Menoteorology [me-not-e-or-alllodgy]; the condition of watching the weather, part 2

Did you see yesterday's post?  You need to.  For context....

(This piccie is from The Scotsman newspaper...the place wasn't even looking this bright when we passed and there were waterfalls off every rock face you see there!)

The Rest and Be Thankful diversionary route has periodically fallen victim to landslides. Picture: Robert Perry

There was a predetermined detour on 'major' tarmac, but it would have added a LOT a time to the trip. 

In high summer and with nothing better to do, that would be okay.  However, this convoy was getting tired and the trip had already stretched to three hours. Admittedly, there was the half-hour pit-stop at Lomond.  Still.  As I was in lead, coming back up from the valley past the lochan I looked at dad and said "Lochgoilhead then?"

"Och aye, why not - you're having a baptism of fire back in the driver's seat anyway!"

That was in reference to the fact that the B828 is, as it's large number and secondary lettering suggest, little more than a cattle track.  It's yer single lane, passing place and don't-you-dare-park-there kinda route.

The minute we turned off the 'main' road of the A83, things got hairy interesting. Two hairpin bends on an upwards angle reminiscent of the Matterhorn, round which a four wheel drive came at us like we weren't there.  

Getting round that with some degree of alacrity (I could feel the parental eyes), it was onwards and upwards.  Third gear was top choice now.  In the first 20 minutes of that part of the trip we hit (metaphorically speaking) no less than 15 vehicles oncoming.  Presumably from the part of the A83 on the other side of the slip - word had clearly reached those who needed to get out. City-dwelling weekenders going home to the big smoke after a jaunt in the country.  They were all in a hurry and appeared all to be hoons think they were locals with with keen understanding of traffic flow.  One fellow with a combi van did his best to bully me into reversing half a mile to the passing place at the top of the rise we had just descended.

He failed.  The passing place 15 yards behind him was the better and wiser option. Father was shifting in his seat.  To say the verges were soft would have been suggesting there WERE verges. At this point it was tarmac then a six inch drop to the banks of a fierce looking burn.  Not a place for the timid.  At least if that fellow's wheels left the road, he A) had a high axeled van and B) only a bit of hillside to contend with.

He surrendered and, by sheer feel of the wheel, the YAMster was victorious.

The parent relaxed again.

Till we met the old bloke and his biddy in the new white jelly bean doing about - oh - 60mph round the bend.  He was right beside a passing place and was going to keep going, not leaving time for us to drive by.  I flashed lights and glared - father was up like a lion and waving a not very happy finger at that driver, who was almost certainly his own age!! I cannot actually print what father thought of him; the gist was that he was a disgrace to octogenarians...

I just yelled out "Third gear maatteeee, not third age!!!!"

Don't rile the YAMster.  Or her dad.

(to be continued...)