Tour’ below.

‘The Celebration Tour!’: £11.95. In order to mark three decades as Scotland’s most popular blended whisky, this ticket admits Experience Tourists to the bar, where there is an opportunity to sample some of the Famous Grouse blended malt range, including the 30yo. (Five drams in total.)

‘The Stillman’s Choice Tour’: £18.50. The standard tour, plus drams of the Highland Park 18yo (magnificent), the Macallan 18yo Fine Oak (magnificent), Glenturret 14yo (I’m certainly keen to try), and the Famous Grouse 18yo (also wouldn’t refuse). There is a complementary Glencairn Crystal glass to take away with you, and a very useful piece of equipment for the budding connoisseur. (Five drams in total).

‘Warehouse No. 9 Tour’: £40. Following your experience tour you shall be whisked away to the sample rooms in the aforementioned warehouse for the delights of cask exploration: an opportunity to sample the Famous Grouse Malt range as they develop and marry.

DISTILLERY-EXCLUSIVE BOTTLINGS:      A selection of age-statemented Glenturrets, bottled at cask strength: 12yo, £52; 14yo, £77, and the 16yo, £97.

My Tour – 13/04/2010

THE RUNNING COMMENTARY:      **

THE PROCESS AND EQUIPMENT:      *

Notes:       This is one of the smallest distilleries in Scotland and maybe this is why Edrington have turned it into Grouse HQ. Otherwise, it might have been simply left in the wilderness. There are videos and even a 3D flight simulator as you follow the grouse around Scottish landscape eye-candy. They have a distillery cat, too, although this one (Brooke) does not follow in the paw-prints of her predecessor who holds the record for the most mice caught by a cat. Quite how they worked this out I didn’t ask. This particular moggie just lounges in the stillroom on a cushion all day. There are worse places to be.

GENEROSITY:      (A measure of Grouse and one of the Glenturret 10YO.)

VALUE FOR MONEY:

SCORE:      3/10 *s

COMMENTS:      It was the last tour of the day, and I think our guide can be forgiven for feeling a wee bitty tired. Plus, I think I was the only native English-speaker on my tour! It was very interactive, though, with a video about the history and market presence of the Famous Grouse, a scratch-and-sniff card for a master blender’s challenge to isolate the profile of the Famous Grouse and a virtual simulation of a flight with the Famous Grouse around Scotland to inform you of the provenance of the… Famous Grouse. I’m not keen on Grouse, it must be said, so it didn’t appeal to me the lengths to which the Glenturret tour focused on it. I know it is a small distillery and single malt, but as I will show you on the Aberfeldy tour, not all brand centres plug their blend all the time. Not an enthralling single malt experience.

Reflecting on the experience now, I would not be quite so harsh. The asking price is a lot when compared with other distillery tours, but the Edrington Group, as I later found, does things that no-one else does and their attention to detail is quite extraordinary. If you are a novice, then chances are the Famous Grouse name will have been what drew you in, and I would venture that most malt enthusiasts will be able to get from the Experience what they sought by way of single malt education. It all depends whether you value computer graphics as part of your distillery encounter.

Be in no doubt, this distillery is all about the blend it contributes to.

This isn't the prettiest of distilleries but within it I had one of my best experiences on tour. It is the oldest brewing and distilling site in Scotland.

Blackford, Perthshire, PH4 1QG, 01764 682252. Tullibardine Distillery Ltd. www.tullibardine.com

APPEARANCE AND LOCATION:      **      The hills and glens around Blackford are all stunning and the Highland Spring bottling plant is only a little way along the road. The distillery, however, is situated in a retail park directly off the A9.

TOURS PROVIDED:

‘Standard Tour’: £5. See ‘My Tour’ below.

‘Tutored Tastings Tour’: £7.50. There is no tour in this option, just a guided tasting of three expressions of Tullibardine in their special tasting room off the warehouse.

‘Bonded Tour’: £15. All of the qualities of the standard tour, only you can actually walk in the warehouse, a rare privilege. There is also a free Tullibardine-branded tasting glass and a miniature as well as the three expressions to enjoy.

‘Connoisseur Tour’: £25. Again, the merits of the standard tour, only here you get to dram three samples straight from the sleeping casks in the warehouse. Three expressions of Tullibardine.

DISTILLERY-EXCLUSIVE BOTTLING:       N/A

My Tour – 13/04/2010

THE RUNNING COMMENTARY:      ***

THE PROCESS AND EQUIPMENT:      **

Notes:      Designed by the renowned distillery architect William Delme-Evans (also responsible for Jura and Glenallachie), this is a very functional distilling enterprise.

GENEROSITY:     ** (2 drams.)

VALUE FOR MONEY:      *

SCORE:      8/10 *s

COMMENT:      Gavin Cunningham, our South African guide, was the star of the show. The distillery was silent at the time of touring for maintenance and the Easter break but Gavin held the attention marvellously: entertaining, authoritative and with a unique turn of phrase and means of explanation, he deserves those three stars. They bill themselves as the most easily-accessed distillery in Scotland and as you can see the distillery in its little shopping complex from the northbound A9, it is hard to disagree. It is also the oldest brewing and distilling site in Scotland and 1488 whisky ale is sold in the visitor’s centre. The on-site cafe serves a little of what you’d expect and does it very well. This tour exceeded all expectations and you are allowed to take pictures inside. I should think this would make a very pain-free day out.

I beg patience of you, readers. Whilst I would love to satisfy my own needs and my journalistic responsibilities at the same time, I’m quickly appreciating that this is not always possible. Time, just at the moment, is money, and with an hour’s worth of internet access at my hostels costing me £3, I have to condense. A lot!

Regarding the pictures, I had hoped to post some yesterday but unfortunately the IT at Comrie Croft was not in a cooperative mood. Hopefully tonight, as I’m satying with my aunt, I should be able to bring you some of the stunning photos that have practically taken themselves. The whole country is one astonishing photograph!

***

Stirling to Comrie: 34 miles.

I awoke with far too much anxiety. I won’t lie to you, had the first two days of my trip entertained even a smattering of rain, I would probably be writing this from home. Three hours of sleep, I felt was insufficient to embark on my second day of my whisky odyssey. Just at that moment, however, it felt like the whole 1300 miles were waiting for me that day. Mentally, I was not in good shape at all. Despite the nausea of panic, I managed to eat some muesli and some toast. Washed down with a hot cup of tea, I felt a little better.

I collared the staff at Stewart Lawson Cycles, Barnton Street, just as they were lifting the shutters. Pedal system fixed, I returned to the hostel feeling infintely better.

I set off in what the Scots would call ‘driech’ weather. It was grey and cold, in other words, although how expressive a dialect it is. Blackford, here I come.

The turn off signalled by the map suggested a small road. It said nothing about a corkscrew of a passage. I had to get off and walk, for the first time as a cyclist since I took it up seriously in my early teens, I had to walk. In cleats, though, and with the weight of the bike added to the insane gradient, pushing was more challenging.

Although it didn’t flatten, the incline wasn’t quite so steep. I cleared the trees and there was the Highlands. And lots of it. Only the photos, when they eventually are transferred, can communicate the desolate beauty of the landscape.

Congestion was possible, even on these single track roads. A farmer was driving his sheep to new pasture, the two

There was no safe overtaking opportunity on this occasion.

 collies on the back of the quadbike with him eyeing this strange, fluorescent thing wheezing behind them.

After a nerve-shredding 500m on the A9, I made Blackford and there was Tullibardine. They claim to be the most accessible distillery in Scotland and I can’t disagree. It is odd having a traditional distilliung complex in a retail park but stepping into the excellent visitors’ centre, I didn’t notice. More about the tour later.

Getting to Crieff was more of a challenge. The roads got busier, faster and, on one awful stretch, dustier. I had already phoned Glenturret to put my tour back by an hour and arrived with 10 minutes to spare. More on this tour in a future post.

Now deeply concerned about where my dinner was coming from and riding on empty already, I sought my accommodation. Comrie Croft is unique in my experience. Camping, hostelling, hen rearing. It was a little earth-lover’s utopia. I could not enjoy the idiosyncratic nature of it all, however, for the doubts were returning. I had washing to do, buses to catch (and living in Northumberland I know how sparsely distributed services can be) and sleep to hoard. Despite there being no plug in the basin, I improvised with a ball of saturated toilet roll. I shall know better for next time, for now everything I washed has little white flakes of paper all over them! And they don’t smell particularly clean…

I was given a lift to Comrie, as it happened, by a total stranger. We talked about the weather, the surrounding area and the ospreys which were nesting just across from the hostel and had been for the last seven years.

I demolished some fish and chips, found an apple, caught to the bus back to the hostel, and had a great night’s sleep.

***

Comrie to Pitlochry: 49 miles.

I woke up feeling not a great deal better. The idea of cycling to Aberfeldy and then on to a busy Pitlochry did not appeal. A party of teenagers whom I had not failed to register the night before from their loud music and loud conversation had assumed total dominion of the kitchen. I managed a bowl of cereal and some toast. I decided to forget about scrambled some of the Croft’s free range eggs.

The road north out of Crieff starts to look very Highland, very quickly.

The road from Gilmerton to Aberfeldy, 10 miles into my journey after going back into Comrie for supplies, was indescribable. Immediately the glens began. Cycling between these monoliths, like the knees of the earth thrust up under the duvet of the land made me feel very tiny indeed. Again, the pictures can say a thousand of the words of which I am only vaguely aware.

It was hot. Heat haze was making me feel more disorientated than I really felt. I ate some lunch in what shade I could find, with the cars whooshing past intermittently. Just when I thought this empty moorland would never end, I noticed the sign for Griffon Forest, where I had walked with my family last autumn. A little further on was a viewpoint for the surrounding Munros. There, shark-toothed and with a mantle of snow was Schiehallion, my first Munro. I didn’t have long to appreciate the view. It was after 1PM and I still had to tour Aberfeldy.

I was suitably stirred having seen this. Schiehallion is my first and only bagged Munro to date, and spying it on the horizon was evocative of last autumn when I was hear with my parents.

The descent into the town was a worry for the brakes. I’ve been riding with them for more than 600 miles already and I suspect they will need replacing soon.

Aberfeldy was busier than I remember it, but the distillery was a focus of calmness. Locking the bike and changing, the smell of the washbacks had been in raptures. More on the tour next time.

The road to Pitlochry was both familiar and familiarly hectic. The sun was a concern of sorts with my burn and water consumption. It’s very difficult to judge all these things in addition to sun cream application when you have more than 40 miles in your legs already. I couldn’t take the A9 so I followed the minor roads. Minor, I hasten to add, in size; not, incredibly, in traffic.

A few close calls later, I was in Pitlochry, and in fact passed Blair Athol. The smell was again, deeply promising.

I found the hostel and for the first time felt genuinely contented. I’d travelled far, and was beginning to feel like a traveller. The sun was still shining, dinner was within walking distance, and I was rooming with fellow cyclists.

The night’s sleep was a good one, and the breakfast was superb. Bring it on, as they say.

By the by, if you have toured any of the distilleries I will be visiting, please comment under the relevant post with your own experiences. Mine is only one opinion, after all. I hope to speak soon.

The day of my visit, much like the specifics of the distillery itself, epitomised the generally-upheld Lowland style: dry, clean and all very agricultural.

Pencaitland, Tranent, East Lothian, EH34 5ET, 01875 342004. Diageo. http://www.discovering-distilleries.com/glenkinchie/

APPEARANCE AND LOCATION:        ***      With the Lammermuir Hills in pale blue haze in the background and its spartan red brick construction, Glenkinchie is certainly a smart distillery. On the way in, however, I could only smell hot tarmac, not processing barley!

TOURS PROVIDED:

‘Exhibition Only Tour’:      £3, including a £5 discount voucher against a 70 cl bottle of single malt whisky. Wander around the maps, plough coulters and video screens of the exhibition area in the former maltings before casting an admiring eye over the James Risk scale-model distillery. A complimentary dram of the very approachable Glenkinchie 12-year-old is provided.

‘Glenkinchie Tour’:      £5, fully redeemable against a 70 cl single malt purchase. The standard tour does not appear, from the specification on the Discovering Distilleries website, to deviate at all from that which I took in April, and consequently I can still recommend it. The exhibition and model distillery are self-guided, and you arrive at the ‘holding area’, with display cases and a touch-screen centre console permitting you to sample some of Diageo’s multi-media marketing if that takes your fancy. A tour of the distillery is capped off with a dram of the 12-year-old and one other malt from their exdeedingly well-appointed bar.

‘Taste of Scotland Tour’:      £7, with the £5-off discount voucher included. This is described as the standard tour with ‘additional drams giving you a flavour of Scotland’. I have a feeling these may well be the same cohort that is on offer as part of the Group Tours (see below).

‘Group Tours’:      [20 persons plus] £4.50, plus the £5 voucher. The standard tour is available with four drams awaiting each member of the group treated to four of Diageo’s malts from across Scotland. My money would be on Talisker, Oban and Cragganmore, in addition to Glenkinchie, but that is an unofficial guess. ‘Tailor made tours are available on request’, it says, and enquiries ought to be directed to Mary Colgan or Rhona Paisley via the visitor centre number (above).

DISTILLERY-EXCLUSIVE BOTTLING:      ‘Double’ matured in Amontillado-treated American oak, 59.1% ABV, £65.

My Tour – 12/04/2010.

THE RUNNING COMMENTARY:      **

THE PROCESS AND EQUIPMENT:      *

Notes: There is a fabulous exhibition of whisky-making and -history in the converted maltings. The highlight is a complete scale model of a distillery by James Risk which shows each stage of the process in exquisite detail. No warehouse, though!

GENEROSITY:     * (I wheedled three drams out of my time at Glenkinchie.)

VALUE FOR MONEY:     *

SCORE:     5/10 *s

COMMENTS: A very good distillery to tour for the beginner and access is excellent. Perhaps it is laid out as it is to continue on more naturally from the Classic Malts marketing which is prevalent in the place: straightforward and precise. There were new elements and means of delivery from my last visit, which was nice although not a great deal I didn’t already know. The staff are very friendly and accommodating, however. Our tour guide was Austrian, who had much of the easy Scottish charm about her, nevertheless, and seemed impressed with my endeavour. The Glenkinchie tasting room, being part of Diageo, means that it has a huge variety of malts for the visitor to choose and compare against. I had a Blair Athol and the Distiller’s Edition Glenkinchie in addition to the 12-year-old. I left fully confident about why I’m doing this; more I could not have asked for from the first of a whole heap of distilleries.

I’ve begun at last. I must admit that I awoke far too anxious to do very much at all. My obscure mentality was soon

Here is the team photo, just prior to pedalling away from home for six long weeks of whisky and roads.

demonstrated beyond reproof when I thought it would be a good idea to wash out my new bidons with boiling water and washing up liquid. I put the cap on, shook, and it exploded in my face! Like a startled rabbit I fled to the bathroom, doused my face in cold water but it wasn’t enough to prevent a burn on my forehead. Branded by stupidity. I have oils and creams to treat it but it will just have to heal in its own time. D’oh!

Stress began even earlier than the exploding boiling bidon. I switched on the news and there was the headline I was dreading: strike action on the trains in Scotland. A quick, fervent glance at the Network Rail site allayed my fears, for it seemed that none of my connections were affected. In fact, the guys at the station hadn’t heard word of any industrial action whatsoever!

Copying my routine of a fortnight ago, I skulked around in the luggage bay with my bike on the train up. I could sense Edinburgh nearing and became more and more agitated. It hit home that I was on my own, in unfamiliar territory fully responsible for every decision made. How odd that a control freak should suddenly baulk at assuming total control.

After hauling the bike about Waverley station (agony), and getting dressed (incongruously and embarrassing), I ploughed on into Edinburgh. The journey was very straightforward, and true enough I was awesomely grateful for having previewed the route.  It was, in marked contrast to last month, positively balmy. The sun was incredibly strong and for the first time this year I was minus overshoes and at one with the wind, my relfective jacket in the rucksack. I made good time getting to Glenkinchie, devoured my lunch and took my tour (see next post).

The journey back was equally benign, although I did as much watching of the clock as looking out for buses, red lights and glass on the road. I had set a target of 4pm to be back in the station and I achieved it with six minutes to spare. I hoarded some sugary snacks and waited for the train to Stirling and the point at which I truly ventured into the unknown.

East Coast trains operate a different policy to CrossCountry and there was a guards van to find. This was at the front of the train which wouldn’t have been quite so uncomfortable had my starting position on the platform not been closer to the other end of the train. The bike was installed, however, but I wasn’t. Getting to Coach G from B felt as if I was walking back to Edinburgh, the train having already pulled away. I eventually found my seat, and allowed myself a pat on the back. I had made the train. The rest was up to me.

Stirling in the evening light. What a location for a town, eh? Can you see the wee patches of snow?

Stirling appeared very speedily indeed. I retrieved the bike (after an ungainly sprint. It wouldn’t do to have my bike end up in Inverness without me) and went in search of my lodgings. It was whilst in the hunt that the latest bad thing happened. As I attempted to rejoin the main road on the hill up to the hostel, I over balanced onto my right side: the one securely fixed to the pedal. Given the choice now between falling over and what actually happened, I’d toppled to the tarmac every time. I succeeded in extracting foot from pedal, but the force with which my foot regained the ground snapped off the fron section of the cleat on the bottom of my shoe. I couldn’t clip back in. Tired, hot and very very smelly, this almost did for me. I soldiered on to the hostel, however, so I could better assess my options.

With the bike locked away and the helpful receptionist giving me an education in hostel stays every time he opened his mouth, I asked about a bike shop. Stowing my panniers away in a locker, I found the one he suggested. I shall be back very early tomorrow morning.

The crowning glory, the cleanser of the day, was my shower. It was gorgeous. I felt instantly better and went in search of food. I despatched a burger and chips in a nearly deserted bar/bistro. The staff were excellent, though, and despite the official chef having gone home ill and so the kitchen being technically closed, they rustled up my meal all the same, the bar man full of enthusiasm for my whisky travels. More on those tomorrow.

From the moment I stepped out of the car to begin my walk this morning I’ve been making the serial supposition that begins: “This time tomorrow I’ll be…” It focuses the mind quite impressively.

How I will miss you, deepest, darkest, Northumberland.

It is safe (and a fairly enormous understatement) to say that this has been one of the oddest weeks of my life. Impromptu shifts, two leaving meals, an appearance in the local paper, and my last ride in Northumberland before departure have all contributed to a palette of emotions I can’t begin to describe. Oh, and a near nervous breakdown, which I can portray. As I told Marc in response to his comment on the last post, my mind has not been as strong as my legs. The cold did not improve on Tuesday and with my deadline approaching with the tangible expiration of minutes as opposed to weeks, being incapable of venturing out and so failing to earn the only qualification I have at the moment to feel in any way positive and at ease rather caused everything to unravel. As I sought to express myself in writing to two of my very best friends who have been with me and supported me throughout the year merely served to blow the topsoil from the corpse of my insecurities and doubts. With a to-do list stretching most of the way to Kirkwall and my imbalanced psyche shrieking ‘Doomed!’ at the top of its voice unremittingly, I couldn’t prioritise anything or appreciate that incrementally I could complete the remaining formalities. When the osteopath, whom I have known for a very long time, asked how I was, I had slid half-way down a fatalistic downward spiral before I became entirely incoherent and abandoned my explanation. My inability to communicate my feelings was almost the final straw for someone who defines himself in his effective use of language. It took a little while to understand that the ant colony of emotions I’m embroiled in right now is unique, unprecedented and I should simply accept and not worry about the temporary scenario which dictates that I cannot explain or articulate it. It defies explanation and articulation.

The “little while” needed was about three hours. I cycled 43 miles and how glorious it was. I returned unable to so much as recall the shape of the thoughts which had tormented me. I was back on track, cloistered in peace. Everything makes sense on a bike.

The following day I racked up another twenty miles taking the bike for a final once-over at the shop to cure a strange clunking noise from the headset which I’d noticed whenever I pulled on the bars while out of the saddle. Various tools were extracted and a few quick, practised twists later silence returned to my cycling. A huge vote of thanks must be made to the guys at Breeze Bikes, Amble. Without their technical support and practical advice borne out of having done a lot of what I’m about to do themselves, I would be hopelessly under-equiped and embarrassingly ignorant of basic repair procedures. Take inner tube replacement as a case-in-point. This time last week it was some arcane science, now I’m confident with repairing punctures following Mark’s speedy demo. Unfortunately, it was a touch too speedy at first, and after my hours of red-faced wrestling with a trucculent tyre in the garage, I went back, confidence profoundly shaken, and I was taught “the knack”. As it turns out it is as simple as ensuring that all of one side of the tyre wall  is already fitted into the rim. Then you merely push the other side in without the tyre coming away again. Theoretically, it’s very straightforward. Let’s see if I manage in the pouring rain on top of some bleak moor.

Unspeakably awful, but there is a very pretty view from the top.

On Friday, I went for broke. Having said that I wasn’t bothered about eking out a 50-mile day prior to leaving, I reasoned that as I had the opportunity, I really ought to see how my body responded over hilly terrain for four hours. I chose, perhaps in a rude gesture to Fate, to do two loops of the same circuit that had incited the knee injury almost a month ago. The first lap took me almost exactly two hours as I stopped regularly, mimicking with my food and photo halts my behaviour as of tomorrow. The ascent of Corby’s Crags was easier on this occasion, my breathing not so ragged as to draw the attention of the scrum of tourists in the laybys away from the view. It was actually very warm and my jacket felt very unwelcome. Taking it off was not a safe option, however, for the reservoirs of sweat created by its presence were chilled whenever the road went downhill, which after that climb it did a lot.

Circuit #2 was hard. Clayport Bank in Alnwick was almost as bad as Corby’s Crags had been and then the traffic over the moor – dense and fast-moving – raised the blood pressure still further. I did, however, come across an intriguing smell. During my morning ride I’d noticed that they were burning heather but only now could I get a whiff of it. It took me back to my early childhood, although I could place it no more precisely. It was a spicy, soft aroma which tickled the nose; sweet but with an unusual earthiness. Later in the ride, when I smelt it again, I realised it reminded me of standing down-wind from the kiln at Edradour. As I approached the Crags from the opposite direction, I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the speed the reversed incline would provide. I would actually say that however unpleasant uphill climbing is, descending is even worse. On these steeper and less well-maintained roads with pot holes and loose gravel real dangers, and factoring in the weight and resulting momentum of my bike, going downhill is a terrifying ordeal. I have to control the speed for if I hit a pot hole incorrectly my rear wheel is going to look like so much half-cooked spaghetti and I could even crash. So, stiff as a board and white as a sheet I tried to get to the bottom in one piece whilst simultaneously preventing the brakes from overheating. Tense.

The rest of the ride, barring the donning of rain gear in response to an isolated and brief shower, passed without incident. I did, however, witness the potential for the innocuous, unscripted human encounter. I’d stopped half-way up the stupidly steep hill Edlingham is built on after a particularly fraught descent from the main road. A man was just getting out of his car in the opposite driveway and a twenty-minute conversation ensued. A keen cyclist in his younger days, he seemed impressed with my project, gave me some advice as to how best to capitalise on my undertaking from a commercial side by hob-nobbing with as many of the managers as I could gain access to and wished me luck. I wasn’t even in Scotland but I had already enjoyed an encounter with a complete stranger.

I woke up yesterday expecting physical reprisals for the efforts of Friday but when nothing complained on my getting out of bed I felt infinitely more positive about my itinerary, on which only four days are longer than my exploits of the day before. I set up my Flickr account (I’ll point you towards it when I start snapping away) and saw about my postage requirements for my bundles of maps. £14.40 may sound a lot for four uses of the postal system but with each bundle an average of roughly nine maps, it is a necessary and justifiable expense for I cannot carry them all. 

On the subject of maps I have printed off directions for my inner city Glasgow legs. These are causing me the greatest number of midnight panic attacks but, by the time I cross that metaphorical bridge over the Clyde from Ardrossan I ought to be more experienced, philosophical and comfortable with urban survival. It cannot be avoided.

My trains out of Glasgow and back home are organised, although I’m a little concerned about the A4 print-outs the man at the station gave me by way of cycle reservation certification, because for every other rail transfer situation I have a little orange ticket to secure to my machine. I pointed this out to him but he countermanded my arguments, even if he didn’t allay my fears.

Traffic, getting lost, high seas, the weather, mountains and many other factors I may not have anticipated I must now meet head-on, face down and overcome. My defence is not giving them a second thought during this period of inertia and consequently impotence. As of 09.56 tomorrow (and possibly before) things will unaccountably start happening and whilst I hope they are positive and constructive, I wonder how I will react in the not-so-good times, when I’ve already endured 40 tough miles, I’ve still got another 6 miles to get to my distillery and only half an hour to cover them, I’m wet and shivering and the haggises choose that moment to spring their ambush.

Reassurance of sorts was gained by watching the last episode in the incredible three-parter following Mark Beaumont across the Americas. I had to comment on his blog there and then, 10 past midnight. It was just astonishing the physical and mental achievement he can call his own. I was pleased, however, whilst witnessing him climb Mount Aconcagua, that at no point did I lean forward in rapture and whisper: “Yes! Sign me up for that!” I’ve climbed a Munro, and that was a deeply spiritual undertaking, but that is about the limits of my interest in mountaineering. I don’t like the sound of 20,000 ft plus, avalanches, altitude sickness. It just doesn’t appeal.  I’m quite happy being comfortable. I’m not ashamed of that. Leave those nine-month expeditions with their foreign languages, kidnap risks and deserts to these crazy folk. The interesting thing is to consider how fatuous and non-sensical I may think that statement once I return from this trip, a minnow of a challenge in the Beaumont league but very important to me, nonetheless. Guys like Mark, after all, who are seemingly compelled to attempt what they do; who possess a yearning, a deep nameless need which must be sated no matter what the cost, must have started their adventuring somewhere. Maybe the Mount Aconcaguas of this world will appeal one day, and this journey may have conceived that same inexplicable drive. I know that there are times when I will be far from comfortable and I suspect that actually I’ll be rather drawn to the mentality provoked. Afterwards, I may wish to return to those circumstances which brought about those new and unfamiliar sensations. I have no way of knowing how I will be affected – that would rather defeat the object, wouldn’t it – but I hope that I’m made less inclined to adhere to my comfort zones. There is a lot more out there, I believe. So am I saying that I in fact want to undertake the impossible, the exceedingly dangerous? I’m not interested in breaking records (part of the territory for “professional” adventurers like Mr Beaumont) but I have tried to nurture the existence of the “unknown quantity” in this tour, if such a thing is possible, and leave room as much as possible for those encounters with life that I crave and if unlikely and risky means are implicated in the pursuit of these then bring it on! Within reason! I hope, for it cannot be planned and expected, that this trip will surprise me, that I will surprise me. Six weeks on the road with whisky on the periphery can surely offer up nothing else.