In which Sid and Doris go beachcombing.
We start the morning with a tour of Tarbert village. There is a little fishing harbour with a few little sailing boats and a portacabin determinedly labelled “Marina Office”. We give the Harris distillery a miss but are lured into the tweed shop in our desire to leave money behind. Clearly last year was a better year when the cruise passengers were marshalled through on a strict timetable to wonder and buy. There is a near new £100,000 Audi RS6 estate in the staff parking area and a Ford ST. This year is tougher. We buy a Christmas tree ornament as we try to do on each journey. It is a glass cloud with bead rain drops, though Doris says I have to say that today it did not rain on us.
Bothy is looking thoughtfully at the recently-opened but currently-closed LoomShed Hebridean Deli but we hurry him away before he can think up a suitable award.The tour ends with a most elegant war memorial. The Royal Navy and Merchant Marine had a natural recruiting ground, and it was fairly easy to make sure that all the names were spelled correctly too.
Yesterday one of the ladies who had come in to Tarbert for the breast screening unit suggested a walk which pretty much started from her house where the single track B887 falls into the sea at the near-deserted Huishnish beach. This is a lovely road, but single track. There are so many blind crests and opportunities to collect bonnet mascots such as sheep, cattle and motorhomes that no warning signs are considered necessary.
The walk takes you over squadgy moorland paths skirting a steep inlet and down to a further idyllic beach, Meilan beach. Across the water is Scarp Island, only reached by sea to a small pier. Sid and Doris look at the loveliness and start to walk back, pausing only to chat with (interview) a walker coming down the hill. His mother and about 200 others lived on the island ’til the 1970s. The houses we came past in the car are all ‘new’ to accommodate the Scarp islanders on Harris. That house with the red porch was my mother’s. There is a man from Bristol who lives there almost all year round. Yes, there he is just coming out from behind that cottage.
Back at the road, and no longer deserted beach, we make a picnic of previous left overs: two bags crisps, a fudge bar and a Gu cheesecake that has lived in the car for a few days, eaten without the benefit of cutlery.
Home to the Harris hotel with Doris filming progress, via the garage.
While filling up Sid discovers garageman has a 1974 Ford Cortina Mk3. This is from the Coke bottle era of car styling. It has 117,000 miles but just 17,000 on the rebored now 1,700cc crossflow which Sid agrees is sweeter and lighter than the Pinto engine. It is on a nice progressive Weber 28/36 carb. It has a Sierra five speed box. Now we know him so well we ask to borrow a tap and bucket to clean Teal who looks as if he’s been driven through rain and muck for ten days. We are ready for more yomping.
The hotel continues its no-alcohol-in-the-dining-room policy. “This is very Presbyterian” says a cut-glass Edinburgh accent from a nearby table.