So, Islay. And Jura. Maybe Colonsay.
I’d picked this area for a week’s tour a couple of years ago, but it never happened, and I spent possibly the wettest week of my life on Mull instead.
I’d always intended to go back, though, for a whole host of reasons. Beaches, ferries, mountains, distilleries.
Friday 17th June - Three Ferries, Three Trains and a Dash across Glasgow’s Pedestrian Precinct. Oh, and a bike ride.
Timings were a bit tight. To get the last ferry (18.00) over to Islay, I had to catch at least the 16.45 sailing from Portavadie, and to catch that I had to leave Gourock no later than 13.30, and to catch that I had to dash out of the bowels of the currently-being-renovated Glasgow Queen Street across to Central and jump the barriers*, and to get there I had to negotiate a connection at Edinburgh Waverley, and before all of that I had to leave Darlo at about 8 in the morning on my day off.
Phew! I made it, though it all felt a bit rushed. I could’ve easily camped on the mainland and got an early ferry over to Islay. I resolved not to rush so much on the way back, as I was knackered on the Saturday.
It was a great ride in stunning weather. Sadly, I didn’t have much time for photos, but the route from Dunoon to Portavadie is definitely a keeper, if a bit hilly. I was carrying an old Bart’s map of the Firth of Clyde which didn’t show the modern road south to Tighnabruich - there is most certainly a road, which modern engineers have crafted up the hillside, and presenting a fabulous view over the Kyles of Bute.
And the Portavadie ferry was quiet, which gave my bike a nice little posing spot on the crossing of Loch Fyne.
I spent the journey waving at the many sailors on Loch Fyne - there were loads of sails on the loch, presumably out from Tarbert and its large marina.
I had thought that Tarbert-Kennacraig was up ond over a great big hill, making the ferry timings a bit tight, but I’d been thinking of the road over to Claonaig and the Arran ferry, thankfully. It was a comparatively flat main road run, and I had time to get my tickets and chat to a motley bunch of Aussies, Kiwis and Geordies with far too much luggage. Their support cars only took their luggage to the ferry, so they had to wheel their bags and bikes on. I was overpacked with food and random shit, but it was still a comparatively compact setup.
I climbed the Hill from Port Askaig and went about looking for somewhere to pitch my tent, eventually picking a spot fairly close to Finlaggan, the former seat of the Lairds of the Isles. A couple of cyclists went past to god-knows-where, and a car with a German numberplate went out-and-back. I realised the next morning that they’d probably been looking for somewhere to camp, but the No Camping signs at the tourist centre probably dismayed the rule-abiding Germans. I wished I’d got that far, the grass was much better and there were no sheep.
Mind you, my view was fantastic.
https://www.strava.com/activities/620285412*Well, nearly - a guard told me off for pushing my loaded tourer through a closing gate when trying to get the connection to Gourock.
