Bikepacking the Magnificent Mull and Iona islands


Bikepacking: Mull and Iona Islands

This is a story of bikepacking the islands of Mull and Iona, a bite-size weekend adventure but with a lot of history and exploring thrown in. The great thing about bikepacking a small island is that you can cycle all around it and feel like you’ve achieved a lot over just two or three days.

The Isle of Mull is often overlooked and certainly underrated among the Scottish islands. It’s not as accessible as the Isle of Arran and less renowned than the perennial Instagram favourite – the Isle of Skye. Mull has recently been on my mind to bikepack, mostly because a friend who grew up here raves about the towering basalt columns in the cliffs, the thundering waterfalls, and the palm trees that survive with the Gulf Stream’s warming breeze. I had begun to think this island was a mythical place.

Here we are waiting for the ferry outside in the rain with loaded bikes, dressed in full waterproofs all set to face off a biblically wet weather forecast. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt since I moved to Scotland, it’s that a bad forecast is normally not that bad – it blows through and the sun briefly comes out soon enough – but today isn’t looking hopeful as we walk down the ramp into the belly of the boat. From the ‘sun’ deck we see porpoises playing in the water as we pass Duart Castle and approach the dock on Mull. The trademark grey-sky backdrop is certainly adding drama to the hills.

Bikepacking the Isle of Mull

Later that afternoon after 60km on the bikes we’re sitting in a pub in Tobermory in the far north of the island, where it looks like the weather-beaten locals have a good few stories to tell. Our bikes rest outside the drizzle-stained windows, and my Lycra-clad legs are visibly steaming as the log fire roars. The row of whiskies behind the bar is certainly not the tourist selection. Fishermen, sailors and a Yorkshireman make up the number leaning over the bar. I keep my head down because white bike shoes, an English accent and Lycra aren’t the norm here – a warm cup of tea was too tempting and completes the Southerner bikepacking image nicely.

When my legs stop steaming, we venture back outside to cover the ground to our bothy for the night. We ride past the famous quayside lined with bright coloured houses, as featured in the kids’ TV show Balamory, then on to the whisky distillery only to be disappointed by a closed sign. Mull in late winter is a quiet place and the cafes shut early here so we keep riding.

Highland cows are docile things. This is fortunate because the closer you get to them the more you realise they have the potential to skewer you very easily. I’m pondering this thought in a crowd of 10 Highland cows, all stationary but staring at us and making me nervous. A calf appears and runs away. I’m now between a cow and calf – this is not looking good. Any second now it’ll charge us. But no – they’re unmoving, eyes covered by a messy gingery fringe like they’re chilling in a cafe in Amsterdam. Nothing fazes them.

Image from Unsplash

Past the cows and deeper into this wild valley we see two large birds, one bombing the other. These are clearly eagles but the markings are hard to define; they lack the regal feathers of the golden eagle but neither do they have the white tail of the magnificent sea eagle. They must be juveniles.

A full-on fight has started with the two barrelling and clawing at each other in mid-air. A third appears over the horizon; like a scene straight from a dodgy nightclub, they’re quarrelling over a female. I’m too slow with the camera but we feel privileged to have seen them in this beautiful wild valley. This morning’s riding has been fantastically serene, along a combination of gravel tracks and narrow lanes.

With the second large herd of Highland cows negotiated we see our bothy on the hill. It’s a simple stone building, but filled with history. The path splits beside a stone monument, which is crowned by a large aeroplane propeller: a strange sight without context. Its story is tragic, remembering the heroism of those who saved the survivors of the crash.

Bikepacking in Iona:

Wild camping is restricted on Iona and in summer the island is said to drop a few inches under the weight of tourists, but being winter the official campsite is still firmly closed, limiting our options. We set up camp on a grassy outcrop along the far south-west corner, away from the crofts and civilisation – we won’t leave a trace here.

I choose this spot because I know the sunset will be fantastic. We cook dinner and watch the sun go down. Then the stars begin to appear. A giant blowhole between the cliffs blasts jets of water sky-high like a whale releasing tension after a stressful day’s plankton-chasing.

It can be hard to unzip the tent and venture into the cold darkness even if you know the stars will be special, but a passion for night photography drags me out to embrace the cold wherever we travel. On a clear night far from civilisation it’s never a decision regretted. Looking across the sea under the silvery full moon, the brightest stars are still clear tonight. My long exposures produce images with a surreal starry daylight. I can sit for hours but sleep is calling.

In the morning the clear night sky is a long-lost dream. The wind is blowing and the sea spitting out at us. We push loaded bikes across the sand in search of our small chartered ferry, only to find it pretty full; the change in weather has forced others to head for home.

Long weekends are perfect for adventures, especially bikepacking: not so long that you get sick of wet feet, sleep deprivation and being unwashed, but long enough to get somewhere wild and learn about a place that feels a long way from home.

For more bikepacking adventures, follow the link.

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