Beach, Bog, and Beer

At last! The Holy Grail of WiFi and electricity! Behold, my cosy blogging setup of coffee and Fellowship of the Ring! Here we are, hunkering down for the night in a rather plush campsite (as campsites go) in Skye. We thought we’d treat ourselves since Tom has a pretty awful cold, and is in fact standing under the shower trying to feel human again as we speak. But how did we get here from a blustery beach in Lewis? Ah, well settle down with a mug of something hot and I’ll tell you, and hopefully this time it won’t be stone cold by the time you get to the end.

Just after the last post we drove up to the tardis of a community shop and converted a small mountain of disgusting rags in to lovely clean, dry clothes. Then we walked over the dunes to one of the most spectacular beaches I’ve ever seen, Ardroil Sands. The sand seems to stretch for miles in every direction before eventually disappearing under rocks, a river, or the galloping white horses of the clear blue sea. It would have been positively Caribbean, if it wasn’t for the fact we were all being sandblasted with cold wind. We walked a long way round and eventually our path was blocked by a stretch of shallow water. Luckily I was wearing my trusty wellibobs so gave Tom a piggy back for about a fifty metres. Always ready to help a damsel in distress.

That night I finally worked up the courage and body odour sufficient to brave a shower in the van. It actually went surprisingly well, just a little water escapeage and the hot water only ran out at the very end. Definitely worth it.

The next day we drove back over to Stornoway to resolve the blown fuse situation. We gave a lift to an old boy who was hitching to the big Tesco (don’t worry, I sized him up first. I coulda taken him). He was born and bred on the island, a native Gaelic speaker, and sufficiently interesting for me not to ask him for a tenner at the end of it.

With a bit of help over the phone from the dealership, we located the offending fuse – an inline blade fuse – and sourced a replacement from the fishing cooperative shop for a mere 20p!  At that price, we got a bag of various fuses for every eventuality and celebrated our victory with fish and chips. Then we drove on down to Harris. Interesting fact, they’re actually one big island with two distinct styles of landscape bla bla bla.

I started to look for places to stay on my various apps but my little Millenial face fell as my signal dropped down, down to nothing. As it was starting to get late in the day we stopped in at the Tourist Information Centre in Tarbert to find out which campsites were still open this time of year. The lady in there was extremely helpful and gave us a printout of all the campsites in the Outer Hebrides which turned out to be a lifesaver. We went to check one out – which was closed – along the Golden Road, so-called because of the cost of constructing it. Wow, what a road. We found out that a new fancy community centre with camping facilities had opened up on the west side, but that was booked up for the night so we booked that for the following night. Then we headed back up to the northern part of Harris where the lady told us there were facilities for camper vans at Hushinish Gateway at the end of, in her words, “the longest twelve miles you’ll ever drive”.

In convoy with the senior Haweses, we set off down said road. If the Golden Road had golden views, this road was triple platinum. It was sunset, and every corner we rounded had an even more incredible vista of wild boggy mountains and sparkling golden sea. At one point we drove through a little white fence and the stream running down the left hand side turned into a small waterfall, and we rounded the corner into the front drive of – I kid you not – a small castle. Our jaws practically hit the floor.

At the end of the twelve miles, which I’m reliably informed were indeed extremely challenging to drive, we found the spot. A flat patch of gravel with electrical hookups and unbeatable sea views, with showers and toilets down at the bottom of the hill. That night alone made all the time, money, and windy nights to get there worth it and would gladly have stayed another night there but we were already paid up at the fancy community centre, Talla na Mara. We dragged ourselves away from that cracking spot and spent a good ten minutes having a standoff with a highland cow that was blocking the road. In the end we won, but only by an inch or so.

That afternoon Tom and his dad Phil played the Isle of Harris golf course – or rather, it sounds like it played them – while Dinah and I sat out of the wind in the vans. We finished the day off with a corking meal in the restaurant at Talla na Mara where Tom discovered a new favourite beer (Tarasgeir, Isle of Skye Brewery) and settled in outside for another blustery night.

The next day we took the ferry over to North Uist. As we left the ferry everybody else turned left straight on to North Uist, but we followed the senior Haweses right onto the island of Berneray to a massive long beach backed with massive dunes. Rhubarb had the absolute time of her life running up and down the dunes with Tom, and I had a brief paddle in the sea before my feet turned to ice.

Ardroil Sands

Ardroil sands

Mmmm fatty fatty fatty

The Golden Road, Isle of Harris

The castle… I know!!

Sunset from what I’ll call from now on the Platinum Road

There are worse places to spend a night – Hushinish Gateway

Why would anybody do that.

Talla na Mara, Isle of Harris

West Beach, Berneray

Selfie with a neolithic chief

Outside the pub in South Uist – look closely at the rear view mirror

Kilbride Campsite

Breezy Eriskay

Tom and Rhubarb in Eriskay

Yes please, four!

Portree, Skye

The Procrastination Station

We drove to Lochmaddy where somebody pointed us to a car park somewhere where we wouldn’t be disturbed. It was another windy night, so windy that the flame for our hot water kept getting blown out. Washing up with cold water is neither effective, nor a fun way to spend an evening. In the morning we had a little knock on the window to say we couldn’t stay another night as they needed the car park for the church service on Sunday. No room at the inn for us, I suppose.

In Lochmaddy we stopped at the arts centre for a couple of lattes, a look around the shop, and a little light art appreciation, then headed down to South Uist, with a cheeky stop at the Barpa Langass neolithic burial chamber. The weather was utterly foul, but on South Uist, owing to their Catholic rather than Calvinist persuasions, we found a Co-Op that was not only open on a Sunday but open until 10pm! I felt like I was on Oxford Street!

Down at the southernmost tip of South Uist we blagged a spot on the seafront outside a pub after promising to come in for a few drinks, and in the bar we found a small collection of people whose flight had been cancelled because of the winds: three Parisians who were there shooting game, and four actors shooting a film. Keep an eye out, it’s called Limbo. The next day was less rainy but still pretty windy, and we had a better look around South Uist at some ancient roundhouses. Then we moved to the only campsite open for miles around, Kilbride.

Kilbride campsite was fantastic, a great spot open all year round with a cafe on site and a hostel. We did another load of laundry in the little communal kitchen and had hot showers all round. We played bridge again, and it was a lot more fun when I was completely hammered on beer, although I’m not sure the others would agree with me. The campsite was so nice we stayed another night, after Tom and his dad played another round of golf at Askernish. That evening we ate at the Borrodale Hotel, and I was really good and had a salad even though I really wanted a massive burger with blue cheese.

Wednesday was supposed to be the best weather, or at least the most rain-free, so on Tuesday we went across the causeway to Eriskay with the plan to get the early ferry to Barran on Wednesday morning and come back on the last ferry. Then on Thursday we would sail to Skye and then down to Fort William, where I could at last do some work and the senior Haweses wouldn’t be too far from Glasgow to return their hired van on Monday. We had a long walk along the beaches at Eriskay and bedded down for the night at the ferry terminal (not sure whether that was kosher) ready to get up about four hours earlier than usual.

It was cold but not windy when we woke up at 7am on Wednesday. We scraped the frost off our faces, had some toast and dismantled the bed. To save money and the environment, we decided to only take the one van so Phil, Dinah, and Rhubarb joined us and, bleary-eyed but excited, into the queue for the 8.10am sailing to Barra. The ferry neared but our hopes of getting aboard started to fade away as we realised it wasn’t getting any bigger, and eventually a 1:43 scale replica of a ferry docked. We looked around at the two lanes of pre-booked cars and the fuel tanker in front of us and resigned ourselves to the sad truth that Barra was not to be, as the next ferry wouldn’t have given us enough time there.

Instead, we drove back to Lochmaddy and booked our tickets to Skye at the earliest opportunity so as not to have a repeat of Barragate. Outside the ferry booking office I missed my footing on the kerb and Tom watched me comically vanish from view on the other side of the van. His cry of concern and stifled laughter was met with a short silence followed by a squeaky “mmhmm” said with watering eyes and gritted teeth. I managed not to actually hit the deck, but I’m now walking like a mad cartoon pirate. We had another look (limp) around the arts centre and I posted a parcel to my gorgeous little niece Tabitha in advance of her first birthday on Sunday (happy birthday, Biff!).

By that point, having had half the sleep we usually had and with Tom starting to come down with a terrible cold, we found a spot to park up again for the night, cooked dinner and had a couple of drinks in a hotel bar. This morning Tom got dosed up on Lemsip and drove us and his sinuses onto the ferry. A short while later we docked in Skye, swung by the brewery to pick up a few Tarasgeirs, and then found the nicest campsite money could buy so he could recuperate. I’ll try pouring a dram or two down his throat, that should do the trick…

Troughton out.