Day Six

Duly refreshed, but still a little sore and carrying respective injuries, we rose on Thursday in the knowledge that we had a very long day ahead of us.  We had to cycle to Tarbert; ferry across the Minch back to Uig; cycle to Kyle (50 miles or so, bound to be into a headwind) and then drive to Edinburgh.  John recently completed his third Ironman Triathlon - swim, cycle, marathon - so here was our equivalent.  The Jellyman Triathlon - ferry, cycle, car.

Leaving Harris is always, without exception, painful.  On a day such as this, it was almost unbearable.  The ride over to Tarbert, while comprising 13 miles of rollercoaster hills, was a glory from start to finish; flawless azure skies accompanied by a warming sun and the mildest of breezes.  Climbing up the Bays road to the turnoff to Tarbert is a long series of sharp bends on a steep incline, but it was so pleasurable experiencing the still sea air and the wide unmeasured skies that not even the wretched road surface could dim the mood.

On the point of departure. Not quite as warm as it looks...

Where's Wally?  Can you spot a camouflaged figure heading up the Bays road? One of my favourite roads anywhere.

The turnoff to Tarbert. You think you've reached the summit.  Then you look up.

We were in plenty of time.  We left Quidinish about 9.15, and the ferry was at 11.50. Allowing for punctures and general stoppage, we still had no need to press hard, and so this section of the trip was thoroughly enjoyable, other than the increasing pointedness of the shooting pains in my right knee.  No time for shirking, laddie.  Head down, bottom up, and keep going.

The views were as magnificent as ever.  There is a wildness about Harris, and yet at the same time a welcoming homecoming too. The sky is endless, and always puts me in mind of Burt Lancaster in Local Hero arriving on the beach and putting an arm round Peter Riegert and saying "Good sky you've got here, McIntyre.  Well done!"  It is, without the shadow of a doubt, the most wildly romantic place I've ever been, though I mean romantic in its widest sense - engaging all the senses and emotions, drawing in memory and hope; life in all its abundance and possibilities.

We stopped shortly before the penultimate descent before Tarbert to appreciate the amazing panoply opening before us.

"Spoils the view" said Norman.  Can't argue.

On reaching Tarbert in very good time (unlike early July when we were last on the ferry), we spent a happy half hour in the Firstfruits Tearoom near the pier, sharing our table with an older couple from the south of England on a bus trip.  Charming company and excellent coffee.

Cal Mac tend to take the bikes on either first or last, but usually let them off last, so as to allow the cars, buses, lorries and caravans to set off ahead of us.  It makes sense, though it's mildly frustrating when you know you have to cross Skye before you even collect the car.  We clustered together with two other cyclists, who though together were from Aberdeen and Manchester respectively, and shared our experiences with them.  They had come up through the Uists and were camping.

Now, they were cyclists.  We, though Norman may disagree with this, are not.  We are people who cycle.  There is a significant difference.  Cyclists wear proper cycling kit, colourful and figure-hugging to an unnecessary degree (I've already covered this so I'm not going back there); they wear shoes which are excellent for cycling but on which walking seems to be a very delicate and uncomfortable business; they assert, evangelistically, the rights of the cyclist and the superiority of cycling as a way of life; and, worst, they shave parts which have no business being shaved.  They tend, also, to be very lean and wiry but with muscles jutting out at disconcerting angles from parts of their legs and arms.  They have muscles in places where I don't even have places.

We do not belong to such a brigade, but these two clearly did.  Nothing wrong with that.  I'm not being critical, but it was noticeable that when we disembarked we moved of first, and were quickly overtaken by both of them charging away from us.  (We got in front of them near Sconser and didn't see them again).

On the ferry, an uneventful journey was enlivened by the appearance of Ben and Clare from Sheffield, heading south after a couple of days on the island, suitably impressed as we insisted they would be.  Docking shortly before 1.30, we were off the ferry by 1.40 and on the move, facing the first challenge of the day, something we had been contemplating for some time, the huge steep hill ascending out of Uig.  That stretch between UIg and Portree, so easy on the Tuesday, now presented a challenging headwind and, now that we were in Skye, appalling road surfaces.  It became a bit of a grind until we got to Portree, but we pressed on a little further to have coffee in a viewpoint cafe at Aros, just to the east of Portree.

We then had to climb for about 45 minutes, by my reckoning, slow and steady but, as I've hinted before, punishingly painful. After several long days of long hill climbs the old nether regions cry out for a rest from the persistent nadular crushing.

Sconser was a reminder of a rookie error we had made on the Tuesday.  Entering Sconser we passed the Sconser Hotel, and were keen to enjoy a cup of tea.  I didn't much fancy the road facing aspect of the hotel, though, which was essentially the back of the building, but drew Norman's attention to the sign for the Isle of Raasay Hotel, which was said to be 200 metres or so from the jetty for the ferry.  Let's go there, we thought, knowing that the ferry goes from just down the road.  When we reached the jetty there was a further sign confirming the proximity of hotel to pier.  On Raasay.  Ah.  Many years at University were spent fashioning and sharpening our fledgling minds and this is pretty much the result - the inability to read a road sign properly when in need of a cup of tea.  For previous generations this kind of incompetence would have led to them sleeping under bushes or starving to death pretty rapidly, but for us it simply meant three more miles when we would reach Sligachan.  We made no such error this time. We just kept going.

Just after Sconser (where there is a perennially beautiful but soggy golf course) we came across the sign to Moll.  On the other side of the mountainous obstacle in our way, there is a small road end with a sign to Moll.  We stopped to mull this over.  If the two road ends were joined, the road must go round the headland, and be reasonably flat, as it follows the shoreline, or at least appears to.  I wondered out loud if we could simply avoid the long climb by nipping over this back road.

Even as I spoke it was clear to me that this was not an acceptable course of action.  The huge hill which would lead us back to Luib was in the way.  But that hill is one of the institutions of that road, one of the rocks of the journey.  Take that out, and the journey lacks something vital, and awful, and awe-inspiring, all at once.  We started the weary road up.

It was a hard afternoon.  We were pressing as hard as we could in order to reach Kyle at a reasonable hour, no later than 8, in order not to be back to Edinburgh in the middle of the night.  We barely paused for breath, and towards Broadford I was tiring a little, but it was good to arrive there, and rest with another cuppa.

We were now on the final lap, down to Kyle, and we really pounded those last 8 miles.  The weather remained remarkably sunny and warm, and the views awesome, but it was also tolerably hard work. The Skye Bridge eventually hove into view, and at just after 7.15pm we wheeled up to the car, and our cycling trip was over.

Journey's end. Bikes back on the car and ready to go home.

What is remarkable to me, looking back on it, is how relatively uneventful was that last day. It was almost routine to be cycling 50 miles at a good pace across the breadth of a substantial island but now it seems extraordinary that such a journey could be routine.

Actually, I think it's perhaps simpler than that.  Going south and east can never match the thrill of going north and west.

But it was, and is, great to be back home.