Elgin Cathedral...

Back on the mainland...

Back on the mainland and, already, my abortive Hebridean trip looks like a bad dream. My first night, in Stornoway, was grim, and nothing much happened after that to lift my spirits. Ah, well.

My last Hebridean conversation, in the public bar of the Castlebay Hotel, was with a guy who gave me a few ‘funny looks’ as I walked upto the bar. “Where are you from?”, he demanded to know. I said I was travelling around. “So you’re a nomad”, he said. Exactly. But where was I from originally? Yorkshire, I said. He leaned over on his bar-stool in an exaggerated way (not towards me, thankfully, but away from me) and spat on the floor (the public bar of the Castlebay Hotel is the kind of place where spitting on the floor represents the height of good manners). “I spent four years in Hull”, he said, by way of explanation.

I empathised, agreeing that Hull is a despicable place that even other Yorkshiremen look down on. I said that when I took my first girlfriend to a pub there, they wouldn’t serve us. It was men only. I agreed with the guy that letting women into pubs had been a retrograde step (no point starting an argument during my last few hours on Barra). Bye bye, Barra; bye bye, Outer Hebrides; bye bye, rather scary man at the bar with the pint of heavy and the double whisky chaser…

I have some pictures to take in Scotland, and a couple of people to see. Then I’ll be back ‘down south’… in Yorkshire, with pix to shoot of the Dales. The wild flower meadows in Swaledale will be blooming by then.

The sun’s come out. Hooray…

South of Barra...

I’m on Barra, at the southern tip of the Western Isles. There are a handful of islands further south - known as the Bishop’s Isles - but they’re uninhabited now. When I first visited Barra (about 40 years ago), I stayed at a b & b. The lady said she had been born on one of these islands, Mingulay. A fisherman dropped me on the island, and picked me up a few hours later, so I had time to explore. The island’s community was built around a sandy bay. All the houses had fallen into ruin, and filled with sand, though you could see where they all were. The only building standing to its full height was the two-storey schoolhouse. It must have been a tough life, though the lady remembered her time on the island very fondly. When life on the island proved to be unsustainable, the islanders were evacuated to the ‘mainland’: ie Barra. No-one has lived on Mingulay since 1912.

The lady’s husband was a builder, and he was working on a house. He worked on his own, and was able to do all the work himself - everything from laying the foundations to tiling the roof. It just took him a long time! He said he didn’t need his van during the working day, so he drove me out to the house he was building, and left me with the van. My only instructions were to put some petrol in and pick him up at 5pm sharp, so we could go back to the guesthouse together.

I don’t need to switch the satnav on when driving around Barra. Start from any point and drive for 12 miles… and you’ll be back where you started from. There’s a sign at a road junction near where the ferry docks from South Uist. Go left and you’re heading for Castlebay; go right and you’re heading for… Castlebay.

The sun is out - briefly, fitfully - between the rain showers (which caught a couple unawares as they were eating their lunch on a table outside Kisimul Cafe, forcing them to retreat inside with their plates). The temperature has crept into double figure, I’m taking a few pix, and all’s well with the world. I’ve decided to get the ferry to Oban this afternoon. It will call at Coll and Tiree as well: opportunities for more pix, or, at the very least, time to relax with a book…

North Uist...

Got the ferry this morning from Leverburgh, at the southern tip of Harris, to Berneray on North Uist. The weather is no better, with the sky an unrelieved grey, and I’m losing my enthusiasm for this idiosyncratic island landscape. Got a cold, too, which doesn’t help. It’s the last week of May and I’m shivering. I hope the weather will break, and allow me to get some pictures (the barman in the Lochmaddy Hotel tells me this wintry weather is very unusual). My plan was to spend a month exploring the islands from the top - Lewis - to the bottom - Barra, from May 17 to June 17. If the weather doesn’t get any better, I may be taking the Barra-Oban ferry, back to the mainland, before the end of May.

In the meantime I’m going to visit the RSPB reserve at Balranald, and just spend a few hours bird-watching…

The Norse Mill & Kiln, Lewis...

Rainy night in Tarbert...

The rain is hammering down on the Isle of Harris, driven sideways by a buffetting wind. If I opened the Romahome door without holding onto it, the wind would rip it off its hinges. I’m busy editing photographs, but this isn’t how I’d planned to spend my days on the Hebrides. I can take pictures in many different kinds of light, but heavy rain stops play as surely as it does at the Lords test match.

I don’t know whether to stick or twist: stay another night in Tarbert, and hope the rain relents, or take the ferry from Leverburgh to North Uist. I don’t suppose the weather will be any better across the Sound of Harris; I’m just fed up with the rain. While I was thinking what to do, I called in at Rodel, at the southern tip of Harris. Signs suggested there was a hotel there, so I was hoping for a warm fire and a cold beer. I passed a gloomy gray building; it looked like an Albanian orphanage or some kind of correctional institution, of the kind that Jimmy Savile used to visit. It’s hard to imagine a more cheerless place. Then I saw the sign in the rear view mirror; yes, I’d just passed the Rodel Hotel.

The door to the bar was locked, so I walked into the hotel entrance. “Can I get a drink?”, I asked the woman at reception. “Of course”, she said. I found the bar, with one guy at the bar. A chef, I think. “I’ll see if I can find someone to serve you”, he said, and wandered off. I got my beer, eventually, and a sit down in a hard-backed chair… but no fire. The walls were covered in huge paintings by a ‘local artist’: darkly surreal and mildly disturbing interpretations of island locations. The interior of the hotel was every bit as cheerless as the outside. How do places like this manage to spin a profit? Do they really want anyone to come in? Maybe I’ll take a look on TripAdvisor*, to see what other people might have to say. Cheers…

* Everyone on TripAdvisor  is enthusiastic about the place. Aaaarrgghh...

The blackhouse village on the west of Lewis...

Holed up in Tarbert...

Holed up in Tarbert, the biggest community on the Isle of Harris, to do some writing. I can hear the CalMac ferry arriving at the pier. The rain’s stopped, but the sky is an unrelieved grey, so it’s a good opportunity, as my deadline approaches, to write a couple of articles. Despite the weather it feels like the first day of summer, as England face New Zealand in the first test, at Lords…

The CalMac ferry... at Stornoway...

Dun Carloway Broch...

Dun Carloway broch, the best preserved building of its type in the Hebrides, is reckoned to date back to the 1st century AD...

Callanish...

I can’t believe it’s only 24 hours since I crossed to Lewis. I spent the night in Stornoway, and I’m still trying to find something good to say about the place. Three-quarters of the people on Lewis live here, but to call it dreary would be high praise. The island itself has been more interesting, and I’ve had a good day taking pictures.

The Callanish stones, yesterday evening...

Lewis...

The guy I saw playing music in the Argyll Hotel, Ullapool, a couple of nights ago, turned out to be Martin Stephenson, who’s been in the music business - without ever troubling the charts - for about 30 years. I’ll make sure to revisit his music, solo and with his band, the Daintees. He was such an appealing character, almost impossibly easy-going… 

Took the morning ferry from Ullapool to Stornoway; it took nearly three hours…

Stac Pollaidh , near Ullerpool...

The far north...

The drive from Hebden Bridge to Ullapool took about 7 1/2 hours. I’d planned to break the journey, and stay the night somewhere on Scotland’s west coast, but once I was on the road it seemed easier just to keep going. My arrival in Ullapool coincided with a hailstorm, with a biting wind, which made this little ferry port seem even more desolate and remote. I’m glad to have a heater in the Romahome. I don’t use it often, but it’s good for drying out after being caught in a shower. Ullapool is a place of arrivals and departures, and there are plenty of other motorhome (mostly a great deal bigger than mine).

The fish & chip shop by the quay had a placard outside, boasting that it had been hailed - by Radio 4’s Food Programme, no less - as the best chippy in the land. However, that accolade was awarded back in 2004, and standards look to have slipped since then. The fish & chips were barely edible, but, not keen to go to sleep on an empty stomach, I finished the lot.

I was luckier with my evening’s entertainment, with two guys - one playing guitar, the other a bongo he’d made himself - setting up in the bar of the Argyll Hotel. The guitarist was one of those affable guys who warms up a room just by walking in, so a bar full of soggy drinkers was soon transformed into an enthusiastic audience for the music. The guy played it for laughs… which disguised the fact that he could really sing and really play; the two of them had a great rapport. It was just what I needed on a wintry night in Ullapool.

The local bookshop was open today, Sunday, so I bought a folding map of the Outer Hebrides, with all the islands on one sheet. A lot of ‘attractions’ are marked on it, which will help me to work out a good itinerary, and, hopefully, not miss too many interesting places (my ‘hopscotch’ ferry ticket lasts for a month). I also bought a guidebook to the islands, which looks pretty comprehensive.

I tried - and failed - to change my ferry booking from tomorrow morning to this afternoon. I’d forgotten that the ferry terminal has been undergoing repairs for the past few days, with CalMac operating a service just for foot passengers. The car-ferry service resumes tomorrow, so I have another night in Ullapool…

The last of Yorkshire - Wensleydale - for a while...

Grinton mill...

Another of the Swaledale smelt mills, at Grinton, and probably the best preserved. While waiting for the light to change, I saw curlews, skylarks, red grouse, a kestrel, green woodpecker, flocks of lapwing and golden plover and - best of all - a ring ousel. Glad I had my monocular in my pocket...

Tanks turning...

Busy photographing in Wensleydale and Swaledale, having stayed in Richmond last night. This morning I passed the firing range to the North of Leyburn, while the guns were firing... and bullets were tearing into the hillside. The landscape looked peaceful, despite the noise...

Surrender...

Swaledale is lead-mining country, and this is Surrender Mill…

Arkengarthdale...

Back in the Yorkshire Dales ...

Back in Yorkshire...

I wanted to photocopy a couple of walks from a book I found in Ambleside library, but librarians sometimes get agitated about copyright, so I turned to the front of the book to see who’d written it. The name on the title page was mine; I must have written it thirty years ago.

Back at the Tan Hill Inn tonight (the highest pub in the country) so I can spend the next few days photographing the Yorkshire Dales for a book. Someone else’s… not mine.

Another pub: the Kirkstile Inn, backed up by Little Dodd...

Parked up on the Honister Pass...

I have a list of places I need to photograph, which I've nearly finished. I try to take a few pix
of the vehicle, parked up in salubrious surroundings, which I hope will sell, over the years, as stock shots...

Rannerdale...

A good day's photography, thanks to the light. This is Rannerdale, a little valley near Crummockwater; walkers were going to see the bluebells...

Fairground hell...

Parked up last night in Kendal, to get my camera sensor cleaned in town (I’m too much of a coward to go poking around inside my camera, so I get someone else do the job every six months or so). There weren’t many cars in the car park by the river, and when I woke up ths morning I realised why. The fair has come to town, and the car park had been fenced off… with me inside it.

Fortunately, I’d parked near the road, so a guy removed a bit of fencing to let me out… otherwise I might have been incorporated into the ghost train, or the waltzer or the wall of death. I’m not sure I could stomach the smell of candy floss and cheap burgers for a week. Then there’s music played at ear-splitting volume through tinny speakers. To celebrate my narrow escape from fairground hell, I’m heading for the northern lakes, so I can wake up tomorrow overlooking Buttermere instead…

On the way to Buttermere, via the Honister Pass...

Campsite...

About once a month, like today, I stop at a campsite. The electric hook-up not only charges the two ‘leisure’ batteries to capacity, it also seems to condition them… so they hold more charge, and for longer. With the extra power generated by the solar panel on the roof, I can stay in one place, off-grid, for two or three days. When the batteries are running low (I get a warning ‘beep’ from the power inverter), I need to save whatever I’m doing on the computer, and switch off. Then I need to drive (which charges all three onboard batteries), or hook up to an external power source, or sit in the dark, in silence and wrap up warm…

While I’m careful with the power I use (it’s like carrying water from the well, rather than just turning the tap on), a day at a campsite is good for catching up with jobs that need doing: recharging batteries for small appliances (phone, radio, wireless mouse and keyboard, torch, etc), updating computer software without worrying if the power will fail at an inopportune moment, filling up the water tank, having a shower, washing clothes, editing, captioning and keywording photos, etc, or maybe, like today, just sleeping in late.

With most campsites having free wifi, it’s a good opportunity to upload pix. I started a big upload yesterday evening, before I went to the pub (the Bridge Inn, in Santon Bridge, Eskdale… just across the river from the campsite), and the process carried on in the night while I was asleep.

I go to a campsite midweek, rather than at weekends, so I don’t need to book ahead to find a pitch. I also try to pick a rainy day, so I’m not eating into my photography time. A day here - at the Old Post Office campsite in Eskdale - costs £12, which is cheaper than most.

A barn, backed up by the Pike, in the Duddon Valley...

Ashness Bridge...

This tiny bridge, on the road to Watendlath, is well photographed already. But it's still an appealing scene, and still saleable as stock...

Snowed in at Tan Hill...

Parked up at the Tan Hill Inn, the highest pub in England, and woke up in the morning to find I was snowed in. Not just a sprinking of snow, either, but a good covering: white from horizon to horizon. Very cold too, as I stumbled around taking photos. It’s always been one of my fantasies to be snowed in at Tan Hill, with plenty of food and beer, plus a roaring fire and good company… but I hadn’t imagined this happening in May…

VW at Crummockwater

Back in Lakeland for a few days. VW camper vans are 'cool' in the way that a Romahome will never be...