Feature Shetland adventure

Words & photos joe sheffer An adventure unfolds Adventure cycling doesn’t require exotic destinations or months of free time. Journalist Joe Sheffer spent three days travelling to Muckle Flugga by Brompton and packraft

or many people in Britain, the on the storm-lashed rock of Muckle Flugga. the lighthouse at Sumburgh on a sunny Shetland Islands exist only in a Al was sent scuttling for his largest atlas, day in June, with two folding bicycles small box on the periphery of and then for his telephone. ‘Muckle Flugga!’ precariously overloaded with lifejackets F their weather forecasts. They he shouted at me. The trip was on. and dry-bags. Puffins watched without are the most northerly specks of land in Our plan would be simple: to travel from interest as we tried to lash two sets of our country. They had never figured in the most southerly point in the Shetland bulky paddles to our already laden packs. my imagination or plans. I have always Islands, right the way to the top, by folding Triumphant, we began pedalling north. spent long summers pedalling across the bike and folding packraft, in time to pay Our three-day British micro-adventure was Himalaya or through Alpine valleys and homage to Mr Tulloch’s former lighthouse on its way. spent my winters dreaming of reaching on the eve of the Summer solstice. places like the Karakorum. It was an old There were to be no buses and no Small-scale touring friend who drew my attention to the ferries. No outside interference at all in our There is something unique about touring Shetlands. journey from Sumburgh Head to Muckle on a Brompton bicycle, which makes you Like so many British adventures, our Flugga. Our journey would take us further feel as if you are always pushing into a plan was born at Lord’s cricket ground. My north than St Petersburg or Helsinki, headwind. It is a sensation, which although friend Alastair had listened to a lighthouse towards a tiny island off the north coast frustrating at first, lent itself to a trip of keeper, Lawrence Tulloch, from the of Uist, the most northerly of the main our scale because, not only were we riding Shetland Isles, who was on his first ever Shetland Islands. We would be over 100 tiny bikes, laden with our tiny boats, but visit to London. In a soft, lilting dialect miles north of John o’ Groats (the northern our adventure was only covering a tiny – almost more Norwegian than Scottish benchmark for British cycle tourists). It distance. – he described how he’d often listened to would a true adventure without leaving our A strong cyclist who was lucky with cricket matches as mighty waves crashed own country. the wind and ferries could cycle from upon Britain’s most northerly lighthouse, And that is how we found ourselves at Sumburgh Head to Muckle Flugga in

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Right, from top The Bromptons were just small enough to lash to the front of the rafts. The rafts, however, weren’t easy to carry – especially without front carrier racks for both bikes. Al shifts to the 24in (two foot!) gear. Wild camping is legal in Scotland, and it doesn’t get much more remote than this. Shetland’s weather is best described as ‘variable’

a single day. The distance is about miles of progress. We ate a hasty meal, a hundred miles, which made our pitched our tent and fell asleep in full ‘expedition’ look mundane. But the daylight, nestled on a steaming peat bog small distance, combined with our small beside a bubbling red peat stream. transport, suited us. We couldn’t hurry past. We were forced to slow down. Bikes folded, boats inflated When Ernest Hemingway famously One of the sounds I have learned said that ‘by riding a bicycle you learn to dread over years of Scottish the contours of a country best’, he misadventure is the pitter-patter of was wrong. Pushing your Brompton rain on your tent in the morning. It’s up a country’s contours teaches the like Mother Nature’s slow handclap, discerning cyclist about the true challenging you to get out of your lay of the land. Our slow transport warm, lofty bag into the wet and cold. complemented the island’s slow The Scots have a word for their pace of life and allowed us to absorb default weather: dreich. It is defined by the beautiful smells of the sea as we urbandictionary.com as ‘a combination weaved our way across the lanes of the of dull, overcast, drizzly, cold, misty and ‘Mainland’. miserable weather. At least four of the We passed slowly by as fat seals above adjectives must apply before the basked on beaches. At our approach, weather is truly dreich.’ The following they flopped and flapped to the morning was truly dreich. We rode sanctuary of the pale blue bay, where onwards considerably less in love with they raised their eyes above the the Shetland Isles than we had been the water and watched us carefully day before. until we remounted our overladen, The weather was not just an excuse underpowered 3-speed bikes and to be miserable. It was also a cause wobbled away. for concern and seemed to reflect our Throughout our ride, the sea came deteriorating moods. For today we and went at surprising times and in needed to take to the sea, paddling surprising places: we were never more across the strong tides of Yell Sound than three miles from the waves. Long- to the next island. We arrived on a fingered fjords (‘voes’) probed around small rocky beach at around midday our every corner, appearing first to our and stood mindlessly by the waves in left and then to our right. By evening, silence. We folded our bikes. I felt very the skies were heavy and the voes a anxious. The current was flowing fast, dull gunmetal grey. The half-light felt the wind was brisk, and we could not calming, charming, soothing, as did the see the far shore. tiny hamlets we passed through. In a previous life, I spent a small By around 9pm we were tired but amount of time motoring around the contented. We had made a colossal 35 high seas with the Navy and so

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Above and right The most exclusive – and most northerly – place in the UK to pitch a tent. The packrafts worked fine, but would struggle in strong currents, hence Al’s concern

ferry lay the port we were The next morning we woke up in another “paddling around rocky trying to reach. That world. Few places on earth can match coves, we saw seals, sea glimpse of land through the beauty of wild Scotland on the rare the mist was important. occasions when the sun is shining and otters, and seabirds” There ahead of us, there are no midges. We wiped the previous through the gloom, the day’s sea salt from our faces and pedalled, had consulted my old captain about the dark and broad seas, was the island of Yell. in summer holiday mood, along the practicality of crossing Shetland’s fearsome We took to our rafts once again. meandering narrow roads of Yell towards sounds in what amounted to glorified our next paddle. children’s paddling boats. The captain’s Britain’s most northerly pub This was the one that had worried us advice had been not to bother, but he The paddle turned out to be quite easy, as most. Bluemull Sound is only a narrow muttered something about crossing when we cut through the cold water with our stretch of sea but currents can race the tide turned. So Al and I stood nervously bikes still precariously strapped to the through at up to 14 knots: way beyond the on the beach, waiting for the seconds to tick decks. We reached the shore in a heavy, capabilities of us in our packrafts. And by and for the currents to slow. It was a long warm evening shower, heaving our gear so I felt as I was doing something terribly half hour. onto the pebbles of the second island. We naughty as I pushed my bike through the Al (the more experienced packraftist) was were cold and wet but elated at our progress: queuing cars and past a couple of cyclists the first to cast off. He sat looking nervous, we were on Yell. waiting for the ferry, to a small beach a five metres from the shore, bobbing around We shivered our way north, turning the stone’s throw from the terminal. Excitedly, in the grey swell. I positioned my Brompton pedals above rough tarmac that bore the and in full view of the departing ferry, we on top of my dinghy, double checked my scars of a dozen hard winters. Eventually, once again inflated our sea craft and stowed lashings, and joined him, floating with my in near darkness, we reached Britain’s most our bikes. bicycle on the sea. northerly pub. We paddled easily across the gentle water Despite my reservations, we made good Nervously, we tiptoed through the door in jubilant mood. Paddling round rocky progress – until suddenly, as if a switch had and apologetically ordered platefuls of hot coves we saw seals and sea otters as well as been turned, the tide began to race once scampi and chips from the worried-looking thousands of birds. We celebrated reaching more. We could make no further leeway bar lady. We sat there in our underpants, Unst, Britain’s most northerly inhabited and were forced to drag our craft onto the enjoying what felt like the last supper. island, with a swim in the clear, cold bay. sanctuary of a small, uninhabited island. As the bar filled with locals for the Nothing could stop us now! We pitched the tent and sat shivering in our evening, the men of Yell tried to understand Unst is an island with an atmosphere of sodden clothes beside a dilapidated croft, why two grown men would attempt to cross calm, gentle living. Yellow meadow flowers waiting for the tide to slow once more and between the islands on inflatable boats. The waved in the gentle breeze, grazed by – hopefully – the fog to clear sufficiently for bar lady clucked and fussed over us, the eponymous Shetland ponies. Hills rolled us to see the island we were heading for. patrons called us fools, wished us good luck, ahead of us. On all sides was water. Tiny For nearly six hours, we sat in low spirits, and eventually we went to bed in a freezing islands studded the glimmering sea. Small until the puffing smoke of the ferry broke fog, not far from the pub, in our small tent. homes dotted the flanks of green fells. from the fog on the horizon. Beyond the We both felt a palpable sense of dread. We started pedalling past the last bastions

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of British life. The last little shop, the last stood outside my tent in the soft solstice bus shelter, the last red postbox, the last midnight light, looking out to sea. I was at house, home to what must be Britain’s the very top of Britain. I realized how little most northerly citizen. I knew of my own country. Before our trip, I was suffering a little Sunset at Muckle Flugga from ‘adventure fatigue’. My spirit of Eventually, the tarmac ran out. For the final adventure has been eroded by the drudgery mile we pushed our small, heavily laden of everyday life and by a constant stream bikes across rugged moorland. Finally, we of celebrities on my television, climbing arrived at a little finger of land poking out Everest, pogo sticking across the Sahara northwards towards the lighthouse. and agonizingly trudging up Kilimanjaro. SHETLAND BY We pitched our tent on a patch of grass Our folding bikes and packrafts were a BIKE & BOAT that was as flat and green as a snooker little gimmicky. Why usa a packraft when Distance: <100 miles table. A pace away from the door was the there’s a ferry? Why ride a Brompton when Time taken: 3 days cliff edge. The only sounds were birds and you have a touring bike? But virtually all Daily mileage: 30-40 miles waves. It was the most exclusive campsite expeditions have a measure of artificiality Route: From Sumburgh in the world. to them; deliberately making things more Head we pedalled via Bigton and then the A970 across Silhouetted puffins bustled overhead or difficult than they need be in return for the the affectionately named veered crazily in to land, wings flapping thrill of success against the odds. ‘Mainland’. We made our desperately, orange feet splayed as they There are still pockets of wildness open first crossing near the ferry reached for grip on the cliff. Gannets and to everyone, even in Britain. You don’t need from Ulsta to Toft on the skuas swirled in the wind. Ahead of us, to go to the North Pole or maroon yourself island of Yell. On Yell we simply followed the A968, a small islet was completely white with on a desert island. All you need is a little crossing again in the shadow guano and seabirds. The cacophony of the time and a big imagination. Try it of the ferry onto Unst, colony mingled with the turquoise waves tomorrow. Throw some essentials in a following the road all the smashing below us, and against the rocky pannier, or put a toothbrush in your way to the entrance of the RSPB reserve at Hermaness. isle of Muckle Flugga just offshore. hydration pack, and just ride somewhere Conditions: The Shetlands The lighthouse began to twinkle different. Pedal away from your house and famously enjoy all four from the rocks. The long day waned. I carve your own micro-adventure. seasons most days. This is Britain at its finest. Frequently the wind and horizontal rain can make cycling an interesting challenge; luckily even in high summer the islands are not plagued by midges. Some of Shetland’s main roads can be busy with fast traffic, especially at weekends. Accommodation: Wild camping can be difficult in Shetland due to the boggy

ground. There are bed-and- breakfasts in abundance. Maps: OS Landranger 1:50,000 numbers 1, 2, 3, & 4. Bikes: We both used borrowed Brompton 3–speed bicycles, as they fitted neatly onto the front of our boats. Rafts: Alpacka rafts start at around £513. I’m glad I had… breakfast at the Wind Dog Café on Yell. Thoroughly delicious. Further info: joesheffer.com, alastairhumphreys.com Video: http://vimeo. com/27302646

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