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10 May
1998 Chain
Gang Tempted
by some evocative names, SIMON WILLIS discovers that the pristine beaches,
laid-back locals and, crucially, the flat roads of the Outer Hebrides make
them the ideal place to begin his cycle-touring career. It's the
names of these islands which first seduced me. The very sound of the words,
"Outer Hebrides" somehow implies wild, weather beaten adventure.
Look at a map, and the names get even better. Lewis, Harris, Berneray,
Benbecula, North Uist and South Uist; to most of us, these places sound
further away and harder to reach than all of Europe. They are names to be
heard late at night on the shipping forecast, safely tucked up in bed.
Staring at that map, I ached to know what such places were really like. So
when a friend told me that, for the most part, "they're as flat as an
aircraft carrier", I knew they'd be the perfect place for our first
bicycle tour. The Outer
Hebrides are the curved chain of islands which look like they tore themselves
away from the crinkly bits of Scotland's North West coast and drifted out
into the Atlantic Ocean. When I suggested riding almost their entire length
my wife wasn't at all sure. After all, I'd only done one bike tour recently,
while she had hardly sat on a saddle since school. Her bike was hanging on
the garage wall, gainfully employed, preventing a large quantity of dust from
landing on the floor. I deployed my secret weapon - I read her the role call
of islands we'd visit and once again those evocative names did their stuff. Three days
later we were leaning on the handrail of a Caledonian MacBrayne ferry,
chugging out of the port of Uig on the Northern tip of Skye, wondering what
on earth we'd let ourselves in for. I normally wouldn't recommend doing
things in such a rush, but this time it worked in our favour. We decided to
stay at Bed and Breakfast and Guest Houses so we wouldn't carry a heavy tent
or sleeping bags, just a map and an accommodation list which we collected at
a tourist office. Having no idea how far we could pedal in a day, we planned
to book rooms day by day and, being September, we correctly guessed the
islands wouldn't be too busy. To carry
our stuff, I'd managed to borrow some specialist cycle panniers, two small,
two a little larger - but compared to a suitcase, both were tiny. We could
see no way to squeeze a week's worth of cycling and smart clothes into these
four little red bags lying in front of us, until it dawned on us that we were
the ones who would have to haul the things for almost a hundred miles. It was
highly effective motivation. Ruthlessly, we attacked the piles of clothes on
the bed, throwing out all the "luxury" items, paring life away to
its barest essentials, getting into the spirit of the Hebrides. There was
only one moment of disagreement; it seems a hair dryer must never be
considered a luxury. The moment
we arrived, we decided to cheat. Over after dinner coffee, in the front room
of the guest house at Tarbert, I opened the detailed map of the island I'd
bought before getting on the boat, and realised immediately that there was no
way two beginners were going to cycle on this island. So much for being flat.
I wouldn't be surprised if the Ordnance Survey ran out of brown ink printing
the contours. A German couple, who were also guests, overheard our
deliberation and invited us to join them in their car for a day sight seeing.
It was a friendly gesture and, after all, one of the appeals of cycling is
the range of people you meet, so we accepted. It proved to be a terrifying
experience. We spent the first full day of our cycling holiday, hurtling
around Lewis & North Harris at autobahn speed along the narrowest roads,
cowering in the back of a foreign Ford Mondeo, while the driver kept turning
around to ask questions about Scotland. Not quite the adventure I had in mind.
The
following morning we pedalled out of Tarbert heading South and immediately
tackled a hill. It was tough, but the previous day's drive, during which I
saw my life flash before my eyes not once but several times, proved to be all
the encouragement I needed to embrace my two wheeled machine. What a relief
to be travelling slowly and to enjoy a place with all of our senses; the
sound of the sea birds, the touch of a breeze and the scent of peat. This
contact is what makes cycle touring so special and such a rich contrast to
everyday life, through which most of us race at gutter height, watching the
world through a laminated windscreen, spectators not players. Once away
from the coast, we turned inland and cycled down Glen Laxdale, heading for
the Atlantic side of the island. The road was flat, smooth and relatively
traffic free, a man-made corridor cut through a wide open prairie of peat.
This oldest of fuels is still burned on the fire in many homes on these
islands, and great trenches ran away from the tarmac where blocks had been
cut. Every so often we'd ride past what appeared to be a black igloo, but was
in fact bricks of peat, stacked and left to dry. Its earthy smell clung to
the island like a cloak, it's influence flavouring everything. Even the water
in my bottle tasted a little like Laphroiag. I've been
lucky enough to travel to some wonderful places, and walk on beautiful
beaches in the Grenadines, Mauritius and Bermuda, but none of them prepared me
for the panorama of Harris' West Coast. Here the Ocean has excelled itself,
carving perfect bays and depositing sand so white you need sunglasses even on
a cloudy day. I could hardly believe this really was the Atlantic. The wide
arcing bays were so shallow, the light bounced straight back off the bottom,
turning the sea into a crescent of vibrant blue. We spent a long time in this
special place, resting our legs and watching the waves at work. It was
still early when we reached Leverburgh on the South of Harris, so rather than
find a place to stay, we decided to take the ferry across to Berneray, the
next island in the chain. While we waited, Wendy chatted with a fisherman who
had just landed a crate of crabs, and was working his way through them, pulling
off the claws and tossing them into a bin. "They're all going to
Spain", he told her, "like most of the sea food from around here.
But the customers don't want small crab claw like these, just the bodies. You
can have them if you want". Never one to refuse an offer, she accepted
his large handful, stuffed them into a spare carrier bag, and strapped the
stinking remains onto her bike rack. We had
hoped to stay in a Bed and Breakfast on Berneray, possibly the one Prince
Charles used when he visited here, but there were only two on our list, and
both were closed. We'd heard there was something called a Gatliff Trust
hostel on the island, and although we had no idea what to expect, we imagined
it would be a good alternative. The fishing boat, which doubled as a
passenger ferry, was sitting low in the water as it approached the island,
surprisingly full of visitors, all heading for the same place. "Look at
that ruin" remarked Wendy, "Wasn't that old cottage built in a
beautiful spot". The captain gave her a sideways look, not sure if she
was joking. "Err, that's not a ruin, lass. That's your Hostel". No sooner
had the boat tied up then we jumped ashore and raced each other back along
the coast to see who'd get the best beds. As it turned out, there were no best
ones. They were all rusting, creaking constructions with bare metal springs
and one threadbare blanket per person, not good since we weren't carrying
sleeping bags. But somehow, that didn't seem to matter, because we were so
shattered and because the hostel itself was so special. With low white walls,
a thatched roof, and one long room, it was a traditional Berneray croft and
it was indeed built right on the beach. We spent the night boiling and
cracking open our crab claws, savouring the delights of the Hebrides. A car
ferry, almost as rusty as the hostel beds, took us the short distance across
the water to North Uist which, according to the map, seemed to be made more
of water than solid ground. Small lumps of land were trying to rally together
to form an approximation of a proper island, and failing. It was a wonder the
place didn't just float apart. Building a road through here was an
engineering achievement, and perhaps tarmac was the only way to hold
everything together. These last
four islands were once separate, but now North Uist, Grimsay, Benbecula and
South Uist are linked by a series of causeways which, when they were first
suggested, caused more than a few concerns. The people of North Uist, along
with those on Lewis and Harris consider themselves one of the last bastions
of radical Protestantism, where the Sabbath is still strictly observed. The
Southern Islands, by contrast, were more Catholic in their beliefs.
Consequently, the causeways had to bridge more than a geographical divide. From
top to bottom the ride took us two days and, although a guide book says you
can do it in one, it probably doesn't allow for talking time. Talking has to
be factored into any calculation because, without a conversation, you aren't
allowed to buy anything in any shop. Money seems of secondary importance,
information is the currency that is exchanged. And it is vital to remember
that everyone either knows or, more likely, is related to everyone else. No
matter how bad the dinner in last nights B&B, don't even whisper it or
word will be flash down the islands that trouble makers are on the way. For
the record, I wish to state that we didn't have a single bad meal, anywhere,
at any time. Honest. You never know, I may want to go back one day. When we
began our bike ride we really had no idea whether we would be able to make it
across the first island, let alone the length of the Outer Hebrides, so it
was with immense satisfaction that we rolled into Lochboisdale, the main port
at the end of South Uist, where we sat outside a cafe and watched the ferry
load up with sheep wagons bound for Oban. It was tempting to ride on board
with them and just keep travelling. But our week was over; we had to head
back up the islands, but fortunately not under our own steam. We'd checked
that the bus company was among the enlightened few which are happy to carry
bikes. The driver even helped us load them onto his vehicle which, in an hour
or so, dropped us back on North Uist at Lochmaddy, ready to catch the other
ferry back to Skye. On the bus
I noticed something which, although small in itself, seemed to encapsulate
the friendliness we experienced on our ride. The driver had been chatting to
one of his regular passengers in Gaelic, the first language of people in
these parts. After we boarded, they spoke to each other in English. They
weren't talking to us, or even about us, but it seemed that, out of natural
courtesy, they didn't want us to feel excluded. Add to this the fact that
every, and I mean Every, local driver gave us a wave as he passed, and you'll
see why we were taken with these Islands. Charming people, clean air, wild
scenery and spectacular beaches; this simply has to be the perfect place for
a cycle tour. Oh yes - and best of all, it's flat. Travel
Brief We chose
to go in September, not through any great planning, but acting on the spur of
the moment. Fortunately there was no wind, because with prevailing patterns
it would probably have been blowing into our faces, greatly slowing our
progress. With hindsight, perhaps we should have done the ride the other way
around. If you're taking a mountian bike, it's worth fitting road tyres,
since knobbly ones create too much rolling resistance and are much harder
work. We cycled
about thirty miles a day and the 90 mile ride from Tarbert to Lochboisdale
took three days. Getting to and from the islands took two more days, plus our
terrifying car trip around Lewis made a total of six days. Dinner B&B
cost us between £25-£35 each, while the Gatliff Trust Hostel was just a few
pounds. The whole trip cost around £450. Ferry
Information (Skye-Lewis-N.Uist) Caledonian MacBrayne 01475
637607 Tourist
information in Tarbert 01859 502011 and Lochboisdale 01878
700286 Gatliff Hebridean Hostels Trust properties
can't be booked in advance. |
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