Day 12. Sunday
The lack of toilet facilities meant some “return to nature” type experiences for the majority of us. I just hope there was a high tide before anyone else walked on the beach.
Stay away from small piles of rocks, with footprints leading to and from them!
The clouds hadn’t lifted much in the night, so we still couldn’t see the top of the cliffs we had camped next to. Making our way back towards Bidudalur it did at least start to get brighter, so better opportunities for photos.
So, how was the beach Geoff?
Turning inland again, we headed Southwesterly on a tarmac road that climbed swiftly up to a peak of around 500m, before dropping back down to sea level again. This of course means bends, and the edges of the knobblies got a little more hammer than usual. Towards the top there was what looked like a track leading off to the right, but it soon petered out to nothing. Great views of where we had just come from though.
We turned to ride through Talknafjordur and back on to gravel, Northwesterly this time. After a few kilometres Tim turned up a nonedescript path which led to a small hot pool. There was a campervan parked nearby, with an elderly couple who had obviously been in the pool, and had done all their washing in the outlet. This was strung on a line from the wing mirror.
All bar Andy we dumped our bike gear to go for a soak. Etiquette requires showering first, and I am having a quick swill under the very hot water. Steve decides it’s too cold stood outside in his shorts and announces that he is joining me. All very innocent I assure you, and no, nobody dropped the soap!
Andy is on the phone, and the rest of us are enjoying the peace and quiet when a car rolls up. Out clamber Mum, Dad and their two young children to splash about. Then another car, with a family of three. Starting to get a bit full. I had spotted a small yacht near to the shore as we rode up, and lo and behold six people in full sailing gear walk up and start to get changed. As they were getting into the pool, I thought it about time that I got out. It was starting to get a bit human soup like in there. The small changing room reflected the diversity of the guests, with a very strange collection of clothing!
Refreshed, we headed back round the fjord and South across the foot of the peninsula to Patreksfjordor. Here we stopped for fuel for both bikes and ourselves. The diner staff seemed a little surly, and the coffee took ages to refill. Perhaps we had caught them on a bad day? With no other alternatives close by we sat down to eat. This time I went for the fish and chips, but I wish I hadn’t.
After stocking up for tonight’s campsite at the grocery store in Patreksfjordur, we set off South again. Tim had been told of a place called Raudisandur, Red Sands, that he felt we should explore. On the way, we passed one of the tourist landmarks, a beached fishing boat.
The signboard tells of the history of the vessel, launched in Norway in 1912 it was originally a whaler, then a Herring fishing boat, and passed through several hands until being deemed unseaworthy in 1981. I have seen many pictures of this boat before, and make no apology for adding mine.
Continuing on towards Raudisandur, the road crosses another ridge at 360m, but it does it on the most glorious of gravel switchbacks. We had some fun riding over them! The Red sands are actually golden, and aside from that, there was little to do. That meant we had to ride back! Excellent!
Retracing our route past the fishing boat we joined a tarmac road Eastwards for half an hour to Engey and the ferry port. The coffee shop opposite the harbour sells the tickets, and endless coffee, and gradually filled up with fellow travellers. A fine drizzle had started as the ferry appeared on the horizon, looking no bigger than the beached one we had just passed. Turns out it isn’t small, it was just far away, as numerous vehicles pile in for the trip South. We are leaving the West Fjord region and cutting out a lot of tarmac, sailing to the Western region at Stykkisholmur. (Go on then, how would you pronounce it?)
In the queue to board, Steve’s bike won’t start, and after trying to kickstart it fruitlessly for a few minutes, he pushes it down the ramp. The crew hand us ratchet straps with the instructions to fasten them to the sides of the hold. With the bikes secure we set ourselves up round a table for the three hour trip, with a short stop at the island of Flatey. More passengers board here, they all seem rather damp. Looking outside it seems the drizzle has turned to heavy rain. As the tannoy announces that its time to return to your vehicles, one of the crew looks at us in our bike gear and says “Good luck!” with the kind of smile that suggests we’ll need it.
Steve’s bike starts without fuss, and we ride out into the now persistent downpour. Our first call is at the nearby campsite to get water for tonight. Rather ironic, given the quantity falling from the sky. Bottles and camelbacks filled, but Steve’s bike won’t start again. After he’s kicked it over for a few minutes, I offer to have a go. His kickstart is at a funny angle though, and your foot slips off before you have given it a full swing. Closer inspection reveals that the base of the lever has split, so it is next to useless. Trying to bump start it doesn’t work, and Steve at least gives us all a laugh as the famous waterproofs slide down to his ankles as he runs. Our only option is to swap my kickstart, which I am a little concerned about. I have had mine loctited on, as the bolt had vibrated loose before now. Taking it off breaks the bond, but we don’t really have an option. My toolbag zip jammed, as a combination of dust and water had got between the teeth. I managed to fix that, swapped the kickstart onto Steve’s, which started after a team kicking effort, put all the tools away, and then my bike wouldn’t start. I’d left my phone plugged in to charge, not expecting us to take so long, and it had taken just enough juice out to mean I needed my kickstart back. Because I have been doing this with my helmet off, water has now seeped down my neck.I think I may have had a sense of humour failure at this point. Tim has seen this phenomenon before, and was backing away, out of toy throwing range. I put the kickstart back on mine, hoofed it into life and went to put the ratchet with the allen key socket in my pocket for future use. Only the socket was missing. Thankfully it had only fallen on the floor next to the bike. I went to put my gloves back on, but they are saturated with the water that has run down into the lining.
“Oh well” I said.
Or something similar.
I thought I had heard it was only five minutes to where we were wild camping, so I stuffed the gloves in my pocket and rode without. Thirty five rather nervous minutes later, in the darkest light all trip, on very wet roads, with no gloves on. Not ideal. The rain eases as we head into another lave field, and thankfully stops in time to throw the tents up. My sense of humour is restored by the prospect of food and soon all is well with the world again.
Mark