Scotland 2025 Day 7 - Gone With The Wind
David the Gentle Giant is a lovely bloke. He has such soft dulcet tones when he speaks. Such a lovely genteel accent. Happy to cover the world with his warm Glaswegian creamy voice to make folk feel good and fuzzy. A first class anaesthetic of a man who for sure was a dentist in a previous life. He is a man of passions. Loves walking. Lives cycling. Abso-bloody-lutely loves his family and has somewhat of a passion for photography.
The land in this part of the world is drop dead beautiful. The Outer Hebrides are a chain of islands ravaged by harsh north Atlantic storms cos there’s no Ireland in the way to protect them. Stormy just like the fiery relationship between Rhett and Scarlett in Gone With The Wind. Well, that’s a very appropriate comparison for this place and for this holiday in more ways than one.
It is also abso-bloody-lutely ravaged by wind blown tour cyclists. From every country around the world. All here I assume to sample north Atlantic wind and rain cos along with stunning scenery thats what they’re gonna get!
They’re everywhere! I just cannot fathom how none have yet been shot and hung up over some mantlepiece simply because we must be a bloody plague of vermin to the locals.
Most of the roads here are mile after mile of single track with passing places. If you thought that driving home from London on a Friday evening was going to be a really long drive what with all the traffic jams n all that then let me tell you that’s nothing compared to the car journey a local will have to suffer even if just poppin out to Tescos for some beef sausage rolls for tea.
Yet virtually every single driver will patiently wait in a lay-by as they watch a cyclist, every cyclist, one after the other on non e-bikes that are abso-bloody-lutely loaded down with everything needed to survive for 2 weeks in the wilderness, grinding snotting and farting up the punchy hill climb. They must abso-bloody-lutely love watching snuff movies going by the smile and wave they give as we get to the top. Even London Alan had a GO! GO! GO! callout from a bunch of Hebridean lads waiting patiently in a passing place as he cycled along, legs spinning all akimbo like, grinding along at 5mph whilst on a particularly nice flat bit with a tail wind.
Beef sausage rolls? Yep thats what you’re gonna get in this part of the world for tea. There’s no chickens and no pigs this far north. It’s a place where folk build troglodyte homes into the mountainside to insulate themselves from winter storms. It’s the last piece of land in the world to still be inhabited by cave men and women.
However there’s also plenty of salt lamb and mutton to chew on too. The air is thick with the taste of sea salt here. But interestingly the islands are bereft of wind turbines. There are a few. If you wanna fly a kite or generate free power then I recon there is no better habited place on Earth than here. As a result it’s also a place where all of the mad tour cyclists ride with watery eyes and mad windblown permanent grimaces on their fizzogs. And that includes me!
I’ve not suffered from cramp since I arrived cos of the overload of air-born salt. Come to think of it I’ve not even had a drink yet having taken most of my liquids osmotically through my skin. And shirt. And fleece. And waterproof jacket. We all agree. From now on the manufacturers of waterproof jackets MUST change their labels to say - very clearly - Fully Waterproof - EXCEPT IN SCOTLAND!
Like I said the land here is so photogenic. If one was to stop to photograph every beauty spot let me tell you you’re never going to get anywhere. One has to resist the urge!
Talking about urges. Did I tell you about my friend David? A man who loves photography?
I furtively look around. We’re alone aren’t we? Yes yes do go on. Okay. I lower my voice to an almost inaudible whisper. You know he loves photography don’t you? Well, we are on the cycle tour and he keeps on nipping off the road with his bike into the sand dunes. I always assumed for a pee. Or a beautiful photo of something wild. But not that frequently surely. So I decided to follow him. Yes I did.
I lay my bike down and crawled along on my belly following his tyre tracks and footprints through the pure driven white snow like sand dunes pushing the tussock grass to one side.
My eyeballs crest a dune. And there he is. With his GILF of a bike. A rather nice old bike. Upended. With her handlebar shoulders pressed into the soft sand and her back wheel out exposing her gear.
And there’s David. With his Nikon out. Sporting a rather impressive 50 to 200mm telephoto lens; the length of which is determined by his excitement alone. I now know why he is called the Gentle Giant.
He’s clicking away, taking shots of her well lubricated G pulley. With an OCH YEAH BABY he moves in for a close up. Pushing the pubic tussock grasses to one side to get a close up of her B screw. A man possessed with his camera in one hand and bike pump in the other, bobbin up and down in his high vis yellow jacket, covering the place with warm Glaswegian cream shouting YEAH BABY YEAH!
I backed my way out of the dunes. I had seen enough.
Moments later David emerged with his now gritty bike having got some beautiful shots of the ‘Scottish scenery’ so he says. Hmmm.
London Alan rocks up and parks his bike next to mine. He approaches me with his tool in his hand. Look at this he says showing me something banana shaped.
Bet you can’t guess what I use this for….🫣
Ciao for now …
The land in this part of the world is drop dead beautiful. The Outer Hebrides are a chain of islands ravaged by harsh north Atlantic storms cos there’s no Ireland in the way to protect them. Stormy just like the fiery relationship between Rhett and Scarlett in Gone With The Wind. Well, that’s a very appropriate comparison for this place and for this holiday in more ways than one.
It is also abso-bloody-lutely ravaged by wind blown tour cyclists. From every country around the world. All here I assume to sample north Atlantic wind and rain cos along with stunning scenery thats what they’re gonna get!
They’re everywhere! I just cannot fathom how none have yet been shot and hung up over some mantlepiece simply because we must be a bloody plague of vermin to the locals.
Most of the roads here are mile after mile of single track with passing places. If you thought that driving home from London on a Friday evening was going to be a really long drive what with all the traffic jams n all that then let me tell you that’s nothing compared to the car journey a local will have to suffer even if just poppin out to Tescos for some beef sausage rolls for tea.
Yet virtually every single driver will patiently wait in a lay-by as they watch a cyclist, every cyclist, one after the other on non e-bikes that are abso-bloody-lutely loaded down with everything needed to survive for 2 weeks in the wilderness, grinding snotting and farting up the punchy hill climb. They must abso-bloody-lutely love watching snuff movies going by the smile and wave they give as we get to the top. Even London Alan had a GO! GO! GO! callout from a bunch of Hebridean lads waiting patiently in a passing place as he cycled along, legs spinning all akimbo like, grinding along at 5mph whilst on a particularly nice flat bit with a tail wind.
Beef sausage rolls? Yep thats what you’re gonna get in this part of the world for tea. There’s no chickens and no pigs this far north. It’s a place where folk build troglodyte homes into the mountainside to insulate themselves from winter storms. It’s the last piece of land in the world to still be inhabited by cave men and women.
However there’s also plenty of salt lamb and mutton to chew on too. The air is thick with the taste of sea salt here. But interestingly the islands are bereft of wind turbines. There are a few. If you wanna fly a kite or generate free power then I recon there is no better habited place on Earth than here. As a result it’s also a place where all of the mad tour cyclists ride with watery eyes and mad windblown permanent grimaces on their fizzogs. And that includes me!
I’ve not suffered from cramp since I arrived cos of the overload of air-born salt. Come to think of it I’ve not even had a drink yet having taken most of my liquids osmotically through my skin. And shirt. And fleece. And waterproof jacket. We all agree. From now on the manufacturers of waterproof jackets MUST change their labels to say - very clearly - Fully Waterproof - EXCEPT IN SCOTLAND!
Like I said the land here is so photogenic. If one was to stop to photograph every beauty spot let me tell you you’re never going to get anywhere. One has to resist the urge!
Talking about urges. Did I tell you about my friend David? A man who loves photography?
I furtively look around. We’re alone aren’t we? Yes yes do go on. Okay. I lower my voice to an almost inaudible whisper. You know he loves photography don’t you? Well, we are on the cycle tour and he keeps on nipping off the road with his bike into the sand dunes. I always assumed for a pee. Or a beautiful photo of something wild. But not that frequently surely. So I decided to follow him. Yes I did.
I lay my bike down and crawled along on my belly following his tyre tracks and footprints through the pure driven white snow like sand dunes pushing the tussock grass to one side.
My eyeballs crest a dune. And there he is. With his GILF of a bike. A rather nice old bike. Upended. With her handlebar shoulders pressed into the soft sand and her back wheel out exposing her gear.
And there’s David. With his Nikon out. Sporting a rather impressive 50 to 200mm telephoto lens; the length of which is determined by his excitement alone. I now know why he is called the Gentle Giant.
He’s clicking away, taking shots of her well lubricated G pulley. With an OCH YEAH BABY he moves in for a close up. Pushing the pubic tussock grasses to one side to get a close up of her B screw. A man possessed with his camera in one hand and bike pump in the other, bobbin up and down in his high vis yellow jacket, covering the place with warm Glaswegian cream shouting YEAH BABY YEAH!
I backed my way out of the dunes. I had seen enough.
Moments later David emerged with his now gritty bike having got some beautiful shots of the ‘Scottish scenery’ so he says. Hmmm.
London Alan rocks up and parks his bike next to mine. He approaches me with his tool in his hand. Look at this he says showing me something banana shaped.
Bet you can’t guess what I use this for….🫣
Ciao for now …
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