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!