After much deliberation about the day’s activities, we decided that taking on a renowned mountain bike route would be more fun than hiking up Liathach in the clag. The Torridon loop is a 30-mile trail around some of the vast glens of the northwest Highlands, rated on various websites as “hard”, “advanced”, “expert” and “very hard”. Irresistible.

We parked in a layby outside the pretty lochside village of Torridon and set off along the road. The first few miles took us through the belly of the vast Glen Torridon, flanked by the towering Torridon Hills. The road flowed through the valley like the river that ran alongside it (unsurprisingly enough, the River Torridon), its path dictated by the unheeding topography of this great Scottish wilderness.

Eventually we turned right off the road and cycled along the east side of Loch Clair. A couple of ownerless black labradors ran over to investigate our intrusion on their land, and we lamented the fact that we weren’t born into rich Scottish estates. We took a left along a muddy path through a wood and encountered our first hill; I spent the climb telling Ryan all about the Jacobite movement in the 17-18th century, a piece of Highland history which I find fascinating. I’ll spare the detail. At the top we realised that we’d climbed the hill unnecessarily as we’d missed a right fork which would have kept us on the flat, but it was worth it for the fast descent along a gravel track to rejoin the route.

Another bit of gentle cycling saw us across the sweeping farmland around the head of the small Loch Coulin, then along the River Coulin. By this time we were suspicious about the lack of ascent/descent/anything that felt like real mountain biking, especially on a route that was supposedly so difficult. And rightfully so – we had no idea what was to come.

The gradient gradually increased, and soon we were chugging up a steep track running parallel to the river. We reached a small bothy, had a quick nose inside, then crossed a bridge by a waterfall. It was uphill from there, along a narrow path littered with rocks large enough to render the way largely unrideable. We found ourselves on a wide, upland heath surrounded by yellow grass, purple heather and hills hidden in cloud. Then the rain came.

It crept in silently but quickly; one minute we could look back on the hills and valleys behind us, the next we were engulfed by wet mist. Eventually the ground levelled out to a high, scrubby plateau and we jumped back on the bikes.

The next section was totally unexpected and pretty epic. A long, extremely rocky couple of miles of incredibly technical downhill over big chunks of solid slickrock, with some very tight corners and definitely-don’t-want-to-fall-off steep bits. Our bikes clattered over massive rocks in a quick – slow – quick – slow pattern, and we finally understood why the route was graded difficult. It was a shame the rock was so wet as the slipperiness slowed us down, but it was an incredible trail nonetheless. I hit a rock side on and ended up over the handlebars only once, which – considering I was riding my 12 year old, bashed up hardtail – I thought was good going.

The most annoying thing was the frequent channels cut in the path, which consisted of two slabs placed vertically opposite each other with a big gap in the middle for drainage. Our rear tyres whacked the harsh edge of the slabs repeatedly, so  when the ground finally levelled out I wasn’t surprised to find a slow puncture. We pumped it up, then made our way through a forest section and across a railway track to the hamlet of Achnashellach. For some reason, it seemed strange to be in civilisation again. We munched a sandwich in a layby, swapped my inner tube and carried on west along the road for a few long, grey, very wet miles, wondering whether we were actually having a good time.

After what felt like a long time we turned right and followed a gravel track up along a river that headed into the mountains, which were ominously dark and shrouded in thick cloud. It was just about rideable, but the big, wet rocks on the path made it very awkward, and the wheel-bashing channels had returned. After a lot more time we reached the coolest bothy I’ve ever seen: a two-storey cottage with two big rooms downstairs and three “bedrooms”. It was the stuff of horror films, but would have been a great place to stay.

If we weren’t so stubborn, the next couple of hours might have seen us lose the will to live. We walked our bikes most of the way along the soaking wet, boggy, rocky path up, up and up. At first we tried to retain some element of dryness by avoiding the worst of the bog, but before long we were wading through rivers halfway up to our knees and dragging our bikes through dark mud and mire. It just kept going. The most soul-destroying part was that while the cloud above was bright grey where the light of the distant sky shone through, the cloud ahead and on all sides was dark grey. The kind of grey that announced that we were surrounded by high, steep ridges, which meant that we hadn’t reached the top of anything – we were effectively trapped in a big bowl of misery.

We stopped at the high Loch Choire Fionnaraich and did the thing we only ever do when in dire straits: had an energy gel. It perked us up enough to push on up the hill, barely speaking. After what felt like another age we pulled up onto a kind of rocky plateau pass between Maol Chean-dearg and Meall Dearg. Our relief was dampened by the pressing concern that we’d soon start losing daylight, so – happy to be back in the saddle, but still racked with anxiety and suspicion at what this wretched day would throw at us next – we pedalled along the rocky path, startled a few red deer which had inexplicably chosen this godforsaken place to graze, then flew past Loch an Eoin and another couple of small lochs (imagine the dead marshes from Lord of the Rings) which were backed by mysterious ridges. The trail was steep in places, very technical, quick and (most notably) often indistinguishable from a narrow, fast-flowing river.

Despite the treacherous weather and unforgiving terrain, we made it across the wild plateau quite quickly and relatively unscathed. I wish my GoPro hadn’t died, as we weren’t in a position to take photos and I can’t convey with words how wet, fast and rocky the trail was. We emerged on the other side of the plateau and the gradient got steeper, the rocks slipperier and the drops bigger. Our bikes (mine in particular, poor old thing – Ryan was on his new, full suspension Giant) clattered down the rocks begging for mercy, and my brakes had gotten soft to the point of uselessness. But ever since we’d been going downhill, I was secretly having a good time again.

It’s a shame the weather was so bad, my brakes were shot, we were exhausted from lack of food and the light was fading, as otherwise the way down would have been amazing. It was unlike anything we’d done before, but we couldn’t quite appreciate it or go as quickly as we’d have liked. We’d climbed for hours and it was a long, steep descent, well worthy of any hard / expert / advanced / very hard label. As the houses of Torridon and the little silver speck of the van appeared, we made our way down the final technical slickrock descent, knackered and very relieved.

We got to the van soaked to the bone. We threw the bikes on the rack, shivered awkwardly into dry clothes and fumbled around arranging a wet bag, which everything went into. I made the best hot chocolate we’d ever tasted and we polished off a pack of shortbread in minutes, then we drove the short distance back up the hill to the picturesque layby we’d stayed in the previous night. Ryan cooked the best carbonara in the history of the universe and we didn’t take anything for granted that evening: food, warmth, dryness, cider and rest. We slept well that night.

Torridon loop conclusion: Largely unrideable. Probably a different story in good weather / a big group / plenty of daylight. Would recommend if you like Type 2 fun. Scenery is probably lovely. Oddly enough, would do again.

NB: The photos don’t do justice to the awkwardness of the trails – the awkward bits were too awkward to move along while taking pictures.