Keith Higginbotham's Hebridean Odyssey Part 1 - Overnight in Oban Walking Hiking & Rambling

Keith Higginbotham's Hebridean Odyssey Part 1 - Overnight in Oban

Part 1 - Overnight in Oban

Holidays are about getting away from it all - about leaving behind the plastic paraphernalia of modern day life - the clawing claustrophobia, the unceasing demands and pressures of industry and its daily routines.

Imagine instead the mesmeric murmur of a peat red mountain stream - the fragrant freedom of a windswept Scottish Isle.

Imagine instead being in the ruins of a medieval castle with the sooty blackness of a Scottish night about to fall.

Imagine Dave and me, both rather drunk with a comatose brother-in-law dangling between us and a very steep, very slippery path the only way down a very steep hill. Not perhaps the best way to start a holiday?

The following is an extract from a journal I kept during a walking tour of the Outer Hebrides. Dave (son-in-law) and Geoff (brother-in-law) accompanied me and, as will become apparent, Geoff is not so much accident as incident prone.....

A number of delays, both in setting of and during the journey itself, meant that by the time we arrived in Oban we'd missed the ferry for South Uist - nothing for it but to find somewhere to stay for the night.

We may have worried the owner of the first guest house we tried on Dunollie road for she seemed to decide she had "no singles" very quickly. Success at our second attempt though, single and twin rooms at £15 a head - not bad value for money even if the landlady did forget to put the clocks forward the following morning (the start of British Summer Time) and argue we were too early for breakfast.

Having booked in we sallied forth to buy our ferry tickets and, just to be on the safe side, two types of anti-sea sickness pills - all of us to varying degrees worrying about our seven hour sea crossing the next day.

What can you do on a rainy day on in Oban? We found a pub. A bar, which Dave remembered from a previous visit had snooker and pool tables, was located. We threw some beer down our necks and some money down a quiz machine while waiting for a table to become free. We didn't mind not being able to answer sports questions or not being able to pot a ball at snooker but we did find having to ask for the toilet key every time we wanted to pee a bit irksome.

Several pints and games of snooker later we were a bit bored and a lot hungry. We took a walk during which Dave consumed the first of the fifty-six scotch Pies he would eat during the coming week. Geoff developed a taste for battered haggis and, not to be outdone, Dave then had a battered black pudding - all good wholesome Scottish produce. Rather conservatively and perhaps with thoughts of the crossing on my mind, I only managed a steak and kidney pie.

Dave decided it was time to show us the ruins of a castle round the North side of Oban Bay, which he said "Was not very far away and would make a pleasant walk. In any case," he added, "It had a view to make the effort worthwhile."

In other words he wanted to go to the top of a hill for a smoke.

With dusk and light drizzle of rain falling we walked on the beach round Oban Bay skimming stones into the sea and counting the bounces. Dave's 'not very far away' turned out to be over a mile and a half's walk. Leaving the beach we crossed the road and came to the steep, zigzag path, which led up to the ruins of Dunollie Castle. The drizzle made the path slippy and the ascent tricky but the view was worth the effort. Looking out over the sea the dusk made the passage through the Sound of Mull past Kerrera Island seem like the gateway to another dimension.

Sheltering in the ruins under an archway Dave lit up. We commented on the view, on the darkening gloom and on the smell of wood smoke coming from the fire a young couple round the corner were sitting round. Strange place for courting we thought. After a short while Geoff said he didn't want to smoke anymore.

Then he said "This is really having an effect on me".

Then he collapsed.

He seemed to fall in slow motion, sideways on, folding himself down to gently meet and follow the contours of the ground.

I suppose that considering we'd been drinking from mid-afternoon, and had just climbed a rather large hill, that a moment of stunned inactivity was deserved - so we had one.

I remember Dave giggling in the background as I bent down to feel Geoff's face. It was cold and wet and our first thoughts were that it was going to get colder and wetter so we'd better get him on his feet. We got him upright but not quite on his feet, they just seemed to dangle between us with his toes not quite touching the ground.

It was while he dangled between us that the guy from the fire came over and asked us if he was all right. "Oh yes," I replied. "He's just had a wee bit too much to drink".

Then he said "Perhaps the smoke from the fire's affected him?"

To this day we're not sure if the guy was just joking or being genuinely solicitous. Either way it became a phrase that dominated the coming week. It was also a phrase that Geoff would spend the rest of his life living down.

So here we were - in the ruins of a castle in the rain. A comatose brother-in-law dangled between us and a steep and slippery path was our only way down. We walked him up and down a bit hoping his legs would switch to automatic.

Then it hit us - it's going to be dark in a minute. 'Oh oh,' I thought, 'we'll never get him down.'

Drastic measures were called for. Positioning ourselves on either side of Geoff we slung his arms over each of our shoulders and carried him to the top of the path.

Problem! The path was barley wide enough for one, let alone three abreast. Instant lateral re-thinking led to both his arms going round Dave's neck and with me taking the rear clutching handfuls of jacket; we began the treacherous descent.

That we actually reached the bottom without falling I put down to the fact that we were a little drunk, I don't believe we'd have made it sober. But make it to the road we did and began carrying him back into Oban.

We passed a group of sea divers who pretended to be more interested in putting on their wet suits than in our strange ensemble and I believe we relieved the boredom of more than one passing motorist - a Volvo slowed almost to a standstill obviously wondering if we intended to dump the body we were carrying over the wall and into the sea.

Halfway back, on Corran Esplanade, we were feeling Geoff's weight so Dave asked him if he could manage on his own.

"No, no," said Geoff, who knew when he was onto a good thing, "I think the old legs could do with a bit more rest yet."

So, we carried him the rest of the way to Oban and into the Poop Deck Bar behind the North Pier where we sat him down and ordered three pints.

Two of the pints were for Dave and me, the third was to put in front of Geoff in the hope it would make him look normal and there was always the chance that the sight of it might wake him up enough to drink it.

Geoff didn't drink his pint but he did wake up enough to relate his experience to us. He enthralled us with graphic descriptions of the skin sliding off his face and onto the ground, and just how comfortable the ground had been.

He was also surprised at how quickly we'd walked back to Oban and was disappointed when we told him he hadn't. Geoff's tale, along with a general discussion on the efficacy of wood smoke as an anaesthetic passed the time nicely until he felt normal enough to manage on his own.

Leaving the bar we stopped at the chip shop on George Street. Dave needed a scotch pie to help him recover and Geoff felt that a fish might warm him up a bit. Back in the B & B Geoff said he'd take the single room and disappeared for the night leaving Dave and I to share the twin room.

The following morning - all of us in fine spirits and none the worse for the previous night's wear, we went down for breakfast at nine sharp only to sit in the cheerless dining room and wonder why we were on our own. No friendly fire, no orange juice and no milk for our Cornflakes.

"Breakfast's not 'til nine you know boys," said an eventually surfacing landlady. "It is nine," we chorused in unison.

"No, no it's only ten past eight," she replied.

"You've forgotten to put your clock forward," we politely pointed out. We could have added 'stupid bugger' but she then panicked so much we didn't have chance.

"Everyone will be down in a minute," she muttered half to herself, "and wasn't it a good job no one had a bus to catch"

We certainly weren't in a hurry and once we lit the fire and switched on the telly, were quite happy to wait for our eggs and bacon.

The outer Hebrides are fiercely religious, in fact the further north you go the fiercer it gets.

The ferry doesn't sail on a Sunday. CalMac did try it - once.

They sailed OK and even docked, but the local preacher laid himself down under the car ramp and refused to move for such an ungodly activity. The ferry returned still fully loaded and CalMac haven't tried since.

So, as our ferry didn't depart until 0.30am on Monday, we had a Sunday in Scotland to fill.

Dave suggested a trip to Glencoe. On a previous visit he'd passed a spot that looked interesting but had been too knackered to explore it then (having cycled up and over Rannock Moore) and today seemed a good opportunity to re-visit the spot.

Although the day was misty and overcast the drive passed quickly enough, that's one of Scotland's benefits - even in poor weather the scenery's always interesting.

We parked a couple of miles up the pass where the river runs under the road and donning our walking gear we set off to follow it into the hills.

The going was spongy and wet. The river twisted and turned as it cascaded over short falls into crystal clear pools of icy water.

I knew they were icy 'cause I put my hand in, this was done in disbelief after Dave had stuck his head in. His head must have a thermal coating because the ducking didn't deter him from stripping off with the intention of immersing the rest of him.

Fortunately he did a 'toe test' first. This deterred him. However crystal clear and invitingly deep a pool might be, jumping naked into ice-cold mountain water could be a heart stopping experience. Discretion proving the better part of valour, Dave re-dressed quickly but not quite quickly enough to avoid Geoff taking a rather interesting photograph of him.

I'm not sure that having toes more sensitive than your head doesn't indicate a cause for worry, but photographic evidence of naked pool paddling in Glencoe (in March) certainly should.

Walking to the top of the Glen was a lot like walking on sponge; the ground was badly waterlogged from what must have been days of continuous rain. Stopping to make a brew we chatted to a passing climber who was on his way back.

People are surprisingly friendly when out walking; you're a member of a club even when you don't know you've joined one. Nothing eventful from the climber, he was just looking forward to a good session in the pub to round of his weekend.

As we reached the top of the Glen we were nearly on the snow line and the temperature dropped accordingly. With the fine mist turning once again to rain, and having covered what was for us a respectable distance, we turned round and retraced our steps.

We made compulsory stops to add stones to marker cairns and by the time we returned to the car we were quite wet. So with socks, hats and boots spread over all the heater vents we returned down Glencoe Pass.

Medicinal whiskey was called for to drive out the chill and as luck would have it, the cafe at the bottom of the pass dispensed the nectar.

It also dispensed Scotch Pies. Dave, who was by this time a confirmed Pie junky, couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a fix and so had two.

Dryer, fuller and perhaps slightly less sober we drove back to Oban. The thought of a seven and a half-hour sea crossing deterred serious drinking, but what else can you do in Oban with the cinema closed on a Sunday (that pesky preacher again).

We'd parked outside MaCaulays Bar in Argyll Square on our return and it proved too difficult not to go in.

A splendid place is MaCaulays Bare, dark wood beams and a mellow nicotine cream ceiling and brass taps inset into the bar to dispense water for your whiskey. A couple of glasses later when conversation ran thin, we looked closely at the pictures on the walls.

On first sight these had appeared to be old prints of old ferry boats, which they were. But closer inspection showed that the majority of these were on fire or in the process of sinking.

We decided we were really looking forward to our crossing. Tired from our walk we had a rather desultory evening and eventually moved from the Maritime Disasters bar to walk round the same snooker table we'd walked round the night before.

Eventually we'd killed enough time and moved to board our ferry. Unloading our gear from the car boot we were about to wave it a fond farewell when we noticed a last minute hitch. The car's intended parking place for the coming week was in fact a twenty-minute maximum parking zone. Geoff drove it to the quay side road thus avoiding a two thousand-pound parking fine.

Packs on backs we staggered round to Ferry Terminal 3, only to discover that the reassuringly large vessel we had earlier thought was ours was in fact, hiding 'The Lord of the Isles'.

This was our ferry and was a much smaller and rather puny looking vessel upon which we were expected to cross a good stretch of the Atlantic Ocean.

Nothing daunted, we walked up the gangway, dumped our packs and set off to explore our home for the next eight hours - a closed bar, a lounge full of kids watching a blank television and an observation deck full of already sleeping people.

The trick with this ferry was obviously to board as soon as possible and find a horizontal-sleeping surface. Not to do as we did which was to hang about in the terminal until, puzzled by the numbers of people going up the gangway, we asked if we could board. "Of course ye can," said the slip of a girl behind the desk. She obviously wondered if all sasanacks were as thick as we three.

The 'Lord of the Isles' left on time at twelve thirty by which time we'd found somewhere to sit or lie.

I was on a reclining chair which, although comfortable enough for sitting, I found difficulty in sleeping on. Luckily the crossing was very calm allowing me to sleep through 'till about four.

The cafeteria opens all through the night so I had a cup of tea and a sandwich whilst looking out of the window. The black window became boring so I dozed on and off until we reached Barra on Castlebay Island when the change in engine noise and the bump and bang of unloading woke me and as it was now becoming lighter, I had a view.

The sea became choppier as we steamed past the Islands of Flooday, Hellisay and Eriskay.

Eriskay is where 'Whiskey Galore" actually happened, where the SS Politician foundered with a cargo of twenty five thousand bottles of whiskey on board. Eriskay is also where Bonny Prince Charlie first set foot on Scottish soil to start the fateful '45 rebellion. Eventually, history unfolding before me or not, I'd had my fill of bleak seascape and dozed off again.

At 8:00am on a grey and rainy Monday morning we docked at Lochboisdale on South Uist .............

See Pictures from Keith's Trip

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