I awoke to rain for god-knows-what number day. I’d seen the good forecast for tomorrow and wasn’t enjoying staying at the campsite so I’d already decided to leave Skye a day early and climb Ben Nevis instead. I just wanted to see the famous ‘Fairy Pools’ before I left.
The path to the Fairy Pools
After a detour to the Portree tourist info office to find out where the pools were, I made my way down. I arrived at the small car park at 10.20am to find it was already full. I just managed to squeeze the bike into a the last gap. By now the typical Scotch mist had returned and low cloud was obscuring most of the surrounding mountains, but the pools and small waterfalls still looked spectacular. A word of warning if you do plan to visit; get there early. The place was absolutely heaving with selfie-stick armed tourists.
I spoke to a young lad who had a little coffee cart in the car park who told me the isle was often called Eilean a’ Cheo in Gaelic; meaning the ‘Misty Isle’. He also told me about how tough life on the island was and that many young adults leave for the mainland to find work. They’d only got broadband in the last couple of years!
By now the drizzle had turned to proper rain so I abandoned the idea of riding around the island and headed back to pack up my gear at camp. I packed up in record time, but also noticed one of the tent poles had splintered, so I wrapped it in electrical tape to hold it together.
Sparse campsite in Skye
The ride to Fort William started wet but the sun came out at times. The roads were good so I shaved 20 minutes off the sat nav ETA. The A87 and A82 and are great roads and very popular with bikers, most who have a friendly wave for other bikers.
I went straight to Fort William to find some more tape for repairs then headed to the campsite which was about three miles from the town centre and booked in for two nights. After getting set up at camp I headed back into town and had a greasy burger and chips for tea. While I was sat on a bench eating a group of about 15 Dutch bikers passed me. When I got back to my bike they’d parked next to me and one numpty was so close to my bike I couldn’t lift it straight off the side stand. I had a bit of a struggle getting out.
I set off late after spending a good hour putting a new headlight bulb in the bike. Honda motorcycles are built in Japan, mostly by Japanese men with small and slender hands. The small gap allowing bulbs to be replaced isn’t designed for big oafish Yorkshire shovel hands, though I helpfully shaved mine down a millimetre or two on some sharp pieces of motorcycle dash.
It rained on and off for most of the journey, but not enough to obscure the spectacular Torridon mountains. Along the way I made a special beeline for Applecross as I wanted to tackle the famous ‘Bealach na ba’ (mega death terror road in Gaelic or something) road. The approach winds through about 25 miles of single track lanes, with the ever present threat of meeting one of the many massive logging trucks that roar about. Fortunately for me I just had a near miss with a big Audi 4×4 which almost ran me of the road, and I had to tip toe the bike backwards to allow a large camper van get past me. I did see an unfortunate foreign biker that had gone off the road with his big heavy touring motorbike and was stuck about 18 inches deep in a roadside ditch. He had a mate with him and there was no chance of pulling a 300 kg bike like that out of the ditch so I didn’t stop.
Beautiful views around the Applecross peninsular
The small village of Applecross was heaving with tourists and traffic. I squeezed the bike into a space right outside the Applecross Inn and refuelled on a nourishing lunch of a double decker chocolate bar and half a coke.
The Applecross Inn
Feeling rejuvenated, I hopped back on the bike, ready to tackle the perilous road. I had wanted to do it without the bike being loaded as its heavy enough as it is. With myself and the camping gear the whole weight probably reaches about 330 kg. A lot of weight to manhandle round tight hairpin bends on a steep incline.
Seriously steep!
Heading up from Applecross the road isn’t too bad, though I wouldn’t fancy tackling it on a cycle like some brave souls were doing. I stopped for a few pics at the top then headed to the other side to make my way down.
SHIT! I had seen pictures of this part of the route, but nothing prepares you for how dramatic the road is as you look down from the top. The road plummets down a fairly narrow valley, with a series of incredibly tight turns close to the top. I could only just get round them, and needed to get all the way across to the other side of the road to make it. Good job no-one was coming up the other way.
The view from the top
A wee breather before the main event
After that the road retuned to two-way traffic so I was able to get some speed up and make it to Skye in good time. I was treated to the sight of a seaplane landing on the water as I crossed the bridge from the mainland to the Isle of Skye.
I found the campsite recommended by a friend at Sligachan and after some difficulty finding some ground not full of rocks, got the tent set up. The campsite was pretty poor, with only the great views of the Cullin mountain range for excitement. Even the pub over the road wasn’t up to much, and I was throughly underwhelmed by a distinctly average £11 venison burger for tea.
I woke to the all too familiar sound of rain on nylon. Again. I thought I’d head to Gairloch harbour on the off chance I could squeeze onto one of the wildlife watching boat trips. Lucky for me the horrendous storm a few nights ago had ruined someones tent, and holiday, so there was a cancellation and a space for me on the 10am trip.
Gairloch harbour
Blue sky makes an appearance on the way back to land
Distant mountains loom
Seal keeping warm by holding its head and tail above the cold water
I was taking no chances and fully clad in waterproofs for the voyage. I’d been in Scotland long enough to know not to take any chances. On the boat and out to sea and sure enough the heavens opened to heavy rain, drastically reducing visibility and the chance of seeing much exciting wildlife. The trip was pleasant enough, but no otters, whales or dolphins. The highlight of the trip was a great skua soaring at the back of the boat, keeping a beady eye on a rather plump German tourist.
Greedy great skua eyes up rotund German
Back on dry land, and the sun was shining. I went to a nearby cafe for a brew and scone, but the place was too busy to enjoy it properly. Especially when a cringey overly affectionate 40 something couple came and sat next to me on the large leather sofa. A British bloke and French lady. Take your international canoodling elsewhere you scone vibe killing cafe lurkers, I thought to myself.
As the sun had made a rare appearance I rode down to Red Point, where the boat skipper had sat watched Orca in the past. As soon as I got off the bike it began raining again, so back on went the waterproofs. I made it to the rocky headland after some difficulty traversing a peat bog, and spent the next 30 minutes scanning the seaward horizon. No cetaceans, but a shit load of midges!
Rocky outcrop at Red Point
I trudged back to the bike and now it really started raining! Back in Gairloch I pulled into a carpark by the local store and was approached by a confused looking man. He stared at me without saying anything way past the point of awkwardness, so I thought I’d better say something. “Err, hello” I said to the silent stare’er. “Is that a Honda?” He asked. It turned out he was the official photographer for Mark Beaumont, the famous Scottish endurance cyclist and at one time the record holder for the fasted circumnavigation of the planet by bicycle. I’d heard Mark was doing the ‘North Coast 500’, the 500 miles of coastal road around the north and western coast of Scotland, non-stop on his bike but forgot it would mean him cycling right through Gairloch.
I decided to wait and see him cycle past. It was really nailing it down so I found shelter under a shop front and waiting for him to come by. He looked in surprisingly good spirits to say he had been riding for many in hours in appalling conditions.
I was up before 7am after a rubbish booze afflicted nights sleep. I’d had a few too many with the friendly bikers in the campsite bar so had a bit of a sore head, but thankfully not a full on hangover.
The forecast was for heavy rain at 8am, so I wanted to have the tent packed and bike loaded before. Any camper worth their salt knows what a pain it is packing up wet gear. It rained lightly and the dark sky threatened worse at any minute, but I was loaded and on the road at 9am. I had to pull over pretty much straightaway and repack the heavy dry-bag full of camping gear which I had strapped to the back seat. It was that poorly loaded the weight was pulling the bike over to one side. Frustrating when I wanted to get on, but better than riding into a ditch.
Quick stop to repack the dry-bag
It rained for almost the full four hours of the ride, with just a brief interlude of sun in the Ullapool area. The scenery was stunning, especially around the Kylesku area, but the ‘Scotch mist’ obscured the view and meant I didn’t fancy stopping and getting the camera out to take many pics.
Pic stop for Kylesku bridge.
I refuelled in Ullapool and was almost reversed over by some inattentive moron at the petrol station. If I hadn’t beeped my horn he would have backed right into me!
Castle. Mountain. Rain. Scotland in a nutshell
It was quite windy during the journey, and when I arrived at the campsite in Gairloch I was greeted by an almost empty campsite. As I was setting up a fellow camper told me I was lucky I hadn’t spent the night on site as there had been a terrible storm, with several tents been completely ruined. Most of the ‘survivors’ had then packed up and gone home. Close miss I thought.
I had a little wander round Gairloch near the campsite and was a little underwhelmed, but did manage to find the chippy. I feasted on a massive portion of fish chips whilst sheltering from the rain in the luxurious surroundings of a bus stop then sampled a pint or two in the local pub before retiring to bed.
More information:
Flickr album – https://www.flickr.com/photos/135003299@N02/albums/72157658539060470
I woke early and wandered a mile down the road to Smoo Cave while it was still quiet. The cave, formed by both coastal and riverine erosion attacking from both sides, was very impressive. Approaching form the front you are met by the gaping cave mouth, then further in is a beautiful waterfall cascading through a hole created by river water pouring through the cave roof. There is a short boat trip you which takes you deeper into the cave, but that didn’t start until later in the morning so I missed out.
I walked back to the tourist information centre near the campsite to find out the ‘ferry’ times to get over to Cape Wrath, then hopped on the bike for the three mile ride to the crossing point. I think they had been quite liberal with the use of the word ferry. A small open-topped wooden boat is not really the image conjured up when I hear that word. The boat carried about 10 people and had to make two trips to get everyone across the Kyle of Durness. The five minute crossing by boat is the only way to access this remote north-western corner of Scotland as they are no proper roads to, or in Cape Wrath.
Thats not a ferry…
I was on the first crossing so we chatted with our driver, a typically friendly Scottish bloke, while we waited for the rest of the party. Once everyone was over we climbed aboard the knackered old LDV school minibus to begin the journey to the Cape Wrath Lighthouse. I was pretty shocked when the driver told us the 11 mile drive would take an hour, but as soon as we headed up the battered stone track I could see why. The track was built in the 1828 as a horse and cart track and was last resurfaced in the 1950s, and after the first few hundred meters or so, pretty much all trace of tarmac vanished.
View across the Kyle of Durness to Cape Wrath
Beginning of the 11 mile journey
The bleak landscape of Cape Wrath
Cape Wrath is part owned by local sheep farmers, the Ministry of Defence, and the rest by wealthy families who use the few homes to holiday in for just a few weeks a year. The landscape was pretty bleak. Large expanses of peat bog covered in heather, with a complete lack of trees. There are several small bridges along the track, including one built in 1828 by Robert Stevenson, the famous Scottish lighthouse builder.
Not far along the track you reach a military check point, from then on you are entering one of the largest live firing training zones in the UK. For a few weeks a year, the area hosts a massive international ‘war games’ exercise where NATO countries bombard the area with shells from naval destroyers and missiles from various aircraft. You could see the bomb craters in some places, and our driver and guide said one year the Americans shelled a neighbouring island by mistake. Luckily it too was uninhabited. Thankfully, none of this was taking place when I visited and there were no military personnel to be seen, just a few 4x4s and quad bikes which were left there.
After an hour of back-jarring discomfort we reached the lighthouse perched on top of the 400 foot high, spectacular cliffs. The light house, built by Robert Stevenson in 1828 is located at the most north-western point in the UK, and you couldn’t get much more remote. During the summer tourist season, the poor bloke in the little cafe lives up here full-time. He must be pretty fond of his own company.
The lighthouse, like all UK lighthouses is unmanned, with the last keeper leaving during the 1990s. There’s also a couple of derelict buildings overlooking the lighthouse from just up the hill to the east. These are an old ship tracking station built by Lloyds of London Insurers and an old coastguard station, both unused since the Second World War. It would have been interesting to have a look at those but time and health and safety wouldn’t allow.
Spectacular cliffs
400 foot sheer drop
Danger selfie!
I had a good wander round the outside of the lighthouse buildings and scared myself by standing right on the cliff edges, even taking a ‘selfie’ for good measure, before it was time to head back. By now the wind had dropped so the dreaded midges were out in force so we were eaten alive waiting for the ‘ferry’ to take us back across the Kyle of Durness.
Sea stacks at a bay seen from the track. There’s a both down there you can still stay in, if you can get there.
Waiting to head back across to Durness
Back at the campsite I headed out to the onsite pub for some hearty grub. I was just about to leave when I saw a biker couple I’d met when I was setting up the tent yesterday. They invited me to sit with them and we had a good laugh and a good few drinks!
I said goodbye to my wonderful hosts and was packed and on the road by 10.30am. The ride to Durness on the north coast of Scotland was about 120 miles, but would take a good half day. I’d had romantic visions of visiting John O’Groats just to say I’d been as far north as you can get on the mainland, but on the advice on many people I’d met I didn’t bother. Plus, it would have made for a very long day on the bike.
The forecast was for a rare bit of sunshine but the rain started before I’d even got out of Inverness. Thankfully it wasn’t too persistent, but I didn’t see the sun either. I headed along the A9 before cutting across country via Lairg, which was a nice looking place. I made a mental note that its probably worth visiting in the future.
Stunning view point somewhere north of Inverness. Note to self, don’t park heavily loaded motorbike so close to a kerb on a downhill. Its blood hard to shift it backwards!
Not a bad road
Information sign at the viewpoint
The second half of the journey was on narrow single track roads, which were thankfully largely deserted. The roads cut across heathland, dotted with coniferous plantations and I saw many buzzards and kestrels soaring overhead. I stopped for lunch by the roadside and had great feeling of solitude sweep over me. Not in a negative way, but a bit strange after three days of city living with my hosts.
Not a bad lunchtime view
I stopped to get some pictures of along the way and noticed I had a headlight bulb out. Luckily old Honda VFRs have a twin front headlight so I could still be seen, and I avoided riding in the dark where possible anyway.
I’d heard a lot from Scots I’d met so far about the area around Tongue, which was lived up to expectation stunningly beautiful. Another mental note of somewhere to come back and visit.
Mountain view near the north coast
Headlight out and no spares. Bollocks
Just as I was riding into Durness I had a pretty major near miss with an oncoming car. I was coming round the corner and momentarily distracted by my glove and when I looked up a white van was veering straight toward me on my side of the road! Luckily the dozy driver came to and looked up from whatever he was doing just in time. Instead of driving into me, and at best destroying my bike and ending my trip prematurely, he almost jumped out of his skin with shock and surprise. He jerked the steering wheel with both arms and veered back onto his side of the road just in the nick of time. A big fright for us both, but I know who would have come of worse. I was pretty shaken and considered turning round and going after him, but it would have been such an effort to turn the bike round and it wouldn’t have achieved anything.
Just me, my bike and the looming Scottish landscape. What more do I need?
The campsite was right on the cliff tops overlooking the stunning coastline. It was a big site, dominated by motorhomes, caravans and statics with a fair few tents. I found a nice pitch on the edge which was quiet and near the toilets and showers. Whilst setting up camp I heard one of Europe’s most threatened birds – the corncrake calling in the adjacent meadow. No chance of seeing one in the long grass but good to hear all the same (they sound like someone flicking the spikes of a plastic comb. Unmistakable from any other bird).
A major bonus was the onsite pub and restaurant. That evening I had a few pints of decent ale and a nice cooked meal in the bar then retired back to the tent.
Bit of a non-event today, but as I’ve been writing a post for each day, I’ll do on all the same.
The bike got some well deserved TLC. After not been cleaned for two and half weeks of near constant rain it was more than ready for it. Popped to the shop and got my hosts some little presents to say thank you. To say I’ve barely seen them in over a decade they have been absolutely fantastic!
After that I did some planning for the next leg of the journey – the north coast of Scotland, then had a lovely meal at home with my hosts followed by a walk to the local pub for a good pint of Guinness. I’ve had a lovely relaxing few days but am itching to get on the road again.
My first full day off the bike in over two weeks. After a luxurious lie in I caught the bus into Inverness town centre. A little wander to the tourist information office to get some forward planning material than a walk along the river, which was surprisingly beautiful, to the Botanical gardens.
Riverside views
Lovely bit of greenery just outside Inverness centre
The gardens weren’t very big, but were packed with all kinds of exotic and colourful plants. An hour well spent if you’re ever at a loss in Inverness. After that I went to the local history museum, which read like most of England’s neighbours history. Basically, we shafted them.
Oh hello
Many weird and wonder plants to be seen
Vividly coloured flowers
Great cactus garden
After an unsuccessful hunt for a reasonably priced barber (within my £10 threshold to cut what little hair I have) I gave up and went to Inverness’s CAMRA pub of the year. Beyond the creaky door a lone man sat at a table watching Sky News. But for him, the pub was empty. I walked over to the bar and he heaved himself from his perch with an audile sigh, then walked round the bar. “Yes” was the extent of his friendly greeting. So rude I had to stifle my laughter at the old miser. To be fair I did have one of the best pints of IPA I have ever had. As I was merrily making my way through my pint a couple came in and the guy had the audacity to ask “do you do espresso?”. “Its a pub” was the deadpan reply from our friendly landlord, with no attempt to hide his distain.
On the way back to the bus stop I saw a cheap barbers so nipped in and got my haircut, during which my godmother rang and insisted she pick me up. So home it was to another lovely home cooked meal and a cosy bed. I could get used to this, I thought.
Time to leave the islands! I was absolutely blown away by the sheer beauty, incredible wildlife, and solitude of the islands, but I was ready to reconnect with society all the same.
Packed, bike loaded and ready to hit the road
As I was staying close to the Callinish Stones, I thought I may as well go visit. If I’m honest, theres not a lot to look at really. A stone circle, which to be fair was built a few thousand years ago, an achievement in itself. But for me, hardly a magnificent spectacle. At least it didn’t cost anything.
Carinish Standing Stones
When I arrived at the ferry port they had closed the entrance with cones to stop people getting in, so I had to wait outside in the road with the bike for half an hour. The horizontal rain and wind were so strong I had to put the bike on the stand as it was hard to keep it standing!
Queueing to board the ferry back to the mainland
Thankfully the crossing back to the mainland was on the newest boat in Calmac’s fleet so it coped with the five metre seas remarkably well. I still had to stand on deck for the whole three hours or so to avoid sea sickness. I found a good spot on the side of the boat near the back which had good sea views but was sheltered from the horrendous wind. I got a brief glimpse of a dolphin bounding out of the waves. It was an amazing sight to see a creature so at ease in what we would rightly consider treacherous seas.
Goodbye Lewis
The weather soon took a turn for the worse
And then the islands vanished
Off the ferry and onto the mainland and it rained quite heavily, but only briefly. Traffic was fairly light heading to Inverness and I soon scythed through what traffic there was. I was there in less than 90 minutes and a received a very warm and much appreciated welcome from my godmother and her husband. I was treated to a fantastic meal and a lovely warm bed.
Having the rare luxury of four walls, a roof over my head and a tv, I managed to catch the weather forecast. It was not good. Gone was the near constant heavy ‘Scotch Mist’ and in was the gale force winds and storms. Bollocks. My ferry off the island to the mainland is going to be cancelled, I thought.
“Och no, yae dinnae have to worry your wee sen with this weather” said the B&B owners daughter at breakfast. “It has t’ be much worse than this for them tae cancel”. 50-60 mph gusts is plenty bad enough weather for me to be worried about the crossing, especially my bike falling over on that lonely car deck.
I’d had more than enough of biblical rain so I got on the phone to my mother back in York and asked if she could get in touch with some family friends who live in Inverness, and ask if they could put me up for a few nights. I bloody hope so.
I rode back to Stornaway and found the laundry, finally washing my dirty clothes, having probably given a teenage boy on a DofE weekend a run for his money in terms of stretching the wearability of underwear. I the afternoon the weather cleared so I rode to Arnol to see an old blackhouse which is set up in the way it would have 150 years ago. Interesting to see, but what a rough way to live! Sharing the building with livestock to trap the heat, and the acrid smoke from the peat fire in the middle of the floor was awful. It smelt like burning plastic and made me realise that was what I had been smelling on the few occasions I worried the electrics on my 14 year Honda had burst into flames. The scientist in me wanted to ask the young lad who was probably on a summer holidays job what percentage he thinks the life expectancy was shortened by indoor air pollution. But I though better of it.
An old ‘Blackhouse’
Open peat fire in the middle of the room
Bit basic in here
I also found out why Blackhouses are called so. Before around 150 years ago the name did not exist. It was only when modern, lime rendered houses came into being in the mid 1800s did the term arise, due to the modern homes white colouration.
After this I went the ruins of a 2000 year old ‘Dun’. A cylindrical stone building, still amazingly intact, given its age. It was rather busy though. Bloody tourists.
Dun Carloway. No chance of an empty shot with this many tourists about.
Amazingly intact for 2000 years old
I still had a fair bit of the day so rode round the north of the island and into Stornaway again. I found a nice Thai restaurant and enjoyed a decent meal for £20. About double the price of the menu in the window, but enjoyable all the same. By now the sun was really shining and Stornaway and the harbour looked quite quaint. I had a little walk around Lews Castle which was undergoing refurbishment work, then got some beers to head back to the B&B with and relax with for my last (hopefully) night on the islands.
A Very British Adventure 