We wound our way down to the west coast to Scourie and Andrew’s property at Badcall Bay. The sun broke through the clouds for the first time since we arrived and the wind roared. We inspected the building site and saw the builders working with traditional materials of slate and stone.

Men from the north highlands are weathered like the terrain. Red veined cheeks and rough hands. They are naturally suspicious of outsiders and barely speak to you when they first meet you. Fire them up on a subject they are passionate about though and they will talk for hours without pause. We had met two such types in our travels, Colin the systems manager was one, who would look at you with such dry disapproval you shrunk in your boots, but get him talking about his hometown Cromarty and his face lit up with tales of the ancient buildings and geological history.
Paul the gardener was another, I discovered birds were his passion, well that and fox hunting, but that wasn’t a subject I was keen too explore during lunch. I took great glee when people were discussing the horrible biting midges that come with the warm weather that they all swore by an Avon product called ‘Skin So Soft’ to repel them, I imagined these hardened men slathering themselves in perfumed moisturiser.

The weather turned and Andrew insisted on driving us to Lochinver where we would begin our cycling adventure. Andrew said it was a lovely ride back, not too hilly. “Not too hilly? not too hilly? When was the last time you drove it?” Paul exclaimed, gesturing a rollercoaster ride with his hand and laughing. We weren’t sure what was in store for us.

“This is the farthest North you have ever been.” Andrew pronounced as we arrived in Durness, the wind was wild outside and we scurried into the Mackay’s B&B. The next morning was an introduction to Black Pudding for Dylan, vegetarian haggis for me and a lesson in charisma from Andrew. He spoke to the waitress like she was a valued new acquaintance, asking her name, what her plans were giving suggestions for places in France she should consider working at for the best ski slopes. We could see why women fall easily for Andrew’s charm, he was very good at making people fee special and interesting, and it all came from the heart not some slick ulterior motive.

Outside it was still whirling and we took Sanna, Andrew’s Hungarian Vizsla to investigate Smoo Cave. Pigeons flapped above as the darkness enveloped us and our ears were filled with the sound of falling water. We drove on, and stopped at a wild beach for Sanna’s run. There was an old cemetery and I went searching for our family name Buchanan. When I got to a particularly old section with broken tombstones, my skin started to crawl and my overactive imagination took over unsure whether I was standing on top of graves and tiptoe danced my way out of there with sudden urgency. I ran to join the others on the dunes, shoes filling with sand.

When you travel you stop stagnating. Each day I realise I have grown bolder, more spontaneous, grasping at any opportunity for experience that comes along, will it fade once the routine of everyday returns? I’ve always identified myself as a shy person, but maybe I’m not that either anymore.

I guess it all started with the Canadian Texan in hawaii and his faith in serendipity. Then the flyfishing surgeon in oregon, and that is how we found ourselves whisked away to the north of scotland, after only a glimpse of edinburgh in the rear view mirror.

The sky is so thick with clouds, they form inverted dollops in a sea of grey. We’re sitting at the crask inn, an inn literally in the middle of nowhere, there is not a house, nor a tree in sight. It is the second last resting point on that great bike trail from the very most northern tip of scotland to the south of england. So this lonely little inn, is actually bursting with cyclotourists, and us, but we couldn’t fit in the dining room so we’re just sat in the bar without another sole. Occasionally the barman would bustle in, all flustered and apologetic about the delay, linger a moment then shuffle out again all a-stutter. Dylan tried haggis, there was an elderly border collie by the fire. It was rather charmingly scottish.

We were there because Dylan’s friend Andrew was on his way to see his house under construction in the rather ominously coined badcall bay, as he did every Wednesday like clockwork. With less than a few minutes of thought we took the opportunity to see the wilderness of scotland, we were going to be set free on the west coast to ride for a week until Wednesday came again.

Andrew had already shown us his favourite bakery where the flour is still milled on site by an ancient machinery powered by a water wheel. Then there was a visit to the architect, rather a fascinating experience. It was in a warehouse near Inverness and inside they not only designed, but built the shells of their buildings to be trucked on site and erected in only a few short weeks.

It was all rather inspiring to see the buildings coming together in the shed, how architecture should be, a glorious collaboration between builder and designer. The direcor Matt was genuinely focused on sustainability and didn’t seem burdened by the ego that so many architects possess. Andrew, a business man had an ulterior motive in mind when he invited us to join him, he wanted us to critique the new project they had designed for him. Matt and rob were wonderfully receptive to what could have been an affront, and we actually brainstormed together easily, building ideas back and forth. It was strange after so long out of the office to find ourselves back in one, but kind of nice and familiar, old braincells lighting up again after long disuse. In the end we could imagine these guys as friends, they were our kind of people.

So another day of taking chances, ended in interesting connections and we are again blown away by the human capacity for generosity.

“I‘m sorry, you don’t have a reservation, you can’t take your bikes on the train.” The train guard was bustling about readying the train for departure from London. “What are we meant to just leave our bikes on the platform, we spent 100 quid on tickets!?” The guard paused, eyes softened. “I guess we can take the risk, but there are only 5 spaces for bikes and if anyone with reservations is at any of our stops you’ll have to get off.” We thanked him, no dedicated bike carriage like in Sn Fran, here just a small room built for three bikes and retrofitted for 5. We were off, every station we held our breaths watching for cyclists, counting down how many miles and days from Edinburgh we’d be by bike. but, there were no other cyclists and as we left the penultimate station we could finally enjoy the Scottish coast wizzing by.

Earlier that day London had been transformed by blue sky, closer to my memories, it was even warm enough for gelati, London’s latest obsession. We walked past the palace just as the guard changed and were treated to the show, brown bear hats dyed black bobbing whilst a tam of gardener’s ripped out spring’s flowerbeds leaving a dark void. Teenage girls climbed the wall for the view, a blonde, red head and brunette all sporting contrasting roots.

“By the time we arrived in Edinburgh the sky was darkening and the clouds hung steel grey over the stone walls. The sound of bagpipes filtered through the gloom. As we rode it began to rain, but we had a warm house to look forward to, Dylan’s family friend Andrew was taking us under his wing. Inside the family was riding on tumultuous waves rising to the brink of exhaustion, but always just pulling back in time without crashing to the floor. They were moving house, renovating another and had twins on the way. We had plonked ourselves down in the midst of it and yet they never blinked an eye at our burden. We met Andrew’s heavily pregnant wife, Fiona, at a delicious dinner in a ‘Melbournesque’ restaurant called the Timberyard. On the way home the tale of Andrew’s family unfolded, he was a grand storyteller, “there my mother was, alone in a foreign city, wrapping her shame in a winter’s coat, she was brave”.

Andrew was a twin himself with an older brother Ian, but on his mother’s death there was a phone call that shocked them all. It was their full blood brother, they had never known existed. Adopted as a baby, the product of reckless teenage love. Their mother had been sent away to school to have the child in a time where the shame could destroy you, then she secretly sent their baby son to live with relatives in the country claiming they had adopted him out. His mother and father secretly visited him throughout his first year, planned on keeping him, but then tragedy stuck. During the war his mother’s house was bombed and she was the sole survivor, discovered horribly injured in a bath tub flung into the garden, this last trauma proved too much, and the baby was adopted. Years later he found her, and they carried on a secret relationship for years, a house without photographs, she hid all signs of her other family from him, still so filled with antiquated shame she made him promise not to contact her other boys until her death. The beauty of the story, was that it had humanised his Andrew’s image of him mother, explained her bouts of bitterness, her favouritism; she was a courageous and compassionate woman. How many people have we sketched with a pencil and never really known the true glorious technicolor of their life?