Part 7: All kinds of everything

We woke in Baleshare Hostel to porridge, bacon, eggs and the best of black puddings all washed down with numerous cups of tea. A wash and brush up and a visit outside to the toilet in the hen-house - no sign of the hen killing dog yet (if we had seen it we'd have pointed out the early morning cockerel to it). Said our goodbyes to Mike and made our way leisurely to the main road to catch our Post Office bus.

Disaster - when it arrived it was full of German walkers who weren't walking. The driver got out and came over to sympathise. "I might manage a couple of you," he said. We stood around looking sorry for ourselves and made a few mournful noises. Eventually the driver relented, re-stacked his newspapers and the Germans and managed to get us all in.

The Germans commented on the amount of rubbish to be seen and on the dead sheep (which could have been the same one that we saw), they seemed even less impressed with the Hebrides than us. The drive was uncomfortable and boring, particularly for Dave who had my pack jammed in his face but it was still an improvement over walking as yesterday's storm had done a 180° turn and was now back with us.

The third hostel on Birnaray Island had seemed a good place for our next stop and our bus driver had given us the option of getting out where the road forked to go to either Newtonferry or Lochmaddy. As we had no food and didn't know if we could re-stock at Newtonferry we decided to stay with the bus to Lochmaddy.

By the time we arrived all the shops were shut until two for lunch. Newtonferry was a seven mile walk and the last ferry left at four, this meant if we waited for the shop to open we couldn't make the ferry. The choice was a night near the pub in Lochmaddy or a possible foodless stay on Bernaray. Lochmaddy (and the pub won).

Waiting in the pub was a doubly good idea, it gave Dave an opportunity to ask the barman about good fishing spots, and the two pints we had went down very well. We also checked the OS map and this, coupled with the barman's advice, pointed us to a spot about two miles away that looked rocky enough to give a chance at catching something.

There was an official hostel in Lochmaddy, this was a large old building that looked as though it could hold twenty or more but unfortunately it was closed until Easter. Our way to Sponish Harbour (the spot we'd picked off the map) led us past the local Sheriff's Office and past a public telephone.

On the basis that 'if she knew I was going to phone she'd worry until I did', Pat (my wife) had forbidden me to phone. I couldn't now pass up the opportunity so I gave her a ring. I think she was surprised that I was actually enjoying myself.

The road wandered around and past the best attempt at a garden we had yet seen. Firs had been planted to give shelter from the wind and the ground level looked lower, we guessed it had been dug out and filled in with healthy top soil.

Eventually the tracks wanderings gave out at a gate and a path continued through a field of sheep. This path led to what the guy behind the bar in Lochmaddy had called 'The Swinging Bridge" This description was accurate.

It was a suspension bridge about thirty yards long and wide enough for just one person. And it certainly did swing, up and down not side to side and when the three of us hit the same rhythm it was like walking on a bouncy castle.

At the end of the bridge a short flight of stone steps turned sharp right onto a very narrow brick causeway and then onto a field of gorse with a single stunted tree. Beyond the tree was Sponish House, the largest building we'd seen anywhere on the islands it was empty and derelict, the result of what looked like an extensive fire.

Past the house was Sponish Harbour. We set-up camp on the landward side of the harbour on the banks of an inlet to Loch Houram. Once again we'd searched for the perfect camp sight and this time we'd failed. I'd looked further along the track only to find either waterlogged land or exposed rock.

Our default site was on uneven ground and was a little to close to the high water mark for my piece of mind, but it was sheltered and the ground soft. The ground sloped quite steeply in both directions and we had a short and perhaps somewhat sharp discussion on its merits.

I didn't believe Dave's assurance that he wouldn't roll down the slope in the night. Geoff felt he had a better 'none rolling' chance on his airbed, so he took the high ground. Our pitch may have sloped but we were in a beautiful spot.

The grassy knoll we'd pitched on was just above the high water mark and the view on all three sides was impressive. The ambient light was soft and gentle and the quiet was broken only by the occasional cry of a passing gull.

It was only the forward view that was less than perfect looking out as it did on the scrubby machair we'd walked through to get here. The ground around the tent was littered with empty mussel shells left by the Oyster Catchers and Gulls. These remains raised our hopes and we had visions of piping hot bowls of Moules Marineer to go with the sea trout Geoff and Dave were sure to catch.

The tide was out in our inlet so we set off back down the track to find a fishing spot. Climbing a rocky hill by the harbour we found a likely group of rocks overlooking the sea where the two fishermen got kitted up. Although the bartender in Lochmaddy had said the fishing round here should be good they had no luck (possibly because Dave was using silver paper from a cigarette packet as bait), there again, the bartender could have been lying - most fishermen do.

In recompense - the spot they were fishing from was beautiful, perched as they were on rocks with the sea directly beneath them, America would have been the only land to swim to in the east. I hung about for a while hoping to see some action, in actions absence I decided to provide my own and hunt mussels. No luck here either, I was obviously looking at too high a water level mark.

Returning over the cliffs to our campsite I passed an exposed face of almost dry peat. This gave me the idea of building a fire to see if I could get some of it going. There was plenty of wood on the land-ward side of the inlet and shaving some of the dryer pieces for kindling I soon had a small fire spluttering away in the shelter of the rock face near the tent.

The fish-less fishermen returned and our dreams of sea trout with mussels were replaced with mincemeat, pasta and noodles.

Not as far to the pub as last nights journey but the thought of the return journey (over the swinging bridge) did register as a possible cause for not drinking too much tonight. Pool and pints filled our evening in the pub with a last minute trip to the Gents to fill up our water bag (wished we hadn't filled it quite so full, it was a bugger to carry back).

The track was fine on the way back, apart from dropping the water bag twice, it was when we left the light behind we had problems. We did have torches but these were only short range, fine for showing what we were walking on but not for where we were going.

Nearly reached someone's front door the first time we got lost, not noticing we'd gone through a gate and over a garden. The second time we had trouble getting out of the bog. Sponish House, as we passed it in the dark, looked a bit spooky, you could just make out the ghouls behind the windows waiting to leap out.

Eventually we got back to the tent and even had enough water left to make a brew despite the number of times I'd dropped the bag. Not surprisingly this night turned out to be the worst we'd had.

The problem of course was the slope, all three of us gradually sliding down and ending up piled in a heap at the bottom of the tent. This, coupled with the normal farts, snores and usual camping noises made sleep practically impossible. When we finally did drop off we seemed to be woken only 5 minutes later by what sounded like every sea bird on the west coast breaking open mussel shells on the rocks in front of the tent. This, as I'd failed to find even one mussel yesterday, really pissed me off.

A long time to become active this morning, two cups of tea still found us lying about inside the tent. We couldn't even be bothered cooking our porridge even though I'd carried that damned water bag all the way from the pub so we could have some.

Today was Friday and we'd worked out that we'd need to be up at seven tomorrow to catch the ferry. This proposed early start coupled with none of us looking forward to another night on the ski slope made us review the current situation.

We decided to catch today's ferry. Yesterday's had left at 2.00pm., we new this from the concern the Germans on the bus had expressed about missing it. Making the mistake of assuming that today's ferry would leave at the same time we pottered about until for some reason I decided to check the time table.

Three people were galvanised into instant action, it was now 11.00 and the ferry, according to the time table left at 12.00. We'd never knocked down a tent and packed so fast in our lives. Frogmarching back towards Lochmaddy we converted the Swinging Bridge into a yo-yo as we swept over it. Lochmaddy and the ferry were reached in time.

We hadn't had much time to worry about sea-sickness until we heard a CalMac steward softly singing to himself. As we reached the top deck we came upon him mopping up the contents of some unfortunate's stomache, and as he moped - he sang,

"All kinds of everything, you see it in spew", to the tune of a Dana 80's hit.

Fortunately the hour and a quarter crossing to Skye was even calmer than our initial crossing from Oban. Daylight and sunshine even made it better, we could sit out on the deck and admire the view. We even paid the restaurant a visit - Scotch Pie and chips of course.

Our pleasanant sea voyage was followed by a twenty-minute wait on the docks for the bus to take us to The Kyle of Lochalsh. The bus, when it arrived, drove us 500 yards into Uig proper where it pulled up again and we waited a further thirty minutes. Dave had a word with the driver about times and it seemed we wouldn't make Oban today.

Our plan then became to get as far South as we could and then make an overnight stop, perhaps even camp again if we could find a decent site. Skye was impressive with plenty of variety in the scenery and this, coupled with one or two naps on the way made a pleasant journey pass quickly, even though I hate travelling by bus.

Our last ferry journey was the shortest, this was the quarter mile of water that separates Skye from mainland Scotland at the Kyle of Lochalsh. As the bus, for safety reasons, can't carry passengers onto the ferry, we had to get off and walk on board. All of us that is except Geoff who, was still packing his bag whilst the bus took off.

He panicked, he'd seen us waive to him as he looked out of the back window and when he did finally get off his bus it took him a while to find us. At one point he confided "I thought I was on my way back to the Outer Hebrides"

See some Pictures from Keith's Trip