#travel diary
The Norse Mill and Kiln at Shawbost, Outer Hebrides, UK
The Outer Hebrides are the last bastion of Sabbath observation in Scotland. As we cycled up from the southern cluster of islands, crossing onto Grimsay (island six of ten) and then North Uist (island seven), the dominant faith changed from Catholicism to the Calvinistic Free Church, who take the Sabbath very seriously.
Not a single shop, bakery or restaurant was open as we cycled through the last of the sea fret, which swirled around the mirror-smooth surface of the water. All the traffic was people in their Sunday best, making their way to church. No washing hung out to dry and no children played. Rumours still abound that people tie up playground swings to stop them being used.
We reached The Tractor Shed, accommodation in an adorable little wooden hut for two nights, which luckily was open. Storytelling Yorkshireman Duncan was our host. We settled in with a cup of tea and he told us about Hercules the trained grizzly bear, who was shipped over to the Outer Hebrides for a Kleenex advert in 1980 and went rogue (“he’d been watching too many nature documentaries”). He was on the run for 24 days before turning up, half starved, near someone’s croft. “Catching salmon is harder than it looks,” said Duncan.
Under the eaves of our hut was a deck and a little burner. M got a peat fire going in the evening light and we huddled around it as a legitimate hoolie began to blow. The wind howled all night and all of the next day. Two sets of frozen cycle tourists turned up, the first we’d seen going our way since we got off the ferry on Barra, and we swapped stories in the kitchen.
When it came our turn to leave, the wind was still whipping. At first it was a vicious, bullying crosswind, trying to shove us into the sinking peat bogs beside the road. Pouring rain came for good measure, and then the wind turned completely so we were pushing against it like it was solid. Every time I thought we were going to crest a hill and see the causeway to Berneray (island eight) laid out for us, there was yet another hill to be crested.
Finally we could see the grey water and the orange display board saying the ferries were all cancelled for the day. The tiny terminal had nothing but a hard wooden bench, but at least it was indoors. We took our waterproofs off to drip-dry and watched the energy-generating windmill outside trying to wrench from its concrete foundations, spinning so fast it was a blur.
Berneray’s little shop and bistro was just around the corner, so we braved it on foot to get some hot food. In the carpark was a Forecasting Stone. STONE IS WET: RAINING said the sign. SWINGING STONE: WINDY. STONE GONE: TORNADO. It didn’t feel far off.
The storm blew itself out and dawn came blue and gold and gorgeous. Just after sunrise we got on the ferry to Leverburgh. In 2006 this crossing had invoked fury amongst the islanders, and even a legal challenge, when operators CalMac added a Sunday sailing. An article from the time describes the ferry docking to posters that read “Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it Holy” but no protesters – that would have broken the Sabbath. There was no welcoming committee for us on Harris either (island nine!) but there was sunshine, which I would take any day.
Read the next Island Hopping blog: Hunting eagles on Harris
19th March 2022
Parliament Buildings, Budapest, Hungary
19th March 2022
Golden ceilings and stained-glass windows at the Parliament Building, Budapest, Hungary
19th March 2022
Budapest, Hungary
20th March 2022
Details from the Castle Garden Bazaar, Budapest, Hungary
19th March 2022
Budapest, Hungary
19th March 2022
Parliament Buildings, Budapest, Hungary
19th March 2022
Parliament Buildings, Budapest, Hungary
19th March 2022
St Stephen’s Basilica, Budapest, Hungary
The Coast to Coast, Glasgow and Isle of Skye
After a taste, probably best to follow through.
I recently arrived back after almost three weeks in the UK. The first twelve days were spent with my mother on a trip we’ve wanted to do for a long time. On the road, in the mountains, on map, off map. What will be slow dripping over the next week or so are the photographs I just picked up from those fine boys at Sydney Super 8 (http://www.sydneysuper8.com.au) in Newy. Go there, develop there.
What Place: Three days of the Coast to Coast in the Lake District to the Yorkshire Dales- then Glasgow, then a sheep farm on Isle of Skye.
What Camera: I wanted to go holiday cameras- aka something faithful and something new. My two picks were a Nikon 35ti, and my new baby Canon Eos-3. As I’ll dig in more as we go, both turned out to be perfect and surprising- appropriate, inappropriate, challenging and a joy all at once. For two operationally easy cameras, it’s great to find challenges and unexpected twists in getting that sweet spot.
What film is a little less wild and more basic. I picked up a bunch of film on the cheaper end- Kodak Gold, and Kodak Colorplus 200 in Glasgow when I was pinching pennies before London. For cheap film, I was surprised and tested by the quality of both. Wouldn’t be a holiday though if I didn’t introduce some form of barely-an obstruction for me to work with, now would it?
I’ll tag where each is from but we’ll move in and out of order. For now, let’s start on an afternoon walk around Rosthwaite.
YGSF Hangs Out In The Indian Ocean: The What To’s Of Holidaying In The Maldives
If you’ve been following YGSF on Instagram (which you should if you want to see photos of me dressed a unicorn on a beach), you’ll know that we spent the latter end of October on an island in the Indian Ocean. A place which makes you look like a professional photographer and feel slightly delirious when you wake up in the morning to silky white sands, turquoise sea…and sometimes rain (but very nice rain). I am of course attempting to describe the Maldives!
Check out our photo diary here (WARNING: THIS CONTAINS SERIOUS HOLIDAY BLUES): http://bit.ly/2dZ2pej
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We’ve only been wild swimming for the past year or so, mainly in Cornish quarries, Alpine lakes and once in the blue Danube, but this was by far the coldest water I’ve swum in.
After a night spent camping in the Welsh forest, sheltering under a tarpaulin from the deluge of rain, we hiked most of the way up Mount Snowdon on a typically blustery Autumn day.
We’d hiked through the Pyrenees, driven the length of the Alps, travelled across the Carpathians and explored the Accursed Mountains, but never did we realise the beauty of the mountains which lay on our very own doorstep.Snowdon was every bit as wild, every bit as barren and every bit as breathtaking as the mountains we’d explored so far, although perhaps its beauty simply struck us so poignantly because it had been so long since we’d seen a landscape this untouched.
Feet hot and aching post-hike, and feeling a little less than fresh three days into our camping trip, we pulled the car over next to Llyn Dinas on a whim. After a brief walk around its shore to a spot that looked suitably clear and shallow enough to climb into, I stripped off and put on my bathing suit, then eased myself into the water. It was instantly, numbingly cold, probably no more than 10°C, taking my breath away and the feeling from my toes, but I pushed myself to lower my shoulders and swim a few armlengths out into the water.
The water was invigorating, crystal clear, Autumn-hued leaves adding little splashes of colour to the glassy surface and that view- ! Luscious forested banks framing rugged peaks toward which the water stretched infinitely- this is what I focused on as I swam a few short lengths trying to warm up, and eventually my body adjusted to the temperature and I was blissfully floating.
Nothing could compare to this feeling; cold wild water, empty open space. Warm chlorinated pools could never recreate the exhilaration and freedom that swimming in wild water provides. The cold shock was said to improve your circulation and do wonders for mental health, and floating here, fully immersed, I could see why that would be true.
Wild swimming had been at the top of my agenda for our trip to Wales, and I sat in the car shivering afterward, wrapped in as many layers as I had packed, feeling truly accomplished in myself for having gone in.
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When it rains in the mountains, it really rains. Not a fine mizzle or the odd shower like we get in England, but a biblical, all-engrossing rain that pelts down from the sky and sends rivers running down the mountainsides in great waterfalls that flood the roads and make planning any sort of activity quite impossible.
Such is the unpredictability of the Accursed Mountains, a corner of Albania whose curious histories and unique way of life woven amongst its limestone peaks will forever keep us coming back for more.
This fascinating mountain range was so named for its wildly inhospitable conditions, and is one of the rare mountain ranges in Europe that is yet to be fully explored. But mountaineers with their compasses and maps will never truly conquer these mountains, for the only way to truly navigate them is with a lifetime of muscle memory, ingrained into mountain men from the age they learn to walk. There are few roads, no signposted trails, and no forgiveness; if you get lost and the weather doesn’t get you then the wolves surely will.
But while the mountains may ward you off with their inhospitality the people will surely not, as they are perhaps some of the warmest and most welcoming in all the Balkans. With no fear of strangers and no reason to lock their doors some three hours away from the nearest town, they will happily invite you into their home for a coffee and a rakia before you continue on your journey.
The Albanian Alps possess a deep sense of mystery that fascinates us and seems almost tangible as we pull off the craggy SH25 alongside the Drin river, unwilling to drive any further in the torrential downpour. The thunderstorm would not pass until tomorrow evening when we would be rewarded with another spectacular Albanian sunset, but before that we would endure a night of lightning strikes powerful enough to knock out the area’s only phone mast, and thunder that shook us violently inside our van; if you’ve never heard thunder in the mountains before, imagine someone dropping about thirty dustbins off the side of a cliff at once. It booms.
It felt all at once overwhelmingly exciting and familiar to be back in the North of Albania once again, parked up so close to an area we’d become so affiliated with that had played home to one of our favourite travel stories. But now we were about to make more, as we were set to be heading off the road and into the furthest reaches of these mountains on foot, a place where vehicles could only dream to go and mules were the primary mode of transport.
Soon we were going back into the heart of the Accursed Mountains.
