Outer Hebrides, Part 2

The following morning the whole entourage shipped out on the 10:30 ferry to Harris (see photo, L - R the 6 Hairy Bikers, Bobby, Mally, Kevin and Mr Bean), Irn-Bru, Jurgen and Co were staying anothernight. A loud young American talked so loud and excitedly, so sat as far away as possible and heard every word, “You have run the London Marathon, wow!…TEN times WOW!” Interestingly it was mention in the bunkhouse yesterday how ordinary everybody looks, yet people had done extraordinary things. Here on the boat there were few passengers yet one had run 10 London Marathon, one (Bobby) had climbed every Munro twice (all 284 of them taking around 12 years each time), and a short fat old guy had cycled around the world. The real highlight of the ferry crossing was the sleeveless jumper an old guy wore. If you can image how a jumper would look if I knitted it, you are still a long way off how bad it looked. You have to admire thededication to his wife (assuming she knitted it, why else would he be wearing it). Kevin trying to take a sneaky picture of him was a picture in itself.

Once on Harris we went our separate way, Hairy Bikers to Lewis, Kevin, Bobby and Mr Bean to a remote hostel (lucky old Kevin and Bobby), and us towards Tarbert ready for an early morning ferry to Skye. The wind still howled, the rain held at bay, it was cold. Harris was different again, the road running around the rugged mountains, hugging the coast offering views over wonderful windswept beaches, cycling at its best. After a climb inland we aimed for a coffee shop in Tarbert, but the rain caught us, the wind lashing cold rain from the side, penetrating instantly, oh what fun! The cafe arrived not a moment too soon.

We sat there as long as we could, hiding from the rain, talking to a couple of cyclists from Arran. We departed to search for a place to camp. As we left voices called, it was Bobby and Kevin, “We are in a bunkhouse around the corner,” they told us, “we couldn’t face the climb back out of Tarbert in the rain so we’re stopping here.” Surely a euphemism for, ‘We couldn’t stand a night alone with Mr Bean.’ Another social night appealed far more than a climb out in the rain for us too, so we joined them.

In a pub around the corner a ceilidh was advertised, we ventured in. Sadly it was no ceilidh, just a ceilidh band playing so loud we couldn’t talk. A ceilidh really needs to be danced to, listening is no good, after the first one they all sound the same. Kevin and Bobby knew how to drink, pints were followed by whiskeys, whiskeys were followed by wine. They remained more sober than me after two pints. I can’t remember what we talked about but I know I had a sore throat from shouting by the end of it.

We only just caught the ferry to Skye, the gates were shut, “You’re a bit late, boarding is 45 minutes before departure,” we were told. Kevin and Bobby went north to Stornaway, shame, they had been great company. An hour and a half and a big cooked breakfast later we were at Uig on Skye, heading for a small road across the mountains. “I looked for that road,” Irn-Bru told us, “I never found it.” Too much vodka in yer Irn-Bru, it’s there and dead easy to find. We climbed gently through moorland along a single track road before dropping suddenly through a gap in the mountains (photo). At the bottom we joined a small main road, shocked to find it was double carriageway, even more shocked to find traffic used it! It rolled its way along the eastern shores, rain hit us again throwing lumps of ice at us, what fun we had. I waited for Mally, she never arrived so returned to find she had completely out of energy (bonked is the correct cycling term). We ate lunch standing up in the driving rain. With fuel in her tanks we were away again. We had turned south and were battling combined forces of strong winds and rain, progress was painfully slow, the scenery was spectacular but the enjoyment gone. We passed through Portree, a delightful port of coloured houses. I was cold and shivering, I didn’t enjoy the place. We departed south on the A87. I eventually warmed up but enjoyment never returned. The wind still trying to force us back no longer worried us, the traffic was the problem, endless traffic in both direction. Skye is a large island with a population of a mere 10,000. They must have about five cars each and some devious way of driving them all at the same time. After the quiet lanes of the Outer Hebrides where every passing motorist waved, this was terrible, we both hated it. We made our way to Sconser and quickly took the ferry the isle of Raasay, population 190 and even less cars, rarely driven because there is nowhere to go.

The wind still howled, the rain still lashed, we got off the ferry and entered the brand new waiting room, and waited for the rain to stop. It sort of stopped so we climbed up through the trees on the only road heading north, towards another hostel. Nowhere was flat or free of rocks, as it rained, the hostel looked so inviting. We opened the gate, the wind still strong, then Irene the warden came out to greet us, “This hostel doesn’t open for another week, but come in quickly and we can argue about it over a cuppa tea.” Some folk are friendly, some like to talk. I very quickly realised we had stumbled on somebody who likes to talk...non stop! Inside we were introduced to fellow warden Graham, the only person who could stop her talking, by talking non stop himself. It was still yet

to dawn, we had arrived in Hell!

“We are from London, we only arrived yesterday to ready the hostel for opening next week and there has been a split water pipe which has cut off some of the electricity. We shouldn’t be staying here as the fire alarm is not working, but you can stay here, we couldn’t send you out in the wind and rain. We are cyclists ourselves so we know what it is like.” We were shown to a room, Irene fussing and talking non stop. “I’ll get you some duvet covers.”

“Don’t worry, we can use our sleeping bags.”

“Oh you can’t do that. Scottish Youth Hostels insists you use the duvets. You can’t stay here and use a sleeping bag, it’s against the rules.” So we can break the rules and stay when the place is closed, has no electricity and no working fire alarm, but sleeping bags? Oh dear, dear me, a definite no, no.

We returned to the kitchen dining area to be talked at. Irene kindly showing where everything was in the kitchen, it was small, I could have found everything by taking two steps. The life stories began, how theymet in 2000 after Irene’s husband died. “Well, if you are going to tell the story, you might as well tell them everything,” Graham interrupted. “Anyway, anyway, they don’t want to hear about all that,” he interrupted again minutes later.

It was eight o’clock I needed to cook so took refuge in the kitchen. Irene followed standing next to me, guessing what I would need and fetching it. She was driving me nuts, I felt like pushing her out of the kitchen, desperate to say, “Go away, I am quite capable of finding a knife and a couple of saucepans.” I should have farted and gassed her out, why is it you can never fart when you need to?

We ate dinner, there was no let up, Graham told us about his cycling, “...I cycled across U.S.A. but you don’t to hear about that,” said in a tone inviting us to ask questions. He was right, we didn’t. Graham took over the talking, sometimes Irene would chip in, Graham interrupting each time with “Anyway, anyway,” and grabbing the story back, always contradicting her.

“We came here in February once,” said Irene.

“January,” Graham butted in.

“January 29th,” she continued. Petty arguments were regular, the ‘anyways’ becoming louder and repetitive the more Graham disliked whatever Irene had to say.

He told us about Calum’s Road where we would be cycling tomorrow. “It is very tough, there are 11 steep hill arrows on the map between here and the end of the road. The first is by the waterworks where you will see men working. I don’t know what they do but every time I go along the road there are always men working there. Very few cyclists cycle to the end it is so tough. I say cyclists, most aren’t really cyclist as they don’t wear lycra.”

Nine o’clock arrived. An hour in Hell is a long time. Mally’s eyes shut, I sensed I life saver, ‘please fall asleep’ I thought, it would give the excuse for an early night. Her head nodded, Graham kept looking at her, eyes shut head nodding, but he never let up. My eyes were heavy too, I was so bored, would these people ever stop talking? By nine-thirty I made our excuses, “We are really tired, we have had a long tough day cycling and really need some sleep.” We shut the door to our room, relief swept over us in our safe haven. Suddenly we were wide awake, on the bunks, wrapped in our duvets, giggling like school kids, interrupting each other comments, “Anyway, anyway…”

I slept well. Come morning I sensed neither of us wanted to leave the room first. I entered

the dining area and two happy wardens dropped their porridge spoons simultaneously, thumbs were raised with beaming smiles. I bit over the top I thought, then realised the lights were on, the reason for their childlike happiness, still over the top mind. Being the first to arrive I was lucky enough to have a repeat story of how they arrived yesterday, there had been a burst pipe and the electricity wasn’t working. They weren’t supposed to stay here as the fire alarm doesn’t work….HELLO! Remember me? I was here yesterday having my ear bashed with the same story. Please don’t tell me the story of how you met.

The weather was bad, the wind howled, the rain lashed and Irene invited us to stay another night. I think she needed some respite from Graham.

Mally was telling Irene of my cycle trip around the world, she was interested and told Graham about it when he arrived. “Anyway, anyway, when I cycled across the U.S.A….”

“John cycled across America, and the Outback.”

“ANYWAY, ANYWAY.” Graham stormed off, unhappy that somebody had cycled somewhere he hadn’t. Irene came through and asked me questions with enthusiasm. Graham walked through without a word, we both knew he wasn’t happy and wanted to stay out of the way. If only we had known that last night.

I asked Irene if she had heard the weather forecast. “I will have a look in the paper you,” she said.

“You don’t want to believe the paper, they are too general,” grumped Graham.

This made me take a great interest in the paper. “Dull today, dull tomorrow,” read Irene.

“Anyway, anyway…”

“Is that the same symbol the next day?”

“Anyway, anyway, they are no good.”

“It looks like being miserable.”

“ANYWAY, ANYWAY.”

“No sorry, the weather looks rough for the rest of your stay.”

“ANYWAY, ANYWAY, there is no point looking at those forecasts.”

We left our luggage and cycled along the single track road towards Calum’s road, the fresh air and strong winds feeling truly wonderful and we moved away from Hell. The road rolled, we were alone. We sheltered from a shower. “Do you think we will see any traffic today?” I asked.

“No.”

“Neither do I.” A minute later as we stood there three vehicles passed!

We reached Calum’s Road. To be honest it looked the same as the rest of the road, only steeper. It runs for almost two miles, formally a footpath to the settlement at Arnish. The footpath was rarely used, the locals took a boat around. People started to leave Arnish never to return and Calum saw the place dying, yet the council refused requests to build a connecting road. When Calum retired he set about building the road himself, a pick and a wheelbarrow his only tools. It took him ten years to complete, finished around 1980. It was a tough road to cycle which emphasised the magnitude of his achievement. After his death the council surfaced it. Bastards! Mally wanted to visit the road having read a book about it and also danced a tricky dance named ‘Calum’s Road’ at her dance group.

The road now holds significance with me for it is where my beloved leather Brookes saddle finally gave up the ghost when the front snapped off. It now sags and digs in my leg.

The road was tough though nothing compared to Hell. As we approached I asked, “Do you want to stay another night?”

“NO, not even if it is pissing down with rain.” We were in agreement.

We returned to Hell. “Did you make it to Arnish?” Graham asked in that smug ‘of course you didn’t,’ tone.

“Yes,” said Mally, “Calum’s road was amazing.”

“Oh! Anyway, anyway,” and off he went. I refrained from telling him I cycled the whole way, with a broken saddle and without using bottom gear as the chain slipped the first time I tried to use it, and there was nobody at the waterworks. It would have been too much for him and Irene would have taken the brunt.

Raasay was a delightful island, but as we left on the ferry I truly felt pure joy and happiness at knowing I would never see Graham again. He will always be the first thing I remember about the island, a complete arse!

On Skye, we took the back road to Moll finding a delight spot to wild camp, sheltered from the wind, the Cuillins to our right, water and Scalpay island in front and Raasay (Anyway, anyway) to our left. It rained. It didn’t matter, we were dry, had a great view and were far, far away from Hell.

At Broadford we took a backroad to Torrin, it rain in showers. We camped at another beautiful spot at the head of a loch. The rain start at 6pm and never stopped.

It was still raining the following dayas we cycled along the final leg of our journey to catch the ferry to Mallaig. The road was dull, the wind in our face, the cold rain soaking us. Mally needed food, we had to stop for lunch but to stand and eat in the rain would have chilled us to the core. We spotted a bus shelter, even facing the right way to shelter us from the wind. I waited for Mally, I knew she would be delighted. She arrived, she wasn’t. “Gosh, what a lot of hills there are along this road, quite tough to cycle up too, and never any going down. And the rain! It’s rains so much, I wonder if it will ever stop. Oh, and the wind, I think it makes it a tad more difficult. What a lovely time we are having! Would you mind if I brought my wet bicycle into this bus shelter rather than leaving it outside with yours.” At least I think that’s what she was trying to say, she used words I never even realised she knew, like the words came from another person. I was shocked, at least would have been if I could have stopped laughing. She needed food. As Mally gets hungry her language deteriorates. She had a tortilla wrap with houmous, I had one with houmous and raspberry jam. Delicious!

An elderly lady came to collect her paper from a box in the bus shelter. “Would you like a cup of tea of coffee?” We had left Hell and entered Heaven. I waited for her front door to open before running across to save her another soaking, the weather was terrible. “I have just heard the forecast,” she told me, “it’s going to turn foul this afternoon.”

Mally took the mugs back and was invited in to use the loo, “I will drip water everywhere,” she told the lady.

“Don’t worry. Men can go anyway, it’s so much more difficult for women.” She showed Mally a prayer about helping strangers for you might meet God. Sadly for her I am not God, and after what I heard Mally say earlier, she certainly isn’t.

It still rained when we arrived in Mallaig, so with a 6am train to catch in morning we opted for a bunkhouse, above a tearoom. The mixed dorms were fine apart from the couple canoodling on one of the bottom bunks. Thankfully they moved, though on reflection I wish they hadn’t, canoodling in doorways is even worse.

The Outer Hebrides

The knowledgeable among you will know there are no canal to the Outer Hebrides, in fact there is a great big lump of choppy water in between, so I left the boat behind and took a ferry.

Mally had arranged to head around the islands on a cycle trip, so I decided to join her.

Taking a direct train wouldn’t have pleased my bank manager, taking four connecting train wouldn’t please me. The latte r won. As a non train user I tend to slate the train system, though with my now limited experience my views have changed. Booking bikes on was a real pain taking a number of phone calls and three separate trips to railway stations before the job was finally completed, then moving laden bikes on and off the trains was a bit of a problem, but I have no complaints as I could take half a ton of crap totally free. Trains I have travelled on have always been late, so there was no chance of getting to Oban without missing a connection at either Sheffield, Doncaster of Glasgow, especially as the latter required changing stations. I was wrong, every train was spot on time, the whole trip was completely smooth, door to door in less than fourteen hours. I had sat on my arse all day and was still knackered!

Before taking the first ferry to Castlebay on Barra we visited Oban’s only bike shop to buy an inner tube for Mally. The appropriate tube was placed in the counter,

“£6.15 please.”

“Whoa! That’s expensive,” I exclaimed. I thought it was the done thing here, I was in Scotland after all.

“How much did you think it would be?” he asked.

“Around £2.50 to £4.” I upset the little man who went in search of a catalogue. “It’s okay, I believe you, there’s no need to show me.” He laid the book open in front of me pointing to one priced at £7.79, “Wow, you are really cheap here,” I told him.

“Sorry we don’t take card payments for less then £10,” he told Mally as she went to pay.

“That’s the trouble with being so cheap,” I chipped in. He wasn’t amused.

I called into a shop two doors down to buy some black tape, always useful in emergencies. I got back on the bike to discover I had a puncture. I hadn’t even been anywhere! I repaired the thing as Mally stocked up on food as we would find nothing on the islands. I couldn’t find the puncture so replaced the tube, before heading back to the bike shop to buy a replacement spare. Bad karma for taking the piss I assumed.

“Don’t joke with him,” Mally instructed me, “he might not sell you one otherwise.”

Eight bikes were on the five and half hour ferry crossing to Barra, including the two boring old boys who latched onto us at Glasgow station. We managed to avoid them on the train to Oban claiming we should be in our dedicated seats, we didn’t have such an easy excuse on the ferry so headed for the less comfortable seating in the dining area which also put us in easy reach on the food.

Leaving the ferry at nine o’clock in the evening, eight cyclists went their separate ways into the teeth of a howling gale, us to try and locate a sheltered camping spot, camping being the agreement for me joining Mally on the tour as I am too tight to use B&B’s. We stopped in the village to scratch our heads, finding a sheltered spot on a tiny island with no trees would be a real challenge.

“Do you need any help?” asked a couple of passing locals.

“We are looking for somewhere sheltered to camp.”

“You might as well camp on the football pitch. If anybody asks tell them Arthur McArthur said you could stop there.”

I was about to tell him what a great name he had before deciding against it. I had to make a conscious effort not to upset everybody I spoke to.

By ten o’clock we were set up sheltered by some bushes. Two young girls came over excitedly showing their catch from the stream, a dead stickleback and a snail making a valiant attempt to break for freedom over the side of the bucket. I was still broad daylight when there angry mother turned up to tell them they should be in bed.

My illusions of little corner shops selling basic provisions and manky fresh vegetables were soon shattered. The road around the entire island was only twelve miles long, yet right opposite our campsite was an enormous Co-op.

We woke to the sound of heavy rain and the wind still battering the tents. Rain on tents is a lovely sound, so much nicer than rain on cycling jackets, so using the principle of ‘rain before seven, fine by eleven,’ we stayed put, chatted and drank coffee. It stopped at ten-thirty, remaining dry for the rest of the day. The wind pushed us along impatiently, angry when we stopped at the perfect beaches and turquoise seas. We detoured to the Barra’s biggest beach which double up as the airports runway, the only one of its kind in the U.K. Heading back into the wind proved painfully slow.

Thankfully the ferry stop to Eriskay had a waiting room, my jet engine sounding petrol stove shattering the peace within.

Eriskay made Barra look big, so it wasn’t long before we were being pushed across the long causeway to South Uist, passing signs warning of sea otters crossing, then struggled through a side wind before hurtling north again on the islands only road going anywhere, a single track road with passing places. Every motorist was courteous in the extreme, pulling over as we approached, waving as we passed, waiting too patiently behind when they could easily have passed. I sensed there was no rush, this was a close as motoring could be to the slow pace of the canals.

We needed shelter to pitch the tents, there was none, the ground being rough with peat tussocks. We found a spot at the top of the beach, the wind howled, it wouldn’t be suitable. We continued. We spotted a sign to a hostel so turned off in the hope of camping in the lea of the building. What we found was a bunkhouse in a converted Black House (photo).

Dormitory rooms were mixed and cheap so we had the luxury of squeaky bunk beds amongst six snoring bikers. The kitchen/dining area was sociable and friendly, we chatted the night away with the six bikers, Kevin and Bobby, two cyclist we never spoke to on the ferry to Barra, and Mr Bean, another cyclist who somehow managed to spend the whole evening in a room filled with friendly banter without ever saying a single word.

Mally being an early riser was first in the kitchen, to be joined by Mr Bean. They talked a little before Mr Bean announced, “Oh, I forgot to put on my cycle shorts,” and promptly stood on the bench beside the table, dropped his leggings revealing all and put on his shorts, somewhat odd behaviour I would say.

The six hairy bikes (who weren’t hairy), Kevin, Bobby and Mr Bean were all heading for another converted Black House on Berneray, situated right beside the beach. It sounded idyllic so we decided to head there for another sociable evening. The tailwind pushed us along, enabling us to freewheel up the hills. We passed a cyclist heading south, “It’s much easier going this way,” I called out.

“Yes, I realise that,” came a grumpy reply. Oops! I’ve upset another.

We stopped off at a smokey factory where salmon, sea trout and scallops were smoked. We viewed the process through long windows, the four workers pace was slow even by canal standards. I could have eaten it quicker than they prepared it.

Departing we were hit by a heavy shower. It wasn’t pleasant, cold water thrown at speed by the wind never is, so within a mile we were relieved to find a coffee shop. Thirty minutes later we were kicked out, a coach party was on its way, they were about to double their

monthly takings and they didn’t want two smelly wet cyclists taking up a table and making the place looking a mess.

We crossed onto Benbecula and North Uist, taking the long way round to avoid the traffic jams. Land turned from peat to pasture.

The Black house was picturesque (photo), and another sociable evening followed. We were joined by an Aussie, a German called Jurgen, and another Scottish couple who drank a huge bottle of Irn-Bru who became more vocal as the evening passed, probably due to the bottled of vodka lacing the Irn-Bru. Jurgen didn’t understand the humour, but Kevin carefully explained the reason for laughter, showing great patience in his explanations which I found far more amusing than the joke he was explaining.

Steve asked the warden why the nearby house was falling apart, looking deserted but furnished, a Marie Celeste. The story goes that the women living there had been jilted in love. She eventually died and now any man living there dies too. She couldn’t say how long men had to live there before meeting their maker, if it were 20 years plus its not such a great story, if it were a couple of weeks then its spooky! It wouldn’t worry me, I would love to live there, it’s just too far to the shops for me. Come to think of it, may be that’s the problem.

Okay, that will do for now. I will update again in a few days time. Don’t miss the next exciting instalment including quotes from Mally on a particularly wet and windy day. I was shocked!

Good food

Mally and Richard paid a visit, a weekend away for them to celebrate their wedding anniversary. This had a distinct advantage to me as the food they brought along was top notch. Richard’s cooking is always first class, but even better when they are celebrating. We made a stop for lunch of two types of smoked salmon and asparagus.

Left to me it would have been bread and cheese.

Being another long bank holiday weekend it was busy, we had to wait at most of the locks. At one I talked to the owners of Bumble. In the short time we talked he told me the boat was new to them, they sold their old boat after 20 years for £2,000 less than they paid for it and were told they should have sold it for more. He also went into details how he fell in whilst painting the side, how his relatives have bought a wide beam boat, where he comes from, how often he boats etc, etc. He talked to Mally as I brought the boat into the lock, telling her exactly the same. They were only talking for a short time so he must have talked very fast.

After a day made challenging by the wind we stopped by an open field at Somerton. Cattle roamed the field including calves and bulls. As Mally sat on the loo one licked at the bathroom window giving her the fright of her life.

Whilst on the

subject of toilets, whilst moored at Thrupp Richard left saying, “I’m going for a walk along the towpath.” I guessed it was really a euphemism for going to the toilet block, I was right. It paints quite a pleasant picture and one I shall use myself, it sounds so much more refined than “I’m going to the loo.”

Over dinner prepared by Richard we talked, amongst other things, about my dress sense, or lack of it. I haven’t bought new clothes in years and describe myself as “Man at Oxfam.” I am told Oxfam is far too posh and up market, apparently I look more like “Man at Cat Rescue.”

The wind was even stronger on the return journey, especially through the open section where the sidewind pushed the bow towards the bank. Most of the journey was made “crabbing” along the canal, bow towards the left bank, stern to the right. Entering locks tidily was all but impossible. Having moored up to prepare the lock, as soon as the bow was pushed out, the wind pushed it back in before any progress could be made.

We passed a boat called Snecklifter. “That’s a beer isn’t it?” I asked it’s owner.

He smiled, “You are the first person to know what it is.”

I am now moored up at Shipton on Cherwell, a nice quite spot to spend a few days. A boat trundled by covered in Bonsai tree, so much more classy than pansies.