That wee drop of red did me the world of good and next morning I'm up with the birds (Chaffinch, Coal Tit, Blue Tit) and on the road to Ullapool, Wester Ross, to catch a ferry to the Outer Hebrides.
The bike is unpacked, tyres inflated, and it's in the boot. By my reckoning I'll have about an hour to poke around the Island of Lewis, the southern-most tip of which becomes the Isle of Harris, whence the famous tweed originates.
An hour later I arrive at Ullapool on the shores of Lochbroom on Scotland's beautiful west coast and leave the car in a free car park. I haul the bike out of the boot for its first outing and cycle down to the harbour to purchase my ticket for the ferry to Stornaway.
It's going to take a day or two to get my ear in, I know the Scots speak English but I'm struggling to keep up. I manage to buy my ticket without having to beg the young man's pardon more than two or three times.
On board. The bike is tied up downstairs and I'm comfortably ensconced in the large lounge area. I've packed the new Thermos I bought in London and some supplies to keep the wolf from the door so I sit back with a cup of tea and watch the harbour slip away as we put to sea.
When I arrive at Stornoway after a long and pleasant sea voyage, I discover that I'm classified as a vehicle for the purpose of loading the ferry and must be at the front of the line for the return trip about … now! But I've only just got here! Do they care? Well, no, they've got more things to worry about than dumb tourists I'm sure. I sneak off for a quick ten minute ride then come back and chat with a young couple, also on bikes, who have been riding around the island for a week. A week? Yes good idea, beats ten minutes hands down.
A cold glass of Sav Blanc from the bar seems in order for the return trip and I comfort myself with the thought that I have at least set foot on the islands which were the inspiration for Lillian Beckwith's novels.
Several hours later we regain the mainland and I have time for a leisurely ride around the pretty little fishing village of Ullapool. Paint, it seems, comes in two colours around here: white and royal blue. And why would you want any more because this is perfect.
The sun is westering as I take the A835 back to Lodge Barn for a late supper. I'm beginning to think that maybe I can do this after all. I've spent four days in London without being run down by a taxi or a bus; I've completed a train journey from one end of the country almost to the other; and now I've journeyed to a remote island and back again.
Good on you Chrissy, you're a legend!
No comments:
Post a Comment