Go On Your Own Wild Adventure

The path pinches to a ribbon of dirt between mossy banks. Needles soften the sound of your tyres until it feels like you’re riding through a carpeted tunnel. Brodie zigzags from one side of the trail to the other, nose working overtime.

Light leaks through in streaks, picking out ferns and glistening droplets on spiderwebs. The world beyond the trees vanishes; it’s just you, the bike, and the soft tap of dog paws.

Ahead, the trail forks: one line dives steeply into darker woods, a slash of roots and rocks. The other meanders gently, contouring along the slope where you can hear, faintly, the murmur of running water.

The trail pitches down and suddenly it’s all instinct: weight back, light hands, heavy feet. Roots criss-cross the line like slick black cables. Brodie bounds ahead, somehow finding grip where you’re sure there isn’t any.

You thread between two trees, nip over a rock step, and then—clack. The rear wheel smacks something sharp. For a minute everything sounds fine, just the rush of speed and your own breathing. Then you hear it: that faint, traitorous hiss.

You roll to a halt in a pocket of trees. The tyre is soft but not dead. You could pump and pray… but you know how that usually goes.

The forest opens abruptly and you pop out beside a river, clear and fast over rounded stones. A flat slab of rock makes the perfect bench. Someone’s built a small fire ring; the faint smell of old smoke lingers.

Upstream, the trail splits again. One branch climbs away, broader and more obvious, disappearing into brighter trees on the hillside. The other hugs the water, a thin, slightly overgrown line that looks muddier but quieter.

Brodie noses at the edge of the water, then shakes violently, spraying your shins. The day still feels young. You can afford a choice that’s about vibe, not speed.

The overgrown path pops you out at an old wooden bridge, grey planks sagging slightly over a churning burn. A hand-painted sign on a wobbly post reads: “NOT OFFICIALLY MAINTAINED – CROSS AT OWN RISK”.

Just upstream, a line of big stepping stones offers a more direct crossing. The water isn’t deep, but it’s fast, and the rocks glisten with slime. One wrong move and you’re taking an early bath with your frame bags.

The wind shifts; you feel the first cold pinpricks of rain on the back of your neck. Brodie tests one stone with a paw, then looks back, waiting for your call.

The lane narrows until it’s barely wider than your handlebars. To your left, the hillside rises in a steep tangle of grass and rock. To your right, the land just… stops. Sea and sky fill your peripheral vision.

A gust of wind hits hard enough to nudge the bike sideways. You instinctively drift closer to the inside edge. Brodie automatically mirrors you, tail low but still wagging, hugging the safe side of the tarmac.

The ocean below is all whitecaps and dark, shifting patches where showers march across the water. Ahead, the road snakes along the cliff for miles. Somewhere out there: a village, a café, maybe a dry seat. Somewhere down a tiny lane: that hidden bay you spotted on the map.

There’s a battered metal mile marker by a cattle grid, the numbers half rubbed off by salt and time. You stop for a second, one foot down, chest heaving. The wind tears at your jacket; even Brodie seems impressed.

Behind you, the cliff curves away into a wall of dark cloud. Ahead, the road twists out of sight, but you can just make out a cluster of white houses far in the distance. The map flickers in your mind: that’s the village with the harbour.

Off to the right, beyond a gate, a rough coastal track runs lower and looks more sheltered. The line on your GPS suggests it might link to an inland route… eventually.

The first few stones are fine. Brodie skips from one to another, ears perked. Then your rear wheel slips off a rock with a splash. Cold water floods your shoe. By the time you scramble across, both of you are wet to the knees and the tyre is definitely soft again.

As if on cue, the sky opens. Rain goes from “annoying” to “biblical” in about thirty seconds. You’re suddenly very aware of how far you are from anything that looks like a roof.

You hunch over the bars, squinting at the map. There’s a tiny bothy symbol not too far away—if the path exists. The other option is to climb hard for the ridgeline, try to get above the worst of the cloud and link into a different track.

Brodie shakes himself so violently he nearly knocks you over.

The track widens into a firm doubletrack, climbing in lazy switchbacks. The trees thin and patches of sky appear, shards of pale blue between drifting cloud. You fall into a steady rhythm, Brodie trotting beside you, tongue lolling.

A weathered waymarker arrow points towards something labelled “Viewpoint Rock”. You can already see flashes of landscape through the trees: a glint of water, the hint of distant peaks.

You could grind all the way up there for the full panorama, or take a faint side track that seems to contour towards… is that the sea again?

The lane quickly gives way to rough stone and puddles. The gradient isn’t cruel, just relentless. You settle into “all-day” mode, counting pedal strokes, watching your breath fog in the cool air.

Cloud hangs over the notch in the ridge ahead. The pass you traced on the map last night suddenly looks bigger in real life. A signpost leans at an angle, its faded arrow pointing into the murk.

To your right, a lower, grassy track peels off and drops into a broad glen. It’s not as dramatic, but it would keep you below the worst of the cloud—and maybe in sight of a river and easier exit points if things go sideways.

The lane drops like a rollercoaster, past gorse bushes and leaning stone walls. You brake hard for a final bend and then there it is: a small, horseshoe-shaped bay, sand and shingle tucked between two rocky headlands.

The wind that battered you on the cliff is a distant memory down here. Waves roll in with a gentle hiss. There’s a half-flat patch of grass above the high-tide line that looks suspiciously like it was made for a tent.

It’s early to stop, but the place is ridiculously inviting. Alternatively, a brutally steep track you almost missed snakes up the other side of the bay, promising a link to inland tracks.

Brodie sprints along the waterline, pure joy.

The first sign of the village is the smell of chips and diesel. Then you’re rolling between tight rows of whitewashed cottages, nets and buoys piled against walls, the harbour opening out ahead.

You lean the bike against a low stone wall. Brodie flops down immediately, as if he’s been doing all the work. The café window glows warm. You can almost taste the hot food.

You know from your planning that there’s a little passenger ferry that can hop you across a sea loch later in the day, chopping a big corner off the route. You could take it, call it a different kind of adventure. Or you can stock up on snacks, shoulder the bike, and head for the old pass track that leaves from the far end of the village.

The track out of the bay doesn’t mess around. Within minutes you’re off the bike, pushing, each step a small battle. Brodie blasts ahead in short sprints, then dutifully doubles back to check on you.

Eventually the gradient eases and you pop out onto a rough landrover track rolling through open moorland. The sea is now a glittering strip on the horizon. Ahead, hills rise in layers, their tops blurred by thin cloud.

A waymarker post points towards a remote loch you remember circling on the map last night. Another barely-there trod clambers onto a ridge that looks like it might give big views—and possibly link into that high pass route you were eyeing.

You break through the last of the scrub and suddenly you’re on the spine of the hill, the land falling away steeply on both sides. The world has expanded: lochs, glens, and distant peaks spread out in every direction.

Cloud drags fingers across the higher tops. One minute the sun breaks through, turning everything gold; the next, a gust of wind brings stinging droplets and the temperature dips. Brodie presses in closer when the gusts hit, then sprints away to chase scents when they ease.

Your line along the ridge splits: carry on along the exposed spine towards a dot you know is a bothy, or drop earlier to a marked rock promontory that promises a safer, more sheltered viewpoint before the weather really decides what it’s doing.

The land dips gently and then there it is: a long, dark loch cupped in a bowl of hills. Wind ruffles the surface into a pattern of silver scales. There isn’t a building in sight; just rock, water, and sky.

A narrow sheep track skirts the shore, weaving between boulders and clumps of heather. You spot a flat, dry patch set back from the water—a near-perfect tent spot. The kind of place you’d never reach by car.

Brodie noses around the edge of the loch, sending little ripples outwards. You feel that delicious mix of tired legs and wide-open options.

You feel the storm before you see the bothy—wind piling into your face, rain stinging your cheeks. The world shrinks to grey and the halo of your headtorch as you trudge the last few metres.

Then the shape of the building appears out of the murk: low stone walls, smoking chimney, a scrap of warm light leaking around the doorframe. You bang the mud off your shoes, push the door, and step into a different world.

Damp socks steam on a drying line. A stove glows red in the corner. Two other riders look up from mugs of something hot and grin. Brodie shakes himself explosively, then immediately claims a patch of floor by the fire.

You trade stories, share snacks, and listen to the wind throw itself uselessly at the walls. The loop wasn’t what you drew on the map—but it’s exactly the kind of night you came for.

THE END

By late afternoon your tent is up, your sleeping bag is fluffed, and your wet socks are doing their best impression of prayer flags on a low branch. The cliffs on either side of the bay catch the evening light and glow warm orange.

Brodie digs himself a shallow sand hollow, turns three tight circles, and collapses with a satisfied sigh. You watch small waves fold neatly onto the shore, over and over, like the sea is tidying up after a long day.

You send the drone up for one careful flight. On the screen, the cove shrinks until it’s just a bright comma between dark rocks and open water. A bike. A tent. A dog. A day well spent.

Tomorrow you can chase passes and forests. Tonight, this small bay is the whole world.

THE END

The last few metres are a hands-on-the-bars, lungs-burning effort. Then the ground levels, and suddenly there’s nothing between you and the view.

The landscape spills away in layers: lochs like scraps of mirror, rivers stitching silver lines through the glens, far-off hills fading into blue. Clouds drift across, throwing islands of shadow and light that move slowly across the scene like a time-lapse.

You drop the bike gently and sit on warm rock. Brodie leans against your leg, panting softly, eyes half-closed. Neither of you feels the need to speak.

All the little choices—forest or coast, shortcut or steady track, comfort or push—somehow led here. You take a quiet moment to lock the view into your memory. The ride back will be different, but that’s fine. This was the line you chose today.

THE END

By the time you leave the café, your fingers have finally thawed and your faith in the world has been fully restored by sugar and hot food. Brodie, deeply offended that he wasn’t allowed on the chair, has at least scored a corner of toast.

Down at the harbour, the small ferry bumps gently against the pier. You wheel the bike on, exchange a few words with the skipper, and find a spot by the rail. As the boat pulls away, the village shrinks, then the cliffs you rode beneath slide past from a new perspective.

The route on your GPS shows a big ambitious loop you’re not going to finish today. And that’s okay. Adventures aren’t a test you pass or fail; they’re a collection of stories. Today’s story has chips, friendly locals, and a boat ride home.

The high passes and wild tracks will still be here next time.

THE END

The tent glows softly from the inside, a little capsule of warmth in a huge, dark bowl of hills. The loch is a sheet of ink, ruffled only where the wind brushes it. The only sounds are the hiss of your stove and the occasional sleepy huff from Brodie in the porch.

Earlier, you sent the drone high and watched the world open up. On the tiny screen you saw deer moving like slow shadows on a distant slope. For a moment, you hovered above them, then backed away, a quiet visitor in their world.

Now you sit on a rock in your puffy jacket, hands wrapped around a mug, watching stars poke holes in the sky. There’s no phone signal, no road noise, no light but what you brought.

You came looking for a wild adventure. You found something better: a feeling that this place was wild long before you, and will be wild long after.

THE END