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 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.

The Cobbler

Convinced that Spring has truly arrived after the Baltic conditions encountered on Beinn Odhar last week, we are relived to find high cloud cover above our climb for today; Ben Arthur or The Cobbler as it is known colloquially.
The Cobbler is just short of a Munro but is still one of Scotland's most spectacular mountains due to the unusual skyline and fabulous views. One of a group of mountains known as 'The Arrochar Alps' The Cobbler was the happy hunting ground of many of Scotland's early climbers and climbing clubs.

Arriving at the car park west of Arrochar at 12:30pm we struggle to find a parking space, which reflects the mountains popularity and proximity to the heavily populated central belt. Crossing over the A83 we start our ascent up the gentle zigzags as a beautiful vista of Loch Long and Arrochar open up below us. As we pass a small reservoir the three peaks of The Cobbler become visible with the figure of the 'crooked shoe maker' - the Cobbler, clearly distinguishable on the right hand peak (see photo). The next mile or so gives gentle relief over welcoming terrain after the endless zigzag climb out of Loch Long. At the foot of the final climb the path offers two varied routes, the easy way is to carry on to the right and follow the path around the back of the hill and ascent the final summit via the many well placed stone steps up the side of the hill. Or, alternatively you can veer left and head straight up the front of the final summit which entails climbing over various ill placed rocks and potential leg breaks for the unwary.

We take the wooses’ route and climb round the back of the hill and look on in amusement at the number of climbers descending down from the surrounding peaks in ant like fashion to the aforementioned car park. As we clear the numerous thigh building stone steps we sweep round to see the jagged summit populated by numerous parents, children and dogs giving the dangerous summit a surreal vision of a family day out. As we ascend the final ridge views to the south open up to Loch Long, Gareloch, the Firth of Clyde, Bute, Arran and the Atlantic beyond. To the east are views over Arrochar to Loch Lomond, Ben Lomond and as far as the Lake of Menteith in the hazy distance. To the west views open up on a clear day of the isles of Jura and Islay. Views to the north take in a huge swath of the highlands with many well known peaks which would only be identifiable to us with the help of map & compass.

To truly capture the summit it is required that you access the centre peak. To achieve this, the climber has to pass through a small opening in the rock which leads to a narrow ledge facing a 150 ft vertigo inspiring drop. Once on the ledge an awkward sloping ramp leads to a final step onto the flat summit rock - on which few choose to stand upright. (The large rock on the left of panoramic above). Again the wooses’ option is chosen by us as we watch various brave (foolhardy) individuals’ display their high levels of testosterone.

On capturing our photographic panoramic and a brave effort by Eric to surmount his own personal precipice (see photo) we return via the bolder strewn path down the front of the mountain, which may be shorter in length but is no shorter in time to descend as the various obstacles in the path ensure and uncomfortable and time consuming effort to achieve flat ground.
As we return to the car park six hours after departure we find that it has emptied and bizarrely we realise that we are alone for the first time today.