Shards of memories from a broken mind. Cycling The Outer Hebrides

Perched off the west coast of Scotland, and blown by North Atlantic winds The Outer Hebrides are islands on the edge.

I went in 2017. To cycle The Hebridean Way, 185 miles of deserted roads across moors and heather-coated hills. The islands are linked by causeways traversing dark-watered inlets or ferries ploughing their way across windswept seas. With lonely lochs and white wide beaches it is a place full of empty nothingness. Isles of a stark and striking beauty.

But you can be surrounded by peace and nature, and yet your mind can be in agony. And mine was.

My eldest child wasn’t well and whilst every nerve-ending was screaming, ‘don’t leave him’ I had been kindly but forcibly encouraged to go away for a few days. A break for us all.  

My body was tired and my brain exhausted. Whirring, frazzled, overworked and spinning around again and again on when’s, how’s and what if, what if, what if. A revolving door of stewing and worrying.  The gut wrenching lurch when I woke in the morning, the final fears late at night before the oblivion of sleep.

So whilst my body was on the bike, my thoughts were 633 miles away. And because of this, great tracts of the ride have gone missing.

I know I was cycling for three days, starting in Stornoway, ending in Barra and doing around 60 miles a day. I know I was cycling with my old friend, on a rented bike that looked heavy but that was well-engineered. My luggage was in paniers, damp crumpled map in my pocket and I recollect that it was one of the most breath taking rides I’ve ever done.

Aside from this however, all I have are snapshots, fleeting memories from a mind gone AWOL. Pick over the remains though and this is what you find.

Pedaling a long, flat, lonely road on Lewis. Rain in my face, paniers heavy, leaning into the wind, waterproof sticking. 

A cream and tan flecked barn owl dipping and swooping over purple heather scrub. The wind ruffling its wingtips. Why is it out so early at 4pm?

A brown, scratchy pebble-dash wall of a rectangular block hotel in Stornoway.

The intermittent rumble bumble of bikes over cattle grids.

A glossy red letterbox on an empty road. Who posted letters here?

Plastic flip-down chairs on the top deck of a small island ferry. Fleece coats on, sea spray on our skin.  

A warm bed in a room with shiny striped wallpaper, peach bedspreads and a frill around the base.

Feather soft sand on a ghost white beach. Take off sweaty cycle socks and walk into the water. Arctic currents freeze our toes. We shriek with delight.  

The billowing blue & white striped windsock at the airport at Barra. A runway on a beach? Landing times dependents on tides? I love it.  

Two pilots, coffee in hand, sharing photos of a son’s football team as the small plane bounced on autopilot through the clouds back to Glasgow. The way home.

Suzie giving me tea with three sugars. ‘Get that down you’ she said, ‘and you’ll feel better’.

Sometimes you don’t need the full story. Slivers are enough. At the time cycling was what I needed. And a loyal friend to carry me through.

And now? My son is well. Better than well, a thriving 6ft teenager. Together with his brother we might return. Or perhaps I’ll go with my friend again. We’ll cycle the islands from tip to toe, fill in the gaps, and make different memories.

Some will remain. But others? They will be blown away by the Atlantic wind.