We’ve reached the top three of our ‘Great British Bucket List - 7 places you must see’. And we’ve arrived in Scotland. More specifically to a place called Tighnabruaich (pronounced Tie-na-brew-uck, or something reasonably close to that). You may never have heard of it. In fact, the whole area, is dubbed ‘Argyle’s Secret Coast’. We can tell you with great certainty though, that it’s worth the effort to get there in order to unlock those secrets for yourself.

Below is an extract from the book I am currently writing about our epic adventure, sharing our experiences of our ride to this truly special place.

On the morning of our ride to Tighnabruaich, we took the passenger ferry from Gourock to Dunoon, then followed the coast around Holy Loch, formerly home to a US Navy submarine base. Just after the end of the Loch, we took a left and began our climb into the hills, gentle at first as we passed endless planted pine forests, interspersed with sections that had been laid waste by the logging industry. I know we need wood for many things, and I know it’s better that it’s sustainably managed, but when you see those areas laid completely bare, just grey, splintered stumps in soil with the texture of ash, you feel as if you’ve entered nature’s graveyard. It’s almost apocalyptic.

We paused for lunch by a loch, where a lone man stood fishing. Whilst we were enjoying our Co-op sandwich, a motorcyclist pulled in to the layby, followed closely by a car. They stood together chatting and smoking cigarettes, then after a few minutes, shouted over to enquire what we were up to, curiosity aroused by the amount of luggage on our bikes. They had broad accents, but we could make out most of what they were saying. We explained our journey, and as with most conversations we’d had like this, they responded with a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and respect. We talked at length about our travels so far and our charity cause. They produced a couple of Scottish five pound notes from their wallets, and told us to put them towards the fundraising. It was a beautiful gesture of kindness from two men who were complete strangers to us just minutes before.

As they set off once more, they warned us of the dangers posed by the large logging trucks, and then one of them said:

‘You’re nae cycling up that hill up ahead are ye?’

We told him that was indeed our plan. There was only one road, so we had no other choice, and we imagined it could not be as hard as climbs we’d already taken on. He threw some numbers out there…20 per cent…more than 25…and the words ‘steep’, ‘long’, and ‘ye’ll have tee walk it’, seemed to feature a little too often. Then he wished us good luck and off they drove.

After the loch the countryside became more wild - the forests older and more natural, the mountaintops higher, sharper. We flew down a curving road to another loch, skirted its edge, and began the climb we knew was coming. It had been in sight since we reached the loch, permanently in our eyeline as we made our way around the banks, increasing the sense of trepidation at what was coming our way. It was steep, 25 per cent at its worst, and it was straight, but not so long that we couldn’t make it. Lou’s breathing was particularly bad that day, seemingly harder for her to get the air she needed in the surprising warmth. We paused briefly for photos in a layby, then continued on to the top, each turn of the pedals pausing at the top very briefly, before falling around once more as we inched up the last of the climb. As he whooshed past us on his way down, a local cyclist shouted words of encouragement that we could barely make out. At least, I think they were words of encouragement. He could merely have been shouting out his shopping list, so strong and impossible to understand was his Scottish lilt.

Yellow, brown, green, grey, and purple moorland greeted us at the top, and then we descended at speed once more, taking a left with only a few miles to go until we reached Tighnabruaich, our destination for the day, and another rest day tomorrow in a cosy hotel by the loch. We could see from the profile on our maps that we had another big hill to climb, but only one to go now.

The road started to bank upwards to the heavens earlier than we anticipated. It was hot now in the mid-afternoon sun, and we toiled, slogged, and sweated our way once more to the top, gravity doing its very best to stop us. We were keen to get this over and done with. We were on for an early finish to the day, a rare occurrence. We’d make it to the top, have a quick snack stop, and be on our way.

As we approached the summit, we saw a sign for parking and one of those little icons that means viewpoint. We pulled in and stared out at the view, unable to speak. Not because of our exertions on the climb you understand, but because the view that lay before us was one of the most breathtaking we’d ever seen. We stood perched high on a rocky outcrop, looking down at a deep blue loch, the swirling patterns of the tides glistening like oil on the surface. Green in every direction - great forests, distant mountain tops, just underneath us the ferns beginning their colour change from rust to gold as the summer started to draw to an end. White dots on the surface below - yachts sailing silently by, admiring the same view from a different angle.

In truth, we could have stayed forever. The warmth of the sun on our skin was something we’d not experienced a great deal on the trip so far, and we greedily soaked up its rays. We ate, took photographs, and then just sat perched on a bench, listening to the shrill cries of the seagulls, such a stark contrast to the silence of the buzzards and kites as they glided effortlessly on invisible thermals. But eventually, we knew we had to head on, so we climbed once more aboard our trusty steeds, and floated down to the village of Tighnabruaich below.

Our hotel, The Royal an Lochan, was a large, white building, looking straight out onto the water. Its owners, Gill and Greg, are simply delightful people; patient, kind, considerate hosts. We sat in the sunshine outside, enjoying a beer and a glass of wine, then checked into our exquisite room with a view of the loch. The next day, we sat drinking tea and coffee, looking out at the view, went for a walk high into the hills amongst forests of colourful flowers, and ate delightful food prepared by Gill and Greg’s son. Gill warned us not to tell him it was too good, or she’d have to pay him more.

When we left the following day, we were still waiting for some parcels to arrive carrying much needed cold weather supplies. They turned out to be days late, but Gill spent time phoning the local postman to provide us with updates, then forwarded them onto us out of her own pocket. Once more we were blessed to receive kindness far beyond our expectations. And it was those moments, as much as the wonderful views, that made this such a special adventure for us.