I just knew I wanted to go to Cromarty. From what I read in the guidebooks, the Black Isle north of Inverness is a beautiful area and the gem is the picturesque fishing village at its tip. It was even on the cycling route, and fit our general plan to head further north. Sold.

Progress to date: 4 days, 200 miles

There was just one rub. Yesterday I discovered that the short ferry required to make the connection to the continuation of our route was out of service. It seems the ferry berth in Cromarty has been condemned, and won't be replaced for quite some time. That makes Cromarty a dead end, requiring us to circle back down the peninsula. But by this time I was dead set on going there. I could tell Rich wasn't enthused with the idea. But he knew better than to try and convince me otherwise.

The day started pleasantly enough. We made a short side trip to Cawdor Castle, arriving long before it opened. We couldn't see much more than the top of the castle, but the grounds were so very peaceful that we enjoyed lingering there. Tall trees full of while blossoms arched over the roadway, catching the early morning sun.

En route to Inverness, we came upon the Nairn Via Duct. We could see it in the distance as we approached, hoping we might get to cycle over it. Instead, we zoomed down, down, down to get to its base and passed under its massive arches. It was mighty impressive even from below.

Making our way through Inverness, trying to decipher the signs for our route, we noticed the Velocity Cafe and Bicycle Workshop on the corner. We were both ready for some refreshments, and it seemed the opportune place to stop. In fact, we judged it well. Not only was the food fresh and wholesome (and the cakes decadent) but their mission is to promote cycling and make it accessible to all. In the back is a workshop where cyclists can work on their bikes or learn about maintenance and repairs. We spent a thoroughly enjoyable hour there chatting with the staff and other patrons while relishing their food.

Although Rich would love to have stopped for the day and stay in Inverness, he gallantly pressed on to satisfy my obsession with getting to Cromarty. The bike route took us across the Firth of Moray and onto the peninsula. As elsewhere, it took us on narrow back roads which wound through farmland and rural enclaves too small to even be villages. Such lanes unfailingly follow the natural contours of the land, which meant we were going up and down, up and down. While I relished that remote route, I knew I was earning no favors with Rich. To be perfectly honest, even I had to admit that the scenery was nice but no more special than anything we'd been seeing for the previous three days. Light showers pestered us off and on and the miles began to drag. I fervently hoped that Cromarty was a pure gem at the end of this very long road.

As we neared the end, we rode through the country lane high on the hillside and the sea came into view. On the other side verdant fields rose above the water. It was a rewarding sight, as was the lengthy glide down to the shore and into Cromarty. Entering town, I could see it was neat and attractive with well kept buildings and an air of prosperity. What I hadn't expected (and the guidebooks neglected to mention) were the numerous enormous oil rigs just off shore! Their metal superstructures reaching high into the sky, they were impossible to miss. What an odd juxtaposition to the fishing boats bobbing nearby.

To add to this boondoggle, our usual search for simple accommodation uncovered no vacancies. So when the Royal Hotel had an exhorbitant room available, we snatched it up. But I have to admit that it has a fabulous view. Here I sit with my feet up, and right out our windows are the water, the fishing boats and snow capped mountains. And an oil rig. I love it. I knew I wanted to come here.

The guesthouse in Cullen looked like a great choice. A stately old home made of stone behind an iron gate. It had been a long and chilly day of cycling, and we were eager to settle in for the night. The gentleman who came to the door looked a big disheveled for the role of host. No wonder. “We retired from the B&B a year ago,” he informed us. However, he did refer us to the hostel down on the harbor. We didn't even know it was there, and would never have found it on our own.

We said we wanted to use hostels on this trip, so we decided to give it a try. Sure enough, it was right on the water and the grounds were littered with sports gear laying out to dry from the college kids there for surfing and kayaking. We definitely felt like oldsters but persisted. At least our bicycles and arriving under our own steam lent us a degree of credibility.

Hostels aren't what they were back in our days of traveling Europe on a rail pass. But that was 40 years ago. Our hostel features a Family Room, which we promptly took. Not only do we have a room to ourselves, but we have our own “en-suite” bathroom. Heat seems to be somewhat lacking but the shower is good and hot. It's clean and simple, and there are plenty of blankets. Especially since we swiped those off the two extra beds. The sleep sheets bring back ancient memories, but this time we didn't have to supply our own. We even have wifi – some of the time.

Still a bit chilled, we sought a warm meal. Stepping into The Three Kings pub, we knew we'd found the right place. Small with a low beamed ceiling, nearly all the seats were already occupied by locals. However two prime spots on a love seat with a tiny table directly opposite the peat fire were available. Just the thing for two tired cyclists. Ordering off the chalkboard menu for our bar meal and sipping our ciders, the exertion of the day began to melt away. It was enough to sit and take in the people and surroundings, reading the funky signs on the wall, listening to the local accents. The arrival of steaming plates brimming with venison casserole and crispy potatoes completed the evening's perfection.

I can hear the wind blowing and the waves pounding outside. I'm plenty warm wearing a few extra layers. And the college kids are all bunking in another building, leaving ours perfectly quiet. Not bad for a hostel. And it sure beats a tent.

Not every touring cyclist gets a personal local guide to start their trip. But we did. Matt from Aberdeen had already reached out to us when he learned about our planned bike tour. And this morning he met us at our hotel and escorted us around the airport, through the construction zone and to the start of a bike trail. What a great way to begin not only the day but three weeks of cycling!

Knowing we'd still be a bit jet lagged and unaccustomed to riding on the left side of the road, it seemed fortuitous that we could spend our first day of cycling on a bike path. With the sun shining down and the temperatures warming well above normal temperatures, it was an idyllic day. Not having to worry about traffic, we cycled through the countryside with ease. Spring was well on its way, with numerous varieties of wild flowers blooming, and trees ranging from nascent buds to full green.

The first “purple cow” of the trip presented itself along the way. Prominently placed trailside was a wicker manikin, compete with a laced bodice down the back. She looked decidedly pregnant to me, and definitely worth a photo stop.

The scenery en route was mostly rural farmland and pastures dotted by cattle or sheep, including adorable baby lambs. The scent of fresh manure lingered as we rode. Sometimes the trail was low between high banks of yellow flowering bushes. Other times it was high above, and we could see down into the back gardens behind homes. Our progress was frequently punctuated by gates. At first we were able to sail through them, but soon the openings were narrowed by bars that lent credence to the “Cyclists Dismount” signs.

We were following the railbed of the old Formartine and Buchan railway, last used for trains in 1979. What started out as a paved trail soon morphed into crush rock. From there it varied from a rough two-track dirt road to a packed dirt trail with rock impediments. It was pleasant but slow going, and required constant attention to the surface conditions.

Following a rest stop and soup in the newly re-opened hotel bar in Maud, we decided to leave the bike trail and take our chances on the road. Cycling on smooth pavement was a treat, and our speed dramatically increased. We soon learned that once cycling on the left side of the road, it was easy to stay there. “Keep left, look right” became our mantra. I'm still trying to perfect the technique of using my rear view mirror on the right hand side, but presumably that will come with practice. We found the local drivers to be very courteous, which was fortunate as the road was narrow with no shoulders.

Peterhead was our destination, a moderate 41 miles for Day 1. Once installed in a guest house, we took a walk to the harbor and sought some dinner. With limited dining choices, Rich indulged my desire to try the Nazma Tandoori restaurant, which turned out to have wonderful food. Even Rich admitted as much.

There has been universal agreement among all the locals we've met that this weather is unseasonably warm and sunny. So we accept it as a wonderful send-off gift, and are thankful for today's Scottish sunshine and trails.

It's a beautiful evening in Aberdeen. The sun is still high in the sky and I am drawn by the invitation to go out and and enjoy it. But my eyelids are drooping, and Rich has already succumbed to jet lag and the long hours of travel.

So far we haven't seen much more than the environs of our hotel. But it has been a productive day. Upon our arrival we were greatly relieved when we spotted our bike boxes in the airport. Only a bit battered from the rigors of baggage handling and bearing the evidence of an inspection by Homeland Security. Two trips in the hotel van were necessary to transport the large boxes and ourselves to our lodgings. Rich did well to select a hotel so close to the airport.

The afternoon was spend reassembling the bikes. Admittedly that is Rich's forte, I am just his humble assistant. But we were both very invested in the task. This was a crucial point. Any issues we encountered could derail our plans. It was when we were in the final phase that we hit a serious stumbling block. My bike was successfully completed, but reinstating Rich's handlebars was not going well. We tried the pieces in all possible combinations and still it wasn't right. It began to look like we had a broken or missing part. Without speaking, I know we were both concerned, and I'd even done a quick search on bike shops. Checking the box one final time and giving it a good shake, I dislodged the errant part. Whew! That's all it took. The bike was ready for action.

We took a short shake-down ride in the parking lot, and ventured briefly onto a side street. The busy area was not all that inviting, so at just over a mile we completed our ride for the day, our mission accomplished. Our transport was ready.

Once we transferred our great to the panniers, and were assured everything would fit, we rewarded ourselves with a tall glass of cider and dinner in the hotel restaurant. I found it gratifying that my salmon filet was the same price as Rich's hamburger.

Tomorrow we will finally cycle away into the countryside. It's time to see the real Scotland, up close, mile by mile.

It was only a matter of time.  Our love of travel abroad was bound to leak into the allure of cycle touring.  It only required matching up our cycling criteria – following water, avoiding population centers and seeking out countryside beauty – with a destination.  And thus the Scotland Tartan Cycling Tour was born.

While snow still blanked the ground and the bicycles were still in winter storage, Rich’s thoughts turned to spring.  Learning that May was the driest month in Scotland was the deal clincher.  What he neglected to mention was that it was far from the warmest.  If indeed, Scotland ever gets very warm.  While fully on board with this adventure yet a bit concerned, I began to lay in provisions.  Windproof gloves, protective booties and a thermal cycling jacket made their way to our door courtesy of Amazon Prime.  Subsequent test cycles up the North Shore into frigid NE winds have convinced me I’ll be fine.  And if I had to shed my new layers, so much the better.

We know enough about cultural differences to understand that the cheap roadside motels we frequently use don’t exist overseas.  So instead, we hope to substitute hostels for less expensive accommodations.  Unlike the youth hostels of our, well youth, these establishments often offer private rooms with shared bath.  That’s good enough for us.  Have sleeping bag will travel.

What we haven’t done is plan a route.  Nor do we intend to.  Unlike all previous trips, we are going to wing it this time.  We expect to travel north.  We hope to follow the coast.  We will avoid extreme hills.  And make it up as we go along.  Even so, I did a little sleuthing, checked out the National Cycle Network routes, and concocted some idea of what we might do.  The only part that is for certain is that we will begin and end in Aberdeen.  And we will cycle for three weeks in between.

To my extreme surprise, Rich has ordered detailed paper maps for cycling in Scotland.  Although he has always successfully relied on downloading Google Maps in the past, the realities of cycling in remote areas must have prompted this shift in approach.  I heartily support this practical step!

Our trusty bicycles will travel with us.  Despite the risk and the expense, we prefer to ride our own bikes that have served us so well on all previous trips.  We just have to trust the airlines to treat them with care…

We are getting down to the final details.  It’s now a routine we know well.  Our custom jerseys are on order.  We’ve started to create small piles of gear.  I’m ticking things off my comprehensive list.  And soon we will be venturing abroad.  Aye, to bonnie Scotland.