Moy (oh Moy, what a wonderful day)

I set off with mixture of resignation and tempered expectation. Ever since Scoob and Fi had messaged me on their way to Fisherfield in April that they thought there was a Cigs on the A9, I'd been plotting a route to this day.
My cuz (the physio fae Inversnecky) also managed to provide a photo of sorts and a specific location - layby 169 on the A9. I scoured Google Street view; checking her photo against the laybys of the A9 (northbound) to see if the topography matched the photo I had. I was unconvinced; the background looked wrong, but there was nothing else from Carrbridge to Inverness that looked anything like it either...

My bro was down from Orkney a couple of weeks ago; I asked him on the road north if he could check it out; safely aboard the farry across the Pentland Firth he messages the disheartening news that he thought the council had replaced all the wheelie bins in the laybys recently....

Then last week Weird Al had been scheduled to go climbing at Achnashellach; I asked by which route he was going (up the A9 - good; could you - er check something for me, please..?) but crap weather had cancelled that jaunt. 

And with the Club 50 offer of £17 return to anywhere in Scotland due to end next weekend, I just had to go and look for myself. So dear reader I booked my ticket and went.

The 0647 to Stirling was quiet; save for another couple of MTBers; aiming to get from Aviemore to Aberdeen via the Lairig Ghru; their enthusiasm was too dispiriting at that hour so I feigned slumber.

Onto the Inverness train and I picked up Iain Sinclair's The Last London - a book I've been saving for a special occasion. So I immersed myself in tales of his London wanderings and adventures and blocked out the 'what if it's not there' insecurities of the nonsense adventure I was on.

Slowly the train got busier and buzzier, the sunlight and coffee seemingly rousing people into the day and conversation. Headphones and a pile of Madlib drowned out the white noise.

Just after 1000, I was the only person to get off at Carrbridge. A place I'd been past a thousand times, up and down the A9, but never turned off to have a look.
I dutifully photographed the bridge and turned north. 13 miles according to google maps; up over Sliochd but aided by a tail wind, it was painless. The sense of adventure also coursing through me which probably did more than the tail wind...
Down a terrifying descent into Tomatin and onwards. Moy is the nearest village; and a further mile on the twisted plait of the A9 / railway / back road loosens and the A9 becomes a straggly escapee. I stop at a gate and there's what I later learn is a General Wade road through a field across towards where I think layby 169 is. 

A burn in spate is negotiated and soon I'm standing at a fence by the A9, peering across two lanes of fast moving traffic at a bin, camera in hand. Now I get that its not going to excite many, but spotting the white paint was a relief and a thrill. There wouldn't be much point in blipping a non Cigs, now would there?

Skipping across the tarmac in a rare gap, I snaffled my blip. A bonus. I was only aware of their being a tag on the N side; but both sides of the bin are adorned. Two blips! (I'm not sure I'l go back another day; I may just abuse metadata)

As the sun beats down, I sprint back across the A9; daft grin on my face. Back to Carrbridge; Sliochd southbound is a grind; Carrbridge supplies much need water; and then southwards some more. I've got no plan about heading homewards; I've taken train times as far south as Dalwhinnie but with a head wind, that looks unlikely.

I undersetimated how busy the A95 was going to be; I really don't fancy that so head along the bike path to Boat of Garten and then head back through the trees to Aviemore along a dirt track that twists and falls and snakes and saps energy.

I've missed the 1332 from Aviemore; it's 95 minutes til the next train and 15 miles to Kingussie; so off I go; through Rothiemurcus and Feshiebridge (my favourite river swimming spot - too cold for that today) and as the undulations take their toll it's with some relief I roll up in Kingussie an hour later. 

There was much pissing about with trains home - but eventually I got on the 1647 to Embra and settled into reading / listening / sleeping my way home.

Next stop: St Fillans. Weird Al's Maw phoned one in from there last week. Another 100km bike ride in the offing? Yes please! Shrubhill it ain't.