Golden Road

Berneray - Bowglass
35 miles

The wind is still battering against the small windows of the blackhouses but sun now lights up the white horses in the green sea. As with the night before we make a dash from our sleeping quarters to the living and eating space situated in the next building. We repack after porridge, swap some advice with the others and head off for the ferry. Despite the terminal being only a mile away it takes an eternity and some skill to keep the bikes upright - the head wind buffeting us and occasionally trying to lift our feather-light front wheels.

A swarm of cyclists congregate in the small terminal building, each new one entering struggling with the door against the wind. It's a short crossing to Harris but we try to get some rest while we are aboard. The passage is lengthened, however, by the route we must take - a fairly treacherous one around many rock formations just below the surface. Chris reminds me never to get in a yacht with him as he tries in vain to remember what the icons atop all the bouys are - "That arrow means there are rocks to the south," he'd say fairly confidently, only to finish with "or maybe it's North."

We are lifted by the fact we have cycled through Barra and the Uists in a day and are now hitting Harris early on Wednesday morning. The stop in Leverburgh is short - enough time to fuel up again and head over to the exposed but, we reckon, more interesting topography of the Golden Road. The wind howls against us as we climb the not insubstantial hill over to the East coast - I worry about the rest of the day's progress but we soon are out of the wind chamber and return to our blustery tail wind bringing with it spells of sun and fast rain showers.

The road is fantastic - a lot like I remember the beautiful road from Ullapool to Cape Wrath and one which I worry about returning to and it not living up to my recollection. I suppose that Ross and Harris were joined at one point and it shouldn't come as a great surprise but it does none-the-less, as much as the change in altitude around us since flat Berneray and South Uist. There are many lochans with lillies and we pass as many cyclists as we do cars. It's a good feeling.

After ramping up the steep telegraph road we continue upward on the main road before using it to descend into Tarbert, at the neck of Harris. It's not an unpleasant village and we stock up on provisions and chat with the butcher. Around town the talk is that the ferry to Uig on Skye is cancelled - it's not of great concern to us but others head to tourist information for help finding accommodation. After listening to the Spanish ahead of us being given the minimum of help and the only piece of information that is clear and repeated is that they will have to pay a £4 booking fee, we manage to get on well with the woman behind the counter and she books us into the outdoor centre 10 miles north: "Alastair's a nice lad" she says, and the thought of a new hostel with clean rooms and showers seems very appealing as we look onto the driving rain outside.

We don't have far to go but it's hilly and a very stormy descent brings us to a snails pace as we battle with the bikes from being blown across the road. A few times I make preparations for coming off - relaxing whenever I pass a grass verge. Tensing when I pass jagged rocks or cars. Alastair is indeed a nice lad and we are given a tour of our own bedroom with ensuite shower, drying room, large kitchen, games room and the lounge with view. Peter, a German walker, is our only company and we cook, eat and chat before watching the Semi Final of the world cup. As we do so (Spain beat Germany) I note a bizarre sight on the mountain at the other side of the loch - it looks like smoke from a fire - which would be impossible in this dampness. It turns out to be a water chimney - A waterfall which is being blown in the opposite direction, such was the strength of the wind. We marvel at it for a while, I get a thousand yard stare and shattered, we have a dram and are in bed by 9.30.