Day Four

Having had a night in the Lion House, we refuelled on a handsome full Scottish and prepared for the journey to Uig, about 40 miles.  Travelling through Broadford takes longer than you think.  It is made up of a series of little villages or suburbs, of which Harrapool, where we were staying, is the eastmost.  We cycled past the road end where pointed a sign to the youth hostel, but ignored it despite its historical significance for us.  It was not long after 9 that we were on the road, and to our astonishment we were quickly aware that we had a following wind.  A following wind.  Those words usually just mean, the next wind in your face, as in "it took us a long time to get through the first wind we faced, only to hit the following wind after that..."

No cyclist ever likes to admit that he has a following wind.  The best you hope for is that there's no wind in your face other than the enormous draught which you cause as you cycle at speed.

Now I am well aware that much of this blog has been obsessed with the wind and other weather conditions.  However, I need to address a few apparently extraneous issues which, after two long days on the road, move from the periphery into the centre of your attention on a bike.   These are: (1) road surface; (2) baggage; (3) holding the line and (4) physical discomforts.

(1) Road surface

When in a car, the surface of your carriageway occasionally passed across the brain, when you hit a pothole, or when the chippings are loose.  Otherwise, frankly, don't come complaining to me about road surface.  On a bike, however, there comes a point when you almost notice nothing else.  In Skye, it occupied a good 110 to 120% of any conversation which passed between us.  The road surfaces from Broadford to Portree are disgraceful.  I do not profess to be an expert on how to lay tar, but I would have thought that throwing it randomly from a helicopter in the hope that some of it lands on the road - and not spreading it once it does land - would not have much to attract it. And yet this appears to be how it was done.  A crazy undulating line approaching but never touching the edges on either side marked the border between smooth, carefree cycling, and boneshaking, tooth-loosening agony.  All fine and well if you can simply cycle along the middle of the lovely flat section. Or call a cab.

But when there is excessive traffic commuting to Portree - who knew? - you have to stick rigidly to the side of the road in order to avoid being mown down in an embarrassing death, and ending up as a stain in the road roughly the same shape as the tar squashed across it.  As I will come to, holding one's position on the road is crucial but there's only so far you can stay from the verge without holding up all of the traffic, and while irritating BMWs is all good fun it's only a matter of time before one of them comes at you like a raging bull and then, in the words of that cheery songmeister Kenny Rogers, "the best you can hope for is to die in your sleep".  (That man was obviously an FP).

In some ways the worst part is that from time to time there are strips of new road which come as an enormous relief to the old tender portions but they only last, say, 50 yards, at which point the return of the potholed, bumpy, irregular road hits you even harder.  Up to Luib was really poor.  After three days the sensitivity of your entire frame to each bump and rattle is significantly heightened, and with it your commensurate hatred of the Highways Department of Highland Regional Council, who have obviously blown their budget on salt and snowploughs for the winter, thinking nothing of the likes of us.

(2) Baggage

It is obvious that over a long distance you want to be travelling as lightly as possible.  Paniers now differ markedly from those we used in 1982.  They are, for example, simple to clip on and off, as opposed to needing a Blue Peter badge and an O grade in knotsmanship; they are genuinely waterproof, as opposed to being no more than a 10 minute shield against a light shower; and they are relatively small, as opposed to being suitcases on your rack, held down by a complex web of elastic ties and hooks.


Still, packing is among the most crucial skills of the long distance cyclist.  At least we didn't need to carry food.  In Ireland in 1992, Alison, Norman's then girlfriend and now wife, suggested tentatively that she was a bit fed up of pasta and fancied some potatoes.  "You can carry them yourself if you want them" was the slightly unsympathetic reaction.  However, while I think I managed to get away with the minimum (bearing in mind that I had to carry my CPAP), Norman definitely over-packed, and spent much of the time berating himself for doing so.

You do become used to the weight on the back.  If a gnat were to land on your baggage and stay there for more than, say, a second, you would notice something different, and if you could discount the wind and the road surface, stop to ensure that all boarders were repelled immediately.

(3) Holding the line

On a bike in heavy traffic, you are, and feel, very vulnerable.  As a result, you have to be bold in maintaining your road position, to the extent that sometimes you stay in the middle of the lane holding up a line of cars rather than meekly clinging to the verge and ensuring they get away.  Norman is a master of the former; I tend towards the latter.  On single track roads, Norman would on occasions veer out to command the road and stare, with fixed menace, daring the driver oncoming to take him on.  None of them did.  I wouldn't have. 

But he's absolutely right about this.  A bike is a road vehicle and entitled to space.  The number of times cars would overtake us on narrow sections and cut in just in front of us was remarkable, suggesting that people simply didn't see us, or didn't care.  There is of course a school of driver - encouraged by the loathsome Jeremy Clarkson - who see themselves as kings of the road, and not only entitled to bully other vehicles but actually supposed to.  Interestingly enough, lorries and buses, by and large, were very considerate.

Coming out of Portree, I looked back after the Co-op roundabout to see that Norman had stopped at the side of the road.  When I say the side of the road, I mean still on the road.  He was bending down to fiddle with something on his paniers, I think.  Behind him, flashing and hooting, was the Uig bus.  He ignored it with a masterful indifference.  When I pointed out to him that he had held up the bus and that the driver was hooting, he simply shrugged: "well, he could wait."  That's the way to do it.

(4) Physical discomforts

This is the area that most people, asking about the trip, have touched upon.  Apparently they think that it is more difficult to sit down after an extended cycling adventure than otherwise.

I hesitated to cover this subject because it's not pretty and there's no delicate way of doing it.  However, it is a significant factor in the journey so here we are.

Firstly, it is not difficult sitting down after a long day cycling.  It's a great relief to be sitting down. It's sitting down on a saddle which, after 10 revolutions each day, transforms itself once more into a blunt razorblade, that's uncomfortable.  Wearing padded cycling shorts provides no protection whatsoever.  It's just a sore position and as time goes on the pain increases.  Get over it.

Secondly, people seem to think that the worst affected area is the buttocks - I apologise to those of a sensitive disposition but there's worse to come - but this is simply naive.  Groucho Marx once said that the guy who called it necking didn't know his anatomy very well. In the same way, a little thought will make it quite clear that the greatest ravages are visited upon the area described by our friend Matt Clegg (7) as the "wedding vegetables".  Constant rhythmic pressing on what polite cricket commentators call the lower abdomen leaves one feeling permanently winded and mildly disorientated.  A long hill can be agony not just on the thighs but further amidships. Some of my finest pictures on this trip were taken not because the view was breathtaking but because I had to take a break from the pain.

Thirdly, each of us succumbed to a middle aged injury. Norman's was his achilles (literally) whereas mine was my right knee, which really started to hurt in Skye on the way up and lasted until I got into the driver's seat back in Kyle.  That's the only time I felt my age.  John sent me a message suggesting I lift the seat up, which was a good suggestion but slightly pointless since there was only 8 miles to go, so I didn't test that.

Anyway, that long digression apart, we headed from Broadford to Luib, and suffered with the road surface, though the weather remained sympathetic and there was a stillness about the bays that is even more beautiful when you consider the wildness of the surroundings.

From Luib, a brief stop illuminated the way ahead.  It may not be clear from this picture but the diagonal gash in the hill represents about a third of the first and most challenging climb of the day.

Just above the bay, to the left hand side of the picture, is the line of the road. It may not look much from here...

but this is perhaps a more accurate portrayal.

The worst thing about bad news is when it's unexpected.  We knew that this hill was an old adversary who saved up his worst treachery for what you thought was the top but turned out merely to be the end of stage one.  Out of four.  The last of which was the steep part.  Reaching the top was a magnificent agony.

We're happy.  No, really.  You can see Luib in the background, way down the bottom of the hill.

There are two substantial climbs before Portree, the second after Sligachan.  There's nothing in Sligachan apart from the inn, where we managed a modest break - Norman suffering at the hands of an inexperienced barista who got the coffee proportions completely wrong - but it rests in the corner of an extraordinary range of mountains.

Sligachan

Ascending out of Sligachan, we were overtaken by a man without paniers on a racing bike and a smile.  That's just unpleasant, and cheating to boot.

Before reaching Portree, there is an enormous and very long descent which twists and turns its way down the valley to the narrow bridge just after the Braes turnoff.  Magical, that was, and set us up nicely for a pleasant cruise into a very sunny and warm Portree.  Finding somewhere to eat lunch was problematic because the high school had just got out and there were piles of bus trips just arriving. Queueing in the bakery was a haphazard and unpleasant business, with the elbows of English pensioners hovering close to the ribs and ready to be used at the slightest provocation.

Still, lunch in the square was warm and reviving, and then we managed to secure an outside table at the cafe next to the bakery, where tea and cakes were taken prior to the final leg up to Uig.  I took a photograph of an elderly couple who were sitting over a cup of tea, staring at their own mobile phones not speaking a word to each other, probably complaining about how teenagers behave in public nowadays.  Unfortunately it didn't really work.

There was a table full of Glasgow ladies next to us, of varying generations.  At one point we got into brief conversation and I said something which made them laugh. I can't remember what it was - typically - but it was gratifying, nonetheless.  The youngest of the three broke off and said "you're very funny, you know".  Norman sighed: "Don't encourage him!"  I protested and said, "there you are, I told you that some people think I'm funny."  There was a pause as Norman contemplated this:  "Short bursts".

Away we went, about 2pm, with the 6pm ferry in our sights.  The section between Portree and Uig is about 16 miles of pretty but unrelenting cycling, undulating and open to the elements. We were still favoured by the wind, though, and some of the longer climbs were almost unbelievably easy.  Through the delightful village of Kensaleyre with its prominent white church on the shore of the loch, we came out the long hill on the other side, and eventually reached the top of the hill opposite the magnificent natural harbour that is Uig.

Now, Uig is an odd place.  On the one hand, pleasantly wooded hills with good housing and excellent views; on the other, the village itself, which is really unattractive and nothing more than an extended jetty. Anyone with a little entrepreneurial spirit could make a killing during the summer there.  Thousands of passengers, including many families with nothing to do and weary after a long drive, pass through Uig on their way to the ferry, and there is no provision for them apart from a small cafe and a garage, as well as a pretty insalubrious bar.  With one building, containing a soft play area, a Costa coffee, a McDonalds and a more upmarket restaurant, Uig could become a place to stop instead of being the devil's layby.

Here is an example of a typical experience of Uig.  We set off down the hill with the intention of finding a cup of tea and a scone, a fairly humble ambition in the west highlands. You might think.  First up was the Uig Hotel, a reasonably pleasant building which promised at least polite service.  We went in, admittedly in fluourescent yellow and showing our legs, and the lady in charge said we could have a cup of tea but no, they couldn't offer food.  Oh no.  Silly of us to think of it.  Gordon Ramsay would have had a right tantrum about that.  Not us, though. With a certain relief, we moved off down the hill and arrived at our second option, the Ferry Bistro.

Now, I don't know about you, but if I were setting up an establishment in Uig to attract visitors, I wouldn't call it the Ferry Bistro.  A bistro it wasn't.  They wouldn't know what a bistro was if it bit them.  I suspect they thought they could call it that because it went in the gravy.  Two elderly locals were ensconsed at the bar.  Food wasn't their specialism.  Nor, apparently, was hygiene, or welcoming or even saying hello to strangers.  Reversing out of there was the quickest we'd moved all day, following wind or not.

And so we ended up in the cafe at the pier.  I went for a fruit scone and Norman took charge of a flies' cemetery, perhaps in memory of the Ferry Bistro, an actual flies' cemetery.  It was adequate.  What I didn't tell Norman was that one of the other fruit scones had recently borne the footprints of a bluebottle on them, so we were pretty much taking our lives in our hands eating from there.

This just reinforces my parents' suspicions about eating out.  They hate going to restaurants because, in essence, they think other people don't wash their hands properly. Except in Marks and Spencers.  My dad once told me, in all seriousness, that the cleanest place to eat in Edinburgh was the Marks and Spencers staff canteen.  There is an almost religious fervour about the way in which certain members of my family worship at the altar of St Michael.  Even my children have now completely signed up to the notion that if it came from Marks and Spencers it must be superior.   What would astonish my parents, and many others, would be the regular hygiene reports issued in the press which authoritatively say that McDonalds has consistently the highest standards of cleanliness of any of the major food chains.  I'm no advocate for McDonalds - I won't touch the stuff myself - but credit belongs where it's due.

Anyway, this would be an academic discussion in Uig, since we were far away from either noted institution.  We had a long time to pass there, too, but we did end up quietly reading over a pint in the bar, and phoning and texting home.  We also covered some important subjects which detain us over these long conversational interludes: the worst player to play cricket for England; the best John Candy film; the worst piece of road covered during the day; and on this trip in particular, will we be okay without lights when we get to Harris?

At last the ferry came, and we were allowed on first.  We then fulfilled all the usual ferry conventions, rushing to the canteen to get early into the queue for the fish and chips and trying to get a table near the window to see the Minch properly.  It was strange being on the ferry without wondering what the children were up to and whether Charlie had attempted to throw anyone overboard or, worse, stirred up mutiny among the crew.

While we approached Harris we noticed that the weather was changing once more, darkening skies appearing above. As we stood at the handrail enjoying the views of Scalpay, then Carragrich and Urgha, all home to my father's family, we got into conversation with a couple from Sheffield, Ben and Claire, who were travelling over with a converted Ford Transit van and heading for a campsite on the east side that night.  They were particularly interested in our cycling trip - Ben's obviously a cyclist himself - and we had a good chat, giving them our impressions of Harris and recommending different parts of the island to visit.

Ben and Claire - cool people

When we disembarked from the ferry, the rain was hammering off the road (smooth tarmac, though, so thanks for that).  It was pretty Novemberish, even though technically it was still light.  The yellow jackets were therefore crucial in the absence of bike lights.  We had 13 miles to ride to Quidinish where Norman's mum would be waiting for us.  A race against the light then ensued, and we pounded the miles from Tarbert.   There are some incredible hills and dips on that road, too many to recount, but after a long day it was not easy revving up again for that last chapter.  It felt great to be back on Harris, though, and then a couple of miles out, a Skoda estate passed us, then reversed down the hill into a passing place. This was my cousin John, on his way back from playing tennis - they scoff at the idea of a roof over a tennis court in Harris - who leapt out and said "I thought it was you.  I'll take your bags to the house."  What a man.  We were delighted to accept, and off he drove.

As his taillights disappeared over the top, Norman turned to me with a baleful look and said "Neither of us had better have a puncture now."  John had taken all our stuff, including the essential repair kits.   After a moment's contemplation of that hideous thought, we burst out laughing and set off again.  I stopped a few miles on to call the children from the top of the hill, and was assailed by heavy rain and clouds of midgies at the same time.  There's a word for that, but I'm not sure what it is.  Paradox doesn't really say it, though that's what it was.  Impossible, again, is accurate but incomplete.  Unbelievably, exhaustingly, infuriatingly unjust - that's pretty much it.

When we arrived at the house, the peat fire was on, and so was the kettle, and following soothing and warming showers, a splendid supper was ours.   It was a glorious end to the day.

Journey's end

Knowing that we would not have to cycle tomorrow was a strange sensation.  It is not normal for me to wake in the morning and think I have to cycle 50 miles today, but that week it was, and I accepted it and adopted it very quickly as a way of life.

There's no better place to arrive than Harris.  All things considered we landed in good shape and very happy to be there.  The rain was no more than a distraction.

Inverness to Harris in three days.  In our late 40s. Felt great.

But it's not over.