Shetland, Orkney & NE Scotland cycle tour summer 2023

Cycle touring & wild camping from Lerwick to Aberdeen.
635 miles, 11891 metres of ascent, 21 days of cycling, 18 nights in the Staika tent, 1 night on the ferry, and 1 night in a bothy.
Given this summer’s often grey and wet weather, heading north to the Shetland Isles, cast adrift from mainland Britain in the storm-tossed waters of the North Atlantic might be seen by many as an ill-advised choice for the first week of a bike tour. Our previous visit to the islands had been in August 2020, when easing of Covid 19 lockdown measures once again allowed travel. Then, we pedalled off the Hjaltland ferry into Lerwick’s dismally grey streets, the wind and rain immediately asserting its authority. Actually, this was an aberration; for most of our two weeks the weather was kind to us and we had a wonderful tour, enjoying the spectacular coast and wild camps on the shore. Three years on, as we once again disembarked the very same vessel I wondered if we’d be as lucky with the weather.
Wind is the real enemy of cyclists and Shetland is famous for having plenty of it, but we pedalled north, bound for the Eshaness coast with a gentle south easterly breeze helping us on our way, the sun shining strongly from largely cloudless skies. Our first wild camp was stunning; fifty metres of turf separated us from the cliff edge and an array of coastal features certain to set pulses racing. We feasted our eyes on ruggedly impressive stacks and stumps, arches and geos, caves and headlands, carved into the tough volcanic rocks by the restless Atlantic. For a week we pedalled to a range of wild coastal camps and enjoyed some stunning walks on the western seaboard, the wind mostly notable by its absence and even the sun made plenty of appearances too.
The Orkney Isles were a blank on our map but arriving in Kirkwall near midnight and pitching our tent by the feeble beams of our tiny travel torches we wondered if our luck had changed as the wind tugged at the nylon flysheet, the air laced with a wetting drizzle. Our week was indeed windier, but once again we enjoyed the wonderful coast and the thought-provoking array of archaeological sites from the 5000-year-old settlement of Skara Brae to the peppering of World War Two vintage remains dotted around Scapa Flow. From a stunning wild camp in Rackwick Bay we walked to Hoy’s most famous resident; The Old Man. An improbably slender sea stack of red sandstone rising 140mts from the Atlantic swells that is dizzying to view from the nearby cliff edge. I wondered what climbing its weathered and crumbling rock is like... Those same cliffs grow to 370mts at the nearby St John’s Head and our walk along their very edge, dodging the arctic terns and bonxies was exhilarating. Payback time was back at the tent where a dark cloud of midges had gathered unsullied by even the merest breath of wind. This despite the 3000 miles of open ocean to our west where there is nothing but the waves to impede its flow. We swatted and cursed as the little blighters made our life a misery, their bites itchy, the air so thick with their tiny bodies that it was impossible not to suck them in with every breath.
We crossed the storm-tossed waters of the Pentland Firth on the Pentland Venture foot ferry, the larger car ferry crossing cancelled due to the weather and sea state! John O’ Groats was bleak and windy and at our first camp back on the mainland the gusty westerly charged in from the sea, our tent pummelled this way and that by its force. The next day we were heading straight into it, our speed reduced to between six to eight miles per hour. The irony of arriving in a starkly wild camp in the Flow Country having battled the wind all day only for it to drop back totally come evening wasn’t lost on us. Indeed, it was hideously rubbed in our faces by the densest swarm of midges that followed our every move, the air almost electrified by the high-frequency buzzing of their thousands of wings. We became prisoners in our own tent; leaving it for a call of nature was hideously unpleasant and with each opening of the door hundreds of the blessed creatures made their way in and became trapped, desperate for our blood. Here our morale was dented our thoughts dominated by, well, life free from torture by midge. Packing up in the morning was a nightmare, but the bliss of pedalling off away from their eager jaws was just wonderful. We made our way back to Aberdeen beneath the vast skies of the Flow Country with the familiar Munros of Klibreck and Hope on the horizon, the terrain gradually becoming more tranquil beside the Moray Firth.
Our bikes fared well, although in Dufftown one of my lower pannier rack bolts sheared off and for the final eighty miles we hoped my repair - tight binding with some cord - would hold; with each bump in the road I held my breath, feeling certain that something would give, but thankfully we got back to Aberdeen without further incident.