After that was Edinburgh’s new concrete park (Saughton).
According to a local it’s not too busy before nine AM, or after eleven PM (though the lights go out at ten, and it’s probably not the kind of place you’d want to be after dark, potential for endless runs or otherwise).
He drove the 350 miles, slept overnight in the car, rode out the AM, and then returned—a loop stretched flat as an elastic band round a single envelope.
His trip was interpreted as an Alan Partridge-esque, barefoot, Tobelerone-gobbling, private breakdown.
Seconds later, a vast reservoir expanded out behind it.
The final hill turned out to be the embankment of a dam.
It’s rare to ride something which has totally alien aspects, whose contours you can’t map onto some previous experience and adjust to accordingly. After leaving there (and making another trip to the supermarket, because that’s just the kind of primal hunter-gatherers we are) it was getting late to be finding a camp.
Livingston was day two’s first stop, which met every expectation a 700 mile solo round trip afforded it in the eyes of a sixteen year-old boy.
We gathered driftwood from the beach that looked out onto the rest of the loch. It wasn’t until the third day that our family camping holiday went awry.
We arranged our tents in a circle, around a circle of stones, and made a fire at its center. The morning started alright, a dip in the loch at least partially washing off the smell of fire.
Above our campsite rose a hillock verdant with ferns.
We gathered branches from the trees which had failed to cling to its steep sides.