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The boys have been busy playing rock / paper / scissors for who shares a room with me, and after several nights with Dean it was Vince’s turn to have to try to sleep through the earthquake tht is my snoring! Vince does most things well, and sharing a room with me was no exception! He slept well (or so he said – and Vince is not one to keep his feelings to himself) and more importantly (for me) so did I! In fact I had the best nights sleep of my whole trip so far. Consequently today I was ‘on fire’! My legs felt good, my energy was fine, I started well and felt like I had some left in bank at the end of the day. And it turned out to be a long day.

We left Strathaven shortly before 9am and immediately headed for the B7076 – a road that I had been told about and which, if what I had been told was true, would lead us directly out of Scotland without traffic. But this couldn’t possibly be true? Such a road couldn’t exist, could it? It must be a cyclists urban myth?!! So we started to head for Lashmaghow, the closest place to the mythical B7076.

The thing that I noticed about Lashmaghow was just how nice it would be to die there! The place had the best looking cemetery that I think I have ever seen! It sits on a hillside, overlooking the valley in which Lashmaghow sits and was so perfectly laid out and manicured that it looked like something designed by Capability Brown!

Coming out of the village I could see why it had such a lovely cemetery. It had probably been funded by the families of all of the cyclists who had died trying to climb the hill that takes you out of the village! It was a lung buster which even caused Vince to show some emotion as he swore and cursed (admittedly because his chain had come off – after all, it was only a hill…!)

At the top we could see a dual carriageway. If you have read yesterdays post from me you will understand just how gutted I was. And more so because the dual carriageway was supposed to be the B7076. It looked like our quest for this mythical road had been in vain and we would have to once again risk death by speeding cars, lorries and coaches! As we got to the road we were turning right, and so needed to cross the carriageway. We were lucky and we got across straight away as by some miracle there was nothing coming. We started to cycle, hugging the left hand gutter like a child that can’t swim clings to the side of the pool. The tarmac was pretty bad too. So much for the B7076. But slowly we began to notice something strange. No one passed us. For ages we didn’t see another car. There was no traffic on this road. None at all. We cycled some more, slowly loosening our grip on the gutter and still not a soul! It felt like we had survived the apocalypse and were the only people left alive in the world. We were road warriors (on push bikes!) heading across the wastelands. All the time searching for Bartertown where, it was rumoured, if you survived you could refuel with a panini and a pot of tea!!! After a mile or two we were cycling across both lanes without a care in the world! We had to keep our wits about us as it looked like one of the reasons that the road was so quiet could well have been that the military use it for bombing practice! But it was true. The B7076 wasn’t just a cyclist’s ‘tall tale’. It was real!!! The road is in fact the old main road in and out of Scotland, before the M74 was built. It pretty much followed the M74 (I think strictly that would be the other way round) and at times we were right next to the motorway, on what felt like our own private road taking us the most direct an flattest route to England! It was a joy! And to make it even better the Gods of Cycling has signposted the whole route as NCN 74. You couldn’t fail to find your way!

Several times we had to cross under or over the M74, but to be honest these added some interludes of reality into an otherwise surreal morning.

Long distance cyclists see lots of things that motorists don’t. We are ambling along on two wheels and are much more attuned to the road than a motorist ever is. And after enough miles the one thing that you really start to obsess about is tarmac. Now regular readers will know that already I have a ‘thing’ about tarmac. Well today that ‘thing’ was taken to a whole new level! If there is one criticism that I would make of the B7076 it would be that by and large the tarmac really is the worst type of tarmac for cycling. It is what I describe as “jaggedy-arse” tarmac. The really big lumps of aggregate glued together by the tar which wears away over time to leave a terriffically grippy surface (if you are in a car) that is ridiculously bumpy if you are on a bike. As we cycled along we debated just how much extra this type of surface took out of your legs (how much of your energy was lost to the bumping along) compared with other, smoother forms of road surface (well, lets face it – there was nothing else to do! There were no cars to swear and gesture at. There were few places that we passed through. It was just road and scenery!) We settled on 20%!!!

Occasionally during our time on this road we would also experience the pure joy of red tarmac This was like Cameron Diaz stepping out from the side of the road and offering you a leg massage!!! It must have been tarmac designed by a cyclist. Tiny chippings and an ultra-smooth surface. Gorgeous! I was reminded of the War of the Worlds (the Jeff Wayne musical version to anyone brought up in the 1970′s!). Here I was, on abandoned roads, leading out of the country and every now and again these patches of tarmac, like red weed, would appear! “And oh, the sweetness of the road!!!”And like the Artilleryman and the Journalist as they meet up for the second time in that musical, we came across Tom Stringer (http://www.thejogle.com/), a fellow cyclist doing the same thing as us who we first met yesterday in Glasgow. Then we had shared a short section of the journey together before we both realised, in the centre of Glasgow, that none of us had a clue where we were going and so we went to pursue our own routes out. I thought that he had surely been murdered and thrown in a wheelie-bin for his sat-nav. He thought we surely drowned in the Clyde!

England!

Tom stayed with us for most of the rest of the day. His route and ours both followed the B7076 (although at times we bowed to the greater wisdom of the Cycling Gods and followed the NCN 74). He was bound for Carlisle and a rendezvous with some buskers on bikes who were cycling the route in the opposite direction and playing a gig every night. Tom is doing his ride solo and despite trying to rid himself of us at Gretna we all managed to meet up again a mile later at the border. We had reached England!

We dispatched the obligatory border photographs as quickly as possible in order to be on our way (Vince likes to have a maximum of two photographs. One, and one in case the first one is bad. Any more and it is just inefficient!). As well as parting with Tom shortly after (on the outskirts of Carlisle) we also parted with the B7076. It was a sad parting, made worse by the fact that we still had twenty miles to go and we were deposited into Carlisle town centre right in the middle of rush hour! We would have liked to find a scenic route out of Carlisle and into Penrith – our stopping place for the night – but time was getting on (I knew this from the frequency with which Vince took to screwing up his face as he glanced, obviously, at his watch!) Also Carl was now starting to get to the point where he had had enough for the day (I knew this from the infrequency with which he spoke, and the grunts when he did!). So we chose the A6. It was like a reality check after a day without traffic! But eventually, as the rush hour faded we plodded our way up and down the undulating terrain eventually cruising the long downhill into Penrith town and our berth for the night.

The icing on the cake was that we found a pizzeria serving 16” monster pizza. We each ate a full one, and a mountain of garlic bread. They were unbelievable!!! A big day (101 miles) without traffic rounded off with a big feed. Is there anything better??!

Never for a minute did I think that today would be a good day. Of all the days that I had planned I had always thought that this one would be the least enjoyable. I was proved right in so many ways today, yet there were positives. Today proved to be a day of contrasts.

We set out from Bridge of Orchy, a beautiful place in the middle of nowhere. The only road was the A82, so we were forced to continue our relationship with it for a few miles longer. We were scheduled to travel as far as Tarbet, part way down Loch Lomond. I know the road as I have driven it many times. I knew that there were bits of it that were narrow, and where the traffic was likely to be heavy. But the plan was always to leave the A82 at Tarbet, and take a more scenic route around and into Glasgow.

First thing this morning Vince said something which on the face of it was innocuous: “What are these arrows?” And so the seeds of mutiny were sewn!

All friends - Just before The Mutiny!

Vince is a remarkably efficient individual. He is wasted in his job with J P Morgan Chase (whatever it is that he does). He should be in time and motion. He knew full well that the arrows represented a hill, and he had also calculated that Carl would know this. It wasn’t particularly cunning, given that we were discussing it the previous day. Vince was aware that to continue on the A82 would save about 5 miles on the route and although the route was likely to be much busier it was a much more efficient journey. More direct. The hill was the thing that would unlock the Carl vote, and ensure that on a democratic basis we would be continuing down the world’s crappiest road for another 30 miles more than I had planned! By the time we reached Tarbet the votes were in the bag and the mutineers were taking us down the ‘efficient’ route!

The Scottish authorities had decided to put a cycle lane alongside Loch Lomond so that cyclists could avoid the main carriageway of the A82. Unfortunately they had omitted to carry out any proper maintenance for some time. The amount of brambles across the path made me think that the police were trying a new, green, ‘stinger’ device out on cyclists! The brambles that weren’t across the path were overhanging it, and it was impossible to avoid them so that after only a short distance it looked like I had been given a leg wax by Freddie Kruger!!! We left the cycle path quickly, preferring to risk a quick and painful death by truck than a certain but slow death from blood-letting! Occasionally the cycle path would open up, and be clear of man-eating flora for a mile or so. Twice this siren call away from the thundering trucks lulled me back onto the path. But no sooner than it did, the brambles were back, snapping at my heels (and calves). A return to the main road followed swiftly.

Dean meanwhile had stayed back at the hotel and was going to set off and follow our route. He would obviously catch us up at some point and would stop at a layby and wait for us. Unfortunately when he did set off and drive we were nowhere to be seen and by the time we were in Tarbet he was another 20 miles on, without a phone signal, being chatted up by an old dear in Asda in Dumbarton! Surprisingly for someone under 40 (albeit for only a week more) he knew how to work a public telephone and managed to contact us! After driving up and down the A82 a couple of times as we were being ‘bled’ by the cycle path he eventually met us in a layby (one of the few on the A82 that is not inhabited by pikeies!!!)

For whatever reason the further we got down the A82 the darker my mood became. It could have been the draining effect of the road itself, or the fact of the mutiny, or the fact that we were approaching Glasgow – a place that we had no real desire to visit but had no real alternative but to go through. Having driven through Glasgow many times I knew that it was a city of fly-overs and big roads cutting through the heart of the city. One of these was the A82, so it was important that we got off this before Glasgow and so my plan was to pull off at Dumbarton and to follow the banks of the Clyde as far as we could until we got to a place to cross, then cross and head out towards the M74 and pick up the old A74 (now an unused B road and is apparently almost completely free of traffic and a cyclist’s paradise which follows the route of the M74 – the most direct and least hilly route out of Scotland to Carlisle!) In the end this pretty much is what we did, but not without some wrong turns, some frayed tempers and a lot of stamping feet and thrown dummies!!!

A82 Above! NCN 7 Below! Contrast!

My first big hissy-fit came at Dumbarton (spelt and pronounced without the invisible and silent ‘p’ which should rightly live between the ‘m’ and the ‘b’!) We had just come off the A82, which by then was a 70mph dual (Note to Oxford English Dictionary Editor: It should really be spelt “duel”!) carriageway with no cycle lane or soft verge, and we were near Dumbarton town centre. Vince, in perhaps not one of his most efficient moments, had ‘arranged’ that Dean would meet us again and we could agree a stop for lunch. But off the A82 and with no method of contacting him we were scuppered. To add insult to injury Google maps was running at the speed of a shaggy dog through a trough of treacle and we had no idea which way to go. We were forced to rely on Vince’s torn-out pages from an old road atlas of Great Britain that he had (fortunately, as it turned out) brought along. I believe that he found this in the glovebox of his Vauxhall Variant and it was probably given to the first driver as a ‘congratulations on your new car’ gift! Interestingly the pages containing Glasgow were like new…! We swiftly abandoned the A82 as a possible route through Glasgow (it takes the form of a flyover at Dumbarton and might even gain an extra lane or two further on) and it was looking like the only slightly less daunting A814 was the only option along the Clyde. Probably in an effort to avoid the flying toys coming from my direction Vince decided to do a quick reconnaissance and found that we were almost on NCN (National Cycle Network) Route 7, which would take us to Glasgow centre. The NCN Routes are generally mixed in quality but they are designed for cyclists (no traffic) and are generally well signposted. We got on the cycle path which was like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia! We emerged onto a canal path (complete with a cycle shop on the banks of the canal!) which took us through Dumbarton all the way to the centre of Clydebank! By stark contrast the A82 thundered 60m overhead on a flyover! The only reminder of the fact that we were getting nearer the centre of Glasgow was that most of the dog walkers sharing our route had pitbulls!!! We cycled towards a woman on the canal path walking a small black puppy (not a pitbull, surprisingly!) In a display of my almost tourettes-like ability to engage mouth before brain I said “Thank you” to the woman for holding on to her puppy as we passed. Thinking it would be nice to comment on her puppy I said “Hello little rat-dog”! The look on her face was the sort of look you imagine you would get if you said “My, what an ugly baby” to a proud mother! I changed gear and cycled swiftly away!!!

In contrast to the A82 cycle path which follows the banks of Loch Lomond, this cycle path through two of the largest urban shitholes in Scotland was perfectly maintained. Now behind ‘schedule’ (despite the fact that we are on holiday!) we grabbed lunch in the middle of the main shopping centre of Clydebank (three blokes, in lycra, sat wolfing down nuclear pies in the middle of a busy Tuesday afternoon in a Glaswegian shopping centre. We would have been stared at less if we had been JLS on tour!) We picked up the NCN 7 again and it took us parallel with the Clyde for several miles, past mountains of scrap metal and huge cranes – like the skeletal remains of the shipbuilding dinosaur that had once lived here. The path abruptly stopped next to a tower block. A man from a window 10 or so floors up shouted at us to go across the main road and I knew then that we had arrived in Glasgow proper.

The next 2 hours or so passed in a blur. There were no tears, but there were toys thrown and cleated feet stamped as we negotiated the cycle routes signposted through Glasgow. This often involved simply cycling on the pavement, which had been re-designated as a place to share with pedestrians. Judging by some of their faces the pedestrians were unaware that they were not entitled to all of the pavement. Despite the best efforts of the council to put up signs, judging by their faces many of the pedestrians probably couldn’t read the signs anyway! Eventually, after several wrong turns and the most potholed roads so far I decided to follow my nose and managed to pick up a sign for East Kilbride and a road out of Glasgow.

Although it was by now rush hour we managed to make good progress and we joined a main road which we thought from Vince’s antique map would take us into Strathaven, our stopping point for the night. Imagine the scene: Three tired blokes on bikes crossing a roundabout and being met in the distance with the road climbing sharply, rising above the fields and trees on concrete legs in the monstrous form of a dual carriageway! Fortunately we were not beaten as we had on hand Vince’s papyrus from which he managed to locate a small road which would take us to the same place. This small road was the best bit of the whole day! It took us through some beautiful (if hilly) countryside, and had signposts taking us to Strathaven. The bizarre thing was that the mileage never seemed to lessen! The sign would say “Strathaven 10m”, we would cycle for a mile or so and the next sign would read “Strathaven 10m”! Every so often the signmaker would give us a mile but it kept happening and by the end of it I was convinced that Strathaven was a place that kept moving, and that swiftly and invisibly some gnome like creatures would magically re-number all of the signs! But eventually someone, somewhere took pity and after over 10 hours and a paltry 87 miles on the road we finally arrived in Strathaven. The unusual signage was not the only thing strange about this place. Having unanimously agreed that pizza was the order of the day we found the town’s only Italian restaurant. But “This is a trattoria”, (I was told in broad Scots!) “We don’t serve pizza!”

Last night we stayed in Drumnadrochit, home of the Loch Ness Monster (if monsters have a ‘home’ as such). We were in a B&B run by the spitting image of the landlady from the Kingpin movie! At our B&B the hot water was provided by one of those ‘on demand’ dispensers, and being a bank holiday Monday it was obviously not working. I had not had a particularly good nights sleep (not quite as bad as Dean’s though) so was awake before 6am (and several times earlier by the ‘grunting’ of the electricity meter!) I thought it would help my otherwise sour demeanour to have a shave, but the lack of hot water persuaded me otherwise. Fortunately I was later to have a close encounter with a High Society Coach Tours coach (Vince got City Link – see his post below) which would mean that this evening I only needed to shave the left hand side of my face! (Vince and I both came up with the same ‘witty’ – but he blogged (if that is what you call it!) first!!!)

Dean emerged from his room at 7am, wearing only boxer shorts, to announce his suspension of active duty and to explain his well considered options (he had been up half the night pondering them). Eventually we hatched a plan to hire a car for Dean on a one-way rental, but with the option to ditch the car pretty much wherever he wanted. He called the car hirer, who obligingly took his money and promised him a car at 11am. From what Dean tells me it was finally available at 2pm, after much waiting and boredom on his part.

Vince, Carl and I set off at 9.15am (Vince had asked for an early breakfast – but in Drumnadrochit was 8.00am!) in the pouring rain towards Urquhart Castle – the most famous landmark on Loch Ness. By 9.20 we were very wet. And we had reached the A82, our carrier for the rest of the day. For anyone who ever plans a JOG to LE or LE to JOG the most difficult question is: “How do I avoid the A82?” And unless you are prepared to go a lot of miles out of the way the answer is “You can’t!” There is no other road. No ‘B’ roads. No tracks. Nothing. And because of that EVERYONE uses the A82. Which h means pretty much every lorry, every coach, every car, every motorcycle and every cyclist! Which is why I always knew that today would be a right-royal pain in the arse!

To make matters worse, not only is the A82 the most popular road in the Highlands it is also one of the worst. Considering that Tarmac was invented by a Scotsman you would have thought that at the very least they would have kept some back for themselves. No. Not if the A82 is anything to go by!

On the plus side, the scenery along the route was some of the most beautiful (if not the most beautiful) in the country. If you can appreciate it between being cut up by cars, coaches and camper-vans or having to focus on the road 5m in front to avoid death by pothole, that is!

Riding along the edge of Loch Ness was spectacular, if slightly disappointing because we were to realise that Nessie clearly doesn’t work on bank holidays either! But after about 17 miles we arrived in Fort Augustus, the first of two ‘Forts’ that we would visit today. A lovely little town it was originally our stopping point for day 2 before we shortened some of the legs to make them more manageable for mortals such as Dean, Carl and I. Given Dean’s knee yesterday it was a wise move to stop where we did, even though we only had a few minutes to spend in Fort Augustus before we were ushered along by the now hackneyed scowl-at-the-watch manoeuvre from Vince!

From here we followed the A82 on some of the worst parts of the A82 (they even put signs up at several points saying “Uneven Surface”! You don’t say! Like I needed a sign to tell me that there are more navigable roads in Kabul!!! Scottish Parliament: If you are reading this – just fix the bloody road. Don’t just tell me that it is shit and that you know about it! Fix it! It isn’t rocket science, you know. Just tarmac – and you bloody invented it!!!

The high point of the morning came just before our descent into Spean Bridge at the Commando memorial – a statue and garden of remembrance built to honour the fallen soldiers of the Royal Marine Commando Regiment. Ironically the place was swarming with Japanese tourists coached in by touring companies without a clue (or with a deliberate vicious streak!) Joking apart it was a fitting tribute, and one which should perhaps get more local visitors.

We rode pleasantly (there was a respite from the traffic) downhill into the village and on to Fort William – the outdoor capital of the Highlands (and probably the whole of the UK). By the time we got there the sun had come out and we passed a pleasant 40 minutes eating hot turkey, cranberry and stuffing sandwiches and cake outside a cafe on the high street! No sooner had we set off after lunch than it was time to put all of the waterproofs back on for the remains of the afternoon.

We continued our relentless pursuit of the A82 along the shore of Loch Lhinnie until we reached the bridge that marks the start of our biggest upward slog of the day – through the Pass of Glencoe. Now for me Glencoe has to be one of the most – if not the most – beautiful places in the country. It is truly breathtaking. The entrance to the pass is guarded on the one side by an iconic mountain Sgurr na Ciche (Gaelic translation: Rocky Peak of the Breast). With a name like that I assume that you would not need me to post an image, which is fortunate given that today she was modestly wearing cloudy lingerie!!! Up the pass the massive bulk of the Anoch Eagach – a huge ridge that I have always wanted to climb – rises sharply on the left with the famous peaks of the Buachaille and Bidean nam Bian (which I have) on the right. The weather kept most of the summits in cloud, but towards the top we were rewarded with some welcome sun and some breaks in the cloud making the peaks all the more dramatic. In all of the many times I have visited this area I have never once thought that I would at some point be cycling through it. It is wonderful to drive, but unbelievable on a bicycle. An experience not to be forgotten. Unlike the lunatic traffic, which try as I might to blot out continued to try to wipe us all out with increasing (so it seemed) effort. At the top of Rannoch Moor (our high point for the day) Carl was nearly wiped out by a trio of Polish trucks, all tailgating one another! As a brief aside I have never seen so many Dutch number plates as I have since I arrived in the Highlands. It is almost as if there is a mass exodus from Holland to try to find more undulating ground. Most of the Dutch seemed to be in possession of a camper-van and little in the way of a clue how to drive – a chilling combination!!! Shortly before Rannoch Moor Dean had caught us up in his hired Focus and generously offered to drive ahead to book accommodation in Bridge of Orchy – our stopping point for the day. We graciously accepted.

The summit of Rannoch Moor looks like I think the moon would look if it had vegetation and lots of water. And rain! It is an unusually bleak yet beautiful place. Much more beautiful than some of the other bleak landscapes that we have cycled through over the last couple of days. Some good tarmac (as if the Inverness County Council were aware that this was the border with Argyll and wanted to make a good first impression!) brought us into the Bridge of Orchy. A bridge with a hotel that is unbelievably popular, and little else. The final shock (before the bill) was the fine dining experience enjoyed by the four of us at possibly the most remote high class restaurant in the country! Just before we retired to our bunkhouse accommodation for a reality check!

The best day so far, with plenty of miles and some of the most stunning scenery that we will encounter. Marred only by the quality of the roads and the shocking behaviour of other road users toward cyclists. Wankers! (Apologies to any children reading this, but hanging on to handlebars preying that if the end is going to come it is swift and painless is no time to gesture appropriately, so I make up for it now!)

 When we finally finished the morning faff and emerged from the hotel the ‘clag’ had set in, and it had started to rain! So we had managed one day before the rain! Brilliant! Fortunately though the rain didn’t linger – it hung around just about long enough to soak us before clearing off. And we then managed a day clear of rain (but very humid) and without much in the way of steep climbing.

The first part of our route took us along the A9 for about 60 miles, almost as far as Dingwall. Before that we passed Brora (a town with a delightful beach, spoiled only by the clag and a bank holiday banger race on the delightful beach (it is a bank holiday weekend in Scotland this weekend)). Given the sparse population of the Highlands it is remarkable that there are so many whisky distilleries – we passed two before 11.00am. I managed to keep pedalling past them despite the almost gravitational pull. I was, however, holding out for a quick visit to the Glenmorangie distillery at Tain (about 30 miles into our day). I visited Tain (a small fishing village with little by way of attractions other than a famous distillery) about 25 years ago and until this weekend that was the furthest north that I had been in this country. At that time I had a schedule and had not been able to visit, but this time (and in the face of significant disapproval from certain members of the team for delaying yet another schedule (guess who?) I managed a quick visit to the place – only to find it closed on Sunday! In truth I had only wanted to see the place and get a photo for the blog, I was never planning a long tour and sampling session!

From Tain we had to endure the increasingly busy A9. The authorities had seen fit to install cycle lanes along a good deal of the road, but had not thought to make sure that the lanes were clear of the road detritus usually found in the gutter. So most of the cycling was spent on the main carriageway, much to the annoyance of the masses of motorists who proceeded to overtake us with increasing closeness. It was difficult as we cycled along the A9 next to Cromarty Firth, cycling and seal spotting at the same time. The Firth is populated by dozens of seals, either watching us intently from the water (just a head) or sat on a rock basking in the clag (like a gigantic alien slug). Fortunately we turned off the A9 just before Dingwall (ancient Celtic for “Town of Tumbleweed”). After some effort we managed to locate a cafe for lunch. We passed a Tesco on entering the town and in an effort to get something less ‘sterile’ than a Tesco for lunch we asked a local whether there was a cafe. I do suspect that he was drunk but he answered in the negative. “Oh well, looks like it is Tesco” I said. “Oh no. It is Sunday” he replied. Like in Scotland Tesco don’t operate cafes on Sunday – or like I needed reminding what day it was? The truth was that within 15 feet of where I was standing when asking the drunk there was a perfectly good cafe serving all manner of overpriced sandwich items to the heaving population of Dingwall (there were 6 people in the cafe – more than we saw in the whole of the rest of the town)!

After Dingwall the road became much quieter and much more scenic. And more inclined! Although the traffic reduced we knew that there were hills to come. The route plan had threatened a large up and a large down shortly before we reached the village of Drumnadrochit – our stopping point for the day. On the journey to JOG Lindsey had warned us about the descent and the fact that it was steep and in his words “treacherous”. He was not wrong! After many grinding climbs up, frustratingly populated with too many downs, we reached the summit and started the journey down to the town. The signs showing 16% were a give-away that the road was steep, but there were no signs to tell us that the tarmac was about as shit as it is possible to encounter and for the surface still to be classed as a ‘road’! After several hairy moments, some of my life passing before me, and several days worth of brake rubber we all finally arrived safely at the foot of the descent and cycled the short distance into the village.

Drumnadrochit is famous for two things: the Loch Ness Monster and the Fiddler’s Bar’s award winning selection of whisky (over 500 bottles) covering every available space. Tomorrow I am going to try to get a picture of the monster, but for tonight you will have to make do with a photo of part of the Fiddler’s whisky collection!