White Laggan November Odyssey

Words by Marcus Nicolson, photos by Doug Somerville and Chris Martin

I’ll be the first to admit that we’re a very disorganised group, but the planning for this mid-November trip to the Southwest of Scotland really took the biscuit in terms of calamity. In the 24 hours before the trip, the group chat had been pinging non-stop with route suggestions, amendments, criticisms, and general trepidation. Strong gales had battered Scotland in the previous days, and train cancellations were playing havoc with the loose plan we had finally managed to formulate.

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As our group assembled in Glasgow’s Central Station at dawn the next day, we had yet to decide where we were going or how we were going to squeeze all nine of us, bikes included, onto southbound trains. The group hastily split, and thanks to both the early hour and the kindness of a cycle-friendly Scotrail ticket seller, we were able to spread ourselves across two empty train carriages headed for the town of Lockerbie in the Scottish borders.

I’ve spent a fair bit of time bikepacking around Scotland, but the southwest is an area I’ve often overlooked in favour of heading north to the Highlands. Our plan for the weekend was to trace a mixed-surface route from east to west, involving a grab bag of tarmac, MTB trails, and gravel. The highlight would be an overnight stay in White Laggan Bothy, which sits by Loch Trool. As is customary among this group, we were well aware that at some stage of the ride, we would face some treacherous hike-a-bike. Memories of last year’s Mull trip were still firmly ingrained in our minds.

Group morale was high as we set out on fast roads leading to Dumfries, where we would begin our off-road adventures. Gradually, wet leaves, gravel, and mud replaced the tarmac beneath our tires. This is what we had come for. A local trail centre provided our first taste of singletrack riding. Our large group had already fractured by this point, with folks riding at various speeds. A short while later, I was perplexed to encounter my pals heading towards me on a one-way trail. It was clear we weren’t all following the same route plan! As the day went on, we were hindered by punctures, as there were plenty of thorns and sharp bits ready to catch out anyone riding with tubes. We teamed up to complete the repairs with Formula 1 mechanical team speed.

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The next thing I remember from the route is a very soggy entry road leading to what can best be described as a swampy forest obstacle course. What once was a walking track through the forest was now fallen trees, tall grass, slippy moss, and obscured but dangerous holes in the ground. With the assurance that this would finally lead us to a gravel road, we heaved our loaded bikes over tree trunks, crouched under branches, and waded through mossy puddles. A few of us slipped down in various puddles and bogs along the way, but we remained largely unscathed from the battle with the forest. The short section felt like it took a lifetime to cover, and we were already planning the untimely demise of our route planner before we finally reached a wide forestry road ahead.

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Rolling into the sizable town of Castle Douglas in the mid-afternoon, we were more than ready for some warmth and nutrition. We reassembled our group in a local pub, drawing interested comments from locals, surprised at the sight of so many muddy cyclists arriving en masse at this time of year. “Must be an expensive bit of kit, that!” one enquirer remarked, pointing at the enormous zoom lens Doug was carrying around.

It was hard to be inconspicuous, given our group’s numbers and brightly coloured kit! We enjoyed a few hours of casual chit-chat between ourselves and the older regulars, laughing at the challenges of the ride so far and piecing together a plan for the evening.

After sufficient hydration levels had been reached, we were back on the road following a trip to the local chip shop. Darkness had crept in, and it felt surreal to be making our way along pitch-black country lanes, trying to dodge puddles and other hazards with only our headlights to guide the way. The cold air was crisp, and we were happy to be back on the road. My mind often wanders while riding at night, with flashbacks to riding in Morocco last month, where the conditions couldn’t have been more different, but the challenges of staying focused during night riding were the same.

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Finally, we arrived at the turn-off for the bothy road, which was across a sodden, muddy track by a secluded loch. In my smaller group, we noticed flickering lights around the bothy and pondered if perhaps several members of our group had arrived before us. Upon closer inspection, we could see that the outside of the bothy was surrounded by a collection of gravel bikes. But, strangely, these bikes didn’t resemble any of those from our extended posse. By all accounts, these looked a lot cleaner and faster too!

As we entered the warmth of the bothy, making our way towards the open fire, we were greeted by not one but two other groups of fellow bikepackers who had arrived earlier in the evening. There were smiles all around as we laughed at the coincidence of so many bikepackers sharing the same overnight plan in November. I think we totalled 15 riders in the small bothy by the time everyone had piled in.

Our ensemble gradually arrived in dribs and drabs, and we each deposited the coal and firewood we’d been carrying all day next to the fireplace. We lit camp stoves in the kitchen and prepared various evening meals. Most of us took the easy option of instant meals, and we looked on with envy as Fabian started preparing a curry with fresh herbs and vegetables—an unusual sight. We shared bikepacking stories, route plans, and pictures of our various hike-a-bike adventures until it was time to call it a night, cramming our tired bodies into the adjacent room like puffy jacket-wearing sardines with colourful sleeping mats.

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A few hours later, I was still struggling to fall asleep on my shared bunk. In retrospect, being positioned next to the creaky front door wasn’t the best choice. I pulled on my muddy shoes and headed outside to gaze at the stars. After a while, I decided to make my bed for the night outside the bothy alongside several of the hardier members of our group, who I had previously thought were bonkers for opting to camp out. The temperatures were unusually mild for a Scottish November, and I could get comfortable without needing a bivvy bag.

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While I love camping, it’s a rare occasion that I attempt to sleep outdoors in Scotland without a shelter, and I relished this moment of the trip. Without a phone signal to distract my attention, I gazed upwards at the wind pushing the clouds behind the surrounding hills, and the calming sounds of the wind and nearby rushing stream had me drifting off in no time.

Breakfast was a leisurely and drawn-out affair, with our newly found English bikepacking companions setting off in the early morning while we dithered and faffed around with packing our stuff and cleaning up the fireplace. Our attention soon turned to the challenge of riding down the muddy bothy track in daylight. There were a few slide-out spills and a slow puncture for me before we’d even begun the day.

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We started out riding on wide-open forestry roads before reaching an ominous-looking locked deer gate blocking the road ahead. At this stage, it would have been easy to re-route and link up to a more rideable alternative. “But where’s the spirit of adventure in that?!” Someone quickly retorted to this suggestion. Instead, we quickly formed a system for passing bikes over the gate, with someone positioned on top of the gate to stabilise the proceedings. It was only at this point that we fully appreciated the weight of the heavier MTB setups that newcomers to the group Charlotte and Kirsten were riding.

The next section of riding was tough going, and it was hardly a surprise given that this was a gated-off section of track. After some precarious descending, we spotted a gravel walking path below and carefully made our way down a steep embankment, clutching onto our bikes in hopes of staying upright. All of us except our photographer, Doug, that is, who instead opted to launch his bike down the 10-metre drop with complete disregard for the consequences.

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An hour later, Doug was hunched over a picnic table, trying to substitute a spare tyre lever for a broken thumb shifter. It had snapped clean off in his moment of bike-throwing madness! The rest of the group used the break to fire up the camping stoves and reload on noodles and instant pasta meals. At this stage, we had covered a measly 20 kilometres in three hours, and thoughts were turning to the limited trains available that could see us back home that Sunday evening. Despite the slow progress, I argued that the lunch stop would provide the energy to see us through the upcoming gravel climbs and eventual tarmac leading us to the west coast.

The self-imposed gear limitations didn’t seem to slow Doug down, and he was blasting the downhill sections as we pushed on with the ride. On the final section into the coastal town of Girvan, I found myself racing my pal Robin along the tarmac. We felt injected by a burst of energy at the final hurdle and smashed the pedals to reach the end of the ride before sundown. The exertion kept us warm as we entered the seaside town, slipstreaming into the chilly sea breeze.

The group reconvened in the confines of a fish and chip shop by the sea just as the sun set for the day. We tried our best to consume the enormous, greasy portions on offer, washing everything down with ice cream before retiring to the pub across the road to while away another hour before our train back to the big city.

“Who’s won the race?!” bellowed one of the locals propped at the bar as our entourage gradually entered from the cold outside. We patiently made explanations that no race had taken place, and we’d simply been enjoying the delights of off-road touring as a group. This seemed a little too preposterous for our new friend to grasp. I don’t think any of us escaped an intense round of questioning on the ins and outs of the race. Finally, the questions subsided, and we were offered a tray of day-old-looking egg sandwiches from the bar to compensate for our race efforts.

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The train journey back up the road was plain sailing despite the small carriage local service. We split the bikes across the train and clambered onboard quickly before there was any time for the train operator to cause a fuss. The conductor was pleasantly amused at the sight of so many bikes and politely enquired about our trip, not an attitude we’ve often come across when travelling on the train with a bike in Scotland!

The next day, as I was sitting back at my office computer, feeling exhausted and with post-adventure hunger levels, the group chat started to ping again. Photos were shared, and someone asked if anyone else had noticed large insect bites. Then came the most important question: “Where to next?”

The Route

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