The folk that you come across in far–away places never cease to amaze me. In northern Sweden I have been greeted by pensioners fluent in English and keen to know ‘how much travel my bike has’, in the depths of Spain friendly local inbreds have advised me on where to find the flowiest ribbons of singletrack. In one of the most desolate locations in the British Isles I would expect to mostly come across hardy, weather–beaten locals, perhaps reluctant to exchange words with strangers on odd looking bikes.

To our surprise, the first human contact during our trip was with a happy and social local couple on a ‘stroll’ up the mountain. Our second and third were with Jolly Good Chaps; well spoken and terribly polite Old Boys from another dimension…country gentry who probably own large corners of the space we were in, but perfectly friendly, interested and high–spirited.

Two Belgian pals in their seventies and on their regular trip hiking around the Highlands were our friends on one climb, and we chatted bikes, landscapes and bothy life with no hint of social difference or generational gap. We sessioned a corner whilst the hikers watched on. They then set off up the mountain, waving a cheery good–bye and wished us luck with ‘shredding the gnar’. Something along those lines anyway.

When riding in to a location such as this, and certainly with an aim to set–up camp, at times you have to be a little too selective with the kit you can carry. I had this idea to lug a full–face helmet up into the hills with me, but on attaching it to my already bursting–at–the–seams bags, I decided better. My initial plan wasn’t entirely without reason though; I had this vague inkling that the downhills might tend to get a little hairy, and how right I was…

Easily one of the most memorable descents of my life was well earned on day one; after peaking and eating, we kitted up and headed down…a long way down. From a cradle between two of the Torridon Hills’ hardiest peaks we hugged the shore of a small loch, rolling at speed before being spat out into the vast wilderness beyond. We plunged from somewhere in the skies and into what can only be described as a bastard of a rock garden – endless line choices, slabs of rock, holes, streams, moving boulders and more than enough brutal encounters with the floor…

Now, I’ve been taking part in some tough old mountain bike races this year and seeing some of Europe’s longest and most exciting downhills, but I really am not exaggerating when I say that the run down this particular hill (you’ll have to ask Andy for its location) really will stick in my mind as one of the most epic. We took in sections not too far removed from Fort William’s downhill track, we fought our way through tight switch–backs, we flowed over slick slabs of grippy rock and we finished with a soft, rooty cruise through some pine trees. Truly unbelievable and absolutely unforgettable.

Having finished the most removed and off–the–map trail of your year – one that will stay in your personal history books as one of the most remote ever and also possibly the first that was more exhausting than the climb before it – it’s a funny feeling to be re–accustomed with humanity. OK, we were only out on the hill for a matter of hours (almost 10 hours, incidentally), but to roll around the last corner and directly onto a train station platform was a funny feeling.

There are tiny, remote and lonely train stops all over the Highlands; Achnashellach is but one of them and there is an overnight sleeper train that runs all the way from London up through England and Scotland to this far–out corner and beyond. Just imagine jumping on the train with your bike after work on a Friday, getting a nice long sleep in and then alighting at a solitary platform with a direct connection to Wilderness, Adventure and Mountain Bike Central. Andy knows of a few folk that do this for walking trips and why not on a bike? That could possibly be the ultimate liberation from work and world related stress right there. Of course, you won’t know where to go, but that’s all part of the adventure, right? Bike–tent–back–pack… It’s all you need. Simple.

We celebrated our trip and its success with a long chain of teas and a party of pasta as we looked back down the valley from our welcoming and now homely bothy, having eventually returned from the almighty downhill as the sun was beginning to set. With several rounds of golf and a hip–flask of fine whiskey to end our energies, sleeping on a wooden floor could never have been such an inviting prospect.>>