Whisky Jazz
"yer'll be wantin' yer porridge..."
September 2015 and a train takes me up to Glasgow to start my trip to and around the Islay (pron. Isle-a – no, I didn’t know either) Jazz Festival. This account recorded day by day at the time on sheets of A4, in capitals, which is why I can still make out what it says. I can find no photos from this trip, though strangely I do have a few videos. They’re not the best, but they do capture at least part of what it felt like at the time.
Monday 7 September 2015
Trip started with a helpful email from Trainline, reminding me of my 5.00am train from King’s Cross next day. Well, helpful-ish. Fortunately I had the tickets already. For my 5.30am train from Euston…
Even in early September, it’s very dark at 5 in the morning. The streets were pretty much deserted as I made my way to Euston – apart from the foxes, which seemed to be everywhere. I saw three or four different ones, trotting silently through the deserted streets.
At Euston, all was well. The train was there on the board. A man was salaaming on the floor, ignored by the people hurrying by..
My seat – B12 – was occupied, so I took another. There were plenty to spare. ‘Jeremy’, our ‘train manager’, welcomed us all to the train in a Jamaican accent you could cut with a knife. Fantastic loo on the train!
Horrible exit from Glasgow. ‘Cycle route 7’ sounded very encouraging while I was planning all this, and started a mile or so from the station. What could be easier? Just get on Cycle Route 7 and away I go!
Um, no. Cycle Route 7 turned out to be a succession of very occasional signs, leading you through the arse-end of post-industrial Glasgow. Along the banks of the Clyde, where they once made the ships that built an empire, but haven’t made anything since, for an awful long time. Horrible roads, horrible surrounds, and those terrible signs, that just kept dumping me in the middle of nowhere, thinking ‘this just doesn’t feel right’, before retracing my steps till I found a sign I’d missed. Very tiring, riding on the broken surface. All this after three hours’ sleep, and in the knowledge of at least 70 miles between me and my bed for the night…
Eventually, managed to get out of the really shitty bit, and onto a section of the Route that was at least reasonably clear. And so to Balloch, where again I had trouble finding the next section of the Route, and dropped into the tourist office, where a very friendly woman gave me directions (which proved to be accurate but rubbish, adding probably a mile or two of pissing around, just so’s to avoid a section of A road that was no big deal and barely half a mile in any case) – alongside the road up to Tarbet, where you turn left, up into the hills, before you climb up to ‘Rest & Be Grateful’: “Och, yer’ll be wantin’ yer porridge before you go up there!” Oh dear.
Pleasant enough ride, despite some still very rough sections, running mostly alongside the A82, often with Loch Lomond on the other side of me. Sun dappling down through the leaves. Still feeling a bit beleaguered from the exit from Glasgow, and fearing the road ahead, especially the climb to the ominous-sounding Rest & Be Grateful, with its porridge warning. Time for a puncture! Oh yes.
Tarbet, small, peaceful, a large field of grass looking out over the loch. A nice place to take a breather before turning ‘inland’. Knee pretty painful by this time, and the climb ahead. But hey ho, nothing to be done about it. The bed is booked, and it’s over there; time to get on with it.
Road weaving steadily upward. But nothing brutal. Just relentless. Think Churchill: Keep Buggering On. After a good while, a B road on the left. Where am I? Stop to look at the map, thinking ‘if I’m not at least half way to Rest & Be Grateful I won’t be a happy bunny.’ But no! I’m there! I’ve reached the pass.
Final section to Inverary longer and harder than expected. I kind of knew it would be. Couldn’t help thinking I’d broken the back of it when I reached the pass, which all but guaranteed that what lay ahead would prove no picnic. But eventually I pulled into Inverary – a nice little town, set around a bay. Found the hostel easily, checked in, and went out to get some fish & chips. But the chip shop had a sad appearance, that horrible old fat smell, and a display cabinet featuring nothing but some of the saddest-looking pies and sausages I’ve ever seen, so I settled for a bag of chips, just to get rid of the hunger, and went down to the front to eat them, assailed by evil-looking seagulls (‘You can fuck off – you’re not getting any!’)
Hostel lady said The George is the pub to go to, so that’s where I went after finishing the last of the distinctly adequate chips. Seemed to be a bit of a gastro-pub, crammed with diners, not a seat in sight. Goddamn. If ever I needed somewhere to rest my sorry hide while supping a pint. I ask, and am pointed to the public bar, which I find, crammed full, standing room only. There’s a footie match on – Scotland v Germany. Just my luck. Drink beer, return to hostel, pausing at the Co-op to buy a bottle of wine. Pour a glass and try to read my book, but just can’t. Give up at about nine, think: this is not going happen. Go to bed. Sleep.
Tuesday
Next day promises to be much easier. Just as well, ‘cos the knee’s still sore. ’OBAN 39 miles’ says the sign as I leave town. Cold & grey. Up & up. But just as I crest the pass, the sun comes out – yay! Mid-morning I decide to stop at the next place I see for a cup of tea. The next place I see is a village store, which looks unlikely to sell tea, so I decide to carry on till I reach the village proper. Realise a few hundred yards on that that was the village. Oh. No sooner thought than….a small church by the side of the road, with a sign saying the kirk tearoom is OPEN. Hooray! Pot of tea and a slab of excellent fruit cake. £2.70. Bargain!
Reach Oban around 1.00 and find the hostel easily. Dump the luggage and wander into town. Another nice place. Kind of like Inverary’s older brother. Again, set around a handsome bay, but much larger, with ferries (large ferries) coming and going from the dockside on the other side of the bay. head into town looking for a sandwich. Come across a fish & chip shop. Well, it’s only lunchtime, but I am hungry. And I have cycled 39 miles this morning. And it says cod & chips can be mine for just £6, which seems Very Reasonable. Well hell, you’re only young once. And I haven’t been young for quite some time, and bugger it, I fancy some fish & chips.
Best. Fish & Chips. Ever. OMG. Down by the dockside, sitting on a bench, just savouring every mouthful…actually smiling at just how nice it is! I remark on my lovely fish & chips to anyone who will listen. People edge away from me as I describe the light crunchiness of the batter, the moist but firm texture of the flaking fish. I pursue them as they hurry off, scattering chips in my wake, telling them they really must go to the chip shop, it’s only just up there, look – there!
When I’ve finished, I’m so impressed that I actually haul my wretched knee back up the hill to the chip shop, to tell them. They seem pleased.
Down to the quayside to book my ferry for Islay. Easy, quick, and shy of a tenner. (“Does that include the bike?” “Och, we don’t charge for bicycles. We like bicycles!”) Outside on the quayside there’s a sort of shack-type structure selling fresh-caught seafood. Crab, lobster, and fresh oysters, just opened, with a wedge of lemon – 95p. Bliss! Then a bit further down on the quay, a Weatherspoons selling a decent pint for £2.15, with a seat looking out over the bay. You can do a lot worse…
Drop into a bike shop up the road, having asked earlier if they had a track pump I could borrow to get my rear tyre back up to a proper pressure after my puncture. Manage to snap off the top twiddly bit of the valve, but it doesn’t make any odds. Stays up, and that’s all that matters. Then retrace yesterday’s route in for a mile or so back round the bay till I get to a smaller bay I’d noticed on my way into town, to take a swim. “It’ll be cold,” said the man in the hostel. He was right. Numbing at first, but lovely once you get used to it.
Back to the hostel for a cup of tea and a warm-up before heading out for my evening meal. Went to The Lorne, following a recommendation in the guide book, and was very glad I did. Didn’t want a full-on meal after my fish ‘n chip lunch, so I just got a plate of mussels with a bit of brown bread on the side. When the woman came to collect my plate, I said: “That was stupidly nice!” “’Stupidly nice’,” she said musingly, with a smile. “That’s going in the book.”
Wednesday
Five hours to kill before the ferry. I decide to walk the mile or so up the coast road to Dunollie Castle, but take it very easy – knee’s still a bit sore, and I don’t want to aggravate matters. Walking along the front I come across one of those big artist’s impressions type boards, bearing the headline: “Here are a lot of interesting and exotic-looking seabirds you’ll certainly never see, but do look ahead for a great view of any number of fucking seagulls.”
Further along there’s a war memorial, and I find myself scanning the list of names as I suddenly realise I always do at such stones, looking for the little clumps: three MacDonalds here, two McPhails there. Almost certainly brothers from single families. They always make me feel sad those little clumps. Imagining the Mrs MacDonalds and the Mrs McPhails sending their boys off to war, dreading every day, eventually receiving the feared news not once, but once, then again, then again, until all are dead.
People say ‘good morning’ as they pass, sometimes more. One woman tells me she’s off to Iona and Barra: “I’ve wanted to go to Fingle’s Cave ever since I was a schoolgirl and my teacher played us the Mendelssohn piece, telling us to listen out for every seventh wave…”
The castle proves to be a delight, tho’ largely populated by your regular Brit-out-of-season tourist, the wrong end of middle-age, wearing astonishingly ugly ‘comfortable’ clothing – the kind that swishes gently with every step – along with expressions of gloomy patience; not so much having a good time as ticking something off a list. Nobody lingers. They come, they look, they photograph, they leave. Job done.
The castle itself is a crumbling ruin, perched high on the cliff, with a commanding view out over the sea. Typically there’s a few tatty bits of scaffolding, metal barriers to keep you out, and signs about restoration work, which doesn’t seem to be proceeding with any great urgency. But a little way down the hill is the big house, clearly the longtime home of the local bigwigs, now full of their eccentric gleanings from various enthusiasms, along with the standard historical bric a brac you always get in such places: spinning wheels, warming pans and packets of Bird’s Custard Powder from the ‘20s. Wonderful little signs everywhere:
“The Donollie Loom began its Life as a pattern designing loom at meadow Mills in Alva run by James Porteous & Co, Ltd.
In 1853, at the age of 15, James Porteous took over the management of the mill from his father. He expanded it considerably; it was commonly referred to locally as “The Leviathan” due to its size.”
and
Laundry display
The wooden pole with an end like a flower pot is a washing dolly, used to agitate clothes in a tub.
The machine with two wooden rollers is described in Hope’s catalogue as a washing machine (1).
The square metal box (which is more obviously a ‘washing machine’) was spotted by Hope when she visited Applecross.
She was, however, unable to get it home, but when her niece Morag was there on honeymoon, she strapped it to the motorbike on which she and her new husband were travelling, and took it back to Oban!”
The washing machine in question squats on the floor.
It’s about the size of a young VW. Morag and her new husband brought that back strapped to a motorbike? YeGods!
Much of the contents of the house seems to reflect the magpie habits of a somewhat eccentric lady – “Hope MacDougall of MacDougall” according to a book in one of the cabinets. Spoons from around the world, each ribboned to its place of origin on a wall-sized map of the world; the contents of various shops, bought up in their entirety on closing down; and little bits of writing dotted around the house, presumably hers, though most bear no attribution.
Back to yesterday’s chip shop for fish & chips again (‘½ fried pizza & chips….chip butty & curry’), a pint at Weatherspoons, then back to the hostel to pick up bike & bags, onto the ferry at 3.00 for the 3.30 sailing, arriving at Port Askaig just after 7 in the evening. I ride across the Isle of Islay as night falls, no great distance. Stopped outside the hostel by a woman who introduces herself as Helen, then talks to me for ten or fifteen minutes straight. All genuinely interesting stuff, about places to visit and the like, as well as a scrap or two about how she comes to be living here (as well as the fact that she’s bipolar). She seems very nice and friendly, tho’ in truth I really want nothing more at this stage than to get into the hostel and chill for a bit. Eventually she releases me and I go to book in.
Get changed, then run to the pub, which I’m told might be able to feed me, though by now it’s getting late. “Is fish & chips ok?” Oh yes! It is too – delicious again. And a pint. That’s what I call dinner. There are four guys in the bar, and the barman, and they’re all talking what I assume is Gaelic. Not to exclude me (or at least, I certainly don’t get that impression) – it’s just what they talk. Has a definite scandi feel to it. But as I read in a guide book a day or two back, this and some of the other islands were part of Norway a few centuries back…
After dinner, back to the Port Charlotte Hotel, where there’s widdly-diddly music – accordion and …is that a mandolin?…and beer at £4.10 a pint.
Thursday
Once again, morning dawns grey & blustery, tho’ sunshine is forecast for the afternoon. I decide to ride down to Portenhaven to see the seals rumoured to hang out in the harbour, but first a visit to the Life in Islay museum. Greeted by a cheery lady, the wander into a higgledy piggledy collection of stuff donated by island people – everything from Mesolithic pots to the Vickers machine gun from a plane that crashed during the war. Typewriters and medals, group photos (didn’t school children have big ears in the old days) and desks, slates & slate pencils, bullets and shell cases and cannonballs, combs and butter churns, hair pins and dolls. An illicit still. And stories from the past, in collections and newspaper cuttings and accounts on the walls. Endlessly interesting, quietly touching, immensely dignified. One island’s deep pride in its past.
The ride to Portenhaven is mostly fairly gentle undulations, and not far, but the gusty breeze makes it a slog. But the seals are there – Hooray! – lazing around in the harbour of a sleepy little village set as ever round a pretty little bay. The pub – An Tigh Seinnse – seems to be the only place in town if you want to eat, which I do, so I push open the door and, hearing voices, head to a backroom, to find two blokes in decorators’ overalls propping up the bar. Not surprisingly I’m treated to the quick once-over. Girl behind the bar, diplomatically: ‘Was it food you were after?’ She gives me a bar menu, and I choose a cheddar baguette. ‘Chips or salad?’ she asks. ‘Um…chips,’ I blurt, thinking only a minute later that since I’ve been all but living on chips lately., a bit of salad wouldn’t have gone amiss…
Half aware of burbling conversation at the bar. “So, d’you like yer pint with a head, or full to the brim?” I overhear. “With a head,” says one of the guys. “Me too,” says the other one, “Aye, I like a bit of head.” I can’t actually see the girl behind the bar, but…pregnant 5 second pause is followed by an explosion of laughter, which goes on for some time. I get the impression the girl has retired into the other bar. The two guys can barely breath. After a minute it all starts to subside. “Aye, I think you’re going to have to apologise for that wee one,” says one of the guys. Tho’ it’s clearly fair game between old friends, and no offence is intended or taken. I get my sandwich, which is excellent. Great chips too! Again.
On the ride back, up the west coast, the breeze has picked up, and is now hard into my face, making for very hard going. Very beautiful though – little flocks of little birds I don’t recognise at all ‘follow’ ahead of me – taking off at my approach and flying ahead; waiting for me to approach again; repeat.
Having planned a walk in the dune, I manage yet again to miss my turnings, and before I know it I realise I’m coming into Port Charlotte again. Decide to checkout the village store, and assemble the bits for a chilli con carne. Strictly, a curry con carne. No chilli. But I noticed a big tub of curry powder in the free food place back at the hostel, so curry con carne it is. Very nice too. Now it’s almost 9, and high time I headed for the pub. (Discussing the wind with Carl – very nice German guy who runs the place with Lorna – he mentions something about fairy warnings. I immediately start thinking this might be a bit of charming local folklore – quaint local concern for the little people. Till he says ‘But you’re here already, so it doesn’t matter,’ at which point the penny drops. Ferry warnings. D’oh.
Trad music again at the pub. Joined at my table by Helen – the woman who first approached me when I arrived, talking at me for 10 minutes when in truth all I wanted was to get in, get showered, get changed, get a cup of tea. Mostly very useful and worthwhile info – and kindly offered – places to visit & the like (she put me on to the museum of Island life) – and acutely conscious of ‘imposing’…”I talk too much…I’m bipolar, which is one of the main reasons I live here now.” Very nice, but…
Anyway, seeing me alone, she took the seat opposite, and proceeded to converse for the next hour. Actually, ‘converse’ suggests something a bit more reciprocal than what actually takes place, which is perhaps 80/20, and incessant. Like it or not. Lovely lady, very well-meaning, intelligent, engaged, friendly…but as often with BP people, a bit brittle, fragile, clingy. Nice, but not relaxing. The music is wonderful, insofar as I get to hear it, and at one point the barman emerges from behind the bar to sing two songs, in Gaelic, beautifully. Very moving. One about a soldier off to WW1, singing of his love for the woman he’s leaving behind; the other about a man watching the funeral boat that’s carrying his wife’s body away….
Back to the hostel and…why, it’s Helen. Here in the hostel, which I get the impression she uses as kind of an ad hoc social service. Karl & Lorna being such kind and gentle souls (Christians a la Marian, I suspect). I finished my evening at the pub with a half, and was busy checking my change for a 5p, for my half of £4.10/pint beer, and the guy asked me for £2.20. Think that’s the first time I’ve ever been asked for more than half the pint price for a half.
Bed. Sleep. For perhaps an hour. Until the helicopter lands on the roof. Oh no, hang on, it can’t be a helicopter – the roof is pitched. It’s one of my room mates. (Lorna mentioned earlier that my room mates tonight would be a couple of vikings: “They’re a bit fierce-looking, but actually perfectly nice.”) Nice maybe. Loud, Jesus H. This isn’t snoring, this is ordnance. Things are moving around the room. Items of furniture. Luggage. Plaster is drifting down from the ceiling. Fuck me! I mean, I snore, but you can register it without recourse to the Richter scale. This is unreal. Eventually I retrieve my swimming ear plugs from my rucksack, got to the kitchen to cut the stalks off, and stick them deep in my ears. It does the trick. Sleep.
Friday
Until 7.30, when I’m woken by some kind of Scandi-babble. A little while later I see my tormentor for the first time, in the kitchen. I see what Lorna means. The only thing missing is the horned helmet. Fortunately they’re one-nighters – the hostel’s structure should be safe.
The wind hasn’t let up any (it doesn’t, apparently) & Lorna seems dubious about my talk of popping over to Jura. When I get out in it I decide she’s right. It’s just not going to happen. I decide to visit a nature reserve instead, a few miles away. Amazingly I get there with very little difficulty. I think I’m getting the hang of island signage. Don’t expect any. Follow your instincts. If you see an accurate sign, it’s a bonus. The reserve proves to be little more than a perfectly pleasant stroll in the countryside. I go to a hide. Sure enough, all the interesting birds are well hidden. There are two trails. I do both, which takes maybe 1 ½ hours, then head for the Kilchoman distillery for lunch and a tour. A rather skimpy chicken panini sets me back an impressive £6.50 (I remember the guide I saw somewhere that said food & drink of Islay is ‘eye-wateringly expensive’). Then the tour proves to be fully booked, so that’s that.
Thoughts of a visit to the beach I missed out on yesterday are scotched by my knee – killed by a deadly wind & hills combo – so I head back to the hostel, take another walk down to the lighthouse, then back for a cup of tea. The kitchen, usually utilitarianly bare, is arrayed with stunning looking food, attended by a friendly smiling French woman. “Do you like whisky?” she asks me. Now there’s a question…
Turns out she’s a whisky writer, now resident in Islay, who’s preparing to host a dinner for a group of visiting Tasmanian malt whisky distillers, who’ve been cheerfully dominating the hostel since I arrived. I thanks her for her kind offer, but decline. I really can’t intrude on what’s clearly a meeting of old friends; she invited me out of politeness, which it would be quite wrong for me to abuse. Pub for me I reckon, then off to my first gig, 10.30 this evening.
Well, so much for that. Lorna cheerfully ridiculed my reserve: “She wouldn’t have invited you if she didn’t mean it.” So I end up sitting down to a wonderful four course dinner, accompanied by a variety of Tasmanian and Scottish single malts and a fantastic French cognac (“They blend a variety of years, but this would be the equivalent of a 35 year old.”) Martine – the whisky writer, apparently went over to Tasmania a couple of years back to check out the nascent distilling industry over there, met all these guys, and said ‘if you ever happen to be in my neck of the woods’…And they took her up on it. Bill, Bob, Mark, Barry, Di, Katy, Rosy and another seven or eight cheery Tasmanians. over here for a fortnight’s tour of the islands and highlands and the distilleries thereof. Why wouldn’t they be cheery?
Unfortunately at 10.00 my alarm goes, reminding me I have to head down to the bike shed and off up the coast road to Bruichladdich (‘Book-laddy’) Hall for the first of my gigs. Jed Potts, I’m informed, has come down with tonsillitis, so Blueswater have come to stand in. (Like I’d know the difference.) Anyway, they’re great! (“Those of you who have been led to believe you would be enjoying a mellow jazz quartet…you have been misinformed.” – KERANG!) Cue an hour and a half of hard-rocking old-school R&B, first as the core four piece, then after the interval, with the addition of a trumpet and a brace of saxophonists – and even, for one song, a guy with a washboard. Recording this later in the hostel kitchen and the lead singer stumbles in, looking a bit on the ragged side.)
Saturday
Serious rain in the morning. Hoping it’ll ease off by this evening, when I have to haul a fair distance round to the other side of the bay to Bowmore, for one of the day’s pair of gigs.
Well, in the event the weather was kind. No more rain. First off, just up the way to Port Mor Hall for a Chet Baker homage trio, who proved to be wonderful. A good singer, a really good pianist, and a superb trumpet player. They had the Chet sound down to a T, finishing their set with a sublime ‘My Funny Valentine’. The only duff note in the performance was that I found myself surrounded by a group of Italians who saw nothing wrong with muttering conversation throughout. I very nearly stopped it, by turning to the woman sitting next to me a couple of songs in and saying “D’you think you could SHUT THE FUCK UP!” She looked taken aback, and a little baffled – don’t think her English was up to much. So I expanded on my theme: “I come to listen to musicians playing, not people talking,” accompanied with the turkey-gobble gesture which I guess means ‘talky-talky’ in any language. Anyway, like I say, it nearly did the trick, tho’ they couldn’t resist the occasional muttered exchange. Wankers.
Back to the hostel for a massive plate of chilli con carne – ‘I’ll never eat all that’, I thought, then ate it, effortlessly. Just as well really. All those carbs were going to stand me in good stead later.
Bowmore was a fair old schlep – probably 11 or 12 miles, round to the opposite shore, and serious blustery wind every yard of the way. I left earlier, to take advantage of what little light remained, and got there just before 9.00. The gig wasn’t due to start till 10.30, so I found a pub. I’d meant to bring my Kindle, but found I’d forgotten it, so instead I spent many a happy quarter-hour trying to find Lochranza on the map. I knew that was my next berth, after Port Charlotte, because I had the booking confirmation on my phone. Only problem – not a fucking clue where it was. Cue half an hour perusing every place name between me & Glasgow, but ending up none the wiser.
Finally I cracked it. Found a list of hostels, which included ‘Lochranza (Arran).’ Ah-ha! So it’s on Arran is it? Hmmm. I’m sure the ferries will all work out – I did check stuff carefully before booking and that – but I’d be reassured if I had some of those workings out with me now.
Anyway, a pint & a half on, off to the gig. Which proved very wall of sound. A dozen musos on quite a small stage, all going for it. Hi-energy, borderline a bit free-form/squeaky for my taste. But enjoyable overall, and certainly ‘an experience’. Quite a lot of wrinklies (and others) dancing down the front. Never an edifying sight, but this was bordering on the bizarre. There was just nothing even remotely danceable about the music.
And so to the journey back. Very dark, very windy. Fortunately the road was good, if incessantly uppy-downy. After an hour or so I was getting really quite tired, beginning to think in terms of ‘just keep buggering on’ and ‘can’t be far now to Bruchladdaich ‘ and the like, and had just got to ‘at least I know every mile is a mile in the right direction and I have to get there in the end, because there is no wrong direction’, when I come across a sign in the darkness: Port Askaig 3, Bridgend 4½ . Bugger. So there is a wrong direction, and I’ve somehow managed to take it. U-turn, and schlep the 4½ miles back to Bridgend, to find the turning I’d managed to miss in the darkness. Finally reached the hostel around 2am after 2 hours’ riding what must have been about 20 miles in 1st gear in the pitch blackness. An exhausted mole. And so to bed.
Sunday
This morning dawned like a picture postcard, all bright blue sky, big fluffy white clouds like the ones children draw. I decided on one final attempt at reaching the dunes and set off up the road, then right, past the school and on. Quite hard riding in places – single-track all the way, and enough gravel (and sheep) around to make for a nervy ride. Still lovely though, through gentle undulating scenery, with only the sheep and the occasional heeland coo for company. Following Karl’s instructions I found the path reasonably easily, and a sign confirmed that this was the right place. Locked the bike and set off in the sun, on a broken-up path the bike certainly wouldn’t have appreciated. After 45 minutes or so, round the last hill and wow! A massive , open, sandy bay, totally deserted apart from one or two couples, tiny in the distance. Walk down to the sand and over to an outcrop of rock to film the bay, but swiftly gave up on any thoughts of walking to the far side of the bay – definitely upwards of a mile, and I’m thinking lunch. It’s about 2.30 by the time I get back.
On the way I bump into another cyclist, who, on hearing I’m staying at Port Charlotte, asks me whether I’ve visited the ‘legendary’ cyclist’s cafe. When he tells me where it is – a mini mart by the roadside in Bruichladdich – I realise I’ve passed it any number of times but never thought to stop. When I get back to the hostel I find the kitchen locked. Bugger. I mean, it is supposed to be at this time of day, but it never has been before, and I’m starving, and all my food is in there. Off to the village shop in search of bread & cheese. Shut. Bugger bugger bugger. It’s now almost 3, and I’m pretty well ravenous. Then I remember about the cyclist’s cafe, get back on the bike, and ride the three miles or so up the coast road, where I get a delicious chicken & bacon roll, a perfect Peroni and a 10p apple from next door’s tree (which turns out to be by a margin the nicest apple I’ve had since I’ve been in Scotland, and quite possibly this year). All enjoyed at a table outside the front of the shop, in the bright sunshine, looking out over the sea.
These senior moments are beginning to meld a tad disconcertingly into a senior reality…
Earlier, I had discovered that at last night’s gig the ticket woman had taken my two remaining tickets and retained the wrong one. On bleating this problem to Lorna, she rang her friend Rafael, who apologised and said he’d mark the list so I would be let in sans ticket. At about 7.00 that evening, I discovered the ‘retained ticket’. Discovering also that the gig, which I’d mentally tagged as 10pm, had actually started at 5.30, and was therefore, now, finished. Bugger. More than a tad downcast at my own incompetence and stupidity, I decided to console myself with a steak and ale pie dinner. They were fully booked. Bugger. I came back and rustled up black pudding, fried eggs and rice from the free food fridge – which turned out to be very nice. Spent the evening drinking white wine left over from the Tasmanian bacchanal and reading my book.
Monday
This morning I decided I would go to Jura after all. My knee’s been ok for a few days, and it’s not that far, and why the hell not. So off I go. I’ve got as far as Bruichladdich when my phone rings. I pull over, and it’s Karl: “Hello Alan? This is Karl. Um…I’m not sure if you know this, but you are booked into the hostel at Lochranza tonight. And when I saw you set off without any luggage…” Bugger! Quick U-y, and when I get back to the hostel, he & Lorna have been working out my onward journey. With some difficulty, since time is now shorter than would be ideal. I’ll need to get a ferry from Port Askaig to Kennacraig (I’m already too late for the earlier one from Port Ellen at 3.30, which should arrive at about 5.30. Then I need to cross ‘the mainland island’ of Kintyre (as in the dirge) to Claonaig, from where I can catch another boat to Lochranza. But are there any? It’s out of season, and it’s not a major route. Karl goes to check and comes back smiling. “You will not believe this, but there was just one last boat indicated, at 7.00. But it had a little B by it. ‘So I thought ‘what is that ‘B’?’ And I checked, & it said the B means it is only a summer service, which runs only for the summer season, which ends – today!”
Once again I am far luckier than I deserve. I really have been blessed ion this holiday, every step of the way. Anyway, off I trot. Port Askaig by about 1.00, so I decide I will pop over to Jura after all. The ferry over is quick and frequent, and I establish there’s one at 2.15, which will give me time for a lunch somewhere in Port Askaig while I wait for the 3.30 ferry.
Oh, nearly forgot the cattle grid. I have spent the day with one clean, dry foot, and one wet filthy foot, since I stopped for a piss, leant my bike on a post, stepped to one side, and my left foot disappeared through the bars of a cattle grid, leaving me shin-deep in the vile slurry underneath…it’s had me chuckling to myself all day.
Jura is very beautiful, in a spares, windswept kind of way. You get the feeling that not much is being grown, because nothing much will grow. After 40 minutes or so of mostly gently undulating road I arrived at the Jura distillery, ate half a banana left over from breakfast and a Snickers bar, then turned back, leaving an estimated ‘just in case’ 20 mins or so slack before the ferry I can’t afford to miss. No mishaps, I got back with 20 mins to spare, then back over on the ferry, bought a ticket to Kennacraig, and went over to the pub, where I got a ham sandwich (with crisps and salad) and a pint, and sat at a table in the sun with a couple from Edinburgh (he being Tamil? Perhaps Indian? Very slight, very subcontinent-looking) who’d come by plane. They apparently do this quite a lot. (’20 minutes to Glasgow!’) She talked about landing at Barra – ‘The only commercial flight service in the world that lands on the beach’ – then an uneventful crossing to Kennacraig, an initially very challenging six mile ride over to Claonaig, to arrive at a deserted jetty with zero signs of life, but an electronic departures board displaying times ending at 5.40. Oh. Not aided by the fact that I was at last making the acquaintance of the famed local midges, making up for lost time by tucking into me enthusiastically. I had no plan B. I rang a number on the noticeboard and after a long delay was answered by a kindly-sounding woman who assured me that the service definitely was running, so all I had to do was survive another 40 minutes of midge. Plenty of time to begin to appreciate why they’re so famous: God but they’re awful!
About 30 minutes before the scheduled time I saw what looked like it might be a ferry disengage itself from the opposite shore and start inching its way towards me. A light rain started to fall. A Land Rover pulled up and the driver got out. ‘Does the rain discourage the midges?’ I asked hopefully. ‘No. They get worse.’ Great.
Sure enough, it was the ferry. Picked us up, and a half hour trip took us over to Lochranza, where I easily found the hostel and had a wonderful shower (the one at Port Charlotte was crap) and came out to the Lochranza Hotel for the steak & ale pie I never got last night – delicious! Plus three pints of Deuchars IPA. Also delicious!
Tuesday
And so to the pretty uneventful final day. 16 miles or so round the island to get to Brodrick – a long, hard climb, followed by a rapid – and I mean rapid descent. Then ferry across to Ardrossan. Then follow Route 7 most of the way back to Glasgow. Some quite nice sections, running along the path of an old railway line, and some really not that nice bits – anything from scrubby nondescript countryside to bleak-looking outlying bits of Ardrossan and Glasgow, full of pale, unhealthy, unhappy looking people. Two separate incidents of boy/teens being overtly and pointlessly hostile: one jumping out with a yell; the other a boy of perhaps 13/14 holding up two ‘spin on this’ fingers, bearing a look of sullen loathing and hostility.
Arrived in Glasgow Central Station with an hour and a half to spare. As anticipated, pretty much. Oh yes, Google Maps brought me most of the way, and did an excellent job on what proved to be a fiddly and potentially tricky final section through the city, though it also drained the phone’s battery to nothing in a couple of hours. Fortunately I bumped into a cyclist a couple of miles out, who accompanied me through the final sections after I complimented him on his bike – a lovely steel-framed Italian classic, though I can’t now remember what it was. He told me he’d picked it up for a song from a bloke who wanted shot of it because it was old-fashioned…