1. Day 1: Rolling Out of Fort William
The day began with mist hanging low over the peaks around Fort William. The smell of damp earth and pine was thick in the air, and the quiet buzz of the town was just starting to wake. I double-checked the panniers strapped to my bike, clipped in, and set out north. The Great Glen Way stretches around 125 kilometers from Fort William to Inverness, and I intended to experience every inch of it on two wheels.
Riding out along the Caledonian Canal, the early stretch felt gentle, almost ceremonial. The path was smooth gravel, skirting the canal where narrowboats bobbed lazily in the morning light. A light breeze stirred the surface, and the occasional angler or dog walker offered a friendly nod as I passed.
At Neptune’s Staircase, a series of eight canal locks built by Thomas Telford, I stopped for a while to watch the system in action. The engineering is fascinating—boats lifted in stages, the locks filling and emptying in rhythmic pulses. The locks stretch for nearly a quarter of a mile, and walking my bike along that stretch gave me time to stretch my legs and take in the structure’s sheer scale.
Past Neptune’s Staircase, the terrain began to undulate, gently at first. The gravel gave way to compact dirt as I followed the west side of Loch Linnhe, where the loch begins to fade into the background and the dense forest takes over. In the cool shade, the path narrowed, and the sound of tires crunching twigs and leaves echoed softly. Small birds flitted from tree to tree, and the occasional shaft of sunlight pierced through the canopy like spotlight on a woodland stage.
2. Along Loch Lochy: Between Water and Mountain
The route followed the shoreline of Loch Lochy next. The water stretched endlessly to my right, glassy and deep. Hills rose sharply on the opposite bank, thick with forest and moorland. The path here was more rugged—rutted in places and muddy after recent rains—but that added to the immersion. Every bump and skid was a reminder that this was no urban leisure path.
A sharp climb near Clunes had me out of the saddle, lungs pulling hard against the Highland air. At the top, a clearing opened up with a view down the loch. I leaned the bike against a pine and sat for a while on a mossy rock, eating oatcakes and cheese I’d bought from a small deli in Fort William. The silence out there was profound. No cars, no cities—just wind in the trees and the occasional call of a distant raven.
Pressing on toward Laggan Locks, the trail twisted through forest and emerged back at the canal. I passed a couple of other cyclists heading south, who slowed for a brief chat. There’s an unspoken camaraderie out here. Everyone knows what it takes to be out on this trail, pushing through the same gradients and weather.
3. Laggan to Fort Augustus: The Hidden Heart of the Highlands
Leaving Laggan behind, the trail briefly returned to a quiet road before rejoining the canal path toward Fort Augustus. This section was less traveled, and the isolation was noticeable. The road narrowed to a single track in places, hugging steep embankments on one side with open fields on the other.
Sheep grazed along the roadside, unbothered by my presence. One looked up, chewed slowly, then went back to its meal. Small stone cottages dotted the hillsides, each looking like it had stood in place for centuries, their slate roofs dark and shining under intermittent sun.
The approach to Fort Augustus was magical. Loch Oich appeared in a flash of light between trees, its calm waters almost surreal after the tight forest. The final few kilometers were easy riding along the canal once more, arriving in town just as the light started to shift into early evening. Fort Augustus is compact but full of charm. I checked into a small B&B run by a retired couple who offered secure bike storage and a warm bowl of lentil soup before I’d even asked.
That night I walked through the village, stood by the locks as the last of the day’s boats made their passage, and felt a quiet kind of joy settle in. The fatigue in my legs was real, but the satisfaction ran deeper.
4. Day 2: From Fort Augustus to Drumnadrochit
The second morning began overcast and cool. After a full Scottish breakfast—black pudding, eggs, sausage, beans, the works—I mounted up again and headed into the hills. This stretch was said to be the most challenging, and it lived up to the reputation.
Leaving the canal behind, the trail climbed sharply into dense forest above Loch Ness. The gradient was brutal at times, and I found myself walking the bike on more than one occasion. But every gain in altitude brought new views. Looking down over the loch, the water stretched out like a serpent below, dark and mysterious.
The path turned into singletrack, narrow and winding through pine and heather. Rocks jutted from the surface, and some sections felt more like mountain biking than touring. I had to keep my focus sharp—one bad line and I’d be in the ferns.
By midday, the sun emerged, burning through the mist and warming the path. I stopped at a wooden bench installed near one of the high points, where a hand-painted sign read: “Sit, breathe, and look.” I did just that.
Downhill into Invermoriston was fast and loose. The bike rattled over roots and stones, and I grinned the whole way, wind blasting into my jacket. Invermoriston itself is small but memorable, with a picturesque stone bridge and a roaring waterfall just steps from the road. I had coffee and a scone at a roadside café, where the owner asked about the trail conditions up high and gave tips on which sections to ride cautiously.
The last leg to Drumnadrochit followed a mix of forest paths and minor roads. Traffic was light, and the air grew warm with the late afternoon sun. I rolled into the village feeling dusty and exhilarated. Drumnadrochit is famous for Loch Ness Monster lore, and while I didn’t spot Nessie, I did enjoy an evening at a local pub where tales of sightings and strange ripples in the water filled the air.
5. Day 3: Final Stretch to Inverness
The final leg felt like a reward. The hardest climbs were behind me, and a light tailwind nudged me forward as I left Drumnadrochit. The path hugged the hills above Loch Ness for a while before cutting through farmland and moor.
Sheep were everywhere—on the trail, near fences, even standing in doorways of abandoned barns. Birds darted through the hedgerows, and every now and then, the landscape opened up to reveal the loch’s endless stretch once more.
The approach to Inverness was bittersweet. After days of quiet trails and remote landscapes, the signs of city life began to reappear—houses, traffic, roundabouts. The canal reemerged near Dochgarroch, guiding the way toward the city’s heart.
Crossing the Ness Islands via the footbridges was a highlight. The river sparkled in the sunlight, and the city unfolded around it in stone and glass. Inverness Castle came into view, perched over the water, and I coasted the last stretch into the city center with a deep sense of arrival.
After checking into a small guesthouse near the river, I walked to a nearby bakery and bought a slice of warm treacle tart. Sitting by the water’s edge, legs stretched out, I watched the people of Inverness go about their day—some walking dogs, others on phones, a few on bikes.
The journey had stretched across lochs and forests, up hills and through tiny villages. The trail left dust on my frame and stories in my head. The Great Glen Way had given more than just a cycling route—it had offered something rare: time to ride, time to think, and time to feel alive in a place where nature and history meet.
