Day 258: Rinns of Islay

After the exertion of climbing the Paps, I’m spending most of today travelling on buses, which is welcome as my back is sore from lunging sideways down all that scree.

Windy, my weather app, flashes red — the inevitable balancing of the fine weather over the past few days. I plan to pitch at the Port Mor campsite on Islay before the wind and rain hit.

Stewart, entertaining as ever, drives the minibus down to the ferry. I ask about the house with the ropes running up into the treetops. They are wires, not ropes. The man living there is a technical whizz and radio ham, who worked for Marconi.

“I thought it was a cult thing.”

“Oh no. We hold the Wicker Man festival in September. You’re welcome to visit. We always treat outsiders.” he says with a wicked grin.

“I’ll pass!”

We discuss the upcoming fell race. The runners pass Stewart’s house. He sits in the garden and encourages them.

“When the lead runner passes I always say “Well done! You are looking good in second place.” Then I watch him accelerate”.

Yup — definitely a wicked grin.

The short ferry trip returns me to Port Askraig on Islay and a bus takes me across the island to the capital, Bowmore, where there’s an hour’s wait until the connecting bus to Port Charlotte.

A friendly Geordie runs Labels coffee shop. She bought a pair of canaries and did not realise they were a male and female until three eggs appeared. The female is larger than the male who “did not lift a finger to build the nest.” That’s men for you. Not the prettiest baby, but then all babies are wrinkly and tufty.

The campsite at Port Mor, a short walk from Port Charlotte, is brutally exposed to the elements, with a website cheerfully stating no refunds for tent damage and no cancellations due to bad weather — very worrying. It’s going to be a rough night. Good luck to those pitching on the edge of the field next to the sea.

I pitch in the lee of a large tent, behind the playground railings, for a small amount of protection. Some tents are lashed to the railings. Andrew, a Mackem on a whisky tour, arrives shortly after and pitches next to me. I’m worried his tent is not going to survive the night.

Andrew and I wander down to the Port Charlotte Hotel for a beer. It’s a great night, with live folk music, good company, a packed bar and far too many pints of Jarl.

Much later, we head back to our tents and batten down for a wild night.

Thursday

A noisy, restless night, but all the tents survived. The wind is still strong and rain falls. People hunker down in the community cafe. I linger over a cooked breakfast, sit out the worst of the rain and catch a bus to Port Wemyss at 1 pm. The plan is to hike 14 miles up the west coast. It means a late finish, but I can’t come all this way and not explore the island.

The bus drops me off opposite the Rinns of Islay Lighthouse on the tiny island of Orsay. It’s bitterly cold.

OK Corner at Portnahaven acts as a guide for boats approaching the harbour.

Leaving the village, a lonely road heads north over the moors into the gloom. The gusts of wind are so strong that I’m held in place before they drop and release me.

A pair of lapwings keep me company for a while. There’s not a lot of traffic to worry about.

Remote Lossit Bay is supposed to be very pretty, but there are reports of a difficult farmer and a bull in the field, and I’m not in the mood for a wasted detour in challenging weather conditions, so walk on past the side road and its Private – No Unauthorised Access sign.

A car passes and a woman winds the window down.

“Do you need a lift?”

“Thanks but I’m fine. I enjoy this weather.”

“It’s a little fresh!”

It is that.

I leave the road at Kilchiaran, following a track uphill and round a radar station, operational between 1940 and 1945, part of an early warning ring round the coastline. I’m sure it must have been a Dr Who location.

The track leads to Kilchoman Bay, labelled as Machir Bay on the OS map. Locals use the first name. I was promptly corrected when I referred to it as Machir Bay.

It’s a magnificent beach if a little wild today, the sand sculpted by the wind.

After a brief rest, sheltered as much as possible behind the rocks, I retrace my steps to the main road and walk east across the peninsula, through forests and moorland.

I pass a couple of cuties, one with a comb-over — emo style, as my daughter, Hayley, commented.

By the time I arrive back at the campsite, it’s packed with vehicles and large tents as people gather for the whisky festival starting tomorrow. There’s only time for a curry at the community cafe. A couple of the guys are off to the pub, but one session is enough for me — lightweight that I am.

Friday

The tent is packed and it’s time to start the long journey home, catching a bus to Port Ellen for the ferry to the mainland. MV Finlaggan is finally refitted and arrives to disgorge a stream of cars and passengers. Kilted islanders welcome people — tour guides perhaps?

I treat myself to a cooked breakfast on the ferry. Less appetizing, I have the honour of discovering my first tick, thankfully easy to extract from the back of my left hand.

Leaving the ferry at Kennacraig, what a transformation. A month ago only a dozen people were waiting to board. Now there are hundreds.

I’m stopping over at Edinburgh as the ferry times make it impossible to get home in one day. The main reason is to visit the now familiar triangle of pubs with live folk music: Sandy Bell’s, the Royal Oak, and the Captain’s Bar. I end up staying at the latter, with a friendly welcome and a lot of communal singing. I’ll have a sore throat in the morning. Incredibly, I end up chatting to someone else who has walked the Arctic Circle Trail.

Another lovely trip. Jura is my favourite of the two islands, Islay scoring higher for whisky aficionados than hikers. There’s a long gap now until I return to the East Coast at the end of June, as Max has his A-Levels and I’m on getting-out-of-bed and chauffeur duty.

Date of walk: Thursday 23 May 2024.

Walk distance: 14 miles.

Total distance: 4,308 miles.