Yes I know, I owe you both an apology. I reignited the blog with all good intent back in the Spring, then a bit of rain in Scotland dissolved any enthusiasm and it all sort of ground to a halt again.
So here goes with another kick-start.
The rain did eventually stop in Shieldaig. Just long enough for me to walk the hundred yards to the local store where they should've been expecting a clutch cable, delivered overnight from Redline.
Nope, the postman had it. Shieldaig isn't a big place, so I made my way to the village hall which in typical micro-community fashion also doubled as gambling den (Tuesday evenings), gymnasium (Mon, Wed, Fri at 7pm), music hall (First Saturday of each month) and Post Office sorting office (daily, from 10:30). Not one but two Post Office vans were parked up outside, and in the hall itself their respective drivers were engaged in a North v South game of pass the parcel. The van from the South carried domestic post, newspapers, tax disc reminders and all the other admininauseum made so utterly irrelevant by the isolation and climate of Shieldaig, whilst the Northern post run comprised ice-packed polystyrene crates of smoked Salmon and mail order chunky sweaters, on their way to a lucky recipient in time for Christmas. In amongst all this was a clutch cable and, on seeing a parcel addressed to a new name, the posty recognised it as mine as tossed it over. I explained what it was, and how I'd tried to enjoy getting to Applecross the day before with the mail man admitting it was one of his favourite rounds in Summer, and one of the worst in Winter. Funnily enough, he used to have a Defender to deliver the post up here but that proved expensive, despite being valuable, and it was replaced with a Vauxhall Astra. That's progress according to Accounts.
With clutch cable now in hand I braved an encounter with Andy at the campsite in order to borrow his tool kit. As he'd claimed to be a mechanic by trade I expected it to be a tidy, organised affair, with a place for everything and everything in its place. But no, he simply opened the boot of his car and there it all was, the contents of his garage. Loose.
The cable change was easy enough, even under water (yep, raining again) so by lunchtime I was able to haul up the anchor and set all-ahead full for Skye, praying it would stop raining.
In good weather the North West coast area would be great for blatting, but under grey, drizzly cloud that hid the tops of the mountains it just seemed at best dull, and at times positively sinister and uninviting. There were points where I thought if the car broke down for any reason, or I had an off, it'd be days before the situation was resolved. Needless to say this took the edge of any enjoyment, and I found myself simply making progress to the next tartan-clad conurbation.
Eventually I rolled in to Kyle of Lochalsh, the UK's most North Westerly rail terminus. Having seen this as the destination of Michael Palin's own episode of Great Railway Journeys of the World many, many years ago, I was slightly excited, hoping to pick up on the sense of achievement in reaching this outpost. The new and highly controversial bridge seems to have killed this off though, with plenty of new infrastructure and the atmosphere of a motorway services, for it now seems KoL is just a fuel stop on the way to Skye. So I got some fuel.
I should add, this was the only place during the entire trip that I heard bagpipes being played and even then it was only in passing.
So it wasn't all bad.
Over the Bridge and the blat-o-meter crept up a bit as the roads grew twistier and, unbelievably, the rain eased off a bit.
Didn't last though, and as the West Coast of Skye fell within striking distance, the satnav showing single figures to get there, I had to admit defeat and head back. The rain was coming down with real spite as opposed to just a gravitational inevitability, and out at sea even blacker clouds were just waiting to have a go too and on a couple of occasions I parked up, popped up the umbrella and just sat there, rain trickling in every direction off the car, me getting colder and colder, just willing the weather to improve. Who was I kidding? Wasn't gonna happen so getting back to the mainland before it turned completely monsoon was a priority, and near the bridge again the sight of a motorbike wedged under the nose of a car on a bend confirmed that I was doing the right thing in quitting. Funnily enough it was a Dutch bike that had collided with a Dutch car. Seemed like a long way to come just to have a crash but that's the Dutch for you. Schhhplendid.
Back at the campsite once more I decided there and then that if it was still raining tomorrow (day three) I'd give in and go home a day early. It was getting pointless now, completely unenjoyable and as recent cloggy events demonstrated, dangerous too.
At least the rain kept Andy in his caravan.
Breakfast on Day 3 came with the default setting of rain, so as promised to myself the night before, once I'd eaten I dropped the awning, closed up the roof tent, trailered the Seven and simply sodded off home.
I'd like to say it wasn't "sodded off home in a huff" but I'd be lying.
So here goes with another kick-start.
The rain did eventually stop in Shieldaig. Just long enough for me to walk the hundred yards to the local store where they should've been expecting a clutch cable, delivered overnight from Redline.
Nope, the postman had it. Shieldaig isn't a big place, so I made my way to the village hall which in typical micro-community fashion also doubled as gambling den (Tuesday evenings), gymnasium (Mon, Wed, Fri at 7pm), music hall (First Saturday of each month) and Post Office sorting office (daily, from 10:30). Not one but two Post Office vans were parked up outside, and in the hall itself their respective drivers were engaged in a North v South game of pass the parcel. The van from the South carried domestic post, newspapers, tax disc reminders and all the other admininauseum made so utterly irrelevant by the isolation and climate of Shieldaig, whilst the Northern post run comprised ice-packed polystyrene crates of smoked Salmon and mail order chunky sweaters, on their way to a lucky recipient in time for Christmas. In amongst all this was a clutch cable and, on seeing a parcel addressed to a new name, the posty recognised it as mine as tossed it over. I explained what it was, and how I'd tried to enjoy getting to Applecross the day before with the mail man admitting it was one of his favourite rounds in Summer, and one of the worst in Winter. Funnily enough, he used to have a Defender to deliver the post up here but that proved expensive, despite being valuable, and it was replaced with a Vauxhall Astra. That's progress according to Accounts.
With clutch cable now in hand I braved an encounter with Andy at the campsite in order to borrow his tool kit. As he'd claimed to be a mechanic by trade I expected it to be a tidy, organised affair, with a place for everything and everything in its place. But no, he simply opened the boot of his car and there it all was, the contents of his garage. Loose.
The cable change was easy enough, even under water (yep, raining again) so by lunchtime I was able to haul up the anchor and set all-ahead full for Skye, praying it would stop raining.
In good weather the North West coast area would be great for blatting, but under grey, drizzly cloud that hid the tops of the mountains it just seemed at best dull, and at times positively sinister and uninviting. There were points where I thought if the car broke down for any reason, or I had an off, it'd be days before the situation was resolved. Needless to say this took the edge of any enjoyment, and I found myself simply making progress to the next tartan-clad conurbation.
Eventually I rolled in to Kyle of Lochalsh, the UK's most North Westerly rail terminus. Having seen this as the destination of Michael Palin's own episode of Great Railway Journeys of the World many, many years ago, I was slightly excited, hoping to pick up on the sense of achievement in reaching this outpost. The new and highly controversial bridge seems to have killed this off though, with plenty of new infrastructure and the atmosphere of a motorway services, for it now seems KoL is just a fuel stop on the way to Skye. So I got some fuel.
I should add, this was the only place during the entire trip that I heard bagpipes being played and even then it was only in passing.
So it wasn't all bad.
Over the Bridge and the blat-o-meter crept up a bit as the roads grew twistier and, unbelievably, the rain eased off a bit.
Didn't last though, and as the West Coast of Skye fell within striking distance, the satnav showing single figures to get there, I had to admit defeat and head back. The rain was coming down with real spite as opposed to just a gravitational inevitability, and out at sea even blacker clouds were just waiting to have a go too and on a couple of occasions I parked up, popped up the umbrella and just sat there, rain trickling in every direction off the car, me getting colder and colder, just willing the weather to improve. Who was I kidding? Wasn't gonna happen so getting back to the mainland before it turned completely monsoon was a priority, and near the bridge again the sight of a motorbike wedged under the nose of a car on a bend confirmed that I was doing the right thing in quitting. Funnily enough it was a Dutch bike that had collided with a Dutch car. Seemed like a long way to come just to have a crash but that's the Dutch for you. Schhhplendid.
Back at the campsite once more I decided there and then that if it was still raining tomorrow (day three) I'd give in and go home a day early. It was getting pointless now, completely unenjoyable and as recent cloggy events demonstrated, dangerous too.
At least the rain kept Andy in his caravan.
Breakfast on Day 3 came with the default setting of rain, so as promised to myself the night before, once I'd eaten I dropped the awning, closed up the roof tent, trailered the Seven and simply sodded off home.
I'd like to say it wasn't "sodded off home in a huff" but I'd be lying.
