Islander

The Highlands and Islands of Scotland is a nice place but its geography makes it a bit of an undertaking to go and see it, even though it starts just a couple of hours up the road. Car and ferry is the usual way of getting around up there but there are alternatives. I managed to see quite a lot of the Argyle and Bute region in a day trip without setting foot on a ferry or, and just five minutes in a rather expensive taxi. My adventure on Thursday started at Glasgow Queen St Station (the train up to Glasgow from Barassie is no adventure at all) where I was rather excited to catch the Oban train. One of the great railway journeys of the world, some say the greatest though that’s a bold claim, the West Highland Line attracts people from all over the West Highlands. It also attracts tourists and blokes like me who like a great train ride every once in a while. What makes this a great one is the spectacular country through which it runs. Upon leaving the Glasgow suburbs it tracks along the banks of the Clyde to Helensburgh where the single track branches off and heads into a land of earth and water that makes you wonder how you can be just a few miles from the sprawl of Scotland’s largest city. Perched on the side of the hill, it passes Gaerloch, a sight so beguiling you can see it dawn on the faces of the first time passengers that something special is happening. Utilising the service as I did on the first day of November has its advantages. The colours of Autumn add an element to the views that you would miss in the summer. The hills were a mosaic of  golden yellow and bronzed red with the low lying mist only adding to their wonder. The further up the valley we went, the more the passengers snapped their smartphone cameras. The track then passed through a brief gap in the steep hills to reveal Loch Lomond on the right hand side giving those, like me, sat on that side of the train a chance to marvel at the natural beauty of the region. In reality it was tantalising glimpses through the increasingly leafless trees that line the track. Occasionally there would be a gap and for a few short seconds we could admire the glassy waters of the largest inland body of water in Britain reflecting the hills that surround it.

The train rattles along at a sedate speed, stopping only to allow passengers to embark or disembark at stations with strange sounding names or to allow trains making the reverse journey to pass. The driver, in possession of a new ‘token’ then pulls gently away onto the next section of track which is his and his alone. The TGV it isn’t but then why rush when you’ve got all that scenery to take in? Some two hours out of Glasgow we reached Crianlarich, a place you can reach by car in an hour and a half. This isn’t a race though. I arrived perfectly relaxed, something I would not have been had I been driving up the A82 which despite it following the western shore of Loch Lomond is not a great road. Just after Crianlarich the track splits in to two. On branch heads north to Fort William and Mallaig. The other heads west to Oban. The line up to Fort William is just stunning, climbing up to cross the bleak Rannoch Moor before more lochs, hills and general all round wowness all the way into Fort William. The section from Fort William to Mallaig is just as good and get this – you can do it by steam train, in the summer at least. That particular journey is a train enthusiast’s wet dream and one Elaine and I undertook a few years ago on one of those most unlikely of occasions in that part of the world, a hot, sunny day. Crossing the Glenfinnan Viaduct, famous from the Harry Potter films, the countryside is just breathtaking and, what’s more, Elaine won a bottle of whisky in a raffle. I am, however, digressing. The Oban branch might not have the wow factor of the Fort William and Malaig route but it isn’t half bad. Its first port of call is Tyndrum Lower. Tyndrum is the smallest settlement in the UK to be served by two stations with Upper Tyndrum on the Fort William line. The stations are a half a mile and a steep hill apart with the handful of houses that make up the village perched between them. Lochs feature highly as the track runs alongside Loch Awe and Loch Etive, passing the Falls of Cruachan where a summer only station lay silent, unlike the falls I assume. I alighted at the penultimate stop on this branch, Connel Ferry, named at a time when there was indeed a ferry that transported people across Loch Etive. There isn’t now as the old rail bridge that spanned the narrow opening to the loch has been converted to a single track road bridge carrying the A828.

It was a bridge I needed to cross and due to the tight timings involved I needed to cross it in a hurry. Awaiting me at the station was my pre-arranged taxi with the instruction to whisk me to Oban Airport. This 1.7 mile journey, across the afore mentioned Connel Bridge, took five minutes and cost me twelve quid. It made both the train journey – £17 return with my Scotrail Club 50 card – and what was to come seem an absolute bargain. Indeed, the journey up whilst spectacular only served as a precursor to the main event of the day. I was to take a trip with Britain’s smallest airline, Hebridean Air Service. Here’s the background bit – if you find these bits boring please skip to the next paragraph. A few years ago Oban Airport was a runway and a Portacabin. Then the local council spent not an insubstantial amount of money building a proper terminal building and getting it up to the standard required to operate scheduled services. Highland Airways rose to the challenge and commenced services to nearby islands. A few years later they went bust and Hebridean Air Services was set up to fill the void. This they have been doing since 2011 flying two triangular routes from the airport. On Mondays and Wednesdays they fly  to Tiree and Coll twice a day and on Tuesdays and Thursdays the route takes in Islay and Colonsay,  twice each day again. They also do a school run where high school age children from Coll and Colonsay are transported to Oban on a Sunday where they board for the week, flying back to their home islands on the Friday evening or Saturday morning, depending on the time of year. By my calculation that means they run a total of twenty four revenue flights a week, thirty during school term time. The aircraft they use is a Britten Norman Islander, a rugged twin piston engined machine that seats one pilot and up to seven passengers. Something of a British success story, the Islander first flew in 1965 and they are still making them. It was designed precisely for the type of operation that Hebridean Air Service undertakes, connecting small island communities with larger centres of population. The only problem is that the service makes no financial sense whatsoever. There are only seven seats for sale on each flight and, if the flights I was on were anything to go by, they are rarely completely filled. The only way they continue to operate is down to them being designated Public Service Obligation services. Argyle and Bute Council subsidise the services to Tiree, Coll and Colonsay with the Islay route being operated at the airline’s own risk. The advantage for an avgeek like me is that Hebridean Air Service are more than happy to sell the empty seats to those who just want to go along for the ride. And what a ride it is.

The receptionist at Oban Airport is also the lady who deals with reservations. I’d spoken to her a few times as my efforts to do the trip last week were thwarted by the weather and train problems. It’s highly unlikely you’d get the same sort of help from a big airline no matter what your frequent flyer status is. The threat of bad weather had receded and the flight was to operate as normal. Along with me there were two passengers, one to Islay, the other was going on to Colonsay. This was good news for me as it meant they would fly the full route. Had no one wanted to go to or from Islay that afternoon the aircraft wouldn’t have gone there and I’d have had to settle for a Colonsay and back. That would not have been a bad thing but the extra landing, take off and flight time made the £65 she charged me as a sightseer an absolute steal. My co-passengers were elderly and had possibly been in Oban for a visit to some clinic or other. I’m guessing a sizeable proportion of the passengers that use these services are visiting Oban for similar reasons. The pilot, Wolfgang, introduced himself to us in the terminal and gave us a quick brief on how to use the life jacket. He then led us to the aircraft which was parked right outside the door and allocated us our seats. Colonsay bloke in the back, Islay lady in the middle and me in the row behind the pilot which afforded me a view only surpassed by that enjoyed by Wolfgang himself. In the seat pocket we were informed that there was a set of foam earplugs and a barf bag – a 787 Dreamliner this isn’t – and Wolfgang fired up the engines. Well, one of them at least. The other took several attempts before it spluttered in to life. A quick taxi and noisy power check later and we were backtracking Runway 19 before turning and lining up. Twelve hundred meters of tarmac lay ahead; the Islander needed about two hundred of them before breaking the surly bonds of earth. Islay was half an hour away and between it and Oban Airport lay a wonderland of remote and not so remote islands, sea, rain showers, sunshine and the noise of a Lycoming piston engine just a couple of feet to my right. Soon we were flying to the west of Jura, a large island with a small population. Towards the southern end of the island, the three Paps of Jura rose from misty firmament like, well, paps. ‘Paps’ is an old Norse word for breasts and whichever Viking was responsible for naming them must have seen them and immediately thought of his wife back in Denmark, assuming his wife had three tits of course.

With the paps behind us we found ourselves over Islay and before long Wolfgang had plonked the Islander down on the airport’s runway that once saw Prince Charles bend one of the Queen’s Flight BAe146s. He should have flown an Islander, there was plenty of runway for one of those. Somewhat strangely we taxied past Islay’s terminal, which handles a couple of Glasgow flights a day, to a different part of the airfield where what can only be described as a five bar gate and an old Portacabin were situated. This was Hebridean Air Service’s own ‘terminal’, a situation I felt was totally bizarre. It must have been something to do with handling fees but quite why the proper terminal is ignored is beyond me. There isn’t even anywhere to go for a wee. With Islay lady gone, whisked away by a waiting car on the other side of the gate, Wolfgang fired up the Lycomings once again and having spent a total of six minutes on Islay from the time we touched down, we were back in the air for the short flight to Colonsay. Colonsay is an island of just a hundred and twenty folk. Quite what they do there I’ve no idea. It welcomes tourists in the summer but the rest of the year the residents have it to themselves. It looks nice, especially from the air, but living there would drive me nuts. The airport is a short strip of tarmac and a wooden hut which might not have looked much but was a distinct upgrade on Hebridean’s Islay shack. I said goodbye to Colonsay man and was expecting to be the only passenger on the flight back to Oban but no, a new man emerged form the terminal hut and took the place of the departing old bloke. Within no time Wolfgang had us airborne again for a flight over the Colonsay Whale and the Sound of Mull back to Oban. Colonsay Whale? Yes, this is a huge work of art on the island where visitors are invited to add some stones to fill in the outline of a whale. I saw it quite by chance.

Leaving Colonsay behind to its tiny population we flew over the Sound with the Isle of Mull to the left and the mainland to the right. We passed close to some heavy showers, two thousand feet above the unwelcoming waves. With the sun behind us and the rain ahead, this had the effect of us seemingly flying into the centre of a circular rainbow. It was quite a sight that unfortunately, despite many attempts, I couldn’t catch well on camera. Soon the town of Oban passed by on the right and we turned to line up with Oban Airport’s runway 01, landing some ninety minutes after we had left the same stretch of tarmac. It had been marvellous.

As the sun set over the Sound and the Islander taxied to its hangar for the night I turned my thoughts to the journey home. A bus ride in to Oban got me there with time to treat myself to a haggis supper before the train to Glasgow. I felt that in a place so Scottish the road signs are in Gaelic as well as English that it was the right thing to do. The train back departed on time at 18:11. Alas, having experienced the advantage of Autumn travel on the trip up, the disadvantage soon became evident on the way back. Deprived of light, the journey through all that wonderful scenery became nothing more that a slightly tiresome trip on a shabby rattler, its lack of speed and leisurely stops now more annoyance rather amusement. Three hours later I was hoofing it across a chilly Glasgow to Central Station for the 22:00 train back to Barassie and the ten minute walk home where the cats were waiting, demanding food which they didn’t eat. I’m going to do the trip again some day, this time take in the Tiree/Coll route. I might leave it to the summer so I can enjoy the train journey home that bit more. I’m sure the scenery will be almost as good without the autumnal shades. Almost perhaps, just not quite.