Over the Forth

'Sing the body electric' - what a day! Jonathan and I rode out of Edinburgh from Leith to the Forth Road Bridge, almost all on off-road cycle-tracks, mostly disused railways. We marvelled at the work of Sustrans, who've done more than anyone to build the 10,000 mile national cycle network. As Jonathan said, it's that rare thing: a simple project that benefits everyone. 'Shabba,' I replied, which means 'innit yo' or if you prefer, 'yes, indeed'. 'I'm going to give Sustrans my money,' Jonathan said, meaninglessly, because he doesn't have any. The Forth Bridge has a cycle track so we didn't have to brave the mad traffic. We savoured every moment, taking in great views over the mighty metal railway bridge - a wonder of the industrial world. I've heard it said that it's 20 times stronger than it needs to be because it was built after the Tay bridge disaster further north, when the bridge collapsed in a storm and sent a train full of people into the estuary. They also say, but it might be hearsay, that as soon as they finish painting it at one end, they have to start again at the other. I don't believe it, because the durability of paint has improved, but it's a geeky thing to say so it's best to keep quiet. Anyway, it was being painted when we passed today. I'd always imagined that this was done by a bloke dangling from a rope with a roller on a stick, but actually they erect scaffolding around the huge diagonal tubes and struts and paint it that way. It must be a great job all the same - so much to see and think up there. The irony is that they paint it the same colour as rust. Maybe that's because the bridge itself is irony.
Crossing the bridge, I struggled to contain in my mind the journey so far all the way from Land's End. Many people have ridden longer distances, but the journey so far still feels like an epic narrative of landscape, climate and culture, peppered with encounters of various kinds - it even covers a distance that can be seen from space. Crossing the bridge, I felt happy and free, and that the world was full of possibility. We took photos. Jonathan jumped in the air; there was no need, but it did show that futile acts are often the most glorious. Shabba.
On the other side of the Forth, we got lost. I wanted it to be Jonathan's fault but I had the map. Even so, we made it to Dunfermline eventually. I expected Dunfermline to be an ugly place because it has an ugly name for a town, like Leeds, Dusseldorf, and Reims, rather than Mythelmroyd or Dar es Salaam. As it happens it's a relaxing place with a beautifully cared-for park that has sweeping views over the Forth valley plain to the south.
Leaving the park, we found the bumpy track that promised to take me to Alloa, and there we parted company. I hadn't minded too much travelling about 10 miles an hour slower than usual so that Jonathan could keep up. [I say this only to provoke his indignation, which he will try to rise above]. It was quite a moment as I rode away, with still 400 miles to John o'Groats to travel. Inaudible to all but Jonathan and me, there was rousing music - probably a bit of Beethoven, and we waved to each other in slow motion and soft focus across the stretching distance, our figures tinged with sunlight... Unfortunately, that track ended up in a field of cows: that's what happens when you put rousing music on. The cows looked at me, cow-eyed, as if I were a vainglorious fool, and sheepishly I rode back the way I'd come. The proper track was 100yds away, as flat and smooth and enjoyable as a glass of real ale. It was another disused railway, running some 12 miles to Alloa.
Far from the drone and danger and dirt of fast-moving traffic, these old railways are quiet conduits through the countryside. They also form rich wildlife corridors, flanked by wild flowers and grasses hosting insects like butterflies and bees, while birds feed on the wing nearby.
The cycle route from Edinburgh to Alloa - about 30 miles - is one of the easiest and most pleasant I've ever done. The map is available as a free leaflet - Round the Forth - and a train can bring you back from Alloa to the city. It's an ideal Sunday afternoon - more people should know about it. From Alloa to Stirling, however, the route is complicated, including muddy tracks that were only just about doable on my road bike without getting off to walk.
I'm staying at Stirling youth hostel because the campsite has shut down. Still, it's right by the castle on the hill. From the castle esplanade, I could see for many miles over the plain. Immediately to the north, the mountains thrust abruptly to 2,000ft from the valley floor. I felt a tingle of anxiety and excitement at the prospect of a journey into more wilderness than I've known on the journey up to now. Tomorrow, I go into the mountains, along busy roads but by lochs and through forests. I can't wait. Right now, I'm sitting in a pub - the Number 2 Baker Street, it's called. I asked a passerby to recommend me one, and he sent me here for the live folk the band are playing now. Welcome to Scotland!