Never Ending Saga

I haven’t written lately as I’ve had other things on my mind, so I will keep the boating short.

Heading down the Aylesbury Arm was fun. It’s little used and very shallow, I wondered at times if I would get through. Reeds were spreading across the canal leaving a narrow channel through the middle. Perseverance paid off as I reached the basin and was made welcome and given a free hookup for the two weeks I was there. John and Cath arrived soon after a nice sociable couple. They told me a story about a guy on a nearby boat in

their marina who they can never get away from. I experienced the same problem with them and spotted the common denominator.

My mind has been more focused on trying to get the house sale through. It’s been problematic for the past nine months and lately has been getting close to actually happening. There has still been time a more unexpected spanners in the works, one of them being my solicitor. The Pre-Contract Report was finally ready, all I had to do was drive over from Aylesbury to pick it up, read the thing and sign the contract. The report was riddled with errors as follows:

• Conveyance - Partially duplicated, page 8 missing from both reports.
• Local Search copy - Missing.
• Environmental Search - All even pages missing.
• Planning Documents - 2007 and 1981 pages mixed.
• Property Information - Only contained pages 1-5 of 12.
• Fittings and Contents Form - Missing.

I telephoned them when I realised the Fittings and Contents Form was missing to be told by I would receive it by the end of the day. It was never sent. I received no apology and a photocopying error was blamed. Clearly it was much more than a photocopying error as obviously no checks had been carried out which led me to doubt if any document content had ever been checked.

All this has come after it had taken them more than three weeks to get a quote for the survey and searches being purchased from the previous buyer, the idea being it would save time as the searches would take a week.

I couldn’t trust any of their work so took the reprinted Pre-Contract Report to another solicitor to check at a cost of £200. Other errors were found. I wrote them a letter of complaint to which they have stated they rare surprised and disappointed. I am still waiting an apology. I could be waiting a long time.

The other solicitor suggested I get the boiler checked as it hadn’t been serviced since 2008. Mine needed to be done too so they were both done on the same day by the same company. I called my neighbours and asked them to unlock the front door in the morning. They forgot! Frantic phone calls followed as the guys waited on the doorstep. Mrs Next Door Neighbour arrived home and couldn’t find the key, so dashed to the Estate Agent in Woodstock to collect their key. Thankfully it was serviced successfully and without any problems. Unfortunately the same could not be said of the boiler in the house I am buying. The main thingy had rusted through and was leaking water requiring it to be drained and switched off. It’s knackered and needs to be replaced, the bill coming to £3,000! Mr and Mrs Swapsy Housey are not very happy and rang me up with sob sob stories. I think they would like me to pay for it. They have conveniently forgotten I am already giving them £2,500 more than they previous buyers, and how they insisted I sort out the dampness that returned after the flooding in December.

Will this sale ever go through?

On to the Grand Union

After a days rest before I had even started Teri, Brian and Aoiffe arrived. “Where are you?” they asked on the telephone. Thirty seconds later they were at the boat, if I had stuck my head out we could have talked without a phone.

For lunch a chicken was slaughtered and cooked. Having a slight cash flow problem, it’s always good when people turn up bringing real food, it tastes so good. Teri and Brian were remarkably good at boat handling considering it was 13 years since they were last on a narrowboat, “It’s like riding a bike,” said Brian. I have experience of both and I’m not entirely convinced. We moored up at Cropedy, squeezing in the last suitable place available, fenders touching at both ends (bikes don’t have fenders), tied expertly by Brian using simple knot I haven’t seen before (photo), I’m useless as knots.

Cycling back to Adderbury to pick up the car I stopped at traffic lights in Banbury. A vehicle pulled up behind blasting it horn, the lights remained red, so I ignored it. It carried on blasting, somewhat impatiently, so I continued to ignore it, finally turning around to see what the problem was, then quickly leapt out of the way. Behind me was a fire engine, light flashing, at no time a siren going. I blame the council cutbacks, siren operators were the first to go.

Departing Saturday afternoon from Cropedy was surprisingly quiet. A couple sat on a bench watched me pass through a lock, “That’s the most professional locking we have ever seen,” they said. True it had been text book perfect, the boat allowed to drift in to rest perfectly at the top gates as I closed the bottom, where it remained as the lock filled. Thankfully they didn’t see me at the next lock 100 metres further along for I really cocked it up. The boat drifted back as the lock filled, the tiller swung around then the rudder wedged itself between the bottom gates, luckily freeing itself before I could close the top paddles. The long rural stretch beyond Fenny Compton was completely deserted, the canal was my own.

I started at six o’clock on Sunday morning, the plan to get through the nine locks at Napton before traffic jams built up. It paid off, but not in the way I expected. Mooring up at one of the last I emptied the lock as three boaters arrived telling me of a problem with the bottom gates, so much water leaked out, it never levelled at the top gate so they were unable to open it the previous evening. Our combined strength forced it open. Too much water had leaked from the pound above, leaving my boat grounded, tilting so much I saw bits of the boat I had never seen before. Another boat arrived at the lock above, the water sent down refloating my boat just in time for me to pass through the lock before British Waterways closed it sort out the problem. Below a queue had already built up.

Between Napton on the Hill and Braunston the Oxford Canal joins the Grand Union for 5 miles for a lock free cruise. It was packed, heaving, boats constantly passing the other way. On mooring at Braunston another boat moored right behind me, “We counted 30 boats passing the other way in 3 miles.” they told me.

The previous weekend Braunston hosted the Historical Canal Boat Festival, some still remained (photo), and very picturesque they were too. I walked along to the bottom lock, the first of 8 wide locks heading up, the locks constantly in use as a steady stream of boats passed through. “It’s nothing like last weekend,” said the lady in the shop, “it was really busy then.” I must remember not to pass anywhere when there is a festival on.

I arrived at the locks alone the following morning, another arriving just in time. We worked well as a team through the flight before passing through the 2,000 metre Braunston tunnel. I had planned to stop after the tunnel, but having a boat as company who were passing down the next flight was too good an opportunity to miss.

Mooring up behind the other boat as we prepared a lock I tied mine to the bank using the centre rope and piling hock. I obviously didn’t tie it tight enough as when I returned the rope guide had been ripped off, sheering straight through two screws, and bending the piling hook. The flow created by water entering the lock had made the boat move forwards and it clearly objected to being stopped dead. Lesson learned!

Filling up with fuel the following day I had stopped next to a boat yard, so I called in. “How much will a quick job cost?” I asked. “£1000. It’s a boat after all.” They drilled the screws out, created new threads and screwed the guide back in for a fiver. A good job done.

I never get to Banbury when expected

The walls in the lounge are finally dry. Jonathan arrived, the owner of the business, to pick up the driers and test the walls. He tried to force probes into a brick, they wouldn’t go, I wouldn’t expect them to. He tried another, then a third without success. “How about trying between the bricks?” I suggested, the same as the other guys had done. Success. He might own the business, but he didn’t know what he was doing.

“When you issue the certificate of dryness can you send me a copy?” I asked.

“No problem, I can get it emailed to you this afternoon.”

It never arrived. It didn’t arrive the following day. I rang the office.

“Okay, I’ll send it to you again.” I refrained from telling her she couldn’t send it again, until she sent it the first time. It never arrived. Why am I not surprised?

It was hard leaving Thrupp, I was getting to know people and besides, it’s an area I know well and feel at home. Still, that’s the joy of boating, I can return when I’m ready.

First obstacle was a couple of hundred metres along the canal in the shape of a lift bridge. Since my arrival I had acquired a pole about 8ft long, so I moored up, lifted the bridge from the towpath side rather than pulling down on the balancing arms on the opposite side, then wedged the pole in. So much easier than fiddling around stepping off the bow, pulling the boat through, then dragging the stern back. Okay, so I had to moor before and after the bridge, but it was far less hassle. Maffi told he always did the lift bridge that way, so thanks goes to him.

Not set off until early afternoon meant it was late afternoon before I reached Lower Heyford where I ran aground on a bend, well away from the edge. I suspect it was submerged trees roots as the guy on the moored boat beside said I wasn’t the first to have problems. He pulled me off with a rope. Later the chain on my front fender broke. Thankfully it was an easy repair as it really cushions the knock when filling locks going uphill.

The advantage of starting late is that from around five o’clock I had the canal to

myself, wonderful. The disadvantage was that all the mooring spots were full, there was no other choice than to press on. Not a problem, it meant I wouldn't have to go so far to Banbury the following day.

Terry and Brian rang, they were in Oxford. Oops, I had just left! It meant a quick run to Banbury never happened as I decided to wait a day a little further up the canal at Adderbury for them to visit.

Another lift bridge first thing in the morning was well timed, a boat was passing through and waited for me to go through as well, even easier than a pole.

On a straight a narrowboat was heading towards me, clearly distracted by a mobile phone. The closer we got a collision looked inevitable unless he decided to steer the thing. Was I being impatient? How long do I leave it before yelling? He did nothing, he was coming across the canal towards my bow, “OI!” I yelled, he quickly corrected avoiding contact. How can people say talking on a phone is not distracting? If this guy would have had an accident at 3mph in a boat, what chance was there for him in a car?

Right, I’ve got that of my chest. I am turning into a right grumpy old bastard!

Leaving early I knew I would get a mooring near Adderbury at midday, last time I moored there, there were only two of us. I rounded the corner, the place was packed, about ten boats moored. Luckily I took the one remaini

ng place.

Behind me were Paul and Rosemary, names I could remember for a change, the same as my brother and sister in law.

The best bit about stopping longer at Adderbury was stocking up on sausages and duck eggs from the farm shop across the canal. Goose eggs are out of season. Poo!

New born chicks are still roaming the canal in places, what a waste of good eggs!

I'm off!

There hasn’t been an update for a couple of weeks, mainly because not much has been happening.

I moved back down to Thrupp. I like it there, nice spot, friendly people and each afternoon I can chill out in the cafe, there is always somebody to talk to. Having stayed there for the maximum 7 days, I set off north, cruising for half an hour before I decided enough was enough and moored up for a few days at Shipton on Cherwell. It’s a tough life. The advantage of a short cruise is its only a few minutes walk back to the cafe and Boat Inn. Friday evening I joined the local boating community at the pub including Maffi, Bones,

Chris Wren and his wife. Maffi and Bones were the first boating people I spoke to after I decided to buy a boat, Bones being a regular columnist in the Canal Boat magazine. I’ve been following Chris and his wife, who live on Wren’s Nest, up and down the Oxford canal for the last couple of months.

Even a short move is enough to change the surroundings. Here I’m surrounded by trees, in shade the whole day, giving a dappled light throughout the boat, making the entire atmosphere of the boat change. However, it does nothing for the solar powered radio I have recently bought.

Whilst moored and minding my own business I received a healthy whack in the side from

another boat. On going outside the hired boat was trying to moor in the space behind, so how he managed to hit me in the side and have his stern in the bushes on the opposite bank I don’t know. I stood there waiting for an apology. He never looked at me, perhaps if he ignored me for long enough he could claim it never happened, or may be it was his normal mooring procedure. His wife came to the bow, she ignored me too, then seeing I wasn’t happy said, “Sorry, that was a bit close.”

“No! It wasn’t close, you hit me. Hard!”

A couple of days later I opened the lift bridge to save a guy from dropping off crew. He ignored me too. His wife stuck her head out, said, “Thanks,” and disappeared again. What is wrong with people? Men normally stay at the tiller while the women operate locks, bridges etc. Those I speak to at locks claim they like the social side. Is this the real reason men stay on the boat, they have no communication skills. Okay, rant over, so it’s only the minority, most men are sociable.

The idea of boating was to move around the system, so I have been increasing frustrated at being stuck for so long in an area I already know well, mainly due to the ever problematic house sale. I’ve had enough, I want to be on the move, so this week I am off. Hopefully I will have more to report on soon.

Back at the house the plaster has been stripped off the wall in the lounge, a drier has been in for a week and should be removed tomorrow. Once its gone, I’m off! My estate agent and solicitor are charging a small fortune for doing absolutely nothing, I suspect they are all the same, so if I wait around nothing will happen, when I am more than a days bike ride away they will be desperate for me to come in and sign something.

Thrupp has around 29 houses in the village, Shipton about 60. In the cafe I was warned of the risks of mooring in such a large urban conurbation.

“So you’ve moved down to Shipton have you?” asked Martin. “Got anything off your roof?”

“No.”

“Good,” said Maffi, “coz they’ll nick it. When I was moored there I heard some

body on the roof during the night trying to steal my bike, so I chased them off. They came back and tried again half an hour later.”

“They don’t bother me,” added Martin, “the main problem maker doesn’t like dogs and I told ‘im I would let me dog off the lead if I ever see him near my house.”

“I was moored in Oxford once and somebody stole a clip holding my lamp on the back.”

“That’ll be the Shipton lot,” said Martin.

Now here’s a tip for those living on a canal. After a very hot day, if you have a light on in the evening, don’t leave the nearest window open. I did exactly that last night and had hundreds of bugs buzzing around the light, enough to make me duck down when passing. Orrible.

Suicidal Birds

There was somebody knocking on the side of the boat, it sounded urgent. Typical, I was in the shower. I guessed correctly what the problem was, a boat had passed too fast causing the rear mooring pin to be pulled from the ground leaving my back end drifting across the canal. By the time I was dressed my new neighbour was already pulling me back towards the bank.

As I have cruised around this spring I could hardly help but notice the duck chicks, hundreds of them. What is surprising is there are still so many newly hatched chicks about, while some have already reached adolescence. It’s also noticeable that as the size of the chicks increase, so the numbers of the brood reduces. Perhaps they are eating each other! The biggest are reaching life size, all of which look as though they are females. They can’t be otherwise Mallards are about to go into decline, so I suspect the males feathers change colours at an older age.

Whilst on the subject of young birds I have to say I have seen so many suicidal birds this year. I have already mentioned the pigeon I rescued from the canal, then when I last went to my house young fat crows sat on the ground, heads buried in feathers, waiting for the cats to find them. Then riding back to my boat parked near Banbury a bird on it’s maiden flight flew into my front wheel, no mean feat given the Brampton has such small wheels. It lay flapping in the middle of the road, so I returned. I picked it up, held it in my hand to calm its futile movements and sadly watched the life drain from its little body. Very sad. I felt a little happier leaving in the undergrowth rather than lying in the road to be hit by a passing car.

I made my way to Banbury to spend a few days there. The intention had been to go there in a single day from Lower Heyford but it never happened, I became side tracked and stopped in the middle of nowhere in spots I liked the look of. A single days journey took four, three of travelling a couple of hours at a time. That’s the beauty of living of living on a boat, you can stop anywhere you like, even if its only half an hour from where you were last moored. On a holiday you would feel compelled to push on and use your time

boating. The main reason for going to Banbury was to empty the loo and fill up on water. The loo was just about full, though I suspect there was water left, but 17 days between after last service stop is by far the longest I have been, by about 10 days. You can guess from that I haven’t had any visitors recently.

I rang at Bodicote, a pleasant ring of 8, on the Sunday and joined their practice the following night. I have to say they are not only a good ring, they are good ringers and sociable as well. For me the highlight was the atmosphere in the pub afterwards, I was welcomed with open arms and made to feel one of their regular ringers. When I am in the area I shall certainly return.

Wandering around Banbury I passed a company called Thomas Cakebread. Bakers you might think, but no, they are Monumental Masons. They have probably changed their name from Thomas Brownbread. They are highly thought of and rarely make a mistake, but when they do its a monumental cock-up!

Caroline joined me for a days boating, the idea being to give a bit of boat handling experience so she could join me later in the year on the Hatton flight. Before hand she told me how she lacked spacial awareness. I didn’t have much hope for her. My fears were confirmed as we zig-zagged along the canal at the start of the day, but to her credit she picked it up quickly, gained confidence and was perfectly able to handle the boat. She surprised me doing very well overall. As with every beginner, myself included, the direction the tiller needs to be pushed to steer can cause confusion. I have seen it so often, a learner pushes

the tiller the wrong way, then as the boat turns in thewrong direction they push it further making the bow head straight for the bank. At one point my neck was scratched by overhanging brambles we were passing, my fault entirely for not looking. I became distracted looking at a man’s legs. There’s an admission, though his long skinny legs were sticking out of the shortest shorts I have ever seen, and Caroline didn’t even notice them. Our late lunch was timed to perfection as rain, mainly from a single heavy showers, came down for the only time all day. By evening we made it back to my favourite spot at Somerton, pointing in the other direction. It feels so strange pointing the opposite way looking out expecting to see an open field to be greeted by trees. You can’t do that with a house!

The Big Breakfast

I picked the up boat at Braunston on the Grand Union and pootled about for a day there, had a walk, did a bit of ringing, all the usual stuff. Down the road were Midland Chandlery who stock the wall light I had broken a couple of months back, so I now have a replacement, all I need is the connectors. I would have bought a spare if they hadn’t been so expensive.

After setting off on Friday morning it was a bit of a rush to be back in striking distance of home in three days to keep a few appointments, one being at the doctors.

I rang the surgery in April to book an appointment with my GP. “I’m looking at the end of May and there are still no free bookings,” the receptionist told me.

“End of May! I might be dead by then.”

“If it’s urgent we can book you in earlier.” That’s a relief!

“No it’s not urgent, but I might still be dead and if I am, I’m really concerned I wont be able to cancel it. I’ve seen the notices in the waiting room, I know you hate it when people don’t turn up to appointments. Perhaps they are all dead. I think you should check it out.”

So I was on a mission, if I didn’t turn up they would probably inform the police. Progress along the Grand Union was swift, not a single lock to be negotiated. Once on the Oxford Canal the Napton flight were looming. I flew through the nine locks, hardly stepping on dry land. Each lock timed to perfection, a boat exiting as I arrived, one arriving as I left. Kind assistance wasn’t always well thought out. As I sat in a lock two people opened both ground paddles fully at speed, from the back I could see the front of the boat rise at an alarming speed, seconds later it was hurtling backwards towards the bottom gate, forward thrust saving me whacking the gates, then as the water reached the back of the lock it threw the boat forward, this time reverse was not enough to save the situation and I hit the top gate hard. In future I will be firm with well intentioned assistance.

I so often see boats in locks, somebody at the tiller engaging the boat in firm forward or reverse to maintain the position in the centre of the lock, yet when I am by myself using the paddles gently as nobody is on the boat, there is almost no movement. People often wonder how I manage alone, “It must be really difficult,” they say. It’s not. Follow a simple procedure and it’s no more difficult than with a crew, it just takes a bit longer.

It’s a great time to be on the canals, ducks and their squadrons of kids lurk

around every corner. Some of the kids are split from mum as the boat passes, panic sets on, their little legs go like the clappers as they tear along like a speed boat in a vain attempt to get around the front of the boat before they give up knackered.

On entering Banbury there was a big commotion in a tree ahead, a number of birds fell out hitting the water, one remained there flapping in distress. Once past I could see it was a young pigeon, so I fetched my net, went into reverse and saved the thing by putting it on the back. It probably died, it certainly would have done if it used the same doctor as me, but at least it had a fighting chance of survival on dry land. Job done the boat blocked the canal, wedge against a moored boat at the front. I walked the gunwales and pushed myself off, a passing walker saying, “Those boats are difficult to handle aren’t they.”

“Not really, I got into a mess trying to rescue a bird from the water.”

He said nothing, he didn’t have to, “Yeah, right,” was etched across his face.

On Sunday evening I moored at Somerton. I could have gone further, but I love the open field and cattle there, it’s my favourite mooring, this was already my third visit.

I cycled to my meetings on Monday. Rumour had it contracts would be exchanged on the house. “Oh really,” said my solicitor when I saw her. It had been a rumour.

Dampness has already arrived back in the lounge of my house where it was flooded in December. Next was a joint call from the insurance company and the company who did the drying. The driers blamed 18 inches of damp course which is too high.

“Is that right?” I said sarcastically. “So never having a problem in 15 years and following the driest spring since records began,

water has seeped in and reached the ceiling, but it has nothing to do with hundreds of gallons of water running down the walls from a burst pipe.”

They paid a second visit to drill holes in the wall and poke probes in. “It’s because of the water butt,” they told me. They are desperate, I assume they are going to have to pay for re-plastering and redecorating if they are found culpable. I am not a happy bunny.

I’m heading back for Banbury. Unfortunately there are few water points and no elsan disposal between Thrupp and Banbury, so having not filled the former or emptied the latter for two weeks it is becoming priority. I stopped at Adderbury opposite a farm making their own sausage, so ventured in with no intention of parting with cash. I walked out with home made sausages, two duck eggs and a goose egg. Don’t worry, I did pay. The goose egg was a whopper, boiled for 12 minutes for breakfast, a perfect soft boiled egg, highly recommended.

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.