Brian Palmer

Brian Palmer has lived on the Hebridean island of Islay for over 30 years, from which he rarely finds any reason to leave. A designer and writer to trade, he also publishes the world’s oldest cycling blog, thewashingmachinepost. His regular bike is a Campagnolo-equipped Ritchey Logic road bike, and he’s highly suspicious of gravel bikes.

Bowmore on the Isle of Islay, an island of some 3,000 residents and nine malt whisky distilleries, situated on roughly the same latitude as Glasgow, but considerably further west. To aid the mental picture of just where we are, it’s around 24 miles north of Northern Ireland.

When lockdown was imposed at the end of March last year, the Calmac ferry service was curtailed to a ‘lifeline service’; one return sailing per day, Monday to Saturday and no sailings on Sundays. This was partly due to the government restrictions on non-essential travel, effectively preventing the spread of the Coronavirus to an island with a fragile care infrastructure.

It seems a tad obvious to state that pretty much all supplies to the island arrive by ferry, including such suddenly superficial items as the daily newspapers. And with no Sunday sailings came a concomitant lack of Sunday papers, the latter having a decisive bearing on the bike ride that I’m taking an inordinate length of time to get to.

Lockdown restrictions offered the opportunity for ‘local’ exercise, which we of the Velo club interpreted to mean,

‘not off the island’. However, the advice on exercise also advised that this should not be undertaken in groups, which, initially, meant no more than one at a time. Thus, appeared the odd situation of sometimes several cyclists, all perambulating the same route, but some fifteen minutes apart. However, there was also a time factor to be observed, one that existed as a direct result of the lack of Sunday papers.

You see, the Sunday Ride has always included a stop at ‘Debbie’s Café in Bruichladdich, a mere stone’sthrow from the nearby distillery. But Debbie’s Café exists within the village mini-market, a retail outlet that also functions as a newsagent, and due to the absence of the Sunday newspapers, one that no longer had any need to open prior to mid-day on Sundays. Therefore, to avoid unnecessary pain and suffering, by having to stand in the wind and the rain if arriving early, we designed a parcourse that would deliver us to Bruichladdich as close to the clock striking twelve as was possible.

Hence the realisation of a route that has remained more or less unchanged since March 2020, even with Sunday newspaper delivery having resumed quite some months ago.

Because it’s where I live, the ride commences from Bowmore with a swift freewheel down Main Street, past Bowmore Distillery, turning right onto Shore Street, heading in the direction of Bridgend, a matter of three miles distant. Though islanders often harbour a keen sophistication, when it comes to naming roads, simplicity works best. Thus, the island has a Low Road and a High Road, both ultimately reaching the same points, but by slightly differing means. The two effectively amalgamate at Springbank, roughly a mile from Bridgend village and at which point we again turn right, this time onto the aforementioned High Road.

These ten miles stretch of single-track road leads to

Port Ellen in the south of the island, but we only ride a mere four of those miles to reach the left hand turn that brings us onto the Glen Road (more

simplicity). This is also a single-track road, used predominantly by farm traffic, and passing by the island’s rarely used abattoir, nestled amongst a forest of fir trees. At one point, the road featured trees on both sides of the road, replete with a surface that bore an uncanny resemblance to that of Parisroubaix; we often humorously referred to it as the ‘Abattoirenberg Forest’.

Past the cattle grid, the road becomes seriously unkempt, the result of localised flooding during inclement weather and the alarmingly large tractors employed by Dunlossit Estate. The road is smoother on a ‘cross or mountain bike, but we regularly ride the route on road bikes with no apparent illeffects other than numb fingers. A junction is reached after three miles; turn right and you’re heading to Ballygrant village via Storakaig, but with the pull of a coffee being stronger, we turn left and head back in the direction of Bridgend. This too, is a stretch of three miles, as are a great many passages on the island.

At the point of our turn, and well hidden in plain sight, is the large presence of ‘Dun Nosebridge’, an unexcavated Iron-age fort, still featuring substantial ramparts and the vague remains of adjacent homesteads. This is, however, a bike ride and not an archaeological dig, so we keep heading in the direction of Bridgend village.

The latter sits pretty much at the centre of the island where roads to the north, to the southwest and from the south east all merges. The bridge to which its name refers is not that across the River Sorn, which has to be traversed before turning left, but the now demolished ‘dry-bridge’, originally built to allow the ladies of nearby Islay House, to take walks in Bridgend Woods, without coming into contact with the proletariat. Islay House once belonged to the Margadales, owners of Islay Estates, but straightened times last century meant its sale. It is now a hotel.

Our route south-west, once more on two lane roads, takes us past the island’s agricultural auction mart, and heading in the direction of Uiskentuie strand, a stretch of exposed grassed sand dunes and beach at the top of Loch Indaal. However, on descending the short hill at Blackrock, and before reaching Uiskentuie Farm (currently empty), we turn right, again onto singletrack roads, towards Gruinart Flats, home to an RSPB reserve, consisting of flat open fields designed to encourage the roosting of some 60,000 overwintering geese from Greenland, who live here from October until early May.

Reputedly, the short stretch of land (yes, three miles once again) in between Lochs Gruinart and Indaal was once under water, separating

Islay into two distinct islands. At the end of the flats, the road rises sharply past Aoradh Farm (pronounced oo-rig) heading up and over towards Loch Gorm, round which our continuing, yet circuitous route heads inexorably to Debbie’s Café. The view from the top of the hill overlooking the loch also affords views to the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s all there is between Islay and the eastern seaboard of Canada. In winter months, the weather here can verge on dangerous. I have been blown off my bike into a ditch while riding round the loch, and I’m not the only one.

This is the rugged side of Islay, with little by way of shelter from the elements, and the site of several prehistoric and more recent settlements, including the remains of an Iron-age fort on the far side of a Sydney Opera House shaped rock known as Dun Bheolain. The road passes Ballinaby Farm with a standing stone all of its own, and leading onto Saligo Bay, Coull Point and Machir

Bay. The remains of Kilchoman Church overlook as we turn left heading back towards the main Bruichladdich Road, some six miles distant, passing the farm distillery of Kilchoman along the way. If the weather is clear enough, look up to the left and it’s sometimes possible to see the three Paps of Jura on the neighbouring isle to the north.

The road continues to twist and turn along the way, one frequently busy with visitor traffic to the distillery during the summer season. COVID-19 restrictions have mitigated their numbers in recent months, but not so much to stop the weekly guessing game of how many cars we’re likely to meet before reaching the main road. The latter part of this section takes us into Foreland Estate and a short but steep descent referred to locally as ‘Foreland Hill’, offering a welcome and fast freewheel downwards towards the ever-increasing aroma of coffee.

From the right turn to Bruichladdich, once again on two lanes, all of which feature large white direction arrows on the road surface, an effort to prevent foreign visitors driving on the wrong side of the road, it’s but a mile or so to the Mini-market, arriving on the cusp of noon on a Sunday.

Believe me, the coffee is more than worth it.