Sitting in the late September sunshine (itself a mere memory of the blazing glory of July), tending to my damaged
leg, I ponder whether my cycle to Nethy Bridge might be the last great bike journey of the VileArts. Ironically, the trip between Carrbridge and Nethy was one of the most inspiring routes on my search for The Giants in the Forest. It might have been all main roads (and roads that I was warned to keep away from), but it passed through some of the sort of scenery that is used whenever Visit Scotland is trying to persuade Americans to come out to the Highlands.
There is one pleasure in using Google Maps - the suggested time for a trip is always generous and when I came over the hill into the small village of Nethy Bridge, I felt as if I had beaten the clock. Against this, there are the problems of having no signal and not being able to check my location, and the inevitable 'which way is north?' debate. At Carrbridge, I spent half an hour trying to work out which direction to point the bike.
Carrbridge itself is a small village, ideal for a quick dip in the river, beneath the titular bridge. Large numbers of school children eyed me suspiciously as I rode up and down the main road, trying to find a road-sign. Eventually, I work out west, and scoot alongside the river Dulnain, downhill and the road drives through the middle of forest. It's warm, another cyclist powers past me, the woods give me cover from the sun and I feel dynamic. Reaching the big road at the bottom of the hill - and the distance to Nethy Bridge seems to increase with every signpost, I make a turn to the left, and whizz back east. I can now look back at my path downhill - and the apparent forest is now reduced to a few lines of trees on the hillside.
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My sense of perspective is very skewed. But this is the Cairngorms National Park area, a place of extreme natural beauty. Doing the usual, and dutiful, scan of the internet, I realise that the bridge that I have left behind is the oldest stone bridge in Scotland but, apart from a spat with the BBC over inaccurate reporting of the weather, this area is not marked by the battles that I kept finding in the Borders.
I imagine, rather sentimentally, than the breath-taking vistas have a habit of distracting invading armies. I worry that the preponderance of road-side attraction involving ospreys might lead to a sudden attack of diving bombing birds of prey. But this is the most peaceful stretch of road - I don't see a car until I get to Boat of Garten. At one point, I see a cow having a sleep in a shed. I am really out in the countryside.
I am sure I can hear a steam train. It must be my imagination. I think grand thoughts about how things probably haven't changed here in thousands of years. Then I think that someone built a bridge, someone built a road... maybe things haven't changed in fifty years, then. I keep pushing myself up the hills, resisting the temptation to get off and stare into the distance, or poke around at the power station that appears, suddenly, on the crest of a small hillock. I turn, and find trees all around me. The forests look well-mannered, tended. I cycle onwards.
There is one pleasure in using Google Maps - the suggested time for a trip is always generous and when I came over the hill into the small village of Nethy Bridge, I felt as if I had beaten the clock. Against this, there are the problems of having no signal and not being able to check my location, and the inevitable 'which way is north?' debate. At Carrbridge, I spent half an hour trying to work out which direction to point the bike.
Carrbridge itself is a small village, ideal for a quick dip in the river, beneath the titular bridge. Large numbers of school children eyed me suspiciously as I rode up and down the main road, trying to find a road-sign. Eventually, I work out west, and scoot alongside the river Dulnain, downhill and the road drives through the middle of forest. It's warm, another cyclist powers past me, the woods give me cover from the sun and I feel dynamic. Reaching the big road at the bottom of the hill - and the distance to Nethy Bridge seems to increase with every signpost, I make a turn to the left, and whizz back east. I can now look back at my path downhill - and the apparent forest is now reduced to a few lines of trees on the hillside.
View Larger Map
My sense of perspective is very skewed. But this is the Cairngorms National Park area, a place of extreme natural beauty. Doing the usual, and dutiful, scan of the internet, I realise that the bridge that I have left behind is the oldest stone bridge in Scotland but, apart from a spat with the BBC over inaccurate reporting of the weather, this area is not marked by the battles that I kept finding in the Borders.
I imagine, rather sentimentally, than the breath-taking vistas have a habit of distracting invading armies. I worry that the preponderance of road-side attraction involving ospreys might lead to a sudden attack of diving bombing birds of prey. But this is the most peaceful stretch of road - I don't see a car until I get to Boat of Garten. At one point, I see a cow having a sleep in a shed. I am really out in the countryside.
I am sure I can hear a steam train. It must be my imagination. I think grand thoughts about how things probably haven't changed here in thousands of years. Then I think that someone built a bridge, someone built a road... maybe things haven't changed in fifty years, then. I keep pushing myself up the hills, resisting the temptation to get off and stare into the distance, or poke around at the power station that appears, suddenly, on the crest of a small hillock. I turn, and find trees all around me. The forests look well-mannered, tended. I cycle onwards.
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