Day Ten/Eleven - The aftermath

30.03.2008 - Back to London

So we shaved our heads – Ben documented this well, check out his pdf montage of our trip on http://www.mailinformer.com/mailinformer/lejog/lejog_pics.pdf and out we went looking for a B&B in Wick town, where my Aunt Susie, Angus, Ben and Hen would be spending the night ready for the sleeper train back to London the next day - Sunday - arriving in London Monday morning.

After much searching, a place was found that could accommodate all four. We bid our farewells, racked three bikes – Ben took his one back on the train while I took Angus and Hen’s steeds to other regions of Scotland.

Me and mother started by going to the Orkney Isles. Six months ago, back at her place I was explaining the enterprise singling out various points on the map. As soon as she saw the Orkney Isles near John O’Groats she said me must visit. As it turns out, she found many of her family names in the Kirkwall phone directory – the main Orkney city with 19 thousand inhabitants according to our local source – more than she found in the Dublin phone directory so it softened even more the soft spot she has for Scotland.

The light also got softer the closer we got, taking a short cut through the country lanes in good time for the 1845h ferry – a very small ferry, if you are used to crossing from Dover to Calais.

The sea was a different matter altogether with big waves that sent the boat seriously up and down. No sign of sea sickness anywhere, though. My boss tells me this particular sea presents one of the strongest currents in the world and ongoing plans exist to harness sea power in the region.

On the ferry I had my first taste of Orkney Ice Cream. And some more followed in a very brief period. Whenever I could approximate my gluttonous self enough. Once moored in St Margaret’s Hope we set off to Kirkwall via St Mary’s, crossing three “causeways” – from Wikipedia, “a road or railway elevated by a bank, usually across a broad body of water or wetland” – bridging the islands.

We managed to find a place to sleep were we also had a nice meal and a long retrospective chat in the remains of the day.

After a good night sleep we had a hearty breakfast and were ready to set off when we got chatting to a BA air crew, well, Logan Air operated by BA. They told us most flights and landings were bumpy and on the occasion flew from Edinburgh to Kirkwall. One of the stewardesses mentioned the beautiful sight from the air of crashing waves against the “Old Man of Hoy” – Wikipedia again to the rescue; “a 137 metre (450 ft) sea stack of red sandstone perched on a plinth of igneous basalt, close to Rackwick Bay on the west coast of the island of Hoy, in the Orkney Islands, Scotland.”.

As usual, I asked – in this instance the day receptionist – as I always do in the higher latitudes if the Northern Lights were visible. She said she had seen them twice and that in the Summer the night never went completely dark, dusk lingering until dawn.

We set off and at the first corner stopped by the cathedral, where the most unusual bell tolling was going on. It was very sombre, spaced out and slightly melodic, slightly harmonic. So mysterious.

A man on a bicycle listened intently. He had found God, according to my mother’s report, was from Yorkshire and settled in Orkney. He had cycled once to Yorkshire and back, thus completing two halves of LEJOG. His handshake was as gentle as his demeanour as you would expect from someone who stood listening to Kirkwall Cathedral’s Sunday morning chiming bells.

We made it back to the ferry in good time, via the inverse route but this time admiring the sights in daylight. A sunken ship here, cliffs there and the beautiful sky.

As we were ready to set sail a livestock haul backed into the ferry. The big cattle sounded desperate, eyes full of fear, looking through the narrow gaps. My heart sunk. And so did my ma’s. One had developed some kind of peat armour, the small adjoining rounded chunks stuck to the hairs, holding a natural sheen. So different, like I have come habituated to.

The driver told me that on this occasion they were being transported to another farm and farmer, to whom they had been sold – and that in this instance they would not be taken to the slaughter house. They would live another day and both of us smiled.

On the ferry we met a squash team – 16 members who had been to Kirkwall the day before playing against the local team, from 1700h to 2100h then drinking whiskey till 0500h the next day. Busy schedule!

We were given many precious tips, that we should visit Dunnet Head and go back via the West Coast. We followed all this good advice and did not repent for a mile. Well, we could not follow the “stay another day” advice that seemed so logical and should have given us enough time to visit the Isle of Skye.

We stopped one last time in John O’Groats, four miles east of Gills - our ferry port – for some gift shopping.

Then our way to the fishing village of Ullapool presented so many natural beauties we gave up taking photographs. There were numerous mountains en route, rising hundreds of metres above sea level, many alcoves with sandy beaches and surfers and not that much traffic, given the time of the year. The B roads were empty and we went through some remote regions, with not a hut in sight.

It’s worth mentioning to prospective travellers the road around Lock Eriboll going southwest then back northeast, before continuing west. And the sight of many such mountains, like Ben Hope – by Loch Hope – standing proud and covered in snow.

Why have we never seen these images on print or film we wondered? Why were they hidden from us? By indifference or by design? We figured no one would want this spoiled, although the environment is very tough, and deduced no great painters would hail from these parts, because there is not much time for indulging in much other than surviving.

Our tea break was in Scourie and the hotel was all about fly fishing. Although having heard this expression for the best part of two decades, I did not know what it meant, until Henry enlightened me. I won’t go into the particulars except that Henry noted it is more akin to hunting as the fisherman must take a more active role in pursuing prey.

After sipping our tea and coffee by the fireplace and talking to one of the guests, a BBC cameraman and birdwatcher from Bristol, who told us he flew over regularly to visit a friend living on an island a few miles offshore. The friend he said, who collected him by boat, did not have good network coverage in the are and had to climb to the top of a mountain to collect her mobile phone messages! I found it very hilarious – living on the bourne of technology and wilderness.

Once we finished our drinks, we were back on the road again until the fishing village of Ullapool, were we stopped at the first hotel we saw – the Argyll Hotel. It was raining and we were happy to get indoors were even keeled Nigel, the proprietor together with his partner Franner, booked us in for the night. Both had attempted to set up pub in their native Guildford but could not get the brewery to sponsor so found a situation in the Western Highlands which suited them better.

After a quick incursion into town to get an Indian takeaway at Jasmine plus a walk along the sea loch while our delicious meal was prepared we returned to the Argyll to eat. There was a lot of food but me managed to polish it off, minus a bit of the bonus Peshawri Nam, which was ravaged the next night, while me and my starving mother unloaded the car, finding the leftover.

The Argyll was fairly empty, only a few bods hanging out at the bar. Nigel played an entire Jimi Hendrix album and my mother enjoyed the music of her contemporary, having never listened to him carefully. After finishing our meals we proceeded to finish our drinks by the fireplace, en route my mother asked a group of revellers – one sporting yellow wellies – if the pub was a fisherman’s hang out. The barman replied that every pub was a fisherman’s hangout. He also said he owned a pub down the road, before being employed by Nigel. Now having known Scots in London who referred to “going up the road” as going home I could not figure out where he meant by “down the road”.

Anyway, he added some logs and stoked the fire, while describing how the sea became depleted and nowadays yielded mainly shellfish. I asked if it had been the Spanish fleet and he replied “something like that”.

After a good night sleep, to cap the first day of rest after nine days cycling we had breakfast and a good chat with Franner, who is busy decorating the Argyll, after switching careers – she had previously been a music lecturer, the euphonium being her instrument. It is similar to a tuba, she explained, but higher in pitch.

She certainly had enough space to start her own brass band but that was low on her priority list for the time being. Still, Nigel and Franner were as musical as a couple could get. The previous weekend they had live music in the pub – Scott MacDonald – and salsa lessons concurrently at the back function room.

We left Ullapool like many places before, along the journey, wishing we could have stayed more. Still, our final day driving to London, the last day of March, was to be filled with beautiful site and reencounters.

As we approached Fort William the mountain ranges began to appear, and big ones they were. The same Grampians but more impressive still that our first view. Near Fort William, as we went past heading southwest on the A82 we saw the ski resort of Nevis Range perch atop the mountain near the peaks of Aonach Mòr (1219) and Ben Nevis (1343). We drove past the lift and were tempted to stop but time was running out.

We stopped at a viewpoint by Loch Ness and I could not resist going for a dip in the legendary waters. They were crystal clear but reflected the brown stone, making the reflected light go brown, too. It reminded me of Jaws except Nessy was lurking in the depths, waiting and ready to subtract some limbs from my defenceless frame. In the end it was the low temperatures that really scared me off. Out I went as my mother reminded me I was crazy just like my dad. But it made all sense in the world - my skin tingling for a long time afterwards.

We attacked the Fort William Morrison’s booty while my mother had some hysteria attacks, having lost track of the satnav’s location in this planet of ours. It turned out to have been left in the Sutherland Inn, back in Brora.

As we approached the last bump before Glencoe the mountain biker I talked to on the first day appeared on the horizon, on the tenth day of her planned 14 day journey to John O’Groats. I hooted and wandered if by association – the bikes on the rack - she could figure we set out on the same day – or like us, had been hooted some many times, mostly in encouragement but occasionally in rage, and was oblivious to my identity. Anyway, she definitely chose the scenic route. Henry’s dad, Colin, recommended the Western route but due to time constraints we chose the Eastern way. As we left her behind I came to the most stunning view of the trip, an infinite opening of rock and heather surrounded but mountain ranges, by Glencoe mountain resort. The mountain biker had just sipped this unhurriedly why we were zooming past in a car. The car park in Glencoe mountain resort was tiny and inviting. I wish I could have followed the squash players’ final suggestion - “Stay another day”. That would have been the simple solution.

We carried on and before long were driving through Glasgow on our way to Carlisle, where we refuelled and rang Henry to fine tune the evening’s get-together. We knew then – 1700h – that we would make last orders in the best case, which we did, after driving non-stop till 2300h, almost matching a similar drive of yesteryear from Glasgow to Heathrow but that tale will wait till another blogging down memory lane session.

The pub was emptying as I sipped my red wine and some gifts exchanged hands. And the adventure seemed to be over.