Calling the Shotts

Today's adventure didn't turn out quite how I'd imagined but it was still quite good fun.  I was going to take the train to the little town of Shotts, mess around for a little bit then go to Glasgow, cycle out to the Erskine Bridge and back, and then come home again, but I got distracted after breakfast with paperwork which meant my putative train would've been an hour or two later than planned.

So instead, I motored out on Fidra again, going straight to Shotts.  I mean, it would've taken 40 minutes to cycle into town, 10 minutes contingency, plus about 45 minutes on the train…but 50 minutes from leaving the house I was at my destination, and I didn't even use the motorway.

Why Shotts?  Well, southwest of the railway station is the derelict stump of a bandstand.  I spotted it from the train seven years ago, although at the time I didn't know what it was, and only somewhat knew what it was after looking on the old maps.  It was in fact a Lion Foundry bandstand, a model no.54, erected in 1924.  Now though it sits in a cow field, its canopy and pillars long gone and its concrete and brickwork falling apart.  The cows were curious about the stranger who had appeared from nowhere, but they were fine when I spoke to them.

Nearby is a smaller brick construction which was originally a war memorial.  Even it has decayed somewhat in seven years with the top few courses of bricks having been levered off and dumped alongside.  The memorial bit though was removed years ago, and you can see it nearby at the junction of High Street and Benhar Road.

I thought about riding to Hamilton afterwards to look at the Saracen foundry bandstand there but I didn't feel that great, and instead rode over the 'Col du Climpy' as my cycling friends call it, rode up and over and through the famous glacial complex of eskers and kames at Carstairs – worthy of further geological fascination – and took myself to the famous Apple Pie bakery and cafe at Carnwath.  I went there maybe ten years ago with friends.  Back then it was a bit of a shack on the other side of a garage, but it has since expanded to the whole building and is really lovely now.  It's a popular haunt for cyclists and motorcyclists and several turned up while I had a coffee and toasted sandwich.  A mini migraine dampened my mood but I recovered enough before riding home.

While leaving I had a nice conversation with two women, one of whom was about to ride Route 66 in America.  She thought Fidra looked much better than the assortment of Harleys with Very Loud Exhausts that left shortly before I did, and asked me lots of questions.

I came back along the A70, an undulating 74 miles from Ayr on the west coast via Lanark and Carnwath to Gorgie in Edinburgh.  It's considered one of the most dangerous roads in Scotland, one of the most easily closed by snow, one of the best UFO hotspots in Scotland; it's a ribbon of tarmac through a land almost as bleak and windswept as the godfordsaken Rannoch Moor.  It rises to more than 1000 feet several times over its length.  It's also the hot ticket for Edinburgh-bound cyclists because the prevailing wind can be good for covering several miles at high speed, as I did before.  In the olden days before roads had numbers, Robert Burns described the road as "the lang bloody whang", which is why even now it's known as The Lang Whang.

I could have gone down to the A702 and motored home along the south side of the Pentland Hills which would've been more direct, but I fancied the Whang for a change.  I didn't think it was particularly dangerous on a summeryish June afternoon, but I wasn't doing more than about 50mph the whole time.

Back home for a huge cup of tea, and then dinner and to flop while reading my book.