DAY 7, Thursday 3 July

Day 6’s experiences of the west-coast roads have dampened our enthusiasm for a tour of Mull – simply not enough time on the slow, slow roads, so it’s straight down to Craignuir – just as well, as at first, the road is ‘normal’, i.e. two-lane, the it degenerates into the all-too-usual single-track rubbish, and we end up with not that long to await the ferry over to the mainland at Oban.

The ferry takes us past Duart Castle, so I doff my helmet to my clan-leaders, (great-grandfather on my mother’s side), but it’s not long until disembarkation, and we take the opportunity to book our remaining ferry tickets onto Arran and back off to the mainland, then it’s a largely straight-forward run south to the Kintyre Peninsula, until approaching Tarbert, I loose the clutch! Nothing too dramatic, but the pivot bolt has disappeared somehow – dooooh!!!

Fortunately, the Ironmongery store there knows what it’s about, and a princely pound sorts things out perfectly, and it’s two ladies doing the sorting, one of whom complains about the ride from there to Inverness her husband once subjected her to on the back of a Norton Commando.

Tarbert Harbour

Tarbert looks a charming place, but we’ve no time to linger, so it’s off south on the Cambeltown road, which proves to be a blinder, hugging the head of the beach along the western edge of the Peninsula for mile after mile, at long-last quick roads to open the old Norton up on, with bendy bits connecting each beach section that allows the old bike to show its abilities rather better than trying to maintain straight-line high speeds.

The approach to Cambeltown is ‘enlivened’ by three or four dairy-farms, with inch-deep slurry to cut thorough at high-speed – keep it straight, knock off the power, and DON’T touch the brakes!!

We’ve faced the odd splatter of rain thus far, but during our coffee-stop in the less-than-lovely Cambeltown, the heavens open. This, the slow nature of the roads and the absolute deadline of the last ferry-of-the-day to Arran mean we have to abandon ideas of scooting south to the famous Mull of Kintyre (Mull of Kintyre, Oh mists rolling in, etc). Indeed, the foul weather conditions and single-track road mean that the 30 miles up to Kilchoan take almost all of the available time anyway!! We crest-out the final ridge, and there’s the slipway, and there’s the ferry halfway over from Arran! We’ve only a few minutes to wait before it arrives, the in-coming load is disgorged, and we’re on for our 35 minute transit.

the ferry to Arran

Arran looks wonderful; it’s a great coronet of peaks, surrounded by farm-land, and we’re sure it would repay more time than we have available, even without the soggy state we’re in that demands a rapid trot to our digs, and an equally rapid start to the drying-out process.

Which is not to be!! Coming off the ferry, the Norton drops onto one cylinder, but it’s not far to Brodick, so I try and nurse it over on the one pot. I get to within half a mile of our B&B, the she dies completely, and I spend around two hours trying to sort the problem out. She’s got fuel (a complete tank, tap, line and carb. clean-out ensures this), sparks and compression, so there’s not reason why she won’t start, but start she will not, so it’s an ignominious push-in, with me in a complete lather of soaked clothing from a combination of rain and perspiration – not nice!

The B&B is fine, the restaurant literally next-door has good food and drink, and we’re told the local garage-ist is bike-friendly, indeed enthusiastic, and hopefully can sort us out tomorrow in time to allow us off Arran and back running into England for the final night’s stop.

It’s been a funny ol’day!!!!

the view from our Brodick B&B