Sandwich fillers

I do not wish to repeat what Parkey has written, merely attempt to elaborate further with my own views and thoughts. I have to admit an initial sense of disconnection with this 'holiday', as it were, as I could never imagine attempting to cycle any great distance, let alone through places I was only vaguely aware existing. Yet, here I am, miles from home with two good friends surviving with what I can carry and the goodwill of people letting us into their homes (for a price, of course). Deciding what I could afford to carry was crucial and I did my best to carry the lightest alternative where possible.

Months of planning on Parkey's behalf is what made this trip. Good BnBs book quickly and train ticket prices inflate rapidly the closer to the travel date you get. So I found myself one tuesday afternoon sat in the first class coach of a Cross Country service on my way to Inverness. An early (for me) start coupled with a comparatively short train journey to York station preceeded a brief lunch and hurried search for replacement equipment in the city centre preceeded this novel experience.

The journey itself was relatively uneventful and exceedingly long. The only real exitement occurred when one of the cabin stewards banged his head as the train lurched - otherwise the monotony of a truly riveting game of Scrabble was occasionally broken by food offerings or an object of interest vanishing into the scenery. And what scenery! The east coast line is spectacular, following the coast, rivers, valleys and moors in turn, with views only available to those willing to travel by rail.

We saw little of Inverness; the SYHA youth hostel, a few streets and a bicycle shop was the extent of our tour. The initial twenty miles or so of road wound steadily through the countryside before rising gently into the hills. Typical countryside merged into moor-like scenery which became ever bleaker with increasing height. Cloud cover steadily increased, blackening over the higher northern peaks. Ominous rumbling could be heard by mid-afternoon. The rain began as we stood looking in awe at the sheer power of millions of litres of crashing water, teasingly drizzling before relentlessly increasing until pouring from the sky in volume equalling that of the waterfall. As we began to cycle away from the top of the falls, James screaming 'Is that all you've got?!' to the heavens, beyond belief the downpour became a deluge. We were each soaked in Scottish rainwater before we could barely get going. A brief, painful flurry of hail sent us scurrying down the road to Ullapool with miles still to go. The infamous 3 mile drop down to sea level saw us reach speeds exceeding 45mph into wind and yet more hail. The final few miles were the most miserable, cold, wet, with puddles forming in our shoes.

The Old Surgery in Ullapool was the most welcome sight of the day, as warmth and a hot shower awaited. The proprietress appeared shocked by the state of us, but quickly welcomed us inside out of the (now far lighter, but still persistant) rain and immediately offered to dry our wet clothes as soon as we were sorted. By evening the rain had ceased and after a good meal involving the demise of numerous denizens of the deep, we retired for the night.

Thursday found us on the ferry crossing over to Stornoway and the isles of the Outer Hebrides. The northerly swell did nothing to alleviate my apprehension - it had been a long while since I had last been on a ferry and I was uneasy about the impending conditions. Whilst the water initially looked calm, the remains of a northerly swell soon put all thoughts of cycling out of my head as I fought to retain my breakfast. Stornoway ferry terminal was the best sight of the day. As cyclists, we had the honor of always being first on and last off any ferry and this time was no different. We spent the afternoon wandering around the town, observing a Scottish piper in full regalia posing in the castle grounds. We went to bed early in preparation for the following day, unaware of how much of an ordeal it was to be.