Cardinal Spins 5: NNW – Day 8: Cape Wrath

The Durness Highland Gathering is a big deal in the far north-west of Scotland. For a weekend it takes precedence for the local population and over certain other matters. Like, for example, the Cape Wrath ferry. We weren’t to know. There was no information to tip off even the most well organised of cycling groups, and I had already locked my own timings into the Simons somewhat tighter schedule. The was nothing to do but accept that the ferryman would only return to work at 11am on Sunday, giving him a full day of recovery from the long night of festivities. And, to be fair, he was on time and cheerful. I think it was a very rare day off for him from a seven day a week job. 

The down side to this was that we didn’t get to stay at Cape Wrath as planned, in a remote bothy by Kervaig beach. There is really no other practical way to get a bike to Cape Wrath, so we were left with a day trip instead. The upside to this was that it provided an unexpected opportunity to explore the coast around Durness on foot. And for me at least that was a major consolation. The weather was warm and sunny and the beaches here are pristine and largely empty. Their pure white sands stretch long distances, fringed by dramatic rock outcrops, low green cliff tops, and turquoise blue seas more reminiscent of the Caribbean than Scotland. I wandered along the cliffs and through the impressively high sand dunes, carpeted with wild pansies (viola). I also searched in vain for John Lennon’s aunt’s grave in the atmospheric ruined church yard at nearby Balnakeil. It was all a feast for the senses.

Then, walking back into Durness village, a strange thing happened. A convoy of about six vehicles came slowly by, including an all terrain vehicle pulling a small trailer with low sides. Kneeling inside was a young couple dressed in white disposable decorator’s overalls and protective goggles. When the convoy stopped just ahead of me, I caught it up just as a small group of local residents started to cover the couple in eggs, flour and, apparently, plenty of other things. I was offered an egg to throw at them. I asked what was happening. “They’re getting married in September” I was told, as if this explained everything.

The convoy and I moved at about the same speed for the next mile until I reached the pub, where the other cyclists had retired, and the pub staff were waiting to pounce. By now the trailer and its contents were in serious need of a wash, which I was assured would be applied by the local firemens’ hose at the end of the trip. I also learned that was I was witnessing was the local tradition of “Blackening”, which is common to most of the coastal communities of northern Scotland. The worst, I heard, are those that occur in fishing towns and villages. They get very smelly indeed.

So all of this made for a distraction ahead of our now shortened trip to Cape Wrath. And my contingency booking of 3 nights at the youth hostel proved prescient, with the others joining me for nights two and three in preference to camping. The hostel manager, Ben, was a character and kept us all entertained, answering the questions of the many nationalities sleeping in the cosy dormitories, and keeping the hostel spick and span. Once armed with the various entry codes we could come and go at will. It was very much an early to bed early to rise kind of establishment, with which I was obviously rather out of step. But I managed.

Cape Wrath, when it finally came, did not disappoint. The ferryman was visibly taken aback by the number of people waiting to cross at 11am. He told me it was his busiest day in two years and that business had been very quiet of late. He and his trainee son, on holiday from primary school, plied the crossing of the Kyle of Durness, taking the full compliment of twelve passengers each time. Priority seemed to go to the fully paid up minibus passengers, who are met at the quay and get a bumpy three hour round trip visit. We cyclists – I counted twelve of us – were mostly shoe horned into the fourth crossing. Among us was a French family who had completed the same week of mountain biking as Simon and his friends. Their two sons were quite young for such an undertaking, but seemed happy to be pulling their weight. They were certainly very well equipped. They were going to stay in the bothy, and Simon was understandably jealous. 

It would be easy to feel underwhelmed after eleven miles of cycling along a bumpy track across largely featureless moors, but as you round the final corner, the cream tower of the lighthouse suddenly comes into view and draws you in. There’s something special about being able to look out to sea in more than one direction, and the whole experience certainly gives the sense of truly being at an extremity. I don’t think you could draw another straight line in any direction from my house across land that reaches this far. It was an important milestone in my adventure. My bike was not as well suited to the journey as the mountain bikes, but it held up well. The road showed signs of once being tarmac, a long time and many winters and mini bus rides ago. But it had been pretty well maintained and was not too hilly. Since time wasn’t an issue, it was all enjoyable.

We all recharged at “Cafe Ozone”, which must surely be the most remote cafe in mainland Britain. They don’t take advantage of their captive audience though. It’s cash only, very low key, and they ask you to sign the visitors book. You can stay here in a bunkhouse; but there’s not a whole lot to do. I’m glad we came on a sunny day. I think it might be quite miserable in mist or rain. I’ve never much fancied being a lighthouse keeper.

I enjoyed the ride back and took my time. An afternoon minibus passed us, so the ferryman would be able to afford a few pints tonight. I hope things continue to pick up for him. If he wasn’t there, this trip would be impossible. 

And so another cardinal spin was brought to a close after eight cycling days and three rest days, covering almost 600 miles in the process. I had been very lucky with the weather, seen a lot of the best hilly countryside in Britain, climbed  many thousands of feet, caught up with family and friends from the recent and distant past, done a bit of off-roading, made some new acquaintances and seen some brand new places. And that is really what this is all about. Where to next, I wonder. Only the magic spinner knows! But first a few days in Edinburgh on the way home. Jenni is coming north to meet me and the Fringe is about to start. There’s never a dull moment for the cardinally-challenged, long distance adventure cyclist.