Part 4: Porridge - lifeblood of Scotland

Porridge - lifeblood of Scotland. Our breakfast this morning started with it and was followed by bacon sandwiches then scrambled eggs with mushrooms. Best meal of the day is breakfast.

Because of the time taken last night to find a campsite we decided to make for the hostel at Howemoore that Mike the American had mentioned. According to a local Geoff met on his visit to the Store this was "Only a wee 12 miles up the road," and (Geoff's eyes must have lit up here) you could get a bus to it.

Geoff's enthusiasm for a bus journey led to his making strong persuasive points such as, "We're not on an endurance test you know". It was whilst we debated the strength of his arguments that the bus came and went.

We started walking.

A couple of miles south of Bornish the road changed and became more like our initial expectation. It narrowed to a single track with a ditch running on either side and there were passing places for the cars every hundred yards or so. This gave the sense of isolation and of being in a wilder place that we had originally expected, but it did make walking less companionable. Walking abreast blocked the road for passing cars and because of the wind we couldn't hear them coming up behind us.

The road, or more accurately the ditch, did provide unexpected interest. We began to notice the empty half bottles of spirits; Gin, Vodka and Whiskey mainly, and we began counting them - before we lost interest we'd reached a total of fifty in less than half a mile. Half bottles, we guessed because they fit in a coat pocket and judging by the number, most of the drivers must carry at least one and throw it out of the window when empty.

A 'Wee 12 miles' it may have been but the wind and the weight of the packs was making it very hard going. We stopped for a pee, then for a cigarette, and then just because we were in a cutting out of the wind.

At a later stop I adjusted my backpack, taking my share of the tent from its horizontal position on top to a vertical position down the back. This wasn't ideal from a balance point of view but it did make a surprising difference to my wind resistance - I wished I'd thought of it yesterday.

The wind was a genuine problem; we weren't surprised by its presence but by its consistency, the steady strong pressure that never gave up and just wore us down. It made level ground feel like a hill and a hill like a mountain, excusable then, that although we'd only walked 12 miles, by the time we reached Howemoore we'd had enough for the day.

We later realised a basic mistake in our planning - the wind direction is prevalent from north to south and most walkers land at the top island and walk south with it behind them - we were doing the exact opposite!

Howemoore is a small cluster of houses ribboning the road. It's distinguished by a petrol station (the only one we noticed on the islands) and the ubiquitous Post Office. It was at the petrol station that we encountered our only grumpy islander.

When asked for directions to the hostel he grunted and stabbed a finger in the general direction we should take. Following this unfriendly finger, we turned west off the road and followed a track to its end where we found a clump of buildings containing a couple of very old crofters cottages, one or two more modern houses and the ruins of a church complete with graveyard.

Nothing we'd seen so far looked like our expectation of a hostel - nothing looked big enough, so we asked at one of the newer houses. Pointed in the right direction by a friendlier native we found a really old crofter's cottage. The roof was thatched and covered in chicken wire held down with bricks and stone blocks, it had a whitewashed exterior and it didn't look as though it would hold more than two people.

We walked round it looking for something official like a "check in here' notice, we didn't really think that this could be it. Failing to find anything we knocked on the door and entered.

Entering Howemoore Hostel was like re-entering the womb. There was no wind, it was quiet and it was warm. It was warm because Mike, our American from the beach, had arrived earlier and got the stove going. Dirty, scruffy, damp and draughty it may have been, but after walking outside it was heaven and, like Doctor Who's Tardis, the inside was bigger than the outside.

It held a toilet, a sink and two bedrooms with cast iron two-tiered bunk beds; it also had a living room. This contained the cooking area with a double gas burner, a table with upright chairs and a couple of clapped out easy chairs but best of all the wonderful, squat black stove.

We dumped our packs, made a brew and settled back to investigate the stove. A glass front for flame watching which also opened for stoking and poking, a tray at the bottom for removing the ash and a curious circular device for controlling the air intake. Its most important feature though was that it was warm.

After chatting and joining us in our brew, Mike left to visit a nature reserve at Loch Druidbeg; we sat round trying to think of a good reason to go for a walk on the beach.

Not many good reasons sprang to mind but we went anyway. With the wind now behind us walking was a pleasure but as soon as we reached the beach and turned north we had it in our faces and were sandblasted. The fine white sand was forced into every crevice including our faces and to this day there are still traces of it in my jacket pockets.

Geoff, as usual kitted out for every occasion, pulled sunglasses out of his pocket to protect his eyes, Dave and me just had to put our heads down and get on with it.

On our return to the croft we had a visit from the warden, a friendly, middle aged woman who chatted for a while before collecting £3.45 from each of us. It was a reasonable swop; in exchange she left us a bag of coal and a bag of peat. Whilst chatting she said that in summer the Hostel would be heaving, with people sleeping on the floor, in the chairs and camping in the surrounding fields. March may not hold the best weather but at least, I thought, we had the place pretty much to ourselves.

Dave set about cooking and we, including Mike, shared an excellent evening meal. After dinner conversation flagged a little but then we discovered the Hostel Log Book which we later realised was common item found in most hostels.

The log usually takes the form of a cheap exercise book in which anyone can write anything they fancy. Reading or writing probably performs the same function - to pass the time in the evening or during bad weather. The entries varying in length, humour or wistfulness and make good reading, like the guy who wondered what the lone Australian girl was like whose entry was a day ahead of his, he was really pissed off he'd missed her.

Most of the entries mentioned the weather, like the shortest "Better now the giant hailstones have stopped", or the longest and perhaps the funniest written by couple who came over for New Year's Eve. They were in the middle of an argument about who'd had the crap idea to make the trip when their car decided to pack up on them.

They walked two miles in the rain to find a phone box and then called the AA (Automobile Association). After taking ten minutes to locate them on the map, the AA took a further ten to decide it was "unlikely they could get someone out to the Outer Hebrides on New Years Eve".

"It might just take a couple of days," they said. The disappointed couple started their return walk to the car when a passing Good Samaritan picked them up and, after nipping home for his towrope, towed them and their car to the hostel. They perked up after lighting the stove and it seems also made up their argument.

In the morning their luck had changed - the car started first time. There is no mention of whether the AA man came looking for them or not.

We read all the log entries and I'm surprised no one has thought to publish edited versions of them, they'd make good light reading even if you'd never been camping or walking. We finished the last of our whiskey along with the log and, as we'd kept a second stove going in the bunk room, all we had to do was spread our sleeping bags out on the mattresses and get in.

Even though we were no where near where we'd planned to be, our second day on the islands had finished very well. The three of us were self confessed snorers but had either drowned each other out or were too knackered to notice, either way, none of us had been disturbed.

See some Pictures from Keith's Trip