Cycling

There aren’t many roads in Britain where you can pull over to cook breakfast and finish it without seeing a single car. While my friend Ben got the stove going, I wandered around the ruins of Dun Dornaigil, an iron age broch (stone roundhouse) more than 2,000 years old. Above us, low cloud drifted across the dark cliffs of Ben Hope. This was exactly the kind of lost lane we’d come to Sutherland to ride.

Our journey had begun the day before, in Lairg – the traditional “crossroads of the north”. With its Spar shop, hotel, train station and a population of about 800, Lairg is the largest inland settlement in one of the most sparsely populated regions of Europe. Sutherland – literally, the “southern land” of the Vikings, who held sway over the far north of Scotland from their stronghold on Orkney – tests life to its limits: bare mountains, impassable peat bogs and one of Britain’s wildest coastlines.

Today, the region’s biggest draw isn’t a particular place but a route. The North Coast 500 is regularly ranked among the world’s greatest road trips – and has been dubbed the “Instagram highway”. Over the past decade, its runaway success has doubled the traffic on its roads. Plenty of cyclists do ride the 516-mile (830km) circuit, or parts of it, but we had not come to this far-flung corner of Scotland to spend our time amid a procession of motorbikes, sports cars and campervans.

Heading west from Lairg, we turned into Glen Cassley. On the map, it’s a dead-end lane that dwindles to a rough 4×4 track. After a couple of miles bumping along the gravel, a ribbon of silky-smooth tarmac appears as if by magic (it is, in fact, a service road for a dam and a small hydroelectric generator). It led us up a steep climb over the top to Loch Shin.

From here, the only way across the next range of hills was an old drovers’ road over the Bealach nam Meirleach – or Thief’s Pass – a name hinting at earlier use by cattle rustlers. Thanks to Scotland’s enlightened access laws, we were free to give it a go. The only question was whether our fully laden touring bikes would be up to it. Though boneshaking at times, it was a thrilling 8-mile ride over genuinely remote hill country, passing a string of lochans (small lochs) flanked by huge, glacier-scoured cliffs. Descending into Strathmore, we found the perfect wild-camp spot by the river. Perfect, that is, until the midges appeared, forcing us to don our slightly absurd nylon head nets to keep them at bay.

The next day, after our roadside breakfast by the broch, we continued on a narrow road from Strathmore to the tiny hamlet of Altnaharra. The very name has a romance to it, and I’d heard it now and again on weather bulletins in the depths of winter (the weather station here jointly holds the record for Britain’s coldest recorded temperature: –27.2C in December 1995). A small hotel, originally a 17th-century drovers’ inn but reopened in the 1820s to bring anglers and deer stalkers to the area, is open from March to October. With the sun blazing in a cloudless sky and the land so lush and green, it was impossible to imagine the long, dark winters where heavy snow can leave the handful of local people cut off for weeks.

Downstream of the hotel is a three-arch stone bridge built by Thomas Telford, wittily dubbed the Scottish “colossus of roads”, who gave Sutherland its first proper highways. We set off on his road to the coast. It crosses the western edge of the Flow Country, a seemingly infinite expanse of mountain and blanket bog. Walter Scott described this far north of Scotland as the “immeasurable wilds” and the distant, never-changing horizons can be disorientating. As the miles ticked by, my eye was drawn instead to the microcosm at the roadside: verges dotted with delicate flowers, mosses and lichens; dark, still pools of water ringed with reeds and tufts of pure white cotton grass.

Eventually, we reached the coast and the village of Tongue. As we freewheeled down the hill, a sea eagle picked us out and glided overhead, matching our speed, as if lazily sizing us up for its next meal before deciding we weren’t worth the bother. We stopped for our lunch on the sunny terrace of the Tongue hotel, a former hunting lodge furnished in the Highland style – all dark wood, polished brass, tartan and antlers. Tongue overlooks a shallow sea loch where whales, dolphins, seals and otters are regularly spotted. In the 1970s, a causeway and road bridge were built across the mouth of the Kyle of Tongue, replacing a ferry crossing. Almost no one drives the narrow old road around the loch. It’s a genuine lost lane, with views across the turquoise waters of the loch and inland to the shapely granite peaks of Ben Loyal.

On the far side of the loch is the Moine, for centuries another impassable morass of blanket bog. To cross it, we had no choice but to join the stream of traffic on the fast and wide A838, which forms part of the North Coast 500. A closer inspection of the map revealed a few fragments of the original road, now abandoned. Some sections were a muddy quagmire, but others were surprisingly intact. Along the way, we stopped in at the roofless ruin of a small house where travellers once took refuge from storms.

Across the Moine, we reached the northern tip of Loch Hope, where the Danish billionaire Anders Holch Povlsen has just opened what may be the country’s most expensive hotel: rooms at Hope Lodge cost upward of £1,550 a night. Povlsen is a paradoxical figure. Scotland’s biggest private landowner, his fortune was made from fast fashion, an industry widely criticised for its record on the environment and on labour. Yet, as well as running a handful of luxury retreats, his company WildLand has made ambitious commitments to nature conservation and rewilding on his vast estates. After pondering what comforts lay behind the metal gates of Hope Lodge, we set off down a narrow lane along the shore of the loch, where we spotted two campers quietly rewilding themselves for free.

We soon discovered this was a gem of a lane, with its thick sward of grass up the middle, winding its way past drifts of heather and eucalyptus-scented bog myrtle, and through sun-dappled glades of downy birch and sessile oak. Stopping in a narrow ravine, we drank deeply of the cool, peaty water that spilled down in a cascade. On this 20-mile stretch, we passed just two farmsteads. The emptiness of places like Strathmore is the legacy of the notorious early 18th-century Sutherland clearances in which thousands of farming families were evicted, often violently, to make way for commercial sheep grazing.

Returning to the crossroads at Altnaharra, it was time to turn south on to the road to Lairg. Our destination for the night was the Crask Inn, a historic drovers’ haunt that offers cyclists free camping in the garden. We pitched next to a lone German who was closing in on John o’Groats, the end of a ride that had begun a fortnight earlier at Land’s End. Our tour of just three days had covered 130 miles. We had travelled along lonesome highways, forgotten byways and the remotest of hill tracks. In setting out to avoid the North Coast 500, we had ended up riding where no campervan could go.

Jack Thurston’s new book, Lost Lanes Scotland, is out now (Wild Things Publishing, £18.99). This tour combines two rides from the book

Just 16 miles north of the California border, enchanting Ashland, Ore., has drawn theater fans for more than 90 years. The city owes its modern tourism economy in large part to William Shakespeare.

The Oregon Shakespeare Festival runs from spring to fall annually, attracting many of the 350,000 annual visitors to the city of 21,000 residents. Locals and travelers gather to watch live productions in venues like the Allen Elizabethan Theatre — modeled after a 1599 London playhouse, with a three-story Tudor facade — where for one magical evening, they’re transported to Shakespeare’s heyday.

While it’s hard to escape the Bard’s reach in the downtown core, Ashland and environs offer much more than theater. Its outdoor wonderland especially is well worth exploring. Or as Shakespeare once put it: “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”

Within a short drive await wineries, hiking, cycling and white-water rafting on the magnificent Rogue River. Crater Lake National Park is about a two-hour drive, and the destruction of dams on the Klamath River reopened scenic rafting there last year for the first time in more than a century. As a designated Tree City USA community, Ashland is steeped in greenery. Parks abound. Lovely Ashland Creek meanders through the town.

Founded as a farm town in the 1850s, Ashland incorporated as a city in 1885 after rapid growth fueled by the railroad’s arrival. Many buildings in the downtown historic district date to the turn of the 20th century. Today, Ashland is home to a variety of shops — a couple of favorites include Bloomsbury Books with its ecology rack right out front and Mountain Provisions for high-quality outdoor gear. And with more than 100 restaurants, Ashland’s food and beverage scene runs the gamut from casual (try the porkstrami at Sammich) to inventive (check out the unique Alsatian menu at Nous).

These days, a cautious optimism prevails throughout Ashland, which had been hit hard by the pandemic and simultaneous wildfires. At downtown’s Village Baker, the scent of baking bread hints at the 1,400 loaves produced daily. They start at 4 a.m. and deliver for miles around. That broad reach, co-owner Gerardo Gutierrez says, has helped them weather challenging times.

“We’re coming back from the ashes,” he said.

Skylarks call out a cascading trill as I pedal between the pink and white hawthorn blossoms that make my path look like a May Day parade. I’m on the outskirts of Oxford, a city I thought I knew well, yet as I follow the National Cycle Route 57 on the e-bike I’d picked up in Jericho, it feels as though I’ve discovered a secret passageway.

This year the Camping and Caravanning Club (CCC) turns 125 – and I’m celebrating with a 60-mile cycling and camping trip, leaving from the city where the organisation was born and heading to Walton-on-Thames to stay at one of the oldest campsites in the CCC network.

The CCC began life as the Association of Cycle Campers before becoming the club it is today. It all started when founder Thomas Hiram Holding, already a keen camper, was visiting his friend Rev EC Pitt-Johnson’s Oxford home in 1901 and they decided there was enough demand and interest in the hobby to form a club. They elected each other president and secretary respectively and the rest, as they say, is history.

Back then, Holding had a “safety cycle” – not dissimilar to a modern-day bike, which replaced the tricky-to-master penny farthing. He proudly invented much camping gear, too, from early lightweight tents and folding poles to cycle touring bags. “Holding understood the health and wellbeing benefits people gained from camping,” explains Jo Cartwright, archivist at the CCC, when I tell her my e-bike plan, “so I think he would’ve embraced any new form of transport.”

While all-singing, all-dancing motorhomes and caravans are ubiquitous these days, and along with pre-pitched glamping options are squeezing the space left for regular campers, the CCC assure me that humble tents are very much still welcomed on its sites. So with mine firmly stowed on my e-bike, I set off, deciding to break my journey with an overnight stop at Bella Vista Camping in Radnage, a family-run club site that sits on the Chiltern Cycleway.

Quiet roads lead me east from Oxford toward Wheatley and Thame, where I stop at the Old Fisherman to grab a sandwich and coffee, before continuing on the Phoenix Trail (part of Route 57), its straight lines a nod to its former life as the disused railway track to Princes Risborough. Red kites replace skylarks as I glide on the easy track away from any road traffic, passing the old station building at Bledlow and going under the former railway bridge and past the abandoned platform where Towersey Halt stop, closed since 1963, would have been.

Before he started the Association of Cycle Campers, Holding’s method of camping – after a childhood wagon trek on the prairies of North America had him hooked – was by canoe in Ireland. That was until a friend of his in England announced that he and his wife were planning to spend a week camping by tandem bike in Britain, and asked him to come to help with attaching his kit to the frame – after which he wrote, “We succeeded,” and declared in his book, Cycle and Camp, published in 1897, “There was something in it.”

While more people arrive in motorhomes than by bike these days, I’m pleased to see that Bella Vista Camping still has a huge field for tents, next to a paddock of Soay sheep and alpacas, and there are hot showers and proper toilets in a big mess tent.

After dinner at the Crown Pub, just a five-minute walk away, and a quiet night’s sleep while my bike battery charged, I am ready for the next part of my cycle tour to Walton-on-Thames. Opened in 1913, the Walton CCC campsite was described in a Golden Jubilee Souvenir booklet from 1963 as a place full of “homemade tents, bamboo poles, hurricane lamps and wood fires”.

Curious at what I’d encounter now, I leave the highs of the Chilterns and Route 57 to bear south on country lanes that skirt the edge of High Wycombe, through the busy streets of the Thames-side towns of Marlow and Cookham, and on narrow cycle paths between Maidenhead and Eton. When I stop for lunch at the Crocus cafe in Dorney, I’m amazed at how curious people are about my set-up. I feel a little like Holding, showcasing another way of holidaying in Britain.

Windsor Great Park is an unexpected highlight – its easy roads contrasting starkly with the quite hairy gravel tracks I descend into Egham. But then designated bike lanes through Staines and Chertsey see me ticking off my remaining miles with ease.

A final treat is a ferry crossing over the Thames at Shepperton to Weybridge – fitting given that the very first campsite in the CCC network used to sit on one of the islands here (it closed in 1909).

Given that the Walton campsite has no facilities, it’s primarily frequented by motorhomes and caravans that have their own chemical toilets. I’ve brought my own eco-friendly option, though, in the form of a Poopaloo dry-powder toilet. My pitch was next to a small hut filled with sepia photographs of tents from 100 years ago.

That night I read Holding’s The Campers Handbook, published in 1908, and chuckle at the description of the correct attire for female cycle campers including a skirt “that finishes three inches off the ground, with no slippery lining to avoid catching on the knickerbockers”.

The next day, without a knickerbocker (or skirt) in sight, I undertake one of Holding’s favoured activities: canoeing. Swapping pedals for oars, thanks to owner Andy of Hampton Court Paddle Sports, which is located just a 10-minute (3-mile) cycle from my tent, I spend most of the day on the water, sightseeing at a slow pace, stopping for falafel at Mezzet Box (beats the fried herring and boiled trout of Holding’s day), and ending with a drink at the Anglers, built on these banks in 1870, my canoe tied up beside my table.

Things have undoubtedly changed for campers over the past 125 years. The tents – A-frames and “wigwams” made of silk – have been swapped for nylon tunnels with inflatable poles, campervans have overtaken bicycles, and even, at Walton, the Thames itself has been rerouted so that it no longer sweeps by the pitches. But not all change is bad. Back then, strict gender rules meant that, as a lone woman, I wouldn’t have been permitted to do this trip, never mind in leggings. And an e-bike made the whole experience (and hills) much more enjoyable.

Holding called cycle camping a “power” that helped popularise camping – and the CCC’s membership reflects that, having grown from its initial 150 to more than 300,000 households. And though camping using a bicycle is now a minority pursuit, after my weekend tracing old routes and visiting the first campsite, I like to think that within the secret passageways of towns and cities, there are those of us who realise that the best journeys are still powered by pedals and curiosity.

eBike hire was provided by Bainton Bikes in Oxford (e-bikes from £65 for 3 days). A pitch was given by Bella Vista Radnage (from £19 a night) and Walton-on-Thames campsite (from £20 for two nights members, £35 non-members). Annual CCC membership from £56.95