What I am going to tell you has something to do with how sometimes it's necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a shorter distance correctly; or, maybe I only think it has something to do with that. But it's why I went to Port a' Baigh yesterday, and why I rode north, northerly, rather.. until I came here. All right...*
We escaped the Isles of Harris and Lewis aboard the fair ferry to Ullapool on the mainland. As I looked back, I thought I could make out figures on the shore, waving pitchforks, glad no doubt to be rid of the scourge that had been menacing their peaceful roads of a Sunday (us). At 5 in the evening, we docked at Ullapool, where a scrawny legged old randonneur hobbled over to us.
'Where are you headed?'
We showed him the map. Horror flashed in his eyes. He poked a lacticy finger at our path. 'There', he said, 'there are hills'. He shook a little, then shuffled off, muttering to himself. Undeterred by his warning, or by the waning daylight, we set off. How bad could it be?
We found hills. Hill after hill after hill. A veritable rollercoaster. But with the sun setting behind rocky mountains, we remained unconcerned. Eventually, however, the sun dropped below the horizon. We consulted the map. One campground six miles away, but out of the way, or another 12 miles and on our route. We rolled along, politely pondering this problem. To be lazy but have to make it up later, or push on through the gloaming? The sheep solved this problem.
Most Scottish roads are populated by sheep. Black-faced, white-faced, speckled. Spray painted by farmers, shorn or pristine white. Most of them are smart and stay off the roads. Or at least they wander off as we approach. This sheep, however, leaped. Athletic. Impressive. Straight into a bog.
Shit.
We pulled over, watching it struggle and try to climb out.
'It can do it. C'mon sheepie.'
He tried. Occasionally gaining traction, then slipping back into the stinking mud.
'Do I have to?', Matt asked, even as he pulled off his shoes and rolled up his knicks. Before I could answer, he had plunged waist deep into the mud. After much struggling, he rugby tackled the sheep to the edge, wrapping his arms around its stomach. Eventually he could put his hands under its feet and give it a boost out.
The sheep paused. Looked about. Then scampered wearily up the road, leaving behind a muddy, stinking Matt.
I'm glad that one worked out. Partly because I'm not sure what the archeologists would have made of it in 2000 years time. And partly because I would prefer to now be lauding Matt for his heroics than washing that bog mud out of my own knicks...
* Apologies to Edward Albee... no, really. Apologies.
