ON THE ROAD
A ride against the elements across the stunning and historic Orkney
Abandoning his search for comedy place names, contributor Trevor Ward discovers islanders who take their cycling seriously, plentiful history, epic scenery, the UK’s most northerly cathedral and some tough weather conditions on his Big Ride on Orkney.
Orkney is made up of 70 islands. Scattered among them are monuments, tombs and stone circles dating back to the same period as the ancient pharaohs of Egypt. Submerged off their shores is a diver’s paradise of shipwrecks from two world wars. The main island – “mainland” - boasts a cathedral and a couple of famous whisky distilleries, not to mention at least two craft beer producers.
With so much history and culture to be proud of, Orcadian Olga Hamilton is understandably a little bit taken aback when, within minutes of meeting, I ask her: “Will we be going through the village called Twatt?”
Our original guide was going to be Pete Bentley, secretary of the island’s recently resurrected cycling club – which would be the most northerly in the UK but for Shetland Wheelers – but he’s just found out he’s on night shift.
“I’m due to pilot a cruise liner into Kirkwall harbour in the early hours of tomorrow morning,” he says, which seems as good an excuse as any.
He has prepared a route for us, and unfolds a hand-drawn map that is full of notations such as “Bridge between lochs”, “Orkney’s only switchback” and “Good views from top”. Nowhere, however, does it indicate a settlement called Twatt.
He and Olga look at each other with dismay. They’ve put a lot of work into planning a route that showcases the mainland’s many natural and historic charms, but hadn’t felt the need to include Twatt on the itinerary. Finally, Olga breaks what is growing into an awkward silence.
“I don’t think there are any signs for it any more,” she says. “People
keep stealing them, but excuse me a minute.”
With that, she leaves the noisy bar to make a phone call outside. Pete stares dejectedly into his pint, contemplating his best-laid plans crumbling to dust because of a journalist’s puerile imagination.
“There’s always the Brodgar Stone Circle,” he offers, feebly. Then he says something that suddenly focuses my attention more than any rude village name ever could: “By the way, have you seen the weather forecast for tomorrow? Makes me glad that I can’t join you.”
Olga returns with a look of relief on her face: “Apparently there’s a sign outside the church. We can easily include that on the route.”
Suddenly I’m not interested in Twatt anymore. Pete has just told me that tomorrow is going to be exceptionally windy, even by Orkney’s exposed-in-the-middleof-the-North-Sea standards. As a professional seafarer, Pete’s meteorological information is usually very reliable. Tomorrow, he repeats for Olga’s benefit, there will be southerly gusts of 40mph.
Forces of nature
The next day dawns with clear blue skies. I’m contemplating dispensing with my arm and leg warmers until we hear that several of Orkney’s inter-island ferries have been cancelled because of the winds. Stromness harbour looks benign and picturesque. Only when we clip in, round the bay and start heading south do we feel the full fury of the elements.
It’s also at this point that I realise why the Velominati’s Rule #5 [harden up] is a default setting for the cyclists of Orkney. The road extends as far as the eye can see across exposed, undulating moorland. There is no hint of shelter in the form of mountains, valleys or even trees. We will be bearing the brunt of this strengthening southwesterly without any mercy from the landscape.
Conversation between Olga and me is futile. Our words are blown away before the last syllables have been formed, so we abandon riding two abreast and knuckle down to taking turns at the front. Conscious of my bulk compared with Olga’s slender form, I’m aware it will be potentially more cost effective for me to do most of the pulling. But this assumes that my stamina is at least equal to my companion’s. It’s not.
Though Olga only seriously started cycling four years ago at the age of 35, she has since represented Orkney in the road race at the Island Games – a
The road extends as far as the eye can see across exposed, undulating moorland
bi-annual mini-Olympics for island nations – where she finished in the leading pack; was the leading female in last year’s three-day Tour of the Faroe Islands; and recently completed her first 50-mile time trial. So I don’t feel too guilty as she regularly glides past me allowing me to tuck in behind her wheel.
Not only are we riding into a headwind, the road is also rising. The seven per cent average gradient of the climb to Scorradale dispels any ideas I may have had about Orkney being flat. The word “rolling” doesn’t do justice to some of the short, sharp rises we will face.
As the headwind strengthens and the sky grows overcast, the temperature drops. A sign for the Scapa whisky distillery is too inviting to ignore. We blag a couple of free drams before a coach party of cruise ship passengers is due to arrive.
From the back of the distillery, we look out to Scapa Flow, the huge expanse of water in which are entombed the wrecks of British and German ships from two world wars. Seven of these are from the German High Seas Fleet that, on 21 June 1919, was scuttled to prevent the Brits from seizing it.
I ask Olga if she knows the tenuous cycling connection to the shipwrecks. She appears distinctly underwhelmed when I tell her that Olympic track champion-turnedscuba enthusiast Chris Boardman has dived the 40m down to them.
Capital culture
We have the wind with us for the few miles into Orkney’s capital, Kirkwall. After the featureless landscape we’ve been riding through, its traffic and modern buildings come as a jolt to the senses. We grab some coffee and cake in a café next to the cathedral, a soaring edifice of red and yellow sandstone, parts of which date back more than 800 years. The current minister, Olga tells me, is a member of the island’s cycling club.
Fortified by sugar and caffeine, we weave out of town towards the biggest obstacle of the day – the mainland’s highest point, Wideford Hill. “It’s our Ventoux,” Olga warns me. “It’s steep, there’s a radio mast on the top and great views all round.”
When we turn off and start the climb, it’s less the steepness – it averages 11 per cent – and more the narrowness of the road that threatens our progress. A Land Rover is coming down towards us and there’s a fair degree of intense eye contact and delicate manoeuvring to ensure our safe passage. The views from the top live up to the billing, though even Kirkwall’s cathedral appears dwarfed by the cruise ship moored in the harbour.
It’s too windy to loiter for long, and we are soon descending back down the way we came. It’s a nervy descent as sidewinds threaten to swipe us off our bikes.
Back on the main road, we have the benefit of a tailwind for a few miles, though the route is constantly twisting and turning so we can never take it for granted for too long.
We arrive in Olga’s home village of Finstown where she points out her grandmother’s stone cottage – “built directly next to the byre where the animals lived” – and the house her parents live in. Pointing to the steep grassy slope to our left, she says: “My dad’s 71 and still walks up that hill to get peat for the fire. He’s never paid for heating in his life, except in sweat and toil.”
Her dad, Owen Tierney, sounds quite the local legend. He plays guitar and mandolin and records local folk artists – including Olga’s son’s band, Skeldro – in the studio in his attic.
“Last year he took a notion to walk the coastline of the mainland,” she says. “So he did it in stages, in just his rubber boots.”
Apart from a few years studying in Dundee, Olga’s lived on Orkney all her life. Doesn’t it feel claustrophobic?
“Winters can be bleak, when it’s only daylight from 10am to 3pm. You spend a lot of time on the turbo in the garage,” she says. “The rest of the time you treat the wind as invisible hills and learn not to take too much notice of the speed on your Garmin.”
There’s a fair degree of intense eye contact and delicate manoeuvring to ensure our safe passage
Epic views
The compensations for these minor inconveniences are obvious as we
take a succession of narrow country lanes towards the coast. Yes, we could do with the occasional hedge or wall to shelter us from the wind, but the desolate, lush landscape with its views of neighbouring islands is never less than captivating, the lack of trees just adding to the epic emptiness of it all.
“See that island there?” says Olga. “That’s Eynhallow, known as the Mystic Island. There’s a cave on it where islanders used to hide from the press gangs.”
Conversation ceases as we turn back into the wind and start the long drag up Evie Hill. Once down the other side – the strength of the wind means we have to keep pedalling, even downhill – we stop for lunch on the banks of the Loch of Harray.
Over cod and chips, Olga tells me of the other big challenge for Orkney’s cyclists - finding opportunities to test themselves against other riders. They have to travel to mainland Scotland for races or sportives.
“It makes me laugh when people on the mainland moan about having to pay £20 to enter an event,” she says. “I have to spend £100 on the ferry just to get there.”
Her coach is based in Forres, nearly 200 miles to the south in Moray. “He sends me turbo programmes for working on my road racing and recovery, but if I want to get recognised on the time trial circuit, I have to travel to an approved course, which means at least a two-day trip.”
Next on our route is Neolithic Avenue, a five-mile stretch of tombs, cairns, standing stones and other archaeological wonders that date back 5000 years. The road takes us along a thin thread of land between two lochs, exposing us to the wind. It’s a struggle to stay upright, but we persevere as far as the most impressive site, the Ring of Brodgar.
Here we turn off the road and are blown along a stretch of boardwalk towards a circle of 36 towering slabs of granite. Surrounded by hills and lochs, it’s a location crying out to have a mystical sculpture thrust upon it. And yet, as we seek shelter and warmth behind one of the foot-thick shards of stone, I can’t help wondering if there’s a more prosaic purpose for its construction. Prehistoric windbreaks, perhaps?
We hunker down and take the direct route back to Stromness. By the time we arrive, it feels like we have spent the day inside a washing machine on full spin. We’ve travelled 80 miles across a starkly beautiful landscape and through several millennia of history. We’ve seen the UK’s most northerly cathedral and one of its oldest stone circles. We’ve dined on fresh fish and local whisky. We’ll just have to save a village called Twatt for another time.
We’ve travelled 80 miles across a starkly beautiful landscape and through several millennia of history