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Part 4 - All kinds of Everything
See Pictures from Keith's Trip
We woke in Baleshare Hostel to porridge, bacon, eggs and the best of black puddings all washed down with numerous cups of tea. A wash and brush up and a visit outside to the toilet in the hen-house - no sign of the hen killing dog yet (if we had seen it we'd have pointed out the early morning cockerel to it). Said our goodbyes to Mike and made our way leisurely to the main road to catch our Post Office bus.
Disaster - when it arrived it was full of German walkers who weren't walking. The driver got out and came over to sympathise. "I might manage a couple of you," he said. We stood around looking sorry for ourselves and made a few mournful noises. Eventually the driver relented, re-stacked his newspapers and the Germans and managed to get us all in.
The Germans commented on the amount of rubbish to be seen and on the dead sheep (which could have been the same one that we saw), they seemed even less impressed with the Hebrides than us. The drive was uncomfortable and boring, particularly for Dave who had my pack jammed in his face but it was still an improvement over walking as yesterday's storm had done a 180Πturn and was now back with us.
The third hostel on Birnaray Island had seemed a good place for our next stop and our bus driver had given us the option of getting out where the road forked to go to either Newtonferry or Lochmaddy. As we had no food and didn't know if we could re-stock at Newtonferry we decided to stay with the bus to Lochmaddy.
By the time we arrived all the shops were shut until two for lunch. Newtonferry was a seven mile walk and the last ferry left at four, this meant if we waited for the shop to open we couldn't make the ferry. The choice was a night near the pub in Lochmaddy or a possible foodless stay on Bernaray. Lochmaddy (and the pub won).
Waiting in the pub was a doubly good idea, it gave Dave an opportunity to ask the barman about good fishing spots, and the two pints we had went down very well. We also checked the OS map and this, coupled with the barman's advice, pointed us to a spot about two miles away that looked rocky enough to give a chance at catching something.
There was an official hostel in Lochmaddy, this was a large old building that looked as though it could hold twenty or more but unfortunately it was closed until Easter. Our way to Sponish Harbour (the spot we'd picked off the map) led us past the local Sheriff's Office and past a public telephone.
On the basis that 'if she knew I was going to phone she'd worry until I did', Pat (my wife) had forbidden me to phone. I couldn't now pass up the opportunity so I gave her a ring. I think she was surprised that I was actually enjoying myself.
The road wandered around and past the best attempt at a garden we had yet seen. Firs had been planted to give shelter from the wind and the ground level looked lower, we guessed it had been dug out and filled in with healthy top soil.
Eventually the tracks wanderings gave out at a gate and a path continued through a field of sheep. This path led to what the guy behind the bar in Lochmaddy had called 'The Swinging Bridge" This description was accurate.
It was a suspension bridge about thirty yards long and wide enough for just one person. And it certainly did swing, up and down not side to side and when the three of us hit the same rhythm it was like walking on a bouncy castle.
At the end of the bridge a short flight of stone steps turned sharp right onto a very narrow brick causeway and then onto a field of gorse with a single stunted tree. Beyond the tree was Sponish House, the largest building we'd seen anywhere on the islands it was empty and derelict, the result of what looked like an extensive fire.
Past the house was Sponish Harbour. We set-up camp on the landward side of the harbour on the banks of an inlet to Loch Houram. Once again we'd searched for the perfect camp sight and this time we'd failed. I'd looked further along the track only to find either waterlogged land or exposed rock.
Our default site was on uneven ground and was a little to close to the high water mark for my piece of mind, but it was sheltered and the ground soft. The ground sloped quite steeply in both directions and we had a short and perhaps somewhat sharp discussion on its merits.
I didn't believe Dave's assurance that he wouldn't roll down the slope in the night. Geoff felt he had a better 'none rolling' chance on his airbed, so he took the high ground. Our pitch may have sloped but we were in a beautiful spot.
The grassy knoll we'd pitched on was just above the high water mark and the view on all three sides was impressive. The ambient light was soft and gentle and the quiet was broken only by the occasional cry of a passing gull.
It was only the forward view that was less than perfect looking out as it did on the scrubby machair we'd walked through to get here. The ground around the tent was littered with empty mussel shells left by the Oyster Catchers and Gulls. These remains raised our hopes and we had visions of piping hot bowls of Moules Marineer to go with the sea trout Geoff and Dave were sure to catch.
The tide was out in our inlet so we set off back down the track to find a fishing spot. Climbing a rocky hill by the harbour we found a likely group of rocks overlooking the sea where the two fishermen got kitted up. Although the bartender in Lochmaddy had said the fishing round here should be good they had no luck (possibly because Dave was using silver paper from a cigarette packet as bait), there again, the bartender could have been lying - most fishermen do.
In recompense - the spot they were fishing from was beautiful, perched as they were on rocks with the sea directly beneath them, America would have been the only land to swim to in the east. I hung about for a while hoping to see some action, in actions absence I decided to provide my own and hunt mussels. No luck here either, I was obviously looking at too high a water level mark.
Returning over the cliffs to our campsite I passed an exposed face of almost dry peat. This gave me the idea of building a fire to see if I could get some of it going. There was plenty of wood on the land-ward side of the inlet and shaving some of the dryer pieces for kindling I soon had a small fire spluttering away in the shelter of the rock face near the tent.
The fish-less fishermen returned and our dreams of sea trout with mussels were replaced with mincemeat, pasta and noodles.
Not as far to the pub as last nights journey but the thought of the return journey (over the swinging bridge) did register as a possible cause for not drinking too much tonight. Pool and pints filled our evening in the pub with a last minute trip to the Gents to fill up our water bag (wished we hadn't filled it quite so full, it was a bugger to carry back).
The track was fine on the way back, apart from dropping the water bag twice, it was when we left the light behind we had problems. We did have torches but these were only short range, fine for showing what we were walking on but not for where we were going.
Nearly reached someone's front door the first time we got lost, not noticing we'd gone through a gate and over a garden. The second time we had trouble getting out of the bog. Sponish House, as we passed it in the dark, looked a bit spooky, you could just make out the ghouls behind the windows waiting to leap out.
Eventually we got back to the tent and even had enough water left to make a brew despite the number of times I'd dropped the bag. Not surprisingly this night turned out to be the worst we'd had.
The problem of course was the slope, all three of us gradually sliding down and ending up piled in a heap at the bottom of the tent. This, coupled with the normal farts, snores and usual camping noises made sleep practically impossible. When we finally did drop off we seemed to be woken only 5 minutes later by what sounded like every sea bird on the west coast breaking open mussel shells on the rocks in front of the tent. This, as I'd failed to find even one mussel yesterday, really pissed me off.
A long time to become active this morning, two cups of tea still found us lying about inside the tent. We couldn't even be bothered cooking our porridge even though I'd carried that damned water bag all the way from the pub so we could have some.
Today was Friday and we'd worked out that we'd need to be up at seven tomorrow to catch the ferry. This proposed early start coupled with none of us looking forward to another night on the ski slope made us review the current situation.
We decided to catch today's ferry. Yesterday's had left at 2.00pm., we new this from the concern the Germans on the bus had expressed about missing it. Making the mistake of assuming that today's ferry would leave at the same time we pottered about until for some reason I decided to check the time table.
Three people were galvanised into instant action, it was now 11.00 and the ferry, according to the time table left at 12.00. We'd never knocked down a tent and packed so fast in our lives. Frogmarching back towards Lochmaddy we converted the Swinging Bridge into a yo-yo as we swept over it. Lochmaddy and the ferry were reached in time.
We hadn't had much time to worry about sea-sickness until we heard a CalMac steward softly singing to himself. As we reached the top deck we came upon him mopping up the contents of some unfortunate's stomache, and as he moped - he sang,
"All kinds of everything, you see it in spew", to the tune of a Dana 80's hit.
Fortunately the hour and a quarter crossing to Skye was even calmer than our initial crossing from Oban. Daylight and sunshine even made it better, we could sit out on the deck and admire the view. We even paid the restaurant a visit - Scotch Pie and chips of course.
Our pleasanant sea voyage was followed by a twenty-minute wait on the docks for the bus to take us to The Kyle of Lochalsh. The bus, when it arrived, drove us 500 yards into Uig proper where it pulled up again and we waited a further thirty minutes. Dave had a word with the driver about times and it seemed we wouldn't make Oban today.
Our plan then became to get as far South as we could and then make an overnight stop, perhaps even camp again if we could find a decent site. Skye was impressive with plenty of variety in the scenery and this, coupled with one or two naps on the way made a pleasant journey pass quickly, even though I hate travelling by bus.
Our last ferry journey was the shortest, this was the quarter mile of water that separates Skye from mainland Scotland at the Kyle of Lochalsh. As the bus, for safety reasons, can't carry passengers onto the ferry, we had to get off and walk on board. All of us that is except Geoff who, was still packing his bag whilst the bus took off.
He panicked, he'd seen us waive to him as he looked out of the back window and when he did finally get off his bus it took him a while to find us. At one point he confided "I thought I was on my way back to the Outer Hebrides"
So here we were we'd reached mainland Scotland again, we'd also reached a fairly laid back state of mind. We were on our way home and were just killing time until we could get there - no rush - no worry. There'd been some loose talk about camping here but I think that's all it was - loose talk, all of us fancied a bed for the night.
The Tourist Information office couldn't be found so we'd have to locate our own accommodation. Wandering out of town didn't turn anything up but on our way back we noticed a sign by the roadside pointing to a row of cottages "B&B £12'. A sweet old lady came to the door and showed us a closet that just about held a double bed. When we pointed out that there were three of us she even offered to move out the dressing table so that one of us could sleep on the floor.
Our wavering must have been visible because she then tried to find her next door neighbour who, she thought, might be able to put one of us up. The neighbour couldn't be found and our erstwhile landlady was clearly disappointed when we said we'd have another look round and come back to her. She was desperate to let her room to three ruffians, amazing when you think of opening up your home and security all for £36.
Accommodation was not now our only problem. Cash had disappeared, for some of us it had disappeared days ago, but now it was a common problem. I'd used practically all of mine on the bus fares from Uig which at £21 each had made a big hole in my emergency supply. Now I/we were down to £16 total and the banks were shut and the hole in the wall didn't want our plastic.
Our options were simple; camp, find a cheap B&B or find somewhere to take plastic. The little old lady was cheap but £12 was a lot to sleep on the floor. We'd passed the Lochalsh Arms earlier, this took plastic and offered en-suite rooms with TV and tea making for £20 a head. An hour later we were showered, shaved and changed into the best gear we had left.
Feeling fresh and on top of the world we found a cafe that didn't serve scotch Pies and a pub with pool tables - this cleaned us out of cash. No choice but to go back to the hotel. The bartender flapped as I asked for our drinks to be put on my room bill. He asked the manager, I signed a bit of paper and we were off.
Our bartender friend warmed to us when we bought him a scotch and told us tales of six-mile tailbacks for the ferry and the whole town brought to a standstill for days in the summer months. He relished his frightening tales of gridlock and we relished his bottom shelf of malt whiskeys, he had a whole row of them and a sample of each (to hell with the plastic total) was felt to be in order.
Geoff found a spiced rum that was more to his taste and passed on most of the malts. Despite our best persuasive efforts our bartender friend refused another malt and shut the bar more or less on time. This was probably as well for us for, with unlimited drinking time we may well have blown my credit card rating. With few options left but to go to bed - we did.
At nearly double the price of that we'd paid in Oban our breakfast was poorer. The trouble with hotels is that you pay a lot of money for the privilege of not having to leave your room for a pee.
Our three hours bus ride to Fort William was tedious with even the grandeur of Scotland's scenery becoming mundane after a while. Arriving at twelve, we had a couple of hours to kill before our next bus left for Oban.
We ate in McTavishes Kitchen and a walk down the main street turned up a friendly whole in the wall - we were solvent again. Cash rich - shopping was in order. It was Pat's (my wife) birthday on Saturday but Fort William had nothing I thought she'd like - which is normal for me, I'm hopeless at buying presents.
Geoff fared better, eventually he returned with a cuddly Loch Ness Monster and a whistling mirror.
Having finished with shopping we went back to the bus station, which was lucky because the bus left early. I think it goes when it's full and to hell with the timetable. The highlight of this journey was that when we arrived, Dave's car was not only where we'd left it but was also in one piece and, as a bonus, didn't have a parking ticket on it.
Yet another attempt at shopping, this one more successful than the last. Dave and me settled for clothes for our better halves and whiskey for ourselves - then into the car and on our way home.
This return journey was the same as most from a holiday, sorry your holiday's finished but glad to be going home. Six hours for the run including a food stop where a distraught Dave couldn't believe we'd finally passed the Scotch Pie border; he had to make do with a hamburger.
Our de-briefing discussion on the way back had a philosophical note to it. The Hebrides had been an interesting experience. In some respects the islands had fallen short of our expectations and in others had exceeded them. In theory we'd had a rough idea of what to expect but the reality had surprised us.
We knew, for instance, that you could camp anywhere that wasn't fenced off, but we didn't know that the ground would be too waterlogged or exposed to pitch the tent. We also knew that it could be very wet and very windy (and had been lucky to miss most of the rain) but didn't realise how the winds' steady pressure could wear you down.
Expecting a desolate wilderness we'd been disappointed by the rubbish strewn flatness. We'd also managed to avoid any serious disagreements and return as least as good a set of friends as when we set off. This was no mean achievement - but I do wonder what would have been the outcome if we hadn't found the Hostels?
So - the great expedition was over - well not quite.
By Wednesday, still telling tales of our adventures to anyone who'd listen. I received a phone call. It was from Mike. I'd left a note for him on the table as we left the Baleshare Hostel with my phone number and a reminder to stay in touch. I'd not really expected we'd hear from him so soon, if ever, and here he was phoning from Glasgow. He had a flight home to catch from Heathrow and said it would prove difficult to travel and catch in the same day - so was there any chance we could put him up for a night.
I arranged to pick him up at 5.30 on Thursday and then phoned Dave and Geoff to let them know. A Hebridean re-union was planned - in other words, a night out in Bollington. I arrived at Macclesfield station to find Mike sitting on the wall admiring the view. I took him home and Pat fed us a sterling mixed grill. Mike digested this in the back garden with a bird manual and binoculars. Our walk down the hill to the Queens Arms pub further aided digestion and here we met Dave, Geoff and families. We also introduced Mike to some of the pub's locals who thoroughly confused him with conflicting advice about changing terminals at Heathrow.
We also introduced him to everybody's friend - Robinson's best bitter. In retrospect I think it may have been wiser to have warned Mike about Robinson's. American beer tends to be on the weak side and Robinson's can get to you pretty quickly. Post closing time found us in Dave and Lisa's house drinking Glencoe whisky. Dave couldn't be persuaded not to get out the dreaded guitar and Mike picked it up and gave a fuddled rendition of a song about being his own grandpa. He could play and had a decent voice but his choice of an admittedly complicated lyric, coupled with the beer made him fizzle out half way through.
Eventually we decided it was time to go home. And Mike decided to go to sleep on the pavement outside Dave's house.
I couldn't believe it. Again!
The combination of whisky and beer seems to inevitably turn people into sacks of wet potatoes. Unfortunately there was one significant difference between Geoff, a week earlier, and Mike tonight. Mike was a damned sight heavier than Geoff and had longer legs.
His legs were the problem, they wouldn't bend and one or other of them kept sticking out of the car door as we tried to fold him into the back seat. With Geoff and Pat assisting (Geoff now being experienced in this common problem) we did manage to get him back home, up the steps and even up the stairs to the bedroom. We let him flop onto the bed, took off his shoes, threw a cover over him and left him for the night.
As seems usual with these beer attacks, Mike seemed none the worse for wear the next morning, in fact he seemed quite cheerful. After breakfast I drove him to the station and on the way we exchanged addresses, Mike seemed a nice gentle sort of guy and I thought it would be nice to stay in touch.
Mike's parting remark as we unloaded his kit from the boot was "You guys sure do drink some strong pop".
Perhaps he was right but I think it was more than the beer that got to him. Mikes visit had rounded of our Journey. It cancelled out the anti-climax you feel when returning from something that's been planned for a long time. It also provided the perfect postscript for this story and made Geoff feel a whole lot better about his collapse in Dunollie Castle. It's a pity there wasn't an open fire in Dave's House for then the smoke from the fire could truly be said to have affected our American friend.
This journey to the Outer Hebrides was my first island jaunt and inexperience led us to make a number of mistakes.
Firstly - we travelled in late March - big mistake, and secondly we travelled in the wrong direction - even bigger mistake.
I have been back - later in the year and travelled down not up the island chain. This later journey totally changed my opinion of the Outer Hebridees - they are amongst the most beautiful of the Scottish Islands. They may lack charm but this is more than countered by the wildness of the scenery and the abundance of flora and fauna little seen elsewhere. I'd recommend them to all - and I'd also recommend they're visited in May - and that you travel from Loch Maddy down to Loch Boisdale - and if the Black Houses are still there - try one, you might still find our entries in the Log Books.
See Pictures from Keith's Trip
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