Day 1. Evesham to Oban - 432 miles
Set off by car to Oban a trip which the Sat Nav told me would take 7 hours and 22 minutes, pretty optimistic I
thought. Well I fairly sailed up the M6, the weather was becoming progressively worse the further north I got.
A pleasant late summer day in Evesham had turned into a gloomy autumn afternoon as I crossed the border into Scotland.
The first spots of rain welcomed me into the suburbs of Glasgow. Soon I was heading out from Sterling, past the castle and
west towards Oban with the Grampians looming over me to the north. Everywhere was the hint of autumnal colour, that
made the hillsides a patchwork of subtle tweed.
At 5pm, after only 8 hours on the road I pulled into Oban youth hostel, where I had booked a bed for the night. I had
not stayed in a hostel for 40 years so was a little apprehensive, and rightly so!
A very pleasant lady handed me bedding and directed me to room 203. This was a room with 4 bunk beds, with the only
spare bunk on top nearest the window. It wasn't the view of Oban harbour that made an instant impression on me but the
overwhelming awful smell of feet!
Intent on staying out of the room as long as possible I headed for the bright lights of
Oban. After a couple of pints
of "heavy" and curry sauce and chips, (I avoided the deep fried pizza) I had no choice but to go back to the hostel.
Went to bed, the smell of feet almost overpowering, the sound of snoring coming from the bunk next to
me had me
1/2 hour later, downstairs in the TV room asleep in a chair, where I stayed until 6 am when I got up.
Day 2. Oban to Lochportain, North Uist - 48 miles.
Our Lady of the Iles, South Uist
Dropped the car at the Atlantis leisure centre, the only free parking in town. Then cycled to the Cal Mac ferry terminal half a mile away. My Hopscotch ticket giving me access to all the ferries on my trip cost £37. Within minutes I was aboard "The Lord Of The Isles" bound for Lochboisedale on South Uist. Tucked into a full Scottish breakfast (would you like a slice with that?), and whiled away the 5 1/2 hour journey admiring the many dark and mist clad small islands float past on either side of the ship, and wondering at the lives of those living in the isolated cottages that occasionally poked their faces through the gloom.
I arrived on South Uist at 1.35; it was misty but not cold; a brisk southerly wind was picking up, great... I was heading north. The roads were good though narrow, with numerous passing places as I pushed further up the island. The terrain was fairly flat and with the tail wind it meant that I was hammering along, scarcely dropping below 20 mph.
Sheep, lochs, sheep, and more sheep, then without warning a 30 foot high statue of the Virgin Mary and Jesus, dropped into a Falkland like landscape, with a backdrop of an ominous looking "Military establishment" complete with masses of aerials and a golf ball like dome. Took a photo and pressed on, thinking about where to camp for the night.
Crossed on to Benbecula, where I came across an "otters crossing" sign, and a co op supermarket at Greag Ghoraidh, stocked up on soup and bakewell tart. Time now to find my camp site.
In the gathering gloom I passed imperceptibly onto North Uist, the 30mph wind had now moved to the west so it was blowing me sideways across the single track road. I found an ideal place to camp on the Machair, adjacent to Lochportain. Pitched my tent on the only piece of level ground I could find, made a brew and settled down for the night.
Day 3. Lochportain North Uist to Reinigeadal, Harris - 34 miles.
Passed a stormy night safe inside my tent, and woke at 6 am next morning to a beautiful sunrise over the loch, with only the sounds of birds for company. A brew and a Bakewell tart, packed my kit and was on the road before 8. I travelled along nicely undulating deserted roads to the ferry port on Berneray which was reached by a causeway linking it to North Uist. In the distance I could just make out the mountains on the island of Harris, my next destination.
Got onto the ferry at 9 and lashed my bike to the bulkhead and sat in the lounge with the two other passengers. As the vessel approached Harris, by picking its way through a myriad of exposed rocks, you could hardly see the mountains as they were almost obscured in mist. Once the ferry had docked it was clear that the mist was rain. At the port of Leverburgh at 11 am I had to put lights on my bike and don wet weather gear. I climbed away from the coast passed beaches of pure white sand and a sea of azure blue, it was only the horizontal rain and gale force wind that spoilt the moment. I continued upwards into dramatic mountains, by now I was soaked and shivering and desperate to get dry and comfortable, but on and up I pressed. I looked at my map and saw a Scottish Youth Hostel at Reinigeadal, on the banks of Loch Shiphoirt - that became my goal.
Up and up I continued, then I came across the road; it disappeared off to the right, falling down the mountain side at an alarming rate, only to re emerge and climb the opposite side of the valley in an even more impressive manner. I had to do it, all I wanted was a shower and a warm drink. Down I went, brakes squealing and sheep running for cover. Momentum carried me about 10 yards up the opposite side of the valley. I quickly found the big ring on the cassette and plodded on, and on , and on. The route levelled out for a few hundred yards before a 1 in 4 drop into the hamlet of 6 cottages. It had been 6 3/4 miles of lung rasping climbing and white knuckle descending.
Reinigeadal Youth Hostel
Bijou and basic, but with a roaring peat fire, a shower and a Rastafarian called Nixon in the
kitchen. It proved to be a super place to stay. That evening, with a clear sky underneath a mass of stars I sat outside chatting with a Rastafarian from Trinidad, his Swiss partner, a bus driver from Rotherham, and a couple from Bristol, eating winkles with a pin.
Now who would have expected that.
Up at 6.15 - trying not to wake the others, I got dressed downstairs. I was away at 7.45 with the thought of the challenging climb ahead. Well it may have been the beautifully sunny morning or the excellent night's sleep but the climbs and descents back to the main road passed away quite steadily. I was heading onto the Island of Lewis, which wasn't really an island but the north part of the island that had Harris at the southern end. The new island was reached by crossing over nothing more than a stream. The terrain changed dramatically - no longer the imposing dark mountains, now it was rolling hills, and for the first time in a couple of days I saw trees. It had more of the Scottish highlands about it than a remote island in the north Atlantic.
I stopped at a garage to take on provisions, shops were that far apart, whenever they were encountered they were not passed by without taking the opportunity to buy a treat, food. It is amazing the motivational effect of a tin of peaches in a light syrup!
I reached the "Black Houses" at Na Gearrannan at 1pm and as I was the only visitor there, the staff treated me to a private tour, there was a working Harris Tweed loom, and other exhibits showing the hard life that the crofters had up until people moved out in 1974. A Tilley lamp and a peat fire was all the luxury they had.
"Black Houses" at Na Gearrannan
After an excellent cake and tea I moved off to the Carloway Broch, an imposing building used as a fortified dwelling in times gone by. Then to the nearby Callinish Standing Stones, a group of stones too numerous to count that had stood on the loch side for almost 5,000 years. Atmospheric and truly remarkable.
I was intending to spend the night at Huisinis (pronounced Whish-Nish), a place recommended to me by people back at the hostel. So it was hammer down to do the 40 more hilly miles before it got dark. I found a suitable site overlooking Loch A Siar, and carried my bike 50 yards over a peat bog to a special place. I watched the sun set over the island of Scarp, and threw pieces of bakewell tart to two Ravens that had taken a particular interest in me. There was no one around, not the sound of a car or a light from a cottage. Perfect!
The ferry to Uig on the island of Skye was due to leave Tarbert at 11.50, so after breaking camp I rode around some of the back lanes around Urgha, where I stopped to watch a seal lounging on rocks in Tarbert harbour. The midges had found me and it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable to stay still.
The ferry arrived on time and soon I was snoozing in the lounge. An hour and a half later I was ploughing up the hill that takes traffic away from Uig harbour destined for the hinterland of Skye. I had a deadline - the last ferry from Advasar on Skye to Mallaig on the mainland was leaving at 6.40 pm.
Skye was fantastic cycling, gone was the bleak austere scenery of the Outer Hebrides; Skye was more subtle and easier on the eye, more rolling and the roads were busier. The Cullin Hills in the centre of Skye were like a piece of the Alps dropped into soft Scottish countryside - they looked like proper mountains; luckily my route took me round them. The road took me through Portree a pretty small town that in normal times would have demanded a stop, this time all it demanded was a Mars bar and can of Irn Bru, and a longing glance backwards as its pretty cottages disappeared into the distance over my left shoulder.
Cullin Hills
I arrived at The Ard Of Sleat to catch the ferry in good time and sat in warm evening sunshine, Simon a Scotsman who had been stationed at Long Marston in the army came over and said Hello, recognising the Evesham Wheelers top.
The ferry across to Mallaig only took half an hour but in that time the sun had gone down, so it was off the ferry, on with the lights and look for somewhere to camp. I found some woodland near to a beautiful sandy beach close to Arisaig, set up camp in the dark, made a brew, and for the first time in 3 days phoned home as I had managed to get a signal on my phone.
Fell asleep to waves crashing on the beach, a tawny owl in the trees behind me and a solitary midge that had manage to infiltrate my tent.
Day 6. Arisaig to Oban - 88 miles.Broke camp and away by 7.15. Started to realise I smelt a bit. Stopped at Arisaig Beach near to the golf course, it was a truly beautiful sight, pure white sand, a clear calm sea and the first rays of sunlight touching the tops of the mountains on Eigg and Rum. I made excellent progress along the A830, which was the road to Fort William, the area around Glenfinnan was breathtaking. I turned off the main road along the A861 to catch the Corran Ferry. This road provided me with probably the best and most scenic cycling of the whole trip. The sun shone, the road undulated in a satisfying way and it skirted Loch Eil on one side and soft woodland on the other. I saw scarcely a car and hardly a human being. The grass verges were dotted with all sorts of mushrooms and fungi and the air smelt of marzipan, as a result of the hay drying in the fields.
I arrived at the Corran Ferry at midday, right on time. I looked for the ferry but I couldn't see it. Loch Eil at this point is only 250 yards across, but the ferry was not there. I stopped and spoke to an elderly lady, I asked her where you caught the ferry. "Over there", she said pointing at an empty slipway, then followed it up with "But you'll no be catching the ferry today!" I was expecting a mocking maniac like laugh but it never came, just a resigned sad look. I asked her how I could get to the other side of the loch. She described a route which meant retracing my steps for the last 4 hours and then adding another 30 miles. So I've got to cycle 60 miles to get to a point 250 yards away. "Aaay! Though there is of course another way" she added. "You could cycle to Lochaline, catch a ferry to Mull, cycle across Mull to Craignure and then catch a ferry to Oban." "How far is it to Lochaline?" I asked, "About 35 miles" she said. I said "well that's not bad", then she added, "It's a wee bit hilly!" I looked at my map and saw those tell tale arrows that indicate pain and suffering. No choice, had a Snickers bar and set off.
The hill up to Claggan was a crippler, I had already exhausted all my gears by the time I reached the first bend, it got steeper from there, it was relentless, every turn of the pedals was energy sapping, I could hear my heart beat booming in my ears and the sweat stung my eyes.
I got to the top after 35 minutes and lay on the grass, I was feeling sick and was shaking, I ate all my remaining food, a curlywurly an apple and a banana. The descent was breathtaking, 40 mph on an unsteady bike overloaded with panniers with a light front end which danced unnervingly at the mere hint of a bump. Then the road climbed again! but only for a mile, the final run into Lochaline was a gentle affair skirting the loch, I arrived at the ferry port with 5 minutes to spare.
The ferry to Mull dropped me 5 miles away from the ferry port that serves boats going to Oban. The next ferry to Oban was in 20 mins - I was not in a mind to time trial my pannier laden bike across an island in the vain hope that I could cover the distance, so I resigned myself to a 2 hour stay on Mull, worse things could have happened. I arrived in Craignure and sat outside McGregor's cafe. The owner asked me what I wanted and brought me a mug of tea, (NATO strength he called it). He told me about the time he stayed at the Chateau Impney and poured !/2 bottle of Bailey's on to his cornflakes for breakfast. He wouldn't accept any money for the tea, stating" How much does a tea bag and hot water cost, life's too short!"
The ferry got me to Oban at 5.45pm, and within minutes I was strapping the bike onto the car rack. I was tired, smelt a bit, had seen some really wild places, met some interesting and varied people, been surprised, deflated and elated in the space of minutes and clocked up 346 miles.
I arrived home at 2am and was ordered straight to the shower!
