Hot Fuzz!

How do you explain the atomic ride to two sceptical policemen on the look out for terrorists? The answer: badly. They'd come up to us as we were taking snaps of each other outside the dounreay site, by the entrance sign. We smiled a lot and tried to look innocent and foolish, which wasn't a great stretch of our acting abilities. Mentioning fukushima was, in retrospect, a mistake, as it made us look even more like eco-warriors. One of them was noting all our drivel down. '. . . and it's also the centenary of Rutherford discovering . . .' I began. 'Rutherford' wrote the sidekick. The chief cut my explanation short. 'Yes, Yes, on your way now,' he said, waving us off and turning away. The road to dounreay had hugged the north atlantic coast, but we turned inland after leaving the police. We went through the heart of the Sutherland grouse moors, and either side of the road mountains stretched brown and black with charred heather. It was erie, alien. When we stopped it was completely silent, save for Olivier bleating about his panniers. Although it was a relatively short day both of us were exhausted when we reached Helmsdale, but there was one more surprise left for us: the hostel was shut. I felt like crying. The idea of food and a shower was all that had kept me going for the last 20 miles. Luckily, like the grail beacon in monty python, a B&B across the road shone the way. It was run by Maggie, who bustled around and made us feel completely at home, even offering to cook up the pasta we'd brought with us. I felt like crying. Again. What can i say? After the train, the policemen, and the moorland cycling, it felt like it had been a long day.