The far side of the world
Even in a country as blessed with dramatic scenery as Scotland, the Outer Hebrides evoke a special sense of wonder. As well as the varied landscape of these islands, their persistence as a Gaelic stronghold and the Old Norse influences add to their unique intrigue, with place-names such as Frobost, Quidinish, Geocrab, Amhuinnsuidhe, and Tolstachaolais. The bird's-eye shape of the islands evokes something ancient and wild, like dinosaur fossils or the spine of a mountain range. With a week off work, I decided to embark on the much-heralded Hebridean Way cycle route.
I arrived at Castlebay, Barra, on a pleasantly bright and warm evening, following a four and a half hour ferry from Oban. Along with a range of other useful advice, my pal Neil had suggested I use the remaining light to cycle to Vatersay. On the winding road out of the village towards the causeway two miles south, I soon reached a very steep hill, passing the mildly-mocking cry of an old man - "You've got a long way to go!". He wasn't wrong - I couldn't even make it to the top without sheepishly walking the bike for the final few paces, wondering how I was going to manage the 130 miles journey that lay ahead. Yet the feeling of liberation on the downhill slope stayed with me as I peddled onwards to the pristine beaches of Vatersay.
By mid-afternoon I'd made it to Benbecula, the island which lies in-between North and South Uist (there are a few similarly idiosyncratic naming-quirks throughout the Outer Hebrides, notably the "isles" of Harris and Lewis which are in fact the same island but are referred to separately due to their religious and historic distinctions). With weather conditions fair and the terrain flat, I opted not to linger long on the Uists (I'll return someday to see more), though a notable feature were some prehistoric buildings, among the oldest in Europe, pre-dating the first written refrences to the islands by Greek and Roman authors.
When I reached Lochmaddy on North Uist at around 7pm, exhausted, I settled down to some food and a pint, intending to find a place to stay for the night, only to discover nowhere had space. I wearily hit the road again for the 13 miles to Bernreay, my sixth island of the day. It turned out to be blessing - the evening was beautifully warm and serene and I came to rest my aching limbs at a bothy-hostel next to a sublime beach. I had been concerned this might also be full, as it happened to be Berneray Week 2017, but fortunately the hoardes of tourists had not caught wind of Tuesday's Darts Night.
Berneray is famed not only for its idyllic island tranquility. It was also birthplace of the tallest non-pathological giant in recorded history, the fabled Angus "Giant" MacAskill (1825-63), who left the Hebrides as a young man for a career in show business across Europe and North America. He also happens to be an ancestor of the trials cyclist, Danny MacAskill.
After a more lesiurely start to the next day, I boarded the ferry for Harris. The blue sky convinced me to take the western road with its sweeping beaches rather than its rocky counterpart to the east, which I'd visited once before and is equally dramatic in a different way. The resplendent shores soon gave way to imposing peaks, offering the first test of genuine hill-climbing of the trip. While the second day's 30 miles paled in comparison to the first day's 70, my eventual arrival in Tarbert felt just as welcome due to the near-constant wind and tough climbs.
Day Three saw my crossing into Lewis - land of peat cutting, Sabbath observance and three-quarters of the Western Isles' population. By the time I reached Stornoway, I was keen for a beer to mark the triumphant end of the journey. My guidebook, published in 1999, portrayed Stornoway as a rather grey and drab town, and said that due to its Calvinist influence, the few pubs it had were rather seedy. Thankfully, this proved an out-dated depiction. On the contrary, the town felt lively and even cosmpolitan, with lots of bars and Thai, Turkish and Indian restuarants. With its thick woodland and harbour, I thought it was quite an attractive wee town. What's more, my arrival just so happened to coincide with the opening night of the HebCelt Festival, one of the biggest events of the Western Isles calendar. Not only did I get the last available bed in the hostel, a group of folk staying in my room even had a free ticket. Within a couple hours of arriving I was with a group of new pals watching Dougie McLean sing "Caledonia" in a packed marquee. Not a dry eye etc.
Knowing I'd have to cycle from Ullapool to the nearest train station in Garve the next day, I opted to have a rest and visit some sights on Lewis. I got a lift to the Callanish standing stones from Robert, a Glaswegian guy in his early forties staying at the hostel. This former oil and gas worker had what you might call the 'gift of the gab', revealing that learning Norwegian had made him a millionaire. I learnt that women were his only vice and that he'd turned down two marriage proposals. As a wee laddie his granda had told him to avoid alcohol, drugs and loose women. "Two out ay three's no bad, Callum!", he exclaimed with a hoot. After the standing stones we continued in Robert's 4x4 on the twisting road to Mangersta, an extraordinary beach on the Atlantic coast with views across to St Kilda. Apparently there's a bothy carved into the side of the jagged cliffs surrounding the beach, though it was so well disguised I couldn't place it.
Back at the festival, Peatbog Fairies and Ímar delivered probably my favourite sets, while Tide Lines also gave a memorable performance. In an overspilling marquee, a sharply dressed elderly gentleman drew some attention for his exuberant dance moves. In a well-spoken English accent, he said he'd travelled from Morocco to see the band (though I reckon the main reason might've been to visit his granddaughter who lived locally). His enthusiasm was matched by the largely young crowd who seemed to know the lyrics to all their songs, creating a rather moving atmosphere. It felt like no place to be cynical as they belted back the chorus about dancing with a Highland girl where the stars reach out for miles, to feel the breeze of the Hebrides on the far side of the world.
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