' Touch Not the Cat'

'Touch not the cat but a glove.' That's the motto of the Macpherson clan, which we discovered when we took a detour and stumbled on a memorial to a Macpherson who'd played a major part in the Jacobite Rebellion of 1755. The day up until that point had been sublime: a leisurely trail through stunning scenery with the sun on our faces and the wind at our backs. Sure, Olivier had popped a spoke early on, and we'd trawled the bike shops of Aviemore for a replacement, without luck. 'Touch not the cat,' I warned Olivier, as we stopped by the memorial to take in the view across the valley. 'Touch not the cat but a glove.' But would he listen? Although I didn't actually see him getting friendly with any felines, it's the only explanation for the swift change in the weather. Within 10 minutes the calm had been replaced by a howling head wind. Olivier's gloveless cat shenanigans had obviously unleashed forces in the universe beyond our ken. All afternoon we struggled to make progress, up and over the hills, through Dalwhinnie, and on to the erratic cycle path that shadows the A9. On the outskirts of Pitlochry we stumbled, like characters from Ice Cold in Alex, on a café/knitwear shop, built on a monumental scale. All the customers looked at us in horror, but we calmly had afternoon tea. It was delicious. By the time we got to Pitlochry itself the cat-curse had abated somewhat, enough to let us check in to the hostel and check out the local shops. The Pitlochry economy seems to rely quite heavily on knitwear. Even shops that are predominantly - say - newsagents or stationers can't help but stock a few jumpers. Well, at least it's not vets or pet shops: Olivier will be able to resist the urge to touch any cats. Glovelessly.