Plan A: Coll and Tiree by bike. Plan B: Coll by bike and Mull by van.

Traigh Feall at the western end of Col

The Isle of Bute is, as the tourist board have long maintained, a beautiful island. But is not Hebridean. It lacks that Hebridean magic, the great luminosity which Murray attributed to light reflected from the surrounding sea. That Bute belongs to the B list of islands became clear to me as I walked in the hills of Jura a few years back, amazed at finding so much space out there in the west. Space that I had lived much of my life within a few miles of but which had been hidden completely from view and from consciousness by the smothering arm of the Mull of Kintyre. The islands of the Firth of Clyde are more mainland than ocean. This month brought an opportunity to experience this great contrast between the Hebridean and the non-Hebridean, following a visit to Bute with a much anticipated cycle tour of Coll and Tiree. 

The decision to tour Coll and Tiree by bike rather than by campervan was made and unmade many times in the preceeding months. The potential gains of cycling are not to be sniffed at: complete flexibility in choice of campspot; a week without motor vehicles; aligning our schedule with the other members of the party. The most important advantage is the ability to drink at will. The potential drawback is having to spend all week outside in crap weather being damp and cold. The rewards are only available to those who commit. I thought of the cycle tours that I had come close to cancelling because of the forecast that had turned out fine: the traverse of the Hebrides from Barra to Stornoway; Islay and Jura. All the while I tried to suppress any recollection of last year's wet tour round the north coast. 

In the end the memory of Islay, of beach camping by five miles of impeccable sand at Kintra in warm may sunshine, of the evening light as we supped Ardbeg at our campspot near the Feolin ferry,  prevailed and the bikes won out over the van. This recollection caused me to choose my highly spacious Wild Country Levache 3 man tunnel tent over my 2 man Hilleberg Jannu, a decision which was to ultimately set the course of the trip.

On the way to Oban we were stopping over in Taynuilt which provided the opportunity for a bit of sport. My original plan, to run over the Munros in the Ben Lui group, did not look appealing on the day. The tops were in cloud and the rain was heavy, windblown and almost incessant. I chose a low level alternative, the 17 or so miles down the lochside from the head of Loch Etive to Taynuilt. As I was changing into my running gear I read a text from Paul announcing that storm force winds - gusting to 60 or 70 mph - were forecast for Monday. By that stage we were committed to the large tent. I came close to booking the van onto the ferry but held back. We would pick a sheltered pitch. The forecast was probably wrong. I had  pole sleeves and some tape so could recover a pole failure. It would be all right.

View up Loch Etive, part way into a very wet 17 mile jog to Taynuilt

On Monday morning the wind, which had been very strong, began to intensify. We had eschewed a beachside wildcamp in favour of pitching in the lee of Coll's highest wall, that surrounding the campsite at Garden House. As our companions prepared to bail out to the shelter of the pub in Arinagour (sheiling of the goat) we suffered our first pole breakage and as I repaired it it became clear that we would be lucky to have a tent to sleep in that night, even if we devoted all our attention to nursing it through the afternoon. If we went to the pub we would return to find our tent in tatters. Soon after, as if to confirm this gloomy prognosis, the pole sleeve split and I had to reinforce it with a short section of plastic piping that I had collected, presciently, from the beach the previous night.

Perhaps the most sheltered pitch on the Isle of Coll

By 1000 we were in our positions, sitting on Ortlieb bags in the porch of the tent, preventing it from collapsing completely and in doing so bending the poles past breaking point. It was like sitting in a wind tunnel while being whacked periodically over the head with a tin tray.  The hours passed slowly and uncomfortably and the wind continued to intensify. Power cables nearby enhanced the wild wind, making it sound even stronger than it was. I was tempted to adopt a fatalistic attitude and just lie down in my sleeping bag to let the tent take its chance, but I knew that the poles would shatter if we dropped our guard, leaving us roofless in the middle of a storm. It all seemed pointless as the storm built further, for surely the tent would not last anyway. I started to drink beer to numb the pain. I read as best I could but Gaener, having no reading matter, was left to think dark thoughts. Erin slept.

Improvised repair of pole failure No 2.....

..... and pole failure No 3.

By 1400, four hours in, it seemed as if the winds had stabilised at storm or violent storm force and that, having made it this far, we may make it through the day. Despite the beer the time was passing so slowly that I began to monitor the air pressure instead. It was, thankfully, rising steadily at about an mbar per hour. I realised that cycle camping on remote islands is an extremely committing pastime.  There is no vehicle to retreat to. There is no possibility of purchasing a replacement tent. The hotel was full. If we lost our tent we would be in a bit of a pickle. The fragility of our situation was reinforced when another pole snapped, this time one of the critical central poles. Fortunately the owners of the campsite had a hint of the Steptoe about them and the place was littered with useful objects. I had made a mental note of the location of a pile of off-cut copper piping near the gateway and used a section to improvise a splint the on the pole. In the brief lull that followed I wheeled the child trailer into the porch. This held the front of the tent in position and allowed us to leave our stations. After 6 hours holding our tent together we were frazzled, but the tent was still up. By 1800 the pressure was nudging 1000 mbar. We had made it. 

Traigh Garbh, northwest Coll

A great relief to see the Tuesday afternoon ferry approaching

We later learned that gusts were recorded that day of 75 mph on Tiree and of over 100 mph on the mainland. With a windy forecast for the rest of the week and a crippled tent we decided to not to go on to Tiree. Instead we returned to Oban, picked up the van and headed to Mull. At Fidden campsite I met a man whose tent original tent had been destroyed on Sunday. He had purchased a replacement locally which had survived Monday's storm. We discussed tents and their common failure modes. When I mentioned that I had suffered breakages to three of my four poles he perked up noticeably, keen to share his wisdom. 

"Aluminium poles?" he inquired in a leading tone, like a barrister setting a trap during a cross examination. When I replied in the affirmative he nodded sagely before continuing. "Carbon fibre poles are what you need, then the tent can flatten completely and spring back. The inside got a bit wet, but the tent survived. I spent the afternoon in my car moving it round as the wind direction changed to give the tent some shelter."

There was more. He was in his element now, holding forth on his area of expertise. "I had six extra-long pegs and I kept swapping them round as the wind changed." I suspect that the poles were plastic rather than carbon fibre, but was heartily impressed that his tent had survived the storm. 

Better weather for vanning than for camping. Lava flows by Loch Na Keal at the foot of Ben More, Mull.

All in all the trip deepened my conviction that if you want to go camping for any extended period of time in Scotland, even during the summer months, it is best to have a sturdy 4 season mountain tent. For an overnight or weekend trip in settled conditions a more lightweight approach is viable, but if you make a habit of relying on less robust shelters such as 3 season tents or tarps you will eventually be caught out.

We took advantage of the Fishnish-Lochaline ferry and traveled back through Morvern. Sunshine on the granite coastline east of Kinlochgairloch with cloudy Lochaber hills in the distance.

North Coast Cycle Day 4: Strathy to Thurso

One question has been burining in my mind since finishing the tour. Does the act of cycling itself induce flatulence, or is it simply that gas is generated in direct proportion to calorie intake, three times the calories generating three times the wind? Perhaps the liberal consumption of foaming pints of Radler plays a part. Or the fact that a vegan cycling partner meant that Beanfeast featured heavily on the menu.

I hadn't particularly been relishing the last stage of this journey, leaving behind the peaks of the Northwest for the agricultural lands of Caithness, but the 20 or so miles into Thurso to pick up the train south was the most enjoyable part of the tour - perfect cycling terrain of gentle rises and long sweeping descents. The sun on our faces and the speedo reading over 20 mph. This is what cycle touring is all about. What a contrast to the coast road between Coigach and Kylesku, alternating between 40 mph downhills and grinding, thigh-busting 4 mph uphills.

I've not done any long rides this year so my ass was ruined and I was quite glad to dismount after 170 miles in the saddle. A great trip, a true journey, with highs and lows. I loved the long downhills, but would happily have accepted a lift if one had been offered during the wet climb after Loch Eribol. All the unpleasantness has now been forgotten, and if I do this tour again, which I surely will, but in settled high pressure next time, I would blast up the main road to Durness in a day, nab a hill or two, then scoot all the way to Wick.

Lewis and Harris now a viable weekend venue!

I was delighted to learn that last Sunday, the 19th of July 2009, marked the first Sunday sailing between Stornoway and Ullapool.

My friend Kris and I spent a Sunday in Stornoway during a hitching trip round Scotland in 1993. There was little to do and had there been a ferry we would have left the island. In those days the swings were padlocked and there were no pubs that officially opened their doors. Fortunately we had been tipped off by a local that the Crown Hotel unofficially opened its back doors between the hours of 1100 and 1300. As we walked through the deserted streets to the securely bolted front door we felt sure that we had been spun a line, but on turning into the car park at the rear of the premises a faint noise of revelry reached our ears: the chink of glasses; the muffled roar of barroom chat. We entered through a fire exit which lay ajar and passed through the gents’ toilets to the packed main bar. The fun came to an end on schedule at 1300, but the locals left with bulging carrier bags, beer cans straining at the sides, to continue their celidh elsewhere. I realised there and then that Sabbath Observance is not the will of the people; it is a reflection of the fact that in our supposedly secular society an unacceptable amount of power still rests in the hands of the church.

I returned to the Long Isle of Lewis and Harris in the spring of 2007 while cycling the length of the Outer Hebrides northwards from Barra. The sanctity of the Sabbath was being threatened by Sunday ferries and we saw notices advertising a protest that had been planned by the Lord's Day Observance Society. Protesting the proposed Sunday ferry presented the Society with a terrible conundrum. They could hardly form a picket line on the Sabbath. Accordingly their protest would pass unnoticed, consisting as it did of indoor prayer and sermonising. Was this an echo of the past, destined to grow fainter with every funeral, or were the ranks of the Sabbath Observance Society swollen with earnest young suit-wearing men like Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses?

Those island residents who were in favour of Sunday sailings were quick to point out the double standards of the Lord's Day Observers. They reported that the very same people who were so vigorously opposed to Sunday ferry sailings had no qualms about using other forms of public transport on the Sabbath, conveying themselves to church by bus and taxi.

I welcome sunday sailings. Not only does it make Lewis and Harris a viable weekend venue from Inverness, it is a sign that democracy is gaining ground over hypocrisy in the Outer Hebrides.

Is shandy a sports drink?

The idea of loading of loading my bike up and setting off on an adventure directly from home has always appealed to me. Last weekend I had the opportunity to indulge myself - my friends Paul and Robin have been working on a project to cycle the north and west coasts in a series of long weekends, relying solely on public transport to get to and from each section. Their itinerary would take them by the morning Bike Bus to Braemore junction and onto the coast road south, overnighting in Kinlochewe and Lochcarron before travelling onwards to Mallaig via Skye. I was unable to depart until after lunch so cycled from my house to meet them in Kinlochewe. Next day I accompanied them round the coast road to Lochcarron via Applecross.

There is something tremendously satisfying about undertaking a journey under one's own steam that would normally necessitate the use of a motor vehicle. The 55 miles from my home outside Inverness to Kinlochewe took a mere 3'15" in the saddle. I also spent an hour out of the saddle, including a surreal visit to Contin Stores. The shop was in darkness due to a powercut. I had to borrow a torch from the proprietor in order to locate the biscuits in the gloom at back of the shop. As I paid for my sugary purchases of sweets, biscuits and energy drinks it occured to me that cycling may not actually be any cheaper than driving when you take into account the amount of food required to maintain an average speed of 17 mph on an fully laden bike. I was however being extravagant, a bag of oat meal would have supplied flapjacks and mealy water that would have sustained me every bit as well for a fraction of the cost.

As I cycled away my mind wandered from the financial cost of bike fuel versus car fuel to the amount of energy required by each mode of transportation. In terms of the actual energy expended per mile the bicycle beats the car hands down. But what of the total energy cost of manufacturing, packaging and shipping those Licquorice Allsorts, Tangfastics, Sport Mixtures and Lucozade Sport to Contin? It all adds up.
After the long haul up Strathbran the final descent from the Viewpoint to Kinlchewe was a wide, smooth delight. I settled in the hotel bar. Presently Paul and Robin arrived. In an effort to rehydrate I gradually decreased the amount of lemonade added to my cooking lager, shifting to tops after a couple of shandies and ending the night drinking neat lager.
It is a curious feature of Germanic culture that shandy, or Radler as they call it, is regarded as a sports drink. Judging by the labelling it is particularly appropriate for cycling applications. I ingested a couple after our perfectly timed 1100 arrival in Shieldaig on saturday and can can vouch for its effectiveness. I found that it alleviated the sore head that had been afflicting me on the morning's climbs. I am not so sure, however, that the trio of Radlers that accompanied my lunch at the Applecross Inn did anything for my performance on the climb up the mighty 620 m Bealach na Ba.
I became increasingly flatulent as we crept up towards the summit, undigested fish and chips thrashing in a sea of shandy within, and was glad of the opportunity to pause and savour one of my favourite views, out to the Cuillin of Skye and Rum.

It was a tremendous relief to roll into the Wee Campsite in Lochcarron, lie down and let my lunch digest and my wind dissipate. If I'd had one of those charcoal dog biscuits I'd have eaten it. Had the chance presented itself, I might even have gone so far as to steal one from a dog.