So, enthused by the experiences of the last month, and driven by a little over thirteen short weeks to depature, things have been very hectic since my return.  In a satisfying sort of way.  Expedition tent chosen and ordered, being flown in from Sweden.  Starting to make considerable headway in getting my personal affairs in order ready to hand over to my mother when I grant her Power of Attorney.  Lots and lots of stuff.  Doing is good, but rest and relaxation is equally as important to maintain clarity of thought and a clear sense of direction.  Nearby Wiveliscombe has the perfect tonic to help relax, a heated outdoor pool with a really friendly crowd of regulars.  And after that, sleep comes easily…

During this trip I’ve visited a few railway stations and met some really helpful staff who take pride in their work.  Grange-over-Sands had its hanging baskets and immaculate toilets.  I asked the lady in the kiosk if they were award-winning.  They were.  At Fort William my ticket home, together with cycle reservations across three different train companies, was arranged without fuss.  And then a brief change in a small border town.  Securing  my fully laden bike momentarily to a convenient stanchion, Jobsworth appeared.  ‘We remove abandoned cycles’ he informed me.  I didn’t think my bike looked like it was going to be abandoned anytime soon.  I’m sure he had his reasons.  They always do.  It was a light and airy station but the platform staff nevertheless stayed close together.  Occasionally one disappeared briefly to forage for food.  Our man clutched his train dispatch sheet tightly.

The sign welcoming you to Troon tells you it’s the home of C K Marr.  Shipping charterer apparently.  He left at an early age and did not return.  The town has lots of golf courses.  Lots.  But no campsite that I could find.  There were lots of helpful suggestions from people as to where it might be, but all came to nothing.   There was also a dirth of B&Bs.  It was getting quite late.  A seafront shelter was starting to become a realistic prospect, but I doubted I could now even get a brown paper bag for my meths.

I met two Australians, father and son, also searching for somewhere to stay.  They had a car.  Feeling sorry for me on the bike, they gave me a business card for a B&B nearby that might be able to help.  I accepted graciously.  Thirty minutes later I was in a very well appointed house a few miles from Troon.  A good end to the day.

Pavilion shop and cafe

In the morning I headed anti-clockwise around the coast from Lochranza.  A distinct Outer Hebridean feel – windswept, cottages huddling together in small settlements – soon gave way to warmer, more undulating countryside.  At Lagg, tucked away in a sheltered valley towards the southern tip of the island, I found palm trees.  This could have been the English Riviera, perhaps the Isles of Scilly.  The island of Ailsa Craig, south of Arran, was prominent.  The map indicated it had a castle, which struck me as odd, and unnecessary, for the place appeared to be a natural fortress.  The golf courses grew in number as I started north up the east coast.  The first notable village, Whiting Bay, had bungalows, an alarming number up for sale.  Brodick, and the ferry to the mainland, was soon close.  A viewpoint a mile or so short provided a final glimpse of Goat Fell and its fellow Cullin-like mountains in the north of the island.  I realised why the island is often referred to as ‘Scotland in minature’.

Village of Lagg, Southern Arran

Island life has always fascinated me since I first visited Caldey, a little way off the Pembrokeshire coast, many years ago.  Caldey is known for three things – monks, chocolate, and perfume made from gorse.  An interesting mix; the chocolate I understand but quite what inspired the monks to experiment with perfume derived from gorse bushes has always elluded me.  Some while back I had the chance opportunity to visit a small, remote island community in the Southern Oceans at a time when visitors were relatively rare.  The island’s administrator had gone native, or at least he wore an ear ring.  Many aspects of life there seemed familiar – children running around in the primary school’s playground, the warm welcome in the white-washed cafe.  And yet you sensed subtly different social norms beneath the surface.  Not the case with Arran I might add.