Ailsa Craig

Let's start with a quiz.
Is Ailsa Craig:

a. An island in the Firth of Clyde
b. A type of tomato
c. The source of granite for curling stones
d. The name of a house on my old paper round
e. All of the above?

Answers tomorrow. No cheating.

It was a cold night. The wind turned northerly.  But it was dry, and my washing, on the fence, was at least no wetter than last night. I set off early, among sun-kissed hills, but without breakfast, or an evening meal last night.  To my right I could see my old friend, the mystical Ailsa Craig, standing guard like a floating fruitcake over the Firth of Clyde.  I'd seen its western flank from the Mull of Kintyre, its northern ramparts from Arran, and now I was treated to the eastern side.  Like most fruitcakes, it looks much the same from all sides.  Perhaps that's part of its spiritual magnetism.

After seven miles I encountered Maidens - not maidens, but a village, with an expansive beach ( they all are around Ayrshire) and an hotel, which served full Scottish breakfast, with porridge, from 7:30.   I struggled through it,  knowing my legs would thank me later.  But not immediately: I had to take it easy for a bit, which fortunately was easy as it got flatter and the wind was behind me.

A few miles on and I passed Turnberry, expensive looking and much more the golf town than Troon.  I also joined the main A77, which is fast but not too busy - a good thing as it's the only option for 36 miles: straight and flat, it reminded me of the road down the west of the Kintyre peninsula.

Ailsa Craig kept me company along the way. There are several lay-bys for motorists to stop and worship, including one at Sawny Bean's cave, where dear old Sawny trapped and ate passers by.  Cyclists don't really need lay-bys, we can just stop wherever it's safe. Unfortunately that excludes when you're rushing down a big hill at 35mph, or I would have a great photo to show you of one of the bays with surf dashing in, under the timeless gaze of Ailsa Craig.