The Outer Hebrides

After stocking up on supplies in Oban, I hopped on the ferry to Barra, joining what appeared to be an entire convention of touring cyclists at the Terminal. Weary cyclists disembarked the ferry, rather oddly having chosen to cycle the Hebridean Way from Top to Toe, which although sounding rather lovely, is into the prevailing winds...surely as a cyclist you research your prevailing wind direction prior to choosing your general direction of travel?! (I realise I made this mistake with Canada, but only in my inability to remember El Nino, despite years of geography and climate lessons...)

Now I've previously thought of myself as a strong sailor. I've never experienced issues with sea sickness in the past, and so thoroughly gorged myself on pancakes and mussels before the crossing, plus purchasing and consuming all of my ferry snacks within about one hour of boarding.

I clearly have not experienced anything other than smooth crossings before now.

As soon as we were beyond Mull, the open Atlantic began to rock and roll more fervently than a local shindig with a plentiful supply of homebrew. Needless to say, my stomach began to churn. It's a fairly long crossing by my standards - five and a half hours from Oban to Barra - and the minutes crawled by, until one particular lurch had me rapidly bringing up my entire breakfast, lunch and snacks in one fell swoop. There had been no time to make a heroic dash for the bathroom, and alas, I became that person who chunders on the carpet, in the middle of the cafeteria.

The staff, rather understandably, banished me to the outside seating for the remainder of the trip with several puke bags should I have any further moments of weakness. I sat shivering on the top deck, pale and clammy, not particularly enjoying the blank canvas of a view that the back of the boat afforded - a slight variation in blue the only hint of differentiation between sea and sky.

It was quite a surprise to see a great lump of mossy rock appear on my left, and I swivelled to see a number of small islands rising out of the mist, my first views of the Outer Hebrides.

Not exactly arriving full of beans, I returned to my bike and got chatting to a fellow cyclist, Heather. We ended up teaming up for a night of wildcamping, and made our way out of Castlebay, over the causeway and onto Vatersay, the island at the very bottom of the archipelago that is reachable by bicycle.

We scouted out a small deserted beach on the Uidh peninsula, and talked over dinner about our various motives for our trips. Heather is returning to New Zealand after twelve years of living all over Scotland, including two years out on Lewis, and this bike trip is a final tribute to a country she loves, and a way for her to see friends for the last time before she moves back. I was sad to see her pedal off the next morning, I feel privileged to have met such an adventurous and caring individual.

However I quickly managed to find her further along the road - she had managed to pick up a dog in her attempts to leave Vatersay, and so I helped herd the hound in the direction of the police station. She had managed to ask a passing driver who they thought the owner might be, and when we told the police officer that it could belong to a Donald Macclean, he laughed and said there many many Donald Maccleans on Barra and Vatersay alone! Nevertheless, after a few calls to the most likely Donalds, the owner was found! The dog was placed under arrest in the one cell, and the officer bid us farewell.

It seems that I have made it my subconscious mission to find and experience the worst British weather in the entire UK this June: while the rest of the country was enjoying a heat wave, I was coming up with a number of ways to escape the windy, rainy weather in Castlebay, giving my body a break from cycling. The local Community Shop housed me for a number of hours, where I kept continually topping myself up with tea and hot chocolate, and chatting to the owner Ruth.

But really, when the weather's a bit miserable, I resorted to getting even more soggy - I went surfing for the afternoon with the guys who run the local hostel. I have never surfed before (at least not to my memory!) so Ben showed me the basics before letting me loose to make a complete fool of myself on the thankfully deserted beach back out on Vatersay. And I had a brilliant time, falling over more times than I can count, bobbing along in the waves, waiting for a good one to come by. And, incredibly, I managed to stand up three times, the final one apparently being 'a solid stable stand'! I was beyond chuffed!! Leaving the water, thinking I looked like a sunkissed windswept beach goddess meets surfing badass, I managed to trip over the cable attaching me to the surfboard, and flobbered my way out of the water more akin to a seal in my full length wetsuit, booties and cap. Ignoring this slight mishap and fashion faux pas,  I returned to the hostel to shower, elated at my speedy progress.

Well earned dinner

Making the most of the prevailing winds, I set off early on the Sunday thinking it would make sense to get a healthy chunk of riding done. However before I caught the ferry, I made a slight detour (about two turns of the road detour) to have a quick gander at the airport. I ate my breakfast sat at a bench that overlooked the vast swathe of sand, still glistening from the receding tide, the hangar just visible at the far end of the beach.

Overlooking Barra Airport

A short ferry crossing took me to Eriskay, and the pedalling began for the day. My time on this tiny island was fleeting - it was  maximum one mile from the ferry terminal to the causeway to South Uist. Crossing the causeway, I glanced over my shoulder, Eriskay already becoming indistinct with each turn of the pedals, the small village a blur of houses being lost in the hills.

Ferry at Eriskay terminal

I made my cultural stop of the day at the small Kildonan museum...mainly because it had an open cafe too, but the museum was actually very interesting, with plenty on the history and traditions of the Uist islands.

Powering through the islands of South Uist, Benbecula and North Uist, I marvelled at the open landscape, peaty and moorlike, bleak in some respects, but I found its wild and raw landscape a thing of beauty that I was in continual awe of.

One of the most remote postboxes I could find

I reached Berneray after a fairly long day out riding - the wind was just starting to die down. It was well worth the pedal though, I found a great spot for camping overlooking one of the beaches here. After setting up and doing my usual 'feet in water' session, I was just looking to start cooking some tea, when I heard the toot of a car horn, and the cry "home-baked goods for sale"! Home-baked goods and not a child-catcher look-a-like from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?!?! Cake Man, as he shall forever now be known to me, pulled up right by my tent, opened the back of the van, and sold an excellent selection of cakes and scones for a pittance. I bought a variety (naturally) and enjoyed every crumb as much as I enjoyed the peace of the deserted beach.

Dinner with a view

Offerings from Cake Man!

Venturing onto Harris, the clouds finally broke and I had the first of two full sunshine days - no waterproofs required, and suncream at the ready! I spent a lazy day peddling through South (or West as the signs said) Harris, the landscape so very different from that I'd left behind: hillier roads, with a more rugged mountainous backdrop in place of rolling hills, fewer peatscapes but more open beaches stretching for what felt like miles. I spent a memorable few hours on the beach at Luskentyre, strolling through the balmy water, and although the wind was up, the sun was working hard to give us all a bit of that much needed Vitamin D.

The stripes are back, despite the variable weather!!

The hills grew as I headed north through Harris, with a particularly spectacular climb and descent to reach Lewis, the hard work well worth the sweeping arcs down to Bow Glass and Scaladale.

The transition from Harris to Lewis was distinct, despite them being part of the same landmass. The first distinction was a return to more peaty landscapes of the south, though the mountainous affinity with Harris persisted. There was also a woodland area almost directly after the border, which made it feel very separate to the more open lands of Harris.

Roads dipping and diving, the road turned westward. I paused to see the Callanish Standing Stones, delicate yet very powerful. Though, as anticipated, the pagans were moving in for the impending Summer Solstice.

I hadn't realised how well I'd timed my ride, but it seems that I made it to the Butt of Lewis on the longest day of the year! The final pedal was hard going, the wind having changed direction so whichever way I cycled it was a cross/headwind. Reaching Port Nis, I realised that I'd actually bypassed the lighthouse, so I pedalled my way around and along a long track to the Lighthouse, and the official end of the Hebridean Way. There were a few Frenchmen there who chatted to me briefly about my cycle, then they left. It was just me and my bike, at the end of the line, facing the open Atlantic. I did not feel that same rush of adrenaline from completing my ride, partly because it is not the end of my Scottish journey, but rather a wonderful feeling of calm that comes from achieving a cycling milestone. My legs were tired, but I was satisfied.

Turning back to head to Stornoway. the wind was that wonderful type of crosswind that is at the slightest angle off the nose, thereby meaning you're continually leaning into it and thinking that you may have a break at some turn in the road, but it just becomes that little bit worse instead. So I did what every cyclist should do in this situation. Find a cafe and enjoy the goods they provide; in this case, a top notch slab of quiche followed by quality victoria sponge, a great celebration cake befitting the completion of the Way.

Now, it's just a simple case of making my return journey, via Skye. I still have just over a week remaining before my train, so I have zoomed my way back to Tarbert to enjoy some celebratory Gin courtesy of the Harris Gin distillery, and awaiting the Ferry: Here's to many more miles of the open road - Cheers!

Wildcamping, beaches, and a slice of heaven

I love a rest day. It usually entails eating a lot of food (with some vegetables thrown in as I'm very conscious of my diet predominantly consisting of biscuits cake, oats and cous cous) and a gentle wander around the town. In the case of Lochranza, I spent the most part of my day avoiding the rain by sitting in the distillery cafe and bar, eating my way through most of their menu, and tasting a wee dram of their delicious Arran whisky,


But there are more tales of delicious cakes on the horizon folks - this instalment is truly a journey centred around delectable baked goods...

We can start the cake journey in Lochranza itself. The distillery cafe has an excellent selection of baked goods, and I was most fortunate to have arrived when they had just finished dressing a rather large, Bruce Bogtrotter-esque chocolate fudge cake. Needless to say, I had two slices washed down with plenty of tea, and followed with it with a salmon salad, because of course, dessert should always come first!

Riding out of Lochranza was fairly simple, the ferry terminal was located approximately 200 metres from where I was staying. The ferry to Kintyre offered final glimpses of Arran, still very much emersed in mist, and the first views of the rolling hills of Kintyre. The occasional young gannet followed the boat, swooping low over the water, white feathers mingled with black.

It was a slow start on the other side of the water. My legs felt quite tired, which is always the case after a rest day for me, so I took my time, stretching them out and enjoying the views of the dark green hills, with small clusters of wind turbines dotted here and there on the horizon.

While munching on my sandwiches in a bus shelter in Kilmartin, enjoying the views and contemplating whether it would be so glutinous to also frequent the cafe adjoining the museum, a guide who was running an organised cycle group recommended I took the national cycle route through Kilchrenen by Loch Awe, as it's a far more scenic route and less stressful with the oncoming traffic heading for the ferries at Oban. It would be hilly at times, but worthwhile.


I took his advice, forwent the cafe, and turned off the main road. He was right: the route was lumpy in the extreme, and I cursed him a fair few times for sending me on such a daft hilly route when fully loaded with panniers, but it was well worth it. I climbed through great swathes of forest, some sections cleared with great timber stacks ready for shipping, and Loch Awe stretched out below. Some parts of the wood held the mist from the rainshowers, creating an almost ethereal lush green to cycle through. The root dived down through the woods, reaching a small collection of lodges and houses, and, most importantly, a cafe come shop come post office. I hunkered down for a brew and an excellent piece of rocky road.

The road ahead was much the same, and I reached Kilchronen in good time, so I paused at the local pub for wee bevvy before finding a camping spot for the night. I briefly considered asking at the pub for a place to stay, but I'm fairly sure it was well beyond my price range, besides the weather was good, and it was time to pull on the big girl pants and do a bit of wild camping.

Now although I have camped on a number of occasions, I have never actually wildcamped before, and was a not a little bit nervous about it. Somehow, I had managed to build it up in my head as a fairly big deal, so whilst being outwardly quite calm about the whole thing, I was actually feeling very apprehensive about it all. In my mind, I kept saying to myself that if I'd simply done it with a friend beforehand, then I wouldn't feel so nervous about it, but I had run out of time for a practice run.

I managed to find a spot with relative ease however, and rather dramatically dived off the deserted road. My stealth at hopping over a low mossy wall was hardly necessary, my proximity to a rather noisy river rendered my tiptoeing rather pointless, but I was still so nervous I couldn't think beyond trying to keep as quiet as possible. With Bella well hidden in some ferns, I dived into my tent to escape the cloud of midges that engulfed my head, and proceeded to massacre any and all that had dared to follow me inside.

Still feeling nervous and flinching at every sound that wasn't the river, it wasn't exactly a restful nights sleep, but it was better than nought. I donned my full midge-prevention kit - aka full waterproofs with overshoes, head net and gloves so the only exposed part of my body was my fingers, so I managed to pack up camp quite painlessly, and jaunted back to the road feeling tied but quite smug with success! I had done it at last! As ever, it was not as big a deal as I thought it would be, no one came along to tell me off, and Bella hadn't been stolen, so I was feeling pretty chipper, if hungry!

The final pedal to Oban was fairly slow, but on arrival I enjoyed a huge Scottish breakfast courtesy of the local Wetherspoons. Then it was a case of hopping on the next ferry to Mull! The boat took us out of the harbour, past Lismore and on to Craignure. There was no sun, but there was a tailwind, so I zoomed along the road towards colourful Tobermory, the theme tune for that popular children's show Balermory running through my head and keeping pace with each turn of the cranks as I climbed the hill past Salen.

I got to chat to a great pair of chaps in the Youth Hostel in Tobermory, both ex-teachers enjoying a short tour of Mull, Col and Tiree. They were big cyclists and travellers, one having cycled Alaska to Mexico and still dreamed of a world cycle tour, and the other having travelled through Europe in 1961, and was in Berlin two months before the wall was fully instigated. He told me of his travels between West and East, of bribing the police and armed guards with chocolate and cigarettes to make the customs process quicker, and of speaking to people who were desperately trying to escape but feared being shot in the attempt.



From here I enjoyed a short day trip out to Ardnamuchan. The roads were blissfully deserted, narrow and almost like mountainbike trails as I wound my way through the great volcanic rings to Sanna Bay. Sanna and Portuairk are tiny communities poised on the very edge of Britain's mainland, and the beaches there are beautifully sheltered, the water so clear and sands luminescent. I went for a gentle run along the trails that cut up and over the hill to Portuairk, then back along the beach to Sanna, whipping off my shoes and socks to run through the water towards the end.

As I returned to my bike, Willie came into my life. Willie is a 60-something plumber from Inverness, who drives a VW van named Sally. He came over, offered me some of his orange pepper (not a euphemism) and a ride back to the ferry in his camper. Of course I sad yes - I'd been admiring the van since I saw it and was thrilled to get to go for a wee drive in it! Willie had been to Sanna with his family ever since he was a boy, and still made the return journey every year. He knew so many people locally, including characters such as 'Nan the Man' so called for her sexual orientation and propensity to wear her deceased father's clothes, and her brother 'Iain the Fence', who, unsurprisingly, built fences for a living. And as we bumped along the road close to the ferry, we bumped into the legend that was Nan the Man herself, riding along the road on a lawnmower, torn and faded shirt flapping in the breeze.

Deposited at the ferry, he bid me farewell to go and get fed and enjoy a bottle of whisky with Nan the Man, revving the van back up the hill.

The remainder of this packed day involved pedalling over the north road of Mull towards Mull. The day had turned blissfully warm, so much so I whipped off my base layer and enjoyed the sun on my arms for a change, as I gently pedalled my way along the almost alpine-like roads to Calgary. Here, I camped at a popular 'wildcamp' spot, popular for the beautiful bay, and perhaps the permanently open public loo by the road side.

I wandered up and down the beach, through the water, even tempted to go in for a quick dip - it was a very close thing, the cozzie was on and I went in as far as my thighs, but chickened out at the last minute. After all, I had just eaten my tea!

I pedalled around the western road in Mull, then came across a road closure sign for heading south ast Ben More. My rumbling stomach told me that this would probably be a good moment to head back towards Salen and pick up some scran. This was a great decision: I halted when I saw a great pair of birds soar over the field to my left, and just managed to spot the two eagles disappearing behind a small rise - alas no photo, as there was no time to whip out the camera.

And from that point, the day got even better, because I frequented the Salan Coffee Pot Cafe. And it was here that I got to try a most glorious piece of cake I've had, and I'l go as far as saying it, in years. I was initially torn between the lemon drizzle and the sticky toffee cake, so naturally, I bought a slice of each.

The lemon drizzle was lovely, the drizzle helping to keep the sponge moist. However, the sticky toffee cake was out of this world. I don't know whether it was because it was fresh, or that I was hungry for something of that ilk, but that cake would have made Merry Berry weep with joy and bring out the hallowed Paul Hollywood handshake. The lightness of that sponge, so delicately balanced with the thin yet simple toffee topping with tiny chunks of toffee decorating the top. It was truly heaven. I savoured every mouthful. I have a number of friends who are excellent bakers, and I myself enjoy spending time baking, but I raise my hat to this talented baker - a truly marvellous slab of cake.

So my tales of Kintyre, Mull and Ardnamuchan are at an end. I may have missed the south of Mull, but I like to think that I have more left to explore,, and I have to say the experience has been most memorable. I have thoroughly enjoyed my short foray into the Inner Hebrides. But now, it is time to head beyond, out into the Atlantic, and onwards to the very edge of Europe. Onwards to Barra!