The Isle of Mull sportive

“Pump number?” she said.

“Oh, I think my mate’s still filling up. It’s pump 7.” I replied.

“I canna see that he is, and I shouldn’tya wanna tell you how much it’ll be” - she enthused back.

“Ah, yes, we’ve come a long way. From Cornwall in fact” - I said.

“Hey, Agnes, Agnes”, she shouted, “you’ll never believe it but these boys havva driven from Cornwall. She inclined her head to me and continued “are yee lost? I should think yee boys are on a wing and a prayer!”.

This was Scotland. 2 hours north of the Scottish border to be precise and we’d needed to fill up the VW Camper before crossing over to Mull. After so long spent in the van, I all but fell out of the driver’s seat. Our pit stop of choice was a little independent petrol station. It had a curious feel to it with several aisles of produce I suspect no one ever buys and a decor which was as old as the lady that smiled at me from across the counter.

Back on the road, we were headed for a campsite near Oban - a mere 650 miles from Cornwall.

The light was going as we took the narrow, twisty lane to the campsite, the Sound of Kerrera to our right. Luckily the camp site still had space and we found a spot near the woods. It was peaceful and scenic, and I could hear a cuckoo up in the trees. It felt good to park up and walk around after so long in the van.

However, any thoughts of sitting down to relax soon disappeared as a mozzie cloud the size of a small house descended on us.

Instantly, it was unbearable. “Get the deet", get the bloody deet” I shouted as Sam and I started flinging stuff out of the van and across the camp site, chewing through mouthfuls of mozzies with every word. Deet can in hand, I turned to face the now billions of excited mozzies. I sprayed every bit of skin showing. I sprayed my clothes. In desperation, I sprayed half the damn camp site. We were being eaten alive.

Later, and now looking more like bee keepers than cyclists, we had clothes covering every possible bit of skin. We got the stove going, a brew on and the sausages sizzling. This turned out to reignite the mozzie resolve and yet more of the bloody things swarmed around us.

Sausage au mozzie avec deet proved to be a somewhat rushed meal.

The hour’s ferry crossing from Mull to Craignure was beautiful and as we drove on to Mull, we searched for coffee. I saw a sign for Fishnish; a name I recalled from “the Tobermory Cat”, a children’s book we had at home. It turns out that navigating an island by a fictional book about singing cats isn’t particularly reliable as we drove several miles through forest before arriving at a slip way, a dozen cars, and absolutely nothing else.

Mull is known for its wildlife, and it was the golden eagles I was keen to see. Apparently, they’re so common in Mull, the locals barely notice them, and when they do it’s only because they career in front of cars with a sheep or baby deer in their talons.

Our next stop was Salen; a metropolis compared with Fishnish. It had a gaggle of houses, a supermarket based in a portacabin and two coffee shops.

Caffeine fuelled, we took the road to Ben More; (which means Great Mountain in Scottish Gaelic) the only Munroe on the island. We drove along the narrow, forever twisting coast road along the shores of Loch na Keal and parked up.

The climb up Ben More is beautiful and steep, with the path heading pretty much straight up from sea level along a stream with deep plunge pools. The climb up the saddle was the toughest section but it flattened off enough that we ran the last few hundred metres to the summit. We were greeted with spectacular 360-degree views of Mull and the surrounding islands. In the heat, we’d felt the 966m of ascent but were rewarded with the place to ourselves.

Back at the van we passed a few others who’d had the same idea. Everywhere we went we saw the same half dozen people - in the pub, at the top of a mountain, at the campsite, on a single-track road in the middle of nowhere…no one else. Just the same 6 people. And this, according to some locals we met, meant the island was “full”.

Hiding in the shade of the van, we decided to go for a swim. This seemed an inspired and necessary idea until, at the point of diving in and having waded out waist deep, we noticed the dark, inky water was full of large, pink jellyfish. 15 seconds later and we were back on the stoney beach.

Waking up in the van the next morning had a sense of deja-vu about it. Between it being so bright so early and the constant, threatening hum of renegade mozzies that had managed to hide away in the van, it felt like I’d never really been asleep. I looked at my watch. It was 6am.

This felt early and yet half the camp site was eating breakfast, fastening stickers to bikes and driving off. Had we underestimated things?

Er, yes, yes we had.

Despite our best efforts over the next 2 hours, we found ourselves still searching for a parking space when we should have been at the race briefing several miles away just outside Tobermory. To be precise, we hadn’t properly scoped out where to park the van and were now hurtling down a forestry commission road in the vain search of a lay-by. We didn’t find one. 2 minutes and a 13-point turn later, we were headed for another car park. This one still further away.

We grabbed the last spot as other late cyclists were hurriedly leaving. As any cyclist knows, there’s always faff before a big day out on the bike. Sun cream, drinks, bike computers, food, pump, cycling shoes - we’d left it all to the last minute to sort.

And so, a few minutes later, half dressed and with sun cream only vaguely where it should have been, Sam and I time trialled our way towards the start line. I looked at my watch. It 8.30am - the start time of the event. We were 3K away and despite trailing bananas down the road I was still hopeful we might yet make it.

A lead car, flashing lights and 500 cyclists told me otherwise.

Heading towards us, at full speed, was the event’s peloton. Sam and I nearly crashed as riders covered both sides of the road, apparently not expecting anyone to be late and cycling in the opposite direction! We made it to the start line with everyone else a mile or so up the road. We figured with another time-trial effort, we could maybe catch them. Maybe.

And then this happened.

We’d just started catching the back markers when Sam shouts out “I’ve got a flat”.

By the time we were going again, any hope of catching the bunch were gone.

And yet now we had the roads to ourselves, could go at our own pace and stop whenever we liked. It was bliss.

About 30K in and south of Craignure, we were cycling along a narrow straight road with forest on either side. Mountains towered up on our right, the Sound of Mull lapped on the shore to our left. Then, suddenly, out of the trees we saw the most enormous golden eagle flying just above us through the trees. We hit a clearing and it soared in front of us, landing in a tree 50m or so up the road.

At this point, I nearly wet myself. “STOP” I shouted, as I unclipped in the middle of the road and waved anyone and everyone down to draw attention to this incredible spectacle. Reaching for my phone, at least 3 or 4 other cyclists did actually stop. Most didn’t. Sam went for a wee.

The road we were now on, cutting through central Mull, was incredible. The tall peaks around us, acting like sentries, towered over us. Long sweeping ascents and descents followed, through valleys and passes, with almost no sign of human life. Untouched, unimaginable, unspoilt.

We made our way up a long winding pass and, with 50K chalked off, we stopped at the first feed station.

Refuelled, we pushed on, through what was my favourite stretch of the entire route. The valleys, passes and roads got even more spectacular. At Loch Beg, we took a right, simply signposted “scenic route to Salen”. The route now hugged the water, never further than a stone’s throw from the shoreline. We snaked our way around this corner of the island, before reaching the car park for Ben More that we’d visited the day before. I looked out over the water and remembered the jellies.

We didn’t make it as far as Salen, instead sticking to the coast and the shores of Loch na Keal. When we eventually left the water’s edge, the terrain became hilly again and the second feed station came as a welcome relief. We were starting to melt in the midday sun.

Sam, I and a few others wondered into a tiny 2 or 3 classroom primary school somewhere near Ballygown where homemade Kombucha and flapjack was spread out on the children’s desks. I eased myself into the world’s smallest chair and wondered what it would be like to grow up in a school like this, in a place as remote as this…

10 minutes later we were back on the bikes and navigating the very northwestern corner of the island. One hill followed another, as the road surface became bumpy and sheer drops over the cliff edges greeted anyone not paying attention.

The climbs between Torloisk House and Treshnish were particularly savage, with a couple nudging beyond 20% and the descents were narrow and twisty and didn’t offer much relief.

And then we made it to Calgary beach. In all the places to find a deserted, white sand beach with turquoise waters, this might not be the first place you’d look. Or the second come to think of it.

The climb out of Calgary was steep and had a cafe halfway up. I suddenly felt the need to take a short 3 or 4 hour break, sipping espresso and admiring the view, but we decided to push on. The end was almost in sight. Not for the first time, we stopped at an impromptu water station set up by a local at the bottom of their driveway, before following the undulating road to Tobermory through places like Achnadrish and past Loch Peallach.

We crossed the finish line some 6 hours after we’ve started where a hundred or so cyclists were gathered, clearly enjoying themselves. This may or may not have been helped by the fact the finish line happened to be next to a pub which happened to be offering free food…