Veterans Ride the Highlands: Applecross, Arctic Convoys & Commando Spirit | Riding Through History

British Army veterans on two wheels, riding Scotland’s wild Highlands and telling real military and life stories along the way. In this episode of Riding Through History, we roll out from Scourie Bay to the Lochinver Pie Shop (legend confirmed), pay our respects at the Arctic Convoy Exhibition Centre, and tackle the fog-shrouded Bealach na Bà (Applecross Pass) before a fireside debrief. We visit the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge and the Garden of Remembrance, reflecting on service, sacrifice, and camaraderie that never fades.

Expect cinematic motorbike footage, veteran banter, and honest storytelling—plus stops through Culloden, Dunrobin Castle, John O’Groats, Dunnet Head, Oban, Faslane, Windermere, Aberystwyth, Crickhowell, and home to The Old Manor House HQ. If you’re into military history, veterans’ stories, rugby humour, skiing grit, classic BAOR/Cold War Germany nostalgia, and travel that mixes heritage sites with proper food (pies, fish & chips, and a well-earned pint), this one’s for you.

Subscribe for weekly episodes featuring war-zone experience, postings to Germany (1970s–2010s), and life after the Colours—plus our live shows, bike builds, and behind-the-scenes studio chaos.

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Keywords: Military stories, veterans, Scotland NC500, Applecross Pass, Arctic Convoys, Commando Memorial, BAOR, British Army, motorbikes, travel vlog.

Transcript

Morning light over Scourie Bay was like waking inside a painting—still, golden, and impossibly perfect. Yet beauty alone does not fill a stomach, and everyone we met, from fellow travellers to the lady at the petrol station, insisted there was only one place to go: the Lochinver Pie Shop. They spoke of it in hushed, reverent tones, as if it were a temple rather than a bakery. So off we went, pilgrims in search of pastry salvation.

And when we arrived? I swear I heard a choir. The counter was lined with steaming pies, each one glistening under the glass as though it were a crown jewel. I felt almost guilty ordering one, like I should have bowed first.

We each paid our respects in the proper fashion—by choosing a different flavour. Stephen practically dissolved with joy over his venison and cranberry. Marlin’s chicken and leek disappeared so quickly I wondered if she had even chewed it. Johan braved the spicy lamb and ended up glowing like a man undergoing interrogation. As for me, my steak and ale pie was nothing short of a masterpiece.

And because restraint has never been our strong suit, we collected a couple of the legendary haggis, neeps, and tatties pies to warm later. For a moment we seriously considered buying the entire shop and calling the tour off then and there. Would have been a fine retirement plan—but probably hard to explain when we were supposed to be on an adventure.

Fully pie-fortified, we turned our wheels towards Birchburn and the Arctic Convoy Exhibition Centre. It wasn’t grand or flashy—just a modest building tucked into the trees—but the weight of history inside could’ve sunk a battleship. The storyboards and photographs pulled no punches: frozen decks, seas smashing men clean off their feet, U-boats lurking like sharks, and weather so brutal it made the North Atlantic look like a weekend holiday. You could almost hear the ice cracking under your boots.

What struck me most was the quiet dignity. These men endured horrors day after day, and yet so many received little or no recognition until decades later. I managed to keep myself composed until I saw the display of the Arctic Convoy Medal, finally awarded long after the war. That was it. I slipped away from the others, eyes stinging, because it felt too heavy to stand there with a dry face.

Didn’t need words. I found her outside a few minutes later, standing quietly among the trees. Sometimes the past sneaks up and gets you like that. All I did was stand beside her, hand on her shoulder. Some silences don’t need filling.

From Birchburn we set off once more, heading for the infamous Bealach na Bà—Applecross Pass. I had been warned, but no description truly prepares you. The fog closed in again, thicker than milk, and soon we were reduced to crawling in first gear, the road dissolving into nothing just a few feet ahead. It felt less like Scotland and more like stumbling into Mordor, only with bagpipes somewhere in the mist.

You’d think the descent would bring relief, but it was a different sort of terror entirely. The road twisted like a dropped piece of string, with sheer drops on one side and not even a sheep fence to make you feel better about it. One wrong twitch and you’d be airborne. By the time we reached the bottom, my nerves were shot to ribbons—but at least we were still in one piece.

Applecross itself felt like a reward simply for surviving. Our “hotel” turned out to be a youth hostel in disguise: squeaky floors, a wafer-thin mattress, and bathrooms you shared with strangers. Yet it also offered a glowing fire and a bar that was both welcoming and generously stocked. After that climb and descent, such comforts felt nothing short of luxurious.

By the time we’d checked in and shaken the fog out of our jackets, the bar had already become the centre of the universe. A peat fire glowed in the grate, filling the air with that sweet, earthy smoke, and every table seemed to be occupied by walkers, cyclists, and fellow travellers comparing war stories from the pass. It was oddly comforting, knowing we weren’t the only ones who had crawled over it with white knuckles.

I tell you, the first sip of ale nearly made me weep. Not out of sentiment, mind—just sheer relief. My hands were still buzzing from gripping the bars all the way down, and I needed something to convince me they still worked. Johan kept muttering that his brakes deserved a medal, while Marlin claimed her pie from Lochinver was still doing battle with the bends. The locals chuckled at us like kindly executioners watching the condemned wobble away from the gallows.

It didn’t matter that the floorboards squeaked, or that our mattresses were as thin as communion wafers. In that moment we had fire, drink, and laughter enough to drown the memory of the fog. Outside, the Highlands loomed dark and silent, but inside the little bar, we felt untouchable—safe in the warmth of good company after a road that had very nearly undone us.

The next morning taught us a very swift lesson: never, under any circumstances, expose skin to Highland air before breakfast. I had barely rolled a sleeve up when they descended—clouds of midges, Scotland’s infamous wee beasties. They are so small you think, surely harmless? No They are tiny vampires with wings, a plague disguised as dust. Nothing works against them—lotions, sprays, even whispered prayers. They simply laugh and bite harder.

Aye, they weren’t midges—they were a regiment, and we were breakfast. We ended up adopting full tactical procedure: boots on, trousers tucked, gloves pulled tight, helmets clipped before even thinking about moving. Then it was a mad dash to the bikes like paratroopers legging it across no-man’s land. Didn’t matter. The little sods still got through. I swear one of them winked at me before he flew off, belly full, smug as you like.

By the time we finally escaped, itching and cursing, we’d agreed Highland midges were worse than fog, worse than the Bealach na Bà, and possibly worse than Johan’s attempts at map-reading. At least fog doesn’t leave you scratching for days.

As we approached Spean Bridge, the landscape seemed to draw itself up to attention, rising and opening into the sort of grandeur that makes your soul sit straighter. Then, through a break in the clouds, the Commando Memorial appeared—three bronze figures, windswept and unyielding, standing proud against Ben Nevis and the Nevis Range. It was like a scene from a film reel, but there was nothing staged about it. Even Johan, who normally saves emotion for engines and rugby finals, breathed out a quiet, “Blimey,” as we pulled in.

We parked the bikes, pulled off our helmets, and without even speaking dropped our voices. Felt right, that—like stepping onto sacred ground. The three Commandos on their granite plinth looked every inch the warriors: weathered, steady, eyes fixed on the horizon as though still on patrol. At their feet, wreaths and small wooden crosses bore names, regiments, and words of love from all over the world. It got under your skin, that sight.

We walked the perimeter slowly, nodding to others in that quiet way servicemen and women recognise one another. A glance, a lift of the head, nothing more needed. Johan muttered about allergies when he brushed at his eye, and I let him have that excuse. Some things aren’t for pressing.

Just beyond stood the Garden of Remembrance, small but powerful. Rows of plaques and crosses carried the weight of memory. We had brought one of our own: a hand-carved wooden cross marked with names that mattered too much to say aloud. Placing it in the earth, we stood in silence, letting the Highland wind whip round and take our thoughts wherever they needed to go. No battle debrief ever hit harder.

It was easy to picture those early Commandos training on these very slopes, drenched, frozen, bone-tired—yet somehow still laughing at the madness. This is where our Regiment began, where traditions were forged, and where courage was found. We had fought our own battles, yes, but standing there we felt the truth: we were only ever walking in the footsteps of giants.

Marlin, soft as a prayer, whispered, “We should come back here more often.” Not one of us disagreed.

When at last we remounted, the mood lingered. None of us was ready to break it with chatter, so we let the bikes do the talking instead. The road unwound beneath us, threading through glens where the clouds stooped low, as if the very sky bowed to the memory of what we had just seen. The rhythm of the ride became almost meditative—each bend, each rise, a chance to turn over thoughts too heavy for words.

Funny thing about the road south from Spean Bridge—it ain’t just tarmac and scenery. It feels like a procession, like the Highlands themselves are marchin’ alongside you. Every mile gave me flashes: the Commandos training, the mates we’d lost, the daft moments we’d somehow survived. I kept my visor down, not for the rain, but because sometimes you don’t want folk to see your eyes.

Yet amidst the solemnity, there was comfort. The mountains rose around us like silent sentinels, the lochs stretched out dark and still, and the heather rolled by in muted purple waves. It felt less like leaving and more like being accompanied—carried, even—by something larger than ourselves.

By the time we dipped into the lower roads, I could feel the weight easing, not gone, never gone, but lighter. The memorial stayed with us, stitched into the day, into the journey, into us. Riding south, the engines humming steady, we knew we were taking a piece of that place with us, wherever the road might lead next.

From Spean Bridge we carried our thoughts southward, the Highlands slowly giving way to gentler roads. By the time we reached Oban, our mood had shifted from solemn reflection to eager anticipation. A distillery tour, we thought, perhaps even a dram or two to toast the road behind us. But fate, ever contrary, had other plans: the doors were firmly shut. No whisky, no tour, not even a sniff of a barrel. The disappointment was almost comical.

Aye, gutted doesn’t cover it. We’d pictured ourselves swirling glasses, nodding sagely like experts, then stumbling out grinning like fools. Instead, we saddled up again, long ride ahead, and not a drop to soften it. The run to the Arrochar Hotel was quiet, a touch grumpy if I’m honest. At least the bar there was open, and after a day like that, even a pint tasted like liquid gold.

The following morning we set out once more, passing Faslane Submarine Base—a place etched into our history. It was the last patch of Britain we saw before being whisked off to Macedonia. Seeing it again stirred something deep, a mix of pride and memory.

And outside, same as ever, the peace camp. Tents, banners, and folk who looked like they might’ve been there since our last pass-through. Maybe they’ve upgraded from knitting scarves to antimatter protest blankets, but their mission hadn’t shifted an inch. Base security must know them by name now. Some things, it seems, never change.

On a whim — or perhaps just one cup of coffee too many — we swung off towards the so-called World Famous Old Blacksmith Shop at Gretna Green. The name promised romance, history, maybe even a touch of drama. What we found instead was a car park bursting at the seams, coaches lined up like a regimental parade, and tourists spilling out with cameras at the ready. The queues just to peek inside snaked across the courtyard, and — insult of insults — there was an entrance fee.

We stood there a moment, staring at the circus. Then I glanced at Vinka, she glanced back, and that was that. We’d already tied the knot in Sweden and again in Hitchin, proper places with real meaning. Didn’t need some tartan-plastered tourist trap to make it stick. As we pulled away, Vinka muttered something about a “Highland hustle,” which made me laugh loud enough to fog up my visor. Sometimes the best decision is knowing when not to bother.

Heading south, we wound our way into Ambleside, where the little ferry carried us across Lake Windermere. The water was still as glass, the hills soft and green, and for a moment it felt as though we’d slipped into a postcard. There was even a hint of nostalgia in the air, proper swallows and amazons legend, as if we’d been there long ago, though perhaps that was only the calm after so many Highland miles.

From there it was on to Kendal, home of the legendary mint cake — fuel of mountaineers and, in our minds, the perfect road snack. Only trouble was, the shop was shut tight. No mint cake, no sugar rush, just four sulky riders grumbling like schoolchildren denied sweets. But moods shifted sharp when we hit Chester and rolled up at an old mate’s place. He welcomed us in like we were conquering heroes fresh from campaign.

The evening stretched into laughter and stories, wine flowing as freely as the memories. Old bonds tightened again as only they can when friends sit around a table, the years melting away with each tale.

We lingered an extra night, couldn’t help ourselves. Took him and his good lady out for a proper dinner by way of thanks, though Johan’s still convinced the bill had him paying double for the wine and that his pudding was, and I quote, “suspiciously small.” Some battles you just let a man fight on his own.

The next morning our pilgrimage carried us into Wales, where the hills grew softer, the valleys greener, and the sheep multiplied with every bend in the road. By the time we reached Betws-y-Coed for lunch, I felt as though we had rolled straight into the pages of a travel brochure. The village was tucked neatly into a forested valley, complete with a stream chattering happily through its centre. We chose a café advertising “The Best Welsh Rarebit in Wales.” It was a bold claim, and perhaps a true one, though I suspect they leaned heavier on the cheese than on heritage.

Bellies full, we pushed on west to Aberystwyth, drawn by the novelty of the Electric Cliff Railway. A proper Victorian contraption, it trundled us up Constitution Hill at a speed that could only be described as grandparent-friendly. Still, the view from the top was something else, stretching clear across Cardigan Bay. Couldn’t resist hamming it up for the cameras—filmed the whole thing as if we were on a white-knuckle rollercoaster. Got a few funny looks from the passengers, but worth it.

By late afternoon we reached Crickhowell and found our beds for the night at the Bear Inn, a proper old coaching inn with low beams, creaking floors, and the unmistakable scent of centuries past — somewhere between oak polish and history itself. To our astonishment, the old landlord, now semi-retired and leaning on a walking stick, recognised us the moment we walked in. “Blimey, you lot haven’t aged a day!” he declared. We exchanged a glance, silently agreeing his eyesight perhaps wasn’t what it once had been, but we let him have the kindness of the compliment.

What followed was the sort of evening you only get in places like that. Steak pies on the table, pints in hand, and stories flowing thicker than the gravy. We swapped our own adventures for his legendary tales — runaway horses causing chaos on the High Street, wedding parties that turned into minor riots, and, best of all, the time a famous rock band allegedly destroyed the bridal suite back in ’89. He told it with such relish you half-expected the band to walk back in and finish the job. It was one of those nights that made the whole road feel worth it.

The next day we finally turned the wheels toward home, and by mid-afternoon the familiar sight of The Old Manor House came into view. Rolling into the drive felt like closing the final page of a well-loved book. The bikes were treated with all the care of racehorses after a grand meet — washed down, dried with cloths, and tucked neatly into the shed, ready for their next adventure. Only then did we allow ourselves the luxury of hot showers, fresh clothes, and the comforting knowledge that we were truly back.

Downstairs, Doris had worked her magic. The kitchen smelled like heaven itself, and soon enough we were sat before a proper feast: roast lamb, dauphinoise potatoes, and — God help us — a pudding that arrived at the table flaming like an Olympic torch. Wendy, bless her, had already fluffed the pillows, laid out fresh linen, and made the place feel more like a country hotel than our own home.

Later, in the small sitting room, we slouched with wine in hand, laughter trickling out as we began jotting notes for Jimmy, to give him half a chance at taming the hours of footage. The fire crackled, the glasses clinked, and the house seemed to sigh with us — content, settled, proud.

We raised a final toast with a single malt, eyes heavy and limbs weary. And then, with the quiet satisfaction only a journey well-made can bring, we turned in early. Truth be told, the road had taken more out of us than we cared to admit — but it had given us even more in return.

It began with the Regiment — rugby boots pounding the pitch, the Gathering alive with handshakes, stories, and the kind of laughter that only comes when comrades are reunited. From there, the road called us north, and we answered, eager as ever for the miles ahead.

First came the National Railway Museum, where steel and steam rekindled boyhood wonder. Then Eden Camp, its huts echoing with the voices of wartime Britain. Beamish followed — coal smoke, cobbled streets, brass bands — a living memory. Each stop reminded us that history is never just in books, but in the air, the ground, the people.

Scotland opened wide before us. At Biker Cove, we found kinship in mugs of tea and shared tales. The Falkirk Wheel turned slowly and surely, a feat of modern engineering.

And then the David Stirling Memorial — founder of the SAS — rising proud against the hills near Stirling. For us, it was no mere monument. It was a salute to where so much of our own path began, a reminder that courage and vision can shape generations.

Culloden Moor followed, where silence lay thick on the battlefield, grief still carried by the wind. Then Dunrobin Castle, rising like a fairytale above the sea, before the road drew us ever further north.

John O’Groats and Dunnet Head — reached through fog so thick we near vanished into it. Scourie Bay gave us fish and chips cooked in dripping, as the gods intended. Lochinver pies proved every bit the legend. And aye, the Bealach na Bà — a twisting, perilous road that tested nerve, brakes, and faith in equal measure.

At Spean Bridge, the Commando Memorial stilled us. Three figures in bronze, eternal on their watch, with the Highlands at their back. In the Garden of Remembrance, we laid our own cross, letting the Highland wind carry our thoughts to friends gone but never forgotten. That silence will stay with us always.

From Oban’s closed distillery to Faslane’s familiar gates, from Gretna Green’s tartan hustle to Windermere’s calm ferry, from Aberystwyth’s cliff railway to the Bear Inn at Crickhowell — every mile added another thread. Even the midges, the “suspiciously small” puddings, and the shops shut tight became part of the tale.

At last, we rolled back to The Old Manor House, bikes washed and stabled, Doris’s feast waiting, Wendy’s care folded into every room. Home. And yet changed, each of us carrying something new — another layer stitched into who we are.

And that’s the truth of it. You set out for the miles, but what you bring back is more: the places, the people, the laughter and the silences, sewn together like patches on a well-worn jacket.

Journeys never truly end. They live within us, waiting for the next call, the next road.

And when it comes — we’ll saddle up, same as ever. Because that’s what we do. Always have. Always will.