Day Eight: Raasay to Glasgow

There are only two ferry sailings from the Isle of Raasay on a Sunday, the first is at 10am and the second is too late to contemplate if we are to catch our final boat of the journey, the 15:10 from Armadale 33 miles south of Sconser. After a couple of reluctant alfresco trips to the sole WC during the night Eric reloads on cold deterrents as we join our fellow guests in the packing process as everyone prepares for the morning trip back to Skye. This final 33 miles has been praying heavily in our thoughts these past few days, on paper the four and a half hours allocated to this stretch seemed ample. Now, with the effects of fatigue and influenza kicking in our confidence in completing the journey by bike is diminishing.

Almost immediately on departing the tiny ferry we are upon a long slow climb taking us over the Red Cuillins. Such is its length and incline we find that we have to dismount from our two wheeled chariots once again and push on by foot. It is a great relief kindled with renewed vigour that engulfs us as we reach the summit and take a final look back down the Glen and across to Raasay. We know from previous travels that this is the last major hill that we will encounter which makes the cycle down off it at breakneck speed all the more exhilarating.

The long downhill stretch and the feel good factor gained from it propels’ us on at exceptional speed and we cover the first 13 miles in just over an hour. Stopping at the first town of Broadford we are still unconvinced in our abilities of making it to Armadale in time to catch the ferry to the mainland and connecting rail service to Glasgow. Anxious of not making the only connection to the South on a Sunday we call in at a local shop and enquire about a Taxi company who would kindly take us and our cycles onwards to the final port. The time is 12 o’ clock and the kindly robust woman behind the counter on hearing about our time schedule and picking up on our growing lack of self esteem instructs us:

‘Away and dinnae be daft, ye’ve got bags of time, ye’ve only got 17 miles tae go’.

A motivational speech delivered straight from a drill sergeant’s book on how to rebuild confidence we speculate.

She is right of course and this kick up the backside is exactly what we need at this time. To take a taxi at this last stage would lessen our achievement on completing the tour. The kindly lady will never realise how much her stoicism influenced us on our final drive to complete the journey by bike, our meeting was indeed fortuitous.

Turing right after Broadford our spirits drop as we encounter a strong head on wind and we begin to doubt the robust ones confidence in our ability. For 10 miles we press on before the wind drops and our spirits begin to soar as we realise that our cycle termination point is going to be met with time to spare.

As we round the final bend and Armadale pier comes in to view we let loud loose with gasps of delight as the enormity of completion takes its hold. We have completed the final 17 miles in two hours and find that we have an hour to spare before the Mallaig ferry arrives from the mainland. Kicking up our heels at a pier side cafe we enjoy a celebration Pizza and watch the ferry make its way across the Sound of Sleet with a goofy smile that one only acquires in instances of self-satisfaction.

As we board our ninth ferry of the week we look back at the eleventh island visited and look forward to a train journey that is regarded by many as one of the most scenic in Britain. An epic route that will see us pass tiny villages, vast moors, towering mountains and historic glens, passing the white sands of Morar with the Atlantic waves rolling in. From there we go over the Glenfinnan viaduct to Fort William. After Fort William the cloud gathers in and daylight retreats and we are denied the scenic splendour of Rannoch Moor and all vistas south. As the train trundles through the receding light Eric’s cold symptoms reach contamination levels as he coughs and sneezes all the way back to Glasgow. Such is the ferocity of his influenza symptoms, we suspect that no one in the shared train compartment will escape his contagious explosions.

In the end, Queen Street Station in Glasgow could not come quick enough for us as the debilitating cold takes its full effect. However, the feeling of achievement gained from cycling 183 miles in a week through differing weather conditions and many hills acts as a panacea for the body and mind. A week that started with heavy rain finishes with a heavy cold. We have braved gales/severe head on winds and met some bizarre and extraordinary people. We have been welcomed and cold shouldered. We have eaten some of the best cuisine that Scotland has to offer and dined in one of the shabbiest. We have sailed in most of CalMacs sailing fleet and sampled a breakfast in them all. We have cycled through glens/mountains that we have only ever dreamed of and sailed through waters that we never thought possible. Most importantly we have completed a journey of self discovery, one that will live long in the memory and one that we will cherish as the ultimate meander.

Link to holiday video

Day Seven: North Uist to Isle of Raasay

We part company with our roommates today as they head north to the Isle of Harris and we head east to the Isle of Skye. The ferry from Lochmaddy to Uig on Skye departs at 7am and the school group is less boisterous this morning as they prepare themselves for the crossing also. Before leaving the Outdoor Centre we post our fee for the overnight stay through a letter box in an office at the entrance as we have still not met anyone connected with the running of the establishment.
The cruise across The Minch between North Uist and the Isle of Skye takes 1hr 45mins in overcast conditions. As we approach the port we notice that the road takes a sharp incline on exiting Uig ensuring a lung busting start to our journey south through the island towards Sconser and our next ferry to the Isle of Raasay later in the day. The incline and the panniers prove to be a tough combination so we alight from our bikes and walk up the hill which affords us one final glance across to the islands we traversed the day before.

Once clear of the hill we enjoy a mostly flat or downhill 16 mile route into the islands capital of Portree. Deriving its name from the Gaelic Port-an-Righ, which translates as "King's Port" it dates back to a visit by King James V, plus a fleet of warships, in 1540, to persuade the island clans to support him. It had earlier been known as Kiltraglen. The centre of life in Portree has to be its harbour. This is in a superb natural setting, being surrounded by high ground and cliffs. The peninsula to the south is unflatteringly known as "The Lump", and once provided a spectacular setting for public hangings on the island. Today the harbour continues to be used by fishing boats, but is also home to other vessels, from pleasure craft to the lifeboat. After a quick visit to the local Bakers we sit by the harbour to reload our carbohydrates before attempting the 13 miles to the port of Sconser.

The long climb 4 miles south of Portree is rewarded with an exhilarating downhill run to Sligachan and its renowned Hotel. The name Sligachan is Gaelic for "shelly place", after the shells found at the original location. In about 1830 the Sligachan Inn was built at the current location at the head of Loch Sligachan and proved ideally placed when the gentleman climbers of the day discovered that this part of Scotland had mountains that in character (if not in height) could match the best available in the Alps. Most books about climbing in the latter half of the 1800s contain at least one photo of a group of tweed-clad and hobnail boot-shod men, stiffly posed in front of the Sligachan Inn. The hotel itself is home to a small museum remembering the exploits of these early climbers.

Aware that a ferry is due in at Sconser three miles along the road we bypass the tempting hospitality that the Inn has to offer and cycle to the mouth of Loch Sligachan and await the Isle of Raasay connection.

You know you are getting well off the beaten track in Scotland when you find yourself on an island that can only be reached from another island. The island of Raasay, some 14 miles long and a maximum of a little over 3 miles wide, lies off the east coast of the Isle of Skye. It may only be a fifteen minute ferry trip from Sconser, but is a world apart from its more famous neighbour. Whilst Skye is bare, sweeping and majestic, Raasay offers a more intimate landscape where pockets of woodland and hidden corners abound. The island is quiet, away from the main tourist routes, and its little capital Inverarish is a delightful haven. Whilst crossing on the ferry we are slightly dismayed when informed by a crew member that the Youth Hostel involves a three mile journey in which two of the miles are uphill.

His directions prove to be accurate as we struggle up a long forest hill road beyond the only sign of civilisation at the islands sole village of Inverarish. The reward that awaits us as we break free of the inhibiting forest growth is quite outstanding. The views over to The Red Cuillins to the south and the Trotternish Peninsular to the north are breathtaking and could not be bettered from any vantage point on Skye. It is within such splendour that we stumble across our tiny abode for the evening, the Isle of Raasay Youth Hostel.

Described as sleeping 30 in a rural location, it is no more that an old croft with a replica of a boy scouts hut placed on a slight hill behind it….can there be a more rural or inaccessible hostel in Britain? The isolation of its location inspires serenity and calm far from the rigours of daily life. The scout hall in which we have to bed down for the night inspires thoughts of having to stumble about in the dark whilst half asleep trying to locate the toilet in the nearby house. A small price to pay for such scenic splendour we venture;-)

Evening meal requires that we have to hurtle back down the hill to the only hotel on the Island, The Isle of Raasay Hotel. Passing through Inverarish we observe a public notice at the entrance to a children’s play park, which reads: ‘No Playing on a Sunday’….evidence of the strong Free Presbyterian doctrine which still prevails in many of these small island communities. The hotel provides us with attentive service and good fare as it begins to fill up with local’s intent on winning the Saturday night pub quiz.

A lingering cold that has been growing on Eric these last few days begins to make its debilitating effects more apparent as the evening progresses, with this in mind we decline our invite to the quiz and make our way back up the hill to our Hut for some Lemsip, Paracetamol and hopes of no overnight field trips to the toilet. We have a strict time schedule to adhere too and 33 miles to cycle on our final day, a bout of influenza at this stage in our journey has us wondering if we have bitten off more than we can chew.

Day Six: Barra to North Uist

The last three days of the journey are the ones that fill us with the greatest sense of apprehension. One hundred and six miles to be cycled before we finish with today’s trek the biggest challenge at 42 miles. Setting off from Castlebay at 7am we take the 1hr 40 min crossing north to Lochboisdale on South Uist. From here we cycle through three islands in a northerly direction, firstly South Uist, then across a stone causeway to Benbecula and then across another causeway to North Uist and onwards to our overnight stop in Lochmaddy at the top of the island.

Arriving in Lochboisdale we are tempted to climb aboard a small local bus to Lochmaddy as the driver sagely suggests that it will take us three days to travel through the islands by bike. Ignoring his playful banter we set off determined to prove him wrong, embarrassingly we head of in the wrong direction which brings further unbridled joy to his otherwise mundane life as he highlights the difference between north and south to the displaced townies.

South Uist is the second largest of the islands in the Western Isles, measuring some 22 miles north to south and 7 miles from east to west. The geography is divided into a series of north-south strips, each running the length of the island. The west coast faces onto the Atlantic and comprises around 20 miles of beach, broken only by a headland at the half-way point. Behind the beach is a strip of machair, or grassy duneland. East again is a strip containing a vast number of small fresh water lochans, and a series of dispersed crofting townships.

Heading out of Lochboisdale we find that the skies are clear and the sun is bright but not at a temperature that will induce sweat, perfect cycling weather? Sadly no, as we leave the sheltered port we become increasingly aware of the strong wind blowing down from the north. The wind at differing times is either blowing head on or diagonally across our bow, this is going to be a long day!! It is days like this that a cyclist grows to resent his panniers, as every hill presents a challenge and every turn in the road brings a hope of a change in wind direction.

Thankfully the single track road up the west side of the island is relatively flat with the mountains Beinn Mhor and Hecla to our right and the Atlantic always in view on our left. As we conclude our cycle through South Uist we pass a collection of buildings and domes degrading the summit of a scenic hill. They are part of the Ministry of Defence Missile Range that was built here in the late 1950s and which accounts for the number of "Danger Area" signs around the west coastal route we have just encountered.

Exiting South Uist we cross our first causeway into Benbecula. Nestled between North and South Uist in the Western Isles, Benbecula (Gael: Beinn na Faoghla, meaning 'mountain of the fords') is a low flat windswept island with a solitary hill that rises to 409 feet. It has an area of 20,270 acres comprising machair in the west and peat moorland in the east, and its main settlement is at Balivanich. An army base established here in 1958 was extended in 1971 to house military personnel servicing the South Uist rocket range and to the northeast lies the island's airfield. The total population numbers about 1300.

In 1960, HM Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, opened a causeway over the North Ford connecting with North Uist and in 1982 another causeway was extended across the sands of South Ford linking the island to South Uist. At 5 miles (8 km) in length, the North Ford Causeway is the longest in the Western Isles. It clips the western end of the island of Grimsay and runs over various smaller islands on route. It is at these causeways that we encounter the relative splendour of a two way road and stunning sandy beaches deposited by the swift tidal streams of the Atlantic as it funnels in and out of the many lochans.

Crossing the final causeway we enter into North Uist and the final part of our marathon. North Uist measures some 18 miles from east to west by 12 miles from north to south, and has one of the most complex topographies you are likely to find anywhere. The eastern two thirds of the island are characterised by freshwater lochans that seem to occupy more of the land than the land itself, plus deeply indenting sea lochs that reduce still further the proportion of green to blue. The sparseness of shops and eating establishments on these islands is beginning to figure prominently in our thoughts as we slog through the relentless wind, so it is a great relief when we reach the crossroads village of Clachan and find a well stocked grocer shop which refuels our energy stores for the final 8 miles to Lochmaddy. This final stretch to our end destination requires that we change direction to a south easterly direction and refreshingly with a tail wind escorting us. The final 8 miles are completed in record time as we find top gear on our bikes and freewheel to Lochmaddy rejuvenated in the knowledge that the longest cycle stage of the tour is complete.

Our stopover for the evening (Uist Outdoor Centre) proves to be a déjà vu experience for us as we find that there is no landlady/owner/warden at this establishment either…trusting lot in this part of the world. Although we have pre-booked we have not paid for our evening stay, so it is surprising to find the backpackers centre empty with its doors open. Following the same process as yesterday we throw our bags on a bunk bed and make our exit. To further add to the feeling of déjà vu we encounter our cycling roommates from the previous evening in Lochmaddy who inform us that they are also staying the evening in the open door establishment.

Lochmaddy is the village capital and main settlement on the island of North Uist, a bustling metropolis this is not. A quiet little fishing village and port we quickly establish that it has one shop and two hotels, one seems to be unnecessarily extravagant and the other, a tad more affordable. We settle for the latter and find the food to be extremely good value for money with a homemade tomato and pepper soup to die for.

Returning to our digs we find that our erstwhile empty premises is now being overrun by a marauding group of teenagers. Our hearts immediately dive bomb to the pits of our tired legs as we anticipate a sleepless night filled with adolescent high jinks. We also find that our roommates from last night have sought sanctuary in our room for another evening; they too have the look of the dammed about them. We needn’t have worried as our cynicism was to be proven unnecessary. The children were firmly marshalled by three teachers who had taken them over from Skye to play a game of Shinty with their local rivals and the teenagers turned out to be fine ambassadors for themselves, their school and their island.

The teenagers, like us and our roommates are quick to extinguish the lights and rest their weary limbs before an early rise the following morning.

Day Five: Oban to Barra

An early rise is required this morning to pack our freshly laundered gear followed by a leisurely cycle along Oban seafront to catch the 8:30 am ferry to the Isle of Barra, stopping at Tiree and Coll en-route.

This seven hour journey is one of the most scenic on CalMac's network. After clearing Oban Bay around the north end of Kerrera we pass by the southern end of the island of Lismore and sail the length of the Sound of Mull, with Mull on your left and Morvern, and later the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, on our right.

Highlights include Duart Castle, perched atop a rock overlooking the sea; Tobermory, glimpsed sheltering in its bay; and the lighthouse at Ardnamurchan Point. Beyond the point we venture into open waters and veer North West towards Coll and Tiree.

Tiree is an island known for its sandy beaches, which when combined with its excellent record for sunshine makes it an attractive spot for those wanting to get away from it all. Its generally low-lying landscape is interrupted only where it rises to a height of nearly five hundred feet at its very western end. Tiree's land area of 30 square miles supported a population of 4450 at the time of the 1831 census: today the population is nearer 800. Tiree is variously referred to as The Land below the Waves, The Land of Corn or The Hawaii of the North depending on who you speak to. Each of these descriptions holds true depending on the season - and sometimes the time of day! Tiree is probably the flattest of all the Hebrides, most of the island lying no more than 15m above sea level. However there are three hills which give superb views over the 30 square-mile island and much further afield of course. The highest of these hills, Beinn Hynish (141m) is dominated by The Golf Ball, a huge radar dome used by the Civil Aviation Authority for tracking transatlantic air traffic.

Coll, north east of Tiree has only about a quarter of Tiree's population on an island twelve miles by three. It, too, is known for its extensive beaches, and it also has a range of prehistoric relics including standing stones and a souterrain. The island has a small village, Arinagour, where a seal watches the latest visitors to the island depart the boat at the pier.

Further out, we pass the north end of the island of Coll, the Isle of Barra and the Uist Isles come into view in the horizon. On the approach to Barra we have to negotiate some tiny rock outcrops and various small isles as we enter Castle Bay and reverse on to the pier. It is in such confined terrain that one really recognises the bulk of these ships and appreciates the skills of the crew who operate them, as the ferry is carefully manoeuvred around some canoeists close to Kisimul Castle sitting strategically in the centre of the bay.

Kisimul Castle dates from the mid 16th century. The castle is completely surrounded by water and has never fallen to an enemy. The name of the castle comes from the Gaelic words cios (tax) and mul (mound).
Kisimul was abandoned in 1838 when the island was sold, and the castle's condition deteriorated. Some of its stone was used as ballast for fishing vessels, and some even ended up as paving in Glasgow. The remains of the castle, along with most of the island of Barra, were purchased by the chief of Clan MacNeil in 1937, who made efforts at restoration. In 2001 the castle was leased by the chief of Clan MacNeil to Historic Scotland for 1000 years for the annual sum of £1 and a bottle of whisky.

In such a small port it is not long before we locate our stopover for the evening (Dunard Hostel), which occupies a prize position overlooking the bay. As we travel towards our evening residence we become aware that a host of fellow passengers are following our lead which results in great confusion when reaching the hostel. On entering the hostel we find that there is no landlady/warden/owner in attendance. The question on the gathering hordes lips is: ‘Where are we all going to sleep this evening?’ By our calculations there are now 10 people looking for a bed for the evening and only 8 beds in the establishment on offer. Having pre-paid we decide to act quickly and decisively by going upstairs and throwing our panniers on the best bunk available. An act which is quickly replicated by two fellow female cyclists who are also of the mind: ‘If you are not fast you are last’.

Further investigation reveals that the owner/landlady/warden visits each day at 10am and any questions and payments can be made at that time. Avoiding a possible bun fight downstairs we quickly change in to our cycling gear and make our exit as an unfortunate couple vacate the premises in search of another place to sleep for the evening. We suspect that they have been voted out by the other house mates ;-)

The area of Barra is roughly 23 square miles, circumnavigated by a 13 mile single track road, the main village being Castlebay. The west of the island has white sandy beaches backed by shell-sand machair and the east has numerous rocky inlets. Sadly for us as we make our escape from squabbling house mates to board our bikes the rain comes down thus inhibiting the stunning scenery around the island.

Undeterred we press on and wonder at the haphazard placement of the many bungalows around the island. There seems to be no adherence to national planning regulations around the isle, an attitude of nonchalance to government guidelines is prevalent.

Minutes from an island planning committee would appear to proceed along these lines:

Archie: Angus, would it be all right to build a hoose over on that wee hill behind yer barn?

Angus: Aye nae bother Archie, sure its nae good for anything else. When dae ye want to start building?

Archie: Next week?

Angus: Not a problem. That will be a dram you owe me!

Archie: That concludes this months planning agenda; we will now adjourn to the bar.

Despite the apathy shown to council planners the beauty spots around the island remain unaffected, of which there are many…the beaches on this island would not look out of place in The Bahamas. Sadly the weather is %100 Scottish and we are relieved to return to the bunkhouse after 2 hours to dry off and prepare ourselves for an evening meal at the nearby Castlebay Hotel.

The hotel is believed to have been built in the 1860s and the Bar was constructed around 1911, primarily to cater for the people involved in the herring industry. Photos on the walls of the hotel show the bay completely filled with fishing boats and residents of the now uninhabited island of St Kilda. The setting of the restaurant is sublime with stunning views over Kisimul Castle to the golden white sands of Vatersay and beyond. The menu and service of food match the quality of the surroundings and we promise to make the long return journey sometime in the future to book a bay window table while watching the arrival of the evening ferry blessed by a summer sunset.

Bliss!!

Day Four: Islay to Oban

Port Askaig Islay; Wednesday 9:50am (summertime only). This is the only CalMac sailing of the week between the Southern Western Isles and the Northern Western Isles, arriving in Oban at 14:10. It is imperative that we catch this ferry or the rest of the holiday is doomed.

We are wakened before the alarm chimes at 6:30am by crashing waves across the shore at the front of the Hostel accompanied by a howling wind and heavy rain battering against our small window. Have we slept for three months and awoke in November? This isn’t summer, this is autumn giving way to winter. The blackness of the clouds makes it impossible to view the severity of the conditions but we need no metrological qualification to comprehend the task that awaits us.

We have to retrace our route from Monday back to Port Askaig; an allowance of two hours has been allocated to this task, again, on paper this looked ample. However today’s unseasonal weather conditions now make this a major challenge! Setting off at 7:30am we make excellent progress over the first 3 miles as the gale force wind behind us drives us north at great speed. The problems begin when the road veers on a easterly direction and the wind also changes direction; face on. This is where a person begins to doubt his/her own sanity. Cycling into a gale force wind we can confirm is only for the super fit, to cycle in such conditions laden down with panniers is impossible. The great Lance Armstrong would forsake his morning training run rather than brave these conditions. With no hope of cycling we dismount and decide to walk our way through the storm knowing that the road heads in a northerly direction three miles down the road. It is with subdued relief that we reach the turning point and remount our bikes for the final nine miles to the ferry terminal all the while being past at great speed by numerous cars as they make their comfortable way to the same destination.

We are firmly of the belief that there is no waterproof material thus far invented that could keep us dry this morning. Too further add to our woes the toilets and waiting area at the pier are under refurbishment as we seek out local shelter at a bus stop. Unable to change into dry clothes our body temperatures drop dramatically and it is a great relief when the ferry arrives on time to take us to Oban.

Once aboard and free of our soaked cycle wear we are constantly recognised by those fortunate to pass us en-route in their air conditioned cars. Settling in to the comfort and heat of the boat we sit back content in the knowledge that our cycling is finished for the day. Today’s adverse weather conditions make The Paps of Jura invisible as is almost anything below 100 feet. A tragic twist of fate for us as this is a renowned route for its breathtaking scenery along the western coast of Scotland. Stopping briefly at the Isle of Colonsay we push on through the Firth of Lorn passing Scarba, Luing and Easdale to the east and Mull on the west and onwards through the narrow Sound of Kerrera followed by a careful maneuver into Oban harbour.

The youth hostel in Oban is situated in a 19th century town house on the seafront with stunning views across Oban bay to the islands of Kerrera and Mull. Booking in to our grandiose location we quickly locate the launderette to wash and dry all the clothes that took such a soaking earlier in the day. As the clothes progress through the wash cycle we find a quiet hotel next door where we watch the mist begin to lift over the harbour as we indulge ourselves with an early evening aperitif.

Oban is a town in which we are familiar with, having visited there on two previous occasions this year. Our choice of eating establishment is also familiar to us as we return to an Indian restaurant we visited on our last excursion here.
A walk along the quayside afterwards helps to digest our mediocre fare before we settle into The Columba Hotel to watch Arsenal v Celtic on a large screen. Alas, a day that started in a miserable fashion for us both finishes in abject misery for Eric as Celtic are beaten 3 – 1.

Undeterred we trudge home to our separate dormitories to dream of adventures in the horizon and reflect upon challenges already conquered.

Day Three: Islays West Coast

Today is the only day not scheduled with an early morning appointment with a ferry. With this comforting knowledge we remain in our bunks while the less fortunate with their noisy children vacate their rooms and communal dining area. Getting out of bed and performing morning ablutions in such a small area requires strategic planning and foresight or collision is inevitable. With military precision we time our assaults on the bathroom to the second ensuring that one of us is solo in the room to dress without the chance of accidently injuring himself/herself against a nearby partitioned wall.

Breakfast complete we mount our bikes and revel in the lightweight of our chariots minus the panniers. Pressing on to Islay’s Atlantic coast we turn left after Bruichladdich on to the B8016 to our first stop at Scotland’s most westerly distillery. The distillery is situated on the western side of Islay, near the small town of Kilchoman. The distillery began production in June 2005 and was the first to be built on the island of Islay in 124 years. The distillery uses barley grown on site at Rockside Farm and malted at the distillery. The converted farm cum distillery houses an impressive visitor centre and diner where Emma samples her first Cullen Skink (a thick Scottish soup made of smoked haddock, potatoes and onions).

A couple of miles west of the distillery lies some of Islay's most beautiful coastal scenery, namely Machir and Saligo Bay. The road to the coast takes us to the top of a little hill where we get magnificent views over Loch Indaal and Loch Gruinart with the mountains of Mull in the distance. Following a rough single track road downhill we reach Machir Bay. The wind and light conditions on the beach are relentless in their diversity and we spend a happy hour absorbing its many mood swings.

Three miles to the north of Machir Bay lies Saligo Bay. The bay is accessible through a gate west of Loch Gorm. Passing an old military bunker we cross dunes riddled with numerous rabbit holes and descend to reach the breathtaking beach. Saligo Bay offers one of the most beautiful light conditions according to some photographers and is a favorite spot for people to watch and photograph an Atlantic Sunset. From this point 3000 miles due west is the coast line of North America and only water in between.

On our return to Port Charlotte we stop to capture an old red phone box situated miles from any form of civilization. Bizarrely we find that the phone box only accepts credit cards as payment, we ponder over the anger that must rise within an individual who, having traveled 5 miles to access this box finds that he/she has left his/her credit card at home. Has BT forgotten about this lonely box or has Ofcom forced them to keep alive a local emergency lifeline? We strongly suspect the latter.

Part of our holiday plan is to reward ourselves each evening with a gourmet meal followed by a rich dessert. Accommodation and transport around the Islands has been pre-paid and frugal in its conception. To compensate for our frugality we aim to enjoy the best that each stopover has to offer in the way of culinary delights. Tonight we bypass the overpriced and overrated Port Charlotte Hotel and wander along the main street to the towns other eatery The Lochindaal Hotel.

As mentioned in our Trip Advisor review this place badly needs some TLC. Too many, this is the sort of establishment that you would walk in to and walk straight out of i.e. stained covered carpet, nicotine walls, windowless toilet, dirty upholstery and a token drunk at the end of the bar. As we enter the premises and assess the surroundings the drunk at the end of the bar offers us a cheery welcome and then proceeds to step behind the bar and serve us a drink. He informs us that the Landlord is busy as he quickly pours our drinks and introduces himself. My gawd what have we stepped in to here we wonder! A bottle of Red Eye poured liberally from the bartenders hand accompanied by a piano player playing an out of tune honky-tonk piano would not be out of place in this saloon!

As the landlord returns and we settle down with our drinks we find the welcome from our hosts to be genuine and informative. On enquiring about some food the landlord informs us that this is the chef’s night off: but not too worry as he will put us something together should we wish. This kindly gesture results in the drunk resuming his title of temporary barman as other locals enter the bar and introduce themselves. As the night proceeds we find that many of the locals work in the Bruichladdich distillery and are not averse to sampling its produce thus providing us with anecdotes and hospitality that its expensive rival would bottle and sell if they knew the ingredients.

Amongst the many nuggets of information passed on to us by the locals is the news of gale warnings threatening to hit Islay’s shores the following morning. Returning to the hostel through the white streets we hope the forecasters have got it wrong as any possible disruption of the Wednesday ferry to Oban will result in the remainder of the holiday being abandoned.

Day Two: Arran to Islay

The early morning sun breaking above Lochranza brings a welcome orange tinge to the surroundings around Loch Ranza and the Castle directly adjacent to our front door as we take in the early morning vista. The rain ravaged glens of yesterday are coming alive and embracing a welcome respite from the precipitation that has been oh so familiar to them this summer.

Breakfast is served in the Ministers old study room and we are seated next to a fabulous bay window overlooking the tranquil bay. As we make quick work of the hearty breakfast we begin to threat at not making a thanksgiving prayer pre-breakfast in such pious surroundings.

After wishing our enchanting landlady our farewells we cycle the short distance along the shore road to Lochranza pier where we board the 30 minute crossing to Claonaig on the east coast of the Kintyre peninsula. Seeing Arran disappear in to the distance from this departure point is a truly wondrous sight. The northern hills which were covered in low rain filled clouds yesterday are now visible through sun dissected scatterings of cumulus.

Looking over to the Kintyre peninsular we notice a backbone of high land running down its spine and we realise that we have another hill to surmount if we are to catch our next ferry from Kennacraig on its western coast.

We have factored a 90 minute allowance for this 5 mile trip from Claonaig to Kennacraig. On paper at the time of its conception this seemed like an ample allowance. The reality of climbing hills weighted down with panniers and the constant breaks to capture still and moving images have not been accounted for and we find that we have to cycle down off the hill at great speed to capture our ferry with 20 minutes to spare. This 20 minute window turns out to be fortuitous as the ferry closes all its doors 15 minutes prior to departure and before we can catch our breath we are aboard and sailing towards Port Askaig on the Isle of Islay.

En route to Islay the ferry first sails down West Loch Tarbert. As it emerges from the loch the Paps of Jura spring into view, and then command the horizon, as they do throughout our stay on Islay.

To the east there are striking views across the low-lying island of Gigha, to the Kintyre peninsula: and across both Gigha and Kintyre to the still more distant mountains on Arran.

Port Askaig lies at the north end of the island via the Sound of Islay with close-up views of the southern end of Jura. As we arrive in port 2 hours after our departure another steep incline exiting the harbour catches our eye as we begin our preparations for our 15 mile cycle south to Port Charlotte; the best-preserved and most attractive village on Islay.

The Isle of Islay has around 3200 inhabitants, covers an area of 600 square kilometres and has an impressive 130 miles of coastline. Islay is famous for its malt whiskeys and has eight working distilleries on the island making the malt whisky industry one of the most important sources of income for the island.

Three miles short of Port Charlotte we pass through the small town of Bruichladdich on the shores of Loch Indaal which is dominated by its distillery. As we pass we notice an imposing copper still sitting proudly in its front yard with a letter from ‘Bruichladdich’ singularly embossed on 13 whiskey barrels underneath it. Bizarrely, protruding from the still there appears to be the lower limbs of a male hanging from the open end of the still. We find at a later date that this is a joke at the expense of the Americans and their errm, defense policies.

Apparently the distillery was monitored by the US Defense Threat Reduction Agency during the Iraq war on the grounds that the distilling equipment could be used to make chemical weapons. The distillery maintains a series of webcams and learned of the surveillance after a US agent informed them that one had broken down! Aware of the absurdity of the situation the workforce decided to expose the Americans over exuberant surveillance techniques by sticking these dummy limbs at the end of the still to mimic the eventual destination of a weapons inspector should our American cousins decide to send one over.

As we round the coast to Port Charlotte we are immediately struck by the blinding whitewashed residencies in the village. The village was founded by Walter Frederick Campbell in 1828 and named after his mother. The village was built to provide housing facilities for the folk who worked in the Lochindaal Distillery, which opened in 1829, and was also known as Port Charlotte and Rhinns Distillery. The first licensee was Colin Campbell, but he owned the distillery for only two years and many owners followed him. The distillery closed in 1929 but its buildings still remain and some are now in use by the Youth Hostel in which we will be stopping for the next two evenings.

We quickly settle in to our bijou room which is tastefully furnished with one bunk bed and a sink before making our way to the renowned Port Charlotte Hotel. This is a Hotel that often appears in all the tourist guides and Sunday brochures and we make haste in expectation of fine cuisine.

Ohh dear, such was the service we received we felt obliged to write the following report in Trip Advisor:

Port Charlotte Hotel Review

As mentioned, the meals and desserts were of a very good quality but we found that the barman’s surly manner completely killed the mood of the place for anyone who had not over indulged in the many Islay whiskies that he was selling at Gleneagles prices. Over lubrication of the local tincture is not on our agenda as we decide to soak up the ambience of the waves crashing against shingle and rocky shoreline; the whitewashed houses highlighted by moonlight guiding us back to our cell and sleep.

Day One: Glasgow to Arran (Tour of Western Isles)

At last, the meander of the year for us has arrived, a jaunt that has been weeks in its construction and taken months of training. A journey that has required foresight in its planning and one that has caused numerous bumps and bruises in its preparation, an adventure that requires adherence to strict time parameters and a resolve to conquer all the irregularities that the Scottish weather conditions can muster. A holiday that will bring a daily challenge of energy, strength and determination and one we hope will be rich in reward as we tour the scenic splendour of Scotland’s western isles by bike and boat.

On day one we take the train from Glasgow to Ardrossan on the Clyde coast where we will take our first CalMac ferry to Brodick in Arran and cycle north to Lochranza to our first overnight stop.

Day Two will see us take the short hop by ferry to Claonaig where we cycle over the Mull of Kintyre to board the ferry for Port Askaig on Islay and then cycle south to Port Charlotte.

Day Three will be a rest day on Islay in which we intend to discover its sandy west coast.

Day Four sees us return to Port Askaig to catch the ferry to Oban via The Isle of Colonsay and access to the Outer Hebrides.

Day Five, we board the ferry to Isle of Barra stopping at Coll and Tiree en-route and then circumnavigate the island.

Day Six and we take the ferry from Barra to Lochboilsdale on South Uist and than cycle through South Uist, Benbecula and North Uist to Lochmaddy.

Day Seven and we cross between Lochmaddy and Uig on the Isle of Skye and cycle south to Sconser and another ferry to the Isle of Raasay lying to the east of Skye.

Day Eight is our final day which takes us back on to Skye and a cycle south to the port of Armadale where we board our final ferry to Mallaig on the mainland and a train home to Glasgow.

Standing majestically at the northwest edge of Europe, these far flung islands offer a rich diversity of landscapes and species, arts, crafts and music: the islands have an abundance of beautiful habitats... peaceful, unspoilt and natural. Fresh water and sea lochs unsurpassable in their beauty and abundance provide a great resource for fishermen and bird life alike; an oasis of calm in a chaotic world.

Cycling through Glasgow’s mean streets on a Sunday morning is not for the faint hearted as we pass various groups of males and females struggling to identify there whereabouts and time of day as they stagger about blinded by alcohol and false bravado. The sight of two people with heavily laden bikes so early in the morning seems to fuel their booze sozzled brains with amusement, they, of course see no amusement in being in a near state of undress while being unable to put together two coherent sentences. Can we really be leaving all this behind ;-)

The 8:40 am train to Ardrossan has a mixed bag of passengers, some of whom are suffering badly from the Saturday night excess and some like us who are going to Arran to explore its delights. Our pre-plan for this part of the holiday was to take our time and break ourselves in to our new bikes gradually as we travel north from Brodick to Lochranza. Unfortunately the weather as we look across from Ardrossan does not look promising. Low threatening clouds close in on us as we alight from the ferry and the sky opens up in torrential fashion. Stopping to make a minor adjustment to Eric’s seat we press on undeterred on the 14 mile road which is becoming increasingly busy by the use of Sunday morning churchgoers.

Passing through the small coastal villages of Corrie and Sannox we stop to capture the mooring posts on their harbours which have been painted to look like sheep, they look so life like from a distance that you feel compelled to go out and check there authenticity.

The hill that rears before us at 11 miles comes as a surprise as we were anticipating a leisurely coastal stroll on our first day. As we struggle with our gear recognition on our new bikes we take great pride in reaching the top of a two mile hill and take great exhilaration as we freewheel at great speed all the way down into Lochranza.

Lochranza is the most northernly sited of Arran's villages and is located in the north-western corner of the island. The village is set on the shore of Loch Ranza, a small sea loch. Lochranza itself lays along both sides of the loch it is named after, though the main focus of activity is on the south western side. The mouth of the loch on this side is home to the ferry slipway, and as you progress along the shore from here you pass a string of cottages, hotels and guest houses and the village hall. Dominating the small village is the stunning Lochranza Castle which sits proudly on a curved shingle spit in the bay. Opposite the castle lies our overnight stop; Castle Kirk guest house which as the name suggests was the old castles church at one time and has now been transformed in to a time preserved B&B and art gallery.

Although still early in the day we attempt to gain early entry to our accommodation as the rain has soaked us through and we are keen to gain some shelter to change our clothes. Our early arrival catches our landlady unaware as we wait patiently as she gasses on relentlessly to a friend on the phone oblivious to our presence downstairs waiting to be booked in. Coming off the phone she immediately suggests that we should give her all our wet clothes which she duly washes and dries for us. This is a thoughtful gesture that we are grateful to take her up on, as we prepare ourselves for an evening dinner in the nearby Lochranza Hotel.

As we stroll along in the early evening for our meal the torrential rain has subsided and the locals are out counting the damage and clearing blocked drains while hordes of Red Deer feed in gardens oblivious to the homeowners concerns. An extraordinary coexistence which seems to suit all concerned and one that adds to the fairytale feel of this quaint little idyll.

A Glimpse Of Wales

Our official summer holidays begin this week with our first meander over the Scottish border.

With excitement not experienced since childhood we wake up to the tune of a youthful Cliff Richard’s ‘Summer Holiday’. Imagine if you can, two grown adults dancing to the strains of Sir Cliffs’ cheesy anthem at 6am and you have a near vision of the surreal episode that Emma’s near neighbours are encountering as we prepare for our expedition to Wales and Eric’s quest to ‘Race the Train’. It should be mentioned at this point that the train in question is not an ‘Inter City’ but a more sedate method of locomotion which still prevails in Wales, the narrow gauge steam loco.

Setting off early to avoid the morning Glasgow rush hour we make great speed and reach our first port of call; Portmeirion, North Wales in 6 hours.
Portmeirion is an Italianate resort village in Gwynedd, on the coast of Snowdonia in Wales. The village is located in the community of Penrhyndeudraeth, on the estuary of the River Dwyryd, 2 miles south east of Porthmadog. Portmeirion has served as a location for several films and television shows, most famously serving as The Village in The Prisoner.

Built as a tribute to the atmosphere of the Mediterranean by Sir Clough Williams-Ellis the design of the village resembles the Italian resort of Portofino. Taking 50 years to construct Williams-Ellis constructed the village between 1925 and 1975. He incorporated fragments of demolished buildings, including works by a number of other architects. Portmeirion's architectural bricolage and deliberately fanciful nostalgia have been noted as an influence on the development of postmodernism in architecture in the late twentieth century.

The obvious Italian/Roman/European architecture and the many oddities which abound on every corner radiates an eerie feel as the human mind convulses with mixed signals as it struggles to compute the knowledge of being on a Welsh estuary whilst being surrounded by extreme foreign influences.

The village, estuary and adjoining gardens prove to be photographic manna from heaven despite the overcast conditions but sadly we have to cut or visit short and move on down the coast to our weekender stopover at the seaside resort of Barmouth.

In Barmouth, we find the quintessential seaside resort, backed by jagged crags, fronted by ash-blonde sands and bordered by the dramatic Mawddach estuary. Like so many Victorian seaside resorts Barmouth has been sadly neglected over the past thirty years or so as it has failed to move on with the times. Still in situ exist the prehistoric amusement arcades and tacky gift shops with their double-entendre post cards and humour that should have passed away with the death of Benny Hill and the tedious ‘Carry On’ ensemble.Sadly in the modern time, these resorts are now used as a haven for waifs, strays and runaways and are best avoided because of there presence. Also the proliferation of: the stag night, the hen night, the pub day out, all hell-bent on consuming as much alcohol as possible with little consideration given for others make these once family friendly resorts a place to avoid if a quiet drink in good company is your prime consideration.

Our guest house which lies on the outskirts of town and slightly beyond the drunken hordes is fancifully titled ‘Harbour View’, admittedly the premises does possess an impressive vista of the harbour and the renowned single-track wooden railway viaduct that crosses the estuary but sadly we are placed in a room that overlooks a neighbors back door. Otherwise the house is in good condition and the landlady of a type which makes the British seaside resort famous/infamous.

Following a hearty Welsh breakfast the next morning we board a local train which takes us over the impressive Barmouth Bridge and along the scenic Cardigan Bay to the race start point at Tywyn.

Race the Train takes place alongside as far as practicable the route taken by the Talyllyn Railway on its journey to Abergynolwyn and back. In order to do this the course uses a mixture of public roads, lanes, un-metalled roads, tracks, agricultural land, and rough grazing pastures. The terrain varies all the time and is very wet & muddy in places; the route also ascends and descends quite steep terrain and runs on narrow footpaths with little chance of overtaking. On the plus side, the course does offer the chance for the viewing public who have boarded the train the chance to catch the runners at various vantage points along the hazardous route. Studded footwear is a prime consideration for this race; subsequently the well worn studs on Eric’s old gutties prove to be less than adequate for the task as he skates around the muddy course in a gingerly fashion, eventually completing the 15 miles in a painfully slow, 2 hours and 14 minutes.

On returning to Barmouth we dine in a plastic Thai restaurant which serves us an instantly forgettable meal but fortunately the night is redeemed when we find the pub next door to our B&B: ‘The Last Inn’ offers a friendly ambience in unusual surroundings exampled by a unique well where the mountain at the side of the establishment forms part of the pub wall and where fresh spring water forms a pond within the pub itself.

After a brisk walk along Barmouths endless beach the next morning to walk off the fried breakfast we head north along the Cardigan coast to Caernarfon which is dominated by its majestic castle. The castle's majestic persona is no architectural accident: it was designed to echo the walls of Constantinople, the imperial power of Rome and the dream castle, 'the fairest that ever man saw', of Welsh myth and legend. The location of the town creates a lovely view across the Afon Menai towards the south of Anglesey and we spend a couple of hours there soaking up its rich history and stunning backdrop before moving on to Snowdon the highest mountain in Wales.

Described ‘as probably the busiest mountain in Britain’, we find on our arrival at Llanberis at the foot of the mountain that the description lives up to the hype. We witness an unbelievable collection of people hanging around waiting to board the numerous rack railway trains hording the masses up the mountain. On investigation we find that the price for this sedentary lift through the clouds (£25) is pitched to suit the punter with big wallets and low aspirations. Time constraints on the day restrict us from ascending the summit in a more self-rewarding manner and we resolve to come back at a later date to claim the mountain by foot.

Driving back up the M6 in a sprightly 5 hours brings an end to the first part of our summer holidays as we rest up for a week in preparation for part 2 of our vacation with an epic cycle around the Western Isles of Scotland.

Link to 'A Glimpse of Wales' video