Words & photos by Adam Wilkoszarski
The Scotland of postcards is all about misty glens, romantic lochs, and pure freedom. The Scotland seen from a bicycle saddle is that, plus a daily battle for survival, dead electronics, and endless scratching.
After a week of pedaling through England, I swapped riding partners and joined forces with Olga (Beja). Our plan was simple: ditch paid accommodation, sleep under the open sky, and push toward the northernmost edge of the country.
What we didn’t plan for was just how flesh-hungry the Scottish Highlands actually are.
The North: Kingdom of the Parasites
Leaving Inverness behind felt like entering an absolute dream. Camping by a different loch every night was precisely what had been missing from the English leg of the trip. The sun was shining with uncharacteristic warmth, the views were staggering, and I woke up every morning with a grin.
Sure, a personal crisis was brewing—a bent chainring, weeks without a proper rest day, and tick number three burrowed deep into my skin. Still, after a long day in the saddle, we were ready to celebrate at camp: Idahoan mashed potatoes, beans, and ginger biscuits for dessert.
Then we unpacked. Our gear was crawling with dozens of tiny ticks.
We quickly moved to another spot, lost a quick battle to a swarm of biting midges, and ended up quarantined in our separate tents, eating cold beans straight out of the can. That night, I dreamed about ticks.
Morning Inventory:
- Legs wrecked from pushing bikes for several kilometers along the Pictish Trail.
- Ticks picked off me by the dozen by Olga as soon as we hit tarmac.
- Dead phone and drowned power banks from a river crossing.
By the time we hit the coast at Melvich Beach, I could finally breathe. I picked off another batch of bloodsuckers, washed the dust away, and fell asleep to the sound of crashing waves under a glowing sunset.
Heading West: Northern Exposure Meets Bugs
We pushed west through coastal fog so dense you could only hear the ocean. The tiny roadside settlements—where one single shop served as the post office, café, and petrol station—felt straight out of Northern Exposure.
Seeking better weather, we turned inland toward the Highlands. Ahead lay a 150-kilometer stretch to Ullapool without a single shop. We stocked up on pure survival fuel: microwave rice, baked beans, a massive block of cheddar, and an obscene amount of candy.
The mountains were breathtaking, but stopping was forbidden. The second you slowed down, horseflies attacked, leaving bloody welts.
When we pitched camp by the river, we prayed for wind. The moment the breeze died, midges blanketed the tent flysheet—the sound of them bouncing off the fabric sounded like steady rain.
At midnight, I woke up to a loud buzzing inside my head. A midge had crawled deep into my ear canal. With no cell service, I hiked up a nearby hill to get an AI verdict: “Wait for it to crawl out, or go to A&E.” By morning, the intruder had either escaped or met its demise.
We rolled into Ullapool bone-dry, out of food and water, but ready for the ferry to Lewis and Harris.
The Outer Isles and Skye
Shetland-style rain greeted us on the Outer Hebrides, but it fit the raw, rugged gray landscapes perfectly.
Skye, on the other hand, hit us with tourist traffic jammed along its single main road. Fortunately, sanctuary awaited in Portree at an old friend’s house. One evening of cigarettes, drinks, and catching up wasn’t enough to cover ten years, but it was enough to recharge our souls.
The next morning, young Elliot entertained us by pretending to be a cat while playing Nintendo, while Mania fueled us with cucumber soup, coffee, and salty cocoa. That is how you send travelers back into the wild.
The Final Stretch
Our last days were spent in a slow wind-down. The rain and sun traded places continuously—one of our final mornings greeted us with tents pitched directly beneath a rainbow.
From there, we pushed on toward Fort William to sort out cardboard boxes for our bikes and arrange our bus transport to Edinburgh Airport. But after days of solitude, Fort William hit us like a wall—it was packed with tourists, noisy, and cluttered. Unaccustomed to crowds, we couldn’t think straight and quickly retreated 20 kilometers away from town. There, right by the water, we set up camp with a stunning view of Ben Nevis to enjoy one last peaceful night in the wild.
Before flying out of Edinburgh, we had one final night to kill. With festival prices making hotel rooms astronomical, we embraced the cowboy lifestyle one last time: wild camping by the airport fence, watching planes land alongside local aircraft spotters.
Thirteen days on the road, one real shower, hundreds of miles, and more ticks than I care to recount. Scotland gets under your skin—quite literally—and stays there long after you’ve packed your bike away.
Three Survival Rules for Bikepacking the Highlands:
- Tick tweezers are priority #1. More important than a spare tube.
- Never stop on a climb. The horseflies are waiting.
- Earplugs for sleeping. Trust me, you don’t want to hear an insect buzzing inside your ear canal at 2 AM.
