Highland Farewells

On By Debs SeedIn On Two Wheels

This is Day 4 and 5 of a multi-day adventure from Aberdeen to Inverness-ish (Stage 3 of my ride around Britain). For this part I was joined by my sister Liz, her husband Paul, and our friend Dawn. If you want to start from the beginning, Day 1 is here.

After the merry evening before and with no tents to dismantle or caravan to pack up, we eased gently into our first off-bike day. One of the few firm scheduled stops on our itinerary was the Highland Games at Gordon Castle. Being one of the first events of the season, it’s a more relaxed affair than the grander Braemar Games, which suited us perfectly.

The smaller scale meant we could get right up close to the action. Despite its laid-back atmosphere, the Gordon Castle Games offered all the traditional events, but in a relaxed and manageable space.

Ducks, Cabers and Cheeseburgers

Things kicked off with the Drakes of Hazards: a brilliantly quirky show. Run by Mark Wylie, a farmer and skilled dog trainer from Loch Lomond, the show blends skill, humour, and audience participation. Mark’s Border Collies expertly herd Indian Runner Ducks through obstacle courses with names like the Bridge Over the River Quack and Ben Lomond Chute. It’s part sheepdog trial, part comedy sketch, and part duck-powered theatre, and with Mark’s witty commentary it was highly amusing.

We then watched some jousting bouts – cheering on the goodies and booing the baddies, although sometimes it was difficult to tell which was which.

Moving over to the main Games arena we donned the traditional Highland Games watching attire looking more like spectators at a wet football match than adventurers, but we were in good company.

At some point, we each wandered off: Dawn was drawn to the Morris dancers – the ones we’d seen coming out of the church hall after their practice session yesterday, Liz and Paul tried their hand at archery. While I snuck off for a glorious Aberdeen Angus cheeseburger smothered in onions and mustard.

Back in the arena, we speculated on the entry requirements. Most of the competitors looked like seasoned athletes—except one, who had us wondering if he’d lost a bet. His effort, though, had a kind of underdog charm that made us cheer harder.

Wild Hopes at Spey Bay

After a tense round of tug-of-war contests, we made our way back to the campsite to warm up, but not for long. Our next mission took us to the Scottish Dolphin Centre at Spey Bay. We’d had a fabulous week, but so far, our wildlife-spotting efforts had been underwhelming. This spot, where the River Spey meets the Moray Firth, is renowned for its biodiversity and apparently is one of the best places in the UK to see bottlenose dolphins from the shore, if you’re lucky.

Run by the Whale and Dolphin Conservation charity, it has a visitor space inside a beautifully restored icehouse, with exhibitions on marine life, conservation, and the history of Spey Bay as a fishing and boat-building hub. Although the centre was closed for the day, we took our time exploring. The chesil beach at Spey Bay stretched long and wild beneath a grey sky. We walked slowly along the stone bank, picking out smooth pebbles, watching the seabirds, and soaking up the layered silence—wind, surf, gulls, and somewhere in the distance, the faint call of curlews.

No dolphins made an appearance. Not even a fin. But somehow it didn’t matter. The dolphins would wait for another day.

A Final Journey on the Moray Firth

On our last morning together, we’d booked a boat trip with North 58° Sea Adventures. After packing up the tents and caravan for the final time, we drove to Lossiemouth to meet our skipper, Roy. There were six of us onboard: the four of us, plus a young couple. Liz brought Joe’s ashes and quietly asked Roy if she might scatter them if we saw dolphins. Roy shook his head gently, it wasn’t likely today, he said.

Still, the trip was beautiful. Roy pointed out puffins, cormorants, guillemots and graceful gannets, and shared stories about the sandstone cliffs, the hidden caves, and the layered history of the coastline.

We were running along the coast, just inside the Covesea Skerries, long, flat reefs that lie like a half-submerged spine between Findhorn and Burghead, when Katie spotted the dolphins. They were on the far side and hard to spot but Roy confirmed her sighting. We had to swing out wide, back around the reefs, hoping we hadn’t missed them. When we got round to the other side of the skerries, we all scanned the sea in silence.

After several minutes, Liz gave Roy a quiet nod. This was the right place, whether or not the dolphins reappeared. She leant over the rail and let the ashes go. As they disappeared into the water, the sea itself seemed to answer. A young dolphin burst from the surface, leapt high, then slapped down with a joyful splash.

Others followed, but that one dolphin stayed close, leaping again, tail-slapping and spinning as though offering a parting gesture. It felt like a gift. And somehow, exactly enough.

The Journey Home

This marked the end of our Three Spokeys and a Blokey adventure. Liz, Paul and Dawn dropped me—and my slightly hobbled bike—at Elgin station for the train to Inverness, while they turned south toward Lancashire.

Looking back over the week, it’s hard to believe how much we’d packed in:

  • Cycling quiet coastal backroads
  • Hard hills and wind-battered rides
  • Exploring castle ruins and hearing local stories
  • (Not quite) broken ankles and broken bikes
  • Lots of good food and banter
  • Woolly-hatted spectating at the Highland Games
  • And finally, that extraordinary dolphin farewell

It wasn’t a flawless trip. Not every day was smooth, and not every plan went to plan. But it had heart, and humour, and just enough magic to remind me why I keep saying yes to the road. And maybe, who knows, I might let the other two Spokeys and the Blokey ride with me again.

[Update: we are planning an exciting adventure for my birthday next year. It won’t be your typical 70yr old’s birthday party, and that’s all I’m saying!]

Book for the Week: Mountaineering in Scotland, W.H. Murray

A long time favourite book of mine, W.H. Murray wrote Mountaineering in Scotland from memory while imprisoned in a POW camp, after the original manuscript was destroyed. What endured was experience and memory itself.

I love this quote. Murray isn’t saying our memories are dishonest, far from it. What he’s pointing to is the way memory shapes raw experience into something more lasting. More meaningful. What happens on the mountain, or the cycle path, shifts almost immediately from fact into story. And that story carries its own kind of truth.

We remember the ache in our legs, the smell of salt in the air, the way someone laughed so hard they couldn’t stand up. We don’t always remember the mileage or the precise sequence of events. And that’s fine. Better than fine, in fact. It’s how we make sense of the chaos and beauty of travel, friendship, loss, and landscape. We tell stories, not as perfect records, but as maps of what mattered.

So if my retelling of this week’s adventure leans into the joyful, the unexpected, and the quietly emotional, that’s not me polishing the truth. That is the truth. The kind Murray’s talking about. The kind memory gives.

Recommended Highlights

Reading

This was Day 4 and 5 of our tour

With thanks to ChatGPT for helping research, structure, and grammar check this post.

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