Summer Tour Log · Steve Wattam

I’ve submitted my PhD thesis, and it’s about time for a holiday. This article is a bit of a log/journal, covering a week’s tour of the highlands and islands of Scotland. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, or maybe neither. Whatever, here it is. This is the first time I’ve written a tour log, so don’t expect it to be amazing.

The Route

Since I had a couple of weeks, the plan was just to set off and see what looked fun. The main plan, however, was not to plan: I brought along a camera and was intending to use it as an excuse to explore a little.

The photographs in this log can be seen in this album, and each day’s riding is on Strava:

The Train Out

I set off early to meet the train at Lancaster, in part because I hate chasing trains and in part because it would take about 8 hours to reach Mallaig. Calder Vale was uncommonly misty and still, with the hills of Bowland Forest peeking through at the top.

At the station I stopped to confirm my cyclist status by purchasing a copy of the Guardian and tucking it onto the rack. This would prove my main distraction for the next several hours, until we reached the west highland line. I’ve been this way before, but today it was clear and sunny, making the views rather impressive.

Someone on the train mentioned that Arisaig was a great place to camp, so I alighted there and rolled down into the town. Arisaig itself is very picturesque, and the first thing I came across was the community centre/tourist info place, which had a little exhibition and sold locally crafted things. The day’s special was potatoes.

Weilding my map of local campsites I went along the coast and back, trying to find a good one, before retiring to the pub in the village. Arisaig seemed full of people like me: travelling elsewhere.

Onto Skye

After a night near someone snoring loudly I went to explore the dunes near the campsite. The beaches around Arisaig are impressively pretty, and it almost seems like a shame that most people merely pass through on their way to Skye.

On the way back I stumbled into a people playing with nerf guns in the dunes. Sadly I left mine in the office.

The day’s vague intention was to get the ferry over to Skye, and then hop over to Glenbrittle. This is roughly what I did, the only notable complication being the headwind that blasted from the west and became very noticable around the Cuillins. Due to that, and the location of a good pub, I stopped at Sligachan.

On the ferry someone asked if the Lancaster I was from is in Pennsylvania. I guess they must work for Google maps.

I spent the evening sampling their amazing selection of whiskeys and talking to someone I met who was trying to finish off the Munros in the nice weather. He’s also a member of the Bob Graham 24 hour club: open only to those who have completed 42 of the lakeland peaks in under 24 hours. I’ve always regarded that as a bit insane, but also alluring, so it was fascinating being able to interrogate someone who’d actually done it.

North through Skye

I’d tried to pitch out of the wind, but the night was loud due to the ’tent blowing the fuck everywhere’ noise. I was awoken with the offer of tea at about 9 by Steve, from the night before. I’d mentioned that my tent wasn’t great in winds, and his van had been buffeted so badly that he thought he’d make sure I hadn’t blown away. I’d later bump into others who were staying at Glenbrittle (which is coastal) and had to evacuate their tents that night, so it seems my choice of campsite was lucky.

Due to the cloud lingering on the Cuillins, he disappeared at about 10:30 back to bag some hills on the mainland, and I set off for the Talisker distillery. This was one of the few of the touristy things I intended to do, and it was rather underwhelming: it’s not that the tour was bad, the problem is simply that the process of making whisky is very simple.

The road to Uig, where I would await the next ferry, was fun: the main roads allowed for plenty of momentum and the smaller ones were very beautiful. I still had good weather, and this leg was some of the most enjoyable riding of the trip. There was a set of roadworks and a convoy system at one point, where an couple pulled along side me and started a conversation about how they both owned Surly LHTs too.

Uig was quite utilitarian compared to other places I’d been, and I had to steel myself to leave the tent and explore. At the pier there were three seals, playing in the water and chasing fish being thrown by some fishermen. I hung around here for the next couple of hours speaking to someone from Sheffield who taught me the basics of fishing. I even caught my very first fish. Though it wasn’t quite large enough to eat, that probably didn’t bother the seals…

Skye to Harris

The ferry sailed at 2pm, giving me time to do the 25 mile loop around the top of Skye. This would involve some more delightful B-roads, but I didn’t know that it would involve so much climbing. The initial route east led me to a mountain pass of sorts, where the road snakes down a stunning set of cliffs. As it was still sunny, there were millions of people who’d driven up and were taking photos of the landscape.

The ride around the top revealed some more Minecraft-style scenery, but the headwind was once more an obstacle on the final approach, and my legs weren’t feeling great.

The ferry over to Harris was next, and delivered me to Tarbet with its curious abundance of mobile broadband signal. Woo. I used this to find campsites, selecting Horgabost before changing my mind due to the general state of the weather forecast and diverting to Lickisto. This would prove to be a very wise move.

On the way I took the ‘Golden Road’. This road is serpentine, taking what seems to be the most undulating route through Harris’ many pools (many with fish farms) and hills down the east side. My legs were a bit ruined at this point and every bump had me crawling up in 1st gear accompanied by a cacophany of pain.

Rest day!

So, I mentioned the weather forecast: 40mph winds and driving rain. With a tent I don’t trust in winds I’d selected the campsite according to its sheltered nature, and found an absolute gem. Lickisto campsite is nestled in the lumpy eastern bits of Harris, and each pitch is hidden away in the undergrowth. Instead of the usual washing facilities, there’s a communal blackhouse with cooking facilities, wood-fired stove, sofas, and a daily stock of bread.

Obviously, I spent the day in that. There I met an artist and her dog (above), many people who were up there for the walking opportunities, and a group of four from Nottingham, whom I joined in playing cards and stoking the fire.

‘Sun’day

Saturday night was even windier and wetter than the previous one, but I was determined to accomplish something during the day, so I packed up the bike and headed off for a lap of the island. This was another thing I had planned from before, as this ride was heartily recommended by my brother.

He probably didn’t do it in 40mph winds and driving rain though. For the first 20 miles I averaged about 6mph and even had to pedal downhill. This got me to the cafe at the bottom of Harris (incidentally the only place open on a Sunday), where I once more coaxed my hands into functioning before completing the final 10 miles or so with a tailwind. The last bit was actually fun.

Now, Harris is very remote, and the combination of an unplanned rest day and Sunday meant I’d run out of food. Thankfully, my friends from Nottingham came to my aid here: packing lunch for me in the morning in return for some camping gas. Thanks guys.

I returned to the blackhouse to dry out, and got into more card games whilst absorbing wood smoke. Fun.

The Race

I was now feeling very tired, and finding the cycling portions of this trip much harder than usual. Perhaps it was whatever is causing my ongoing abdominal pain, or just not being used to the weight of the bike, but it contributed to my decision to explore a little less and go find a hotel.

The ferry to Ullapool left at 2: last tickets at 1:30pm. I’d set off a little late, and calculated that I needed just under a 10mph average when I stopped at Tarbet for breakfast (which consisted of some ‘big biscuits’, that look like scones but, er, aren’t).

Now, 10mph is well below my previous average even on a 35kg loaded touring bike, and there’s not that much ascent in the route up the length of the islands, but the headwind was back. The wind had swung 180 degrees overnight in a cosmic statement of ‘fuck you’.

The significant ascents over the hills were actually the easy bit, as the pressure was on to raise the average over every yard. My Garmin became a cruel instrument of torture as I pushed over the undulating landscape: road builders on the islands seem to have gone over, rather than around obstacles, making for very pretty but very tiring routes.

I rode straight into the ferry terminal with 10 minutes to go, before collapsing a little outside with more ‘big biscuits’.

There were a few other cyclists on the ferry: a couple who’d been touring for a month or so (and who had some very nice bikes to prove it!), and a guy who’d been touring off-road on his carbon mountain bike, with whom I spent the ferry ride.

Ullapool turned out to be almost exclusively comprised of B&Bs. At this point I wanted to dry my kit and repay some sleep debt, so went round trying to find a bed. I ended up in the Ceilidh Place, a quirky-but-comfortable hotel with a great communal lounge area and, weirdly, attached bookshop. I spent the evening in the (deserted) lounge, playing guitar and fiddling with my camera.

Ullapool to Lairg

I failed to repay my sleep debt and went down for breakfast, meeting the same guy from the ferry who had also discovered that this hotel was the only one with any rooms. There I learned that he too had completed the Bob Graham round!

I’d planned to either spend a day laundering things and then disappear north, or else go across the country and over to Lairg (where a train station could take me home). Given the forecast tailwind, and the fact that I wasn’t getting any less tired any time soon, I decided to get to Lairg ASAP.

The ride from Ullapool to Lairg was something I dreaded due to the frustrating pace of other routes I’d done, but it turned out to be amazing fun: my legs finally came in and everything felt managable (if not easy). Because I had all day, I took the opportunity to stop off at the bridge of Oykel for lunch, meeting another couple of people doing the Munros before heading on over the last little bump to Lairg.

Lairg was just as strange a place as Ullapool. The mainland further north has a stark, utilitarian feel to it compared to the rugged rurality of the islands, and it somehow just seems less romantic.

As I pulled into the campsite, I met a couple of fellow cyclists who’d been exploring the eastern coastal routes. They recommended some local attractions, and after exploring the town a little we met later in a strange hotel bar (which was furnished like a school or office) and discussed various things over a pint of the only available beer: Guinness.

Home again

Due to the lack of bookable bike places, my train left at 6:28. Wishing to avoid a repetition of the race across Lewis, I took into account the time needed to pack the tent and woke at 4:30am.

It was insanely cold, and I spent some time huddling in the toilet block trying to warm up (finally using the hats/gloves I’d brought) before setting off for the station. The mist seemed like it was circular, highlighting the journey in the same way it had on the way out.

As I arrived at the station, the lights turned on. This revealed some amazing lighting, which I tried to capture on film for half an hour or so before the 9-hour journey back home. As ever using the bike carriage, I bumped into a few cyclists on the way back, including one guy from Hull who’d been up mountain biking in the Cairngorms.

Arriving in Lancaster, I once again cursed the fact that I live so far from a station before setting off uphill and back to the Vale. The odometer on my cycle computer ticked over 300 miles as I neared the crest of the hill.

Reflections

It would have been nice, of course, to continue touring ad infinitum. My bike was packed with enough kit to last forever, and so long as I kept moving I’d be able to stay fed and watered.

One of the reasons I cut the tour a little short was that I felt so consistently weak, something I put down to general lack of sleep in tents. Writing this a day or so later I’m still knackered, which is reassuring, but I do wonder how far I could have got had I continued. After all, the last day of riding was fun, and my legs had finally achieved the state where they seem impervious to multiple-day punishment.

I also still have the northwest of Scotland on the wishlist. A motorbike tourer in Uig (who called bicycles ‘cycle-bikes’ to differentiate them from motorbikes) insisted that the roads around the coast are amazing.

All in all the travelling was more fun than the cycling. The most notable feature is all the great people I got to meet: if you’re one of them, thanks for making this trip awesome.