Day 4 - Ferry to Islay, Port Ellen / Bowmore / Port Askaig

Whisky Island

It was a leisurely run to the ferry port on a calm and so far, dry, morning. The ferry appeared away in the distance, breaking the mirror images of the hills reflecting on the surprisingly narrow, loch sides. Soon, we boarded and for the first time, and only time, refused a full Cal Mac Scottish breakfast. The run to the whisky island of Islay was over too quickly. There was a lot to see.

Our arrival at Port Ellen was met with sunshine! We did hope to have landed not on some idyllic picturesque Scottish Island, but it looked to be in the middle of an industrial estate. Steam was shooting out of the top of a hideous factory building. This is the maltings, and it’s where the majority of the barley required by the island’s distilleries is processed. It is then lorried out to the distilleries, who pretend that they do it do all by traditional methods in their own malt barns - bummer -there goes another whisky myth. This deception did not stop us from shooting off to visit the Ardberg and Laphroaig Distilleries, about five miles away.

Clothes Maketh a Man!

In the Ardberg shop I spent £38 on a very special cycle jersey which was my contribution to the economy of Islay and the rather secretive owners of Ardberg Distillery. They hide behind Glenmorangie PLC. owners of the distilleries Glenmorangie and Glen Moray, as well. But the real owners are Moët Hennessy, which in turn is owned by the LVMH Group (Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy) and Diageo (owner over more than two dozen distilleries), so now you know! Next time you see a single malt advert spouting its history and tradition, within a long-standing family heritage, think again.

There is something special about the Ardberg cycle jersey in that they sponsor the local cycle club. Design-wise, it’s the dog’s bollocks. The cycle club web page invites wearers to submit photographs of jersey purchasers. The result is pictures of thin, muscular people posing in exotic locations all over the world. I never sent my picture, my exotic location being just 10 yards from the shop!

Out in the car park, I stripped off the old T-shirt: in the morning he is an old git on a bike, but in the afternoon he became . . . super-touring-bike-man! I now had my full tour outfit: jersey, wrap-around sunglasses, cycle gloves, and cleated shoes. No Lycra shorts though, I was wearing the kind of comedy shorts last seen on Eric Morecombe in a 1970’s Christmas Special.

It did not take me long, however, to establish that at least the top half of my body was too convincing. If you are going to talk the talk, you’ve got to walk the walk. I felt like a fraud. How could anyone wearing this gear ever contemplate getting off their bike and walking? The Ardberg jersey was more suited to the LMBM cyclist (Lean Mean Bike Man). This is the default setting of every other cyclist we had met so far. You see, Chris and I have three speeds: Sloth, Tortoise and Aging Elephant. We barely register an acknowledging nod from the LMBM as they whiz towards or past us. However,let me give these LMBM’s some advice, if you are in too much of a hurry, ease off, stop now and again and admire the view, enjoy a few Islay malts, and put away the occasional cream tea, take a few photographs and write a postcard to your Granny.

You Take the High Road.

We returned to Port Ellen with its white buildings shining in the summer sun. Tme to head north and on to the 'higher' road to Bowmore. The route gave wonderful views of Islay and was thankfully relatively traffic-free. The joy of joy’s was the weather, the sun shone. Yea ha!

The locals call this the 'high road' and looks down on the main Port Ellen to Bowmore road (known as, ‘The bottom road’), which is notorious for the mulch-lorries thundering between ferries and distilleries (you thought these islands were tranquil)?
EU laws had since long banned the disposal of this waste in the sea off Islay, much to the chagrin of the local lobster population apparently. The road had a bird’s eye view of Islay International Airport, but it must have been half-day closing as nothing appeared to be happening. This road is single-tracked with 'passing places' and as soon as I was out of town I stopped at one and voided urine behind a wall. As I was standing there admiring the view I commented to Chris that the sign should read 'pissing place' and not 'passing place'....well, I thought it was funny!

Fussy Birds these Corncrakes

Traveling around Islay is a darned sight more practical on two wheels than it will ever be on four. At least, if you want to stop from time to time and see something of the surroundings. This was what we were able to do having heard the distinct sound of a flock of Corncrakes. This bird is the cause of great political controversy in that the RSPB describes it as Britain’s most endangered bird. On the back of this rarity, they raised an enormous amount to buy up the specialist land that it requires on Islay and its sister island, Colonsay. That, of course, does not go down well with the inhabitants (human, that is, not the birds). The facts are that the RSPB may be right in that there is a declining corncrake population; unfortunately, they are being economical with the truth in that in other places the population of corncrakes is increasing. It is only on Islay that this is happening. One other very embarrassing thing for the RSPB, a recent survey revealed fewer Corncrakes actually nested on the RSPB meadows, they appear to enjoy the cultivated land next door!

'A Barrel of Whisky, please'.

It was a good ride to Bowmore, the capital of Islay. The town is on a steep hill down to the sea and has two main features, a circular church at the top and a distillery at the bottom. The hill was so steep Chris walked down it. After a quick meal, we were off again to the main crossroads on the Island at a place called Bridgend.
Bridgend consists of a hotel, public toilet and a well-stocked shop – what more could you ask for? Chris decided that we could try and make a run to the Bunnahabhain Distillery, as a friend of his (no doubt a very rich friend) would appear to have a cask of whisky sitting there for 'a rainy day'.
What do you do with a cask of whisky? Don’t be a smart arse and say 'drink it'. There are 33 gallons of the stuff! It was a lovely run, the flat road running alongside the water’s edge through gorse covered dunes. It was made easier when we dumped most of our baggage behind a gorse bush as we (hopefully) were coming back that way. It was getting a bit tight timewise as it was coming up for 6pm.

Our arrival was with minutes to spare of closing time. In the distillery shop, we both succeeded in causing as much chaos as possible. I started it by asking for a whisky, what I meant was a wee dram, what the woman behind the counter thought I meant was a bottle. I heard her say that will be £56 pounds please. I couldn’t say anything; the words would not come out. My brain was screaming ‘£56 FOR A WEE DRAM'! Has the world gone mad? What could it possibly be made of to cost that much? Meanwhile, Chris has added to the confusion by muttering about wanting to see his friend’s barrel of whisky. All I could think of is that if a dram is £56, what is a barrel of this golden liquid worth? I did manage to point to the bottle and the look on my face must have done the rest. I very quickly established that the whisky I was drinking was £56 a bootle BUT the sampler weas free. The frozen horror went from my face and was replaced with a wee smile.
'Free tasters Mr Ardberg', if a small distillery can do it why can't you?
Out in the car park, I nearly had another fainting fit when I spotted a large tanker with neat whisky pouring out the back. At least, I think it was whisky. It might have been water.

Our First Wild Camp

By now it was 7 pm and all that was left was a 10-mile run to Port Askaig. We intented to purchase some supplies and find a spot for some wild camping. It was not a bad run to Port Askaig, not too hilly and a very quiet road. Finding an overnight spot is still quite unsettling, in that how do you know you have got the best spot? Is there another better place just up the road? After stopping several times, we ended up actually in Port Askaig. Be warned, there is an S-bend drop into Port Askaig that is just astoundingly scary, even for me. Carved out of the rock face, it is truly steep. Needless to say, I nearly ended up in the sea, skidding closer and closer to the piers’ edge before finally coming to a sideways stop in a cloud of brake smoke. There had been a lot of EU money being spent on the harbour. Note that I said harbour and not a village. It had a couple of houses, but it is just a large pier with a pub attached (a bit more of that later). Eventually, Chris joined me, ages later at the bottom of the hill, having, of course walked his bike down the hill. No sooner had he got there that we turned round and walked back up. All that was there was a large car park with a few overnight lorries with compressors running full-time.

Fairly soon we found a flat piece of ground. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a decent spot. It had nice views, was very quiet, and the nearest houses were 2-3 miles away. What was not decent was the weather and during the evening the wind and the rain came.

Luckily, we witnessed most of this from the Port Askaig Hotel, and I have got to say, it was a little gem of a place.
The front bar had two or three customers, probably the entire male population of Port Askaig. We sneeked ourselves into a little back room and ordered a huge meal. Despite it being nine in the evening, this presented no problem. The food was excellent and went down a treat. Soon we were chatting to the locals about touring Scotland and found a couple of lads who were keen mountain bikers. The pub itself only had lager on tap; other beers were in cans or bottles in a fridge.
Still, this pub comes highly recommended. We had done 42 miles today, which was not bad.
We had a good discussion on our general condition and were pleased with our conclusions. Anyway, after another long trek back up that hill. I was soon asleep. The tents were on a bed of heather and spongy grass so it was very comfortable if not a bit squishy underbum. In the morning it was surprise, surprise . . raining! There was no point in packing up too early to just stand at the pier-head in the rain. There was no breakfast to make either as we decided to have one of the excellent CalMac breakfasts. So all there was to do was lie in bed and listen to the rain and wind hammering against the tent. This is when a radio becomes your best friend. For a strange perverted reason, I particularly enjoyed a particular traffic report around my normal route to work, Jct 21, M1. What a shame!