Part 2: The ferry doesn't sail on Sundays

The following morning - all of us in fine spirits and none the worse for the previous night's wear, we went down for breakfast at nine sharp only to sit in the cheerless dining room and wonder why we were on our own. No friendly fire, no orange juice and no milk for our Cornflakes.

"Breakfast's not 'til nine you know boys," said an eventually surfacing landlady. "It is nine," we chorused in unison.

"No, no it's only ten past eight," she replied.

"You've forgotten to put your clock forward," we politely pointed out. We could have added 'stupid bugger' but she then panicked so much we didn't have chance.

"Everyone will be down in a minute," she muttered half to herself, "and wasn't it a good job no one had a bus to catch"

We certainly weren't in a hurry and once we lit the fire and switched on the telly, were quite happy to wait for our eggs and bacon.

The outer Hebrides are fiercely religious, in fact the further north you go the fiercer it gets.

The ferry doesn't sail on a Sunday. CalMac did try it - once.

They sailed OK and even docked, but the local preacher laid himself down under the car ramp and refused to move for such an ungodly activity. The ferry returned still fully loaded and CalMac haven't tried since.

So, as our ferry didn't depart until 0.30am on Monday, we had a Sunday in Scotland to fill.

Dave suggested a trip to Glencoe. On a previous visit he'd passed a spot that looked interesting but had been too knackered to explore it then (having cycled up and over Rannock Moore) and today seemed a good opportunity to re-visit the spot.

Although the day was misty and overcast the drive passed quickly enough, that's one of Scotland's benefits - even in poor weather the scenery's always interesting.

We parked a couple of miles up the pass where the river runs under the road and donning our walking gear we set off to follow it into the hills.

The going was spongy and wet. The river twisted and turned as it cascaded over short falls into crystal clear pools of icy water.

I knew they were icy 'cause I put my hand in, this was done in disbelief after Dave had stuck his head in. His head must have a thermal coating because the ducking didn't deter him from stripping off with the intention of immersing the rest of him.

Fortunately he did a 'toe test' first. This deterred him. However crystal clear and invitingly deep a pool might be, jumping naked into ice-cold mountain water could be a heart stopping experience. Discretion proving the better part of valour, Dave re-dressed quickly but not quite quickly enough to avoid Geoff taking a rather interesting photograph of him.

I'm not sure that having toes more sensitive than your head doesn't indicate a cause for worry, but photographic evidence of naked pool paddling in Glencoe (in March) certainly should.

Walking to the top of the Glen was a lot like walking on sponge; the ground was badly waterlogged from what must have been days of continuous rain. Stopping to make a brew we chatted to a passing climber who was on his way back.

People are surprisingly friendly when out walking; you're a member of a club even when you don't know you've joined one. Nothing eventful from the climber, he was just looking forward to a good session in the pub to round of his weekend.

As we reached the top of the Glen we were nearly on the snow line and the temperature dropped accordingly. With the fine mist turning once again to rain, and having covered what was for us a respectable distance, we turned round and retraced our steps.

We made compulsory stops to add stones to marker cairns and by the time we returned to the car we were quite wet. So with socks, hats and boots spread over all the heater vents we returned down Glencoe Pass.

Medicinal whiskey was called for to drive out the chill and as luck would have it, the cafe at the bottom of the pass dispensed the nectar.

It also dispensed Scotch Pies. Dave, who was by this time a confirmed Pie junky, couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a fix and so had two.

Dryer, fuller and perhaps slightly less sober we drove back to Oban. The thought of a seven and a half-hour sea crossing deterred serious drinking, but what else can you do in Oban with the cinema closed on a Sunday (that pesky preacher again).

We'd parked outside MaCaulays Bar in Argyll Square on our return and it proved too difficult not to go in.

A splendid place is MaCaulays Bare, dark wood beams and a mellow nicotine cream ceiling and brass taps inset into the bar to dispense water for your whiskey. A couple of glasses later when conversation ran thin, we looked closely at the pictures on the walls.

On first sight these had appeared to be old prints of old ferry boats, which they were. But closer inspection showed that the majority of these were on fire or in the process of sinking.

We decided we were really looking forward to our crossing. Tired from our walk we had a rather desultory evening and eventually moved from the Maritime Disasters bar to walk round the same snooker table we'd walked round the night before.

Eventually we'd killed enough time and moved to board our ferry. Unloading our gear from the car boot we were about to wave it a fond farewell when we noticed a last minute hitch. The car's intended parking place for the coming week was in fact a twenty-minute maximum parking zone. Geoff drove it to the quay side road thus avoiding a two thousand-pound parking fine.

Packs on backs we staggered round to Ferry Terminal 3, only to discover that the reassuringly large vessel we had earlier thought was ours was in fact, hiding 'The Lord of the Isles'.

This was our ferry and was a much smaller and rather puny looking vessel upon which we were expected to cross a good stretch of the Atlantic Ocean.

Nothing daunted, we walked up the gangway, dumped our packs and set off to explore our home for the next eight hours - a closed bar, a lounge full of kids watching a blank television and an observation deck full of already sleeping people.

The trick with this ferry was obviously to board as soon as possible and find a horizontal-sleeping surface. Not to do as we did which was to hang about in the terminal until, puzzled by the numbers of people going up the gangway, we asked if we could board. "Of course ye can," said the slip of a girl behind the desk. She obviously wondered if all sasanacks were as thick as we three.

The 'Lord of the Isles' left on time at twelve thirty by which time we'd found somewhere to sit or lie.

I was on a reclining chair which, although comfortable enough for sitting, I found difficulty in sleeping on. Luckily the crossing was very calm allowing me to sleep through 'till about four.

The cafeteria opens all through the night so I had a cup of tea and a sandwich whilst looking out of the window. The black window became boring so I dozed on and off until we reached Barra on Castlebay Island when the change in engine noise and the bump and bang of unloading woke me and as it was now becoming lighter, I had a view.

The sea became choppier as we steamed past the Islands of Flooday, Hellisay and Eriskay.

Eriskay is where 'Whiskey Galore" actually happened, where the SS Politician foundered with a cargo of twenty five thousand bottles of whiskey on board. Eriskay is also where Bonny Prince Charlie first set foot on Scottish soil to start the fateful '45 rebellion. Eventually, history unfolding before me or not, I'd had my fill of bleak seascape and dozed off again.

At 8:00am on a grey and rainy Monday morning we docked at Lochboisdale on South Uist.

See some Pictures from Keith's Trip