Day 2

Today dawned wet, and in that characteristically Scottish way, layers of white cloud could be seen against the far hillside, while above was a dull grey and the air was filled with a fine drizzle. I left the hostel at about nine and made my way along the road to the ferry terminal. There I booked my passage to Stornoway and then went off for another browse round the town while I waited.

The ferry left on time, pulling away from a damp Ullapool out into the sea loch, the misty shores gradually receding from either side. At times on the two hour voyage the cloud lifted somewhat, enough to give a view of the Summer Isles, a romantic cluster of islands that I at once vowed to come back to explore by boat. I looked at the view, snoozed and had lunch, and we were soon arriving in Stornoway.

I cycled off the ferry into the town, getting my bearings from last time I had been here. I made my way to the tourist office for postcards and a book of Gaelic place name translations before cycling out past the hospital and on to the moor, heading northwest.

There was no wind, but the dampness was everywhere. It seemed scarcely noticeable on standing still, but as the bike sped up so the water dripped off my face and began the task of soaking through my goretex. Nonetheless, it was exciting to be at last on the islands, and heading through gorgeously wild moorland scenery. Before long I was approaching the sea at the western side of the island and turned south to head down the coast road.

This road is a positive treasure trove of tourist sights, and it wasn't long before I was at the first, the Arnol Blackhouse. Until about about 50 years ago, almost all the houses on the islands were of this kind, long and narrow, thick double walls of stone filled with a core of turf, and a tent like thatched roof perched on, not over, the walls. Then came the modern style of house, the bricks held together by lime mortar, which gave them their name of "white houses". By contrast, the traditional dwellings became known as black houses or Tigh Dubh. This one was restored to the way it was when last lived in 1960. Black was certainly the word inside, with the only window a small pane of glass set in the thatch, and the air hazy with the smoke of the peat fire in the centre - there were no chimneys, allowing the smoke to be absorbed by the thatch, which could then be used as fertiliser. Nonetheless it was undoubtedly cosy and quite a welcome respite from the dampness outside.

Eventually I felt I had to move on, and cycled on south. The huge arch of whalebone at Bragar, as well as a small dun on an island both caused brief halts. I also looked in on the Shawbost folk museum, an odd collection of memorabilia put together by the children of the local school about 30 years ago. These were all short halts, but I had started late and it was getting on for five-thirty as I approached Carloway. My legs were objecting to the excercise as well, and each hill was becoming a major effort, so I decided to turn off and stay at the Youth Hostel at Garenin. This was an odd place. Also a converted blackhouse it was rather more modernised than the last one I had been in, but was nonetheless quite primitive by hostel standards. I was a very characterful place to stay, however, and indeed by that time anywhere warm and dry with food would have been welcome!