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Rum’s no a thing you can have too much of on a boat
Two pubs and a hill To do an island, you have to either climb the highest point or visit the pub, according to several renowned club members. If there are two pubs, you really should visit both, in case one is higher than the other. If there’s more than two, you’ve got problems. Fortunately Tiree has only two and one high point. Unfortunately the high point was at the other end of the island to our mooring. I had the bright idea of hiring bikes, so we went ashore and enquired at the first house if such arrangements were possible. Indeed they were, and bikes could be hired at the hotel. On asking at the hotel we were told that in fact bikes were available at the other hotel – a mile in the opposite direction! However, it was dry, and the sun was almost shining, so off we went. At the hotel that did hire bikes we enquired as to whether the aforesaid items were in fact available. Ah, it’s bikes you’re wanting? Weel, most of them are out, but we might be able to sort something out. Several phone calls, rummages in sheds for things and complicated conversations later, we were presented with two bikes. When I say bikes, I mean objects that resembled bikes, but were in fact not quite bikes.
Ascents of hills are usually followed by descents, and this hill was no exception. This was the point at which things got exciting; my bike had all the parts of a braking system, but sadly, they were not talking to each other, so it was a swift and exciting ride down hill. Another pedal, this time north, led to the first hotel, and the by now usual entertainment. This was provided by sundry locals, who seemed to have been at the bar since Friday – it was now Sunday. Music was called for, and an accordion appeared. Sadly the accordionist had lost the use of legs and voice, so the instrument was lowered into place and he was strapped in. Surprisingly music followed – after a fashion. Refreshed by a pint of Guinness we escaped being press ganged into an impromptu ceilidh, and returned to the second hotel, to return bikes and ensure that we had visited the highest hotel – although on Tiree this might be an academic exercise! An opportunity of a lifetime I’m sure I will pay for what happened on Hecla. It was our first trip, and we had made Loch Sgiopoirt after an exhilarating crossing from Canna. Exhilarating in the sense of big waves, lively winds and hanging on to the tiller to stop being thrown over the side.
An early start saw us traverse east of Hecla, and head up the ridge to Beinn Corradail. Well, not exactly Beiin Corradail, as we decided to do it on the return journey, so we dropped down to the bealach and on to Beinn Mhor. The descent to the bealach was the first surprise of the day – it was almost a literal drop, being much steeper than the map suggested. The second surprise was the pleasant and narrow ridge of Beinn Mhor. The third surprise was the realisation that it was easier traversing under Beinn Corradail rather than over it, so this is a hill still to be ‘ticked’! On the summit of Hecla, we met some other hillgoers, and paused for a chat and a breather. At some point they asked where we had left the car, and seemed bemused when Dave said about 20 miles south of Oban. At this point temptation appeared, and I succumbed –after all, it was probably the only time I would be on top of a hill and be able to say ‘We didn’t come by car, we came by boat – that’s it down there!’ So I said it, and I’m sure I’ll pay for it! Missing Barra Head We didn’t really miss it, it was more a case of not hitting it. The first time we sailed south of Barra, we landed on Mingulay and did the round of hills on the island. Berneray was a fine sight to the south, and an obvious target for a pair of island baggers and nascent ‘relative’ tickers. Wind and water were not favourable for a landing that year, although it was temptingly close, and we headed to Pabbay for the night, with thoughts of maybe an early morning trip ashore. However, we awoke at 4 a.m. to find the wind had changed, and what was a calm anchorage had turned into a fairground ride. As Dave steered us out of the harbour, I struggled with the anchor – it seemed that my arms were elbow deep in water as we dipped into a wave, and then were at least 10 feet up in the air. A swift passage led us to Vatersay and a sheltered anchorage to ride out the storm.
We returned next year, and had to settle for visiting Sandray – as the weather again precluded setting foot on Barra Head. Sandray has a delightful little ridge leading to the summit, and we had a pleasant lunch back on board. The third attempt also failed – but we did manage to set foot on Pabbay. 2003 saw us return again, and this time the weather was favourable – at least for a temporary anchorage while we went ashore. However, as the photo shows, this was all it was good for! Shall we Shiant we? One of the destinations on the list was the Shiants, sitting between Skye and Harris. First time round we sailed on by, chased by the end of a force 8. The weather was kinder in 2003, and we dropped anchor on pleasant and sunny day. The Shiants comprise three islands, two of which are connected by a narrow spit. Eilean Garbh is the highest, and the easiest ascent is from the spit. It starts out well – a narrow rocky staircase through a band of basalt, but then turns into nasty steep grass, where a slip would see roll straight into the sea (if you’re lucky!).
Once up the first steep slope it’s a pleasant stroll out to the north of the island, with fine views all round. The cliffs to the north are amongst the most impressive I’ve seen in Scotland; 150 metre basalt columns rising out of the sea.
The return trip was no less scary, but once down we explored the area around the only house on the islands and then headed off to Rona.
Saunas and showers Another stay in Castlebay, and another local hill – Beinn Tangabal. We dropped down to the coast, and wandered along to the Isle of Barra Hotel, with a view to food, drink and maybe a shower. Once inside we asked about the shower, to be met with surprise; “Nobody has asked for that before”. Muffled conversations led to us being offered the use of the shower in return for £10 apiece. Lightning calculations showed that this was the equivalent of 4.1375 pints each, so we declined and settled for beer and food; only to discover that the food didn’t start for another hour and a half, and beer was in the public bar! The bar was a typical Saturday west coast bar; stained vinyl floor, torn vinyl seats, no windows and two guys at the bar with a wee boy in tow eating crisps. We adjourned to Castlebay (having been advised that showers came free with food), and found that this was indeed the case. The showers were next to a sauna, and being curious I looked inside – to see it was full of cornflakes and other groceries. At least they took the coal out of the shower! Whaur’s ma pie? We’d crossed from an idyllic mooring on South Rona, and after a pleasant and gentle sail down the Sound of Raasay, had moored for the night at Kyleakin. Looking forward to an evening in a pleasant hostelry, full of the charm and hospitality of the west, we went ashore about 6 and found the bar of the hotel with minimum trouble. ‘Hello boys!’, cried the barman, busy at the blackboard with the delights of the kitchen, ‘You’ll be wanting a pint’ We both thought that might be a good idea, but before we could say so, he shot off saying he’d be back in five minutes. True to his word he was, and we settled with two glasses and ordered supper. Food arrived, and we set to. A German couple entered, and with some difficulty translated brusque Glaswegian into an order – ‘Yous’ll be wanting food?’ ‘Bitte?’ ‘Food, ken, yous’ll be wanting some?’ The order departed to the kitchen, and a little while later waiter no. 2 appeared, and worked his way along the row of tables to see who wanted steak pie. Initiative was not his strong point, sadly, for he asked every diner if they wanted a steak pie. It didn’t matter if you were eating one, he still asked if you wanted the one he carried. Eventually he came to the German couple, who told him they had ordered chicken. At this point a flash of brilliance came into his head – for he lifted the pastry crust, and said ‘Aye, chicken’, handed it over and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. The German started to eat, and gave the ‘chicken’ an inquisitive glance, but, obviously hungry and weary of translation, eat on. Waiter no. 1 then comes back on the scene, and approaches the unfortunate visitors. ‘That’s no’ yours’ was his opening sally. Again, ‘Bitte?’ Youse didnae order that, it’s no’ yours. You can keep it, or we’ll get what you ordered’ A very weary German brushed him away, no doubt wondering what he had got into, and as waiter no. 1 went in search of waiter no. 2, no doubt to explain the difference between chicken and steak, illustrated by the appropriate use of two pie dishes, a shout came from the other end of the bar; Whaur’s ma pie?
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