The Treasures of North Uist

I've often written about the objective failure of my surf trips. If I choose to blinker my gaze – to narrow my parameters of success to exclude everything other than waves of quality, waves 'worth travelling for', or waves better than those I could have surfed at home – then I am a sorry excuse for a surf traveller. I don't mean to suggest that failure is all I have tasted, that I am somehow cursed to surf only gruel-like slop, returning Oliver Twist-like time after time in search of more. No, I know the sweet taste of hot sausage and mustard. I have gorged on cobblestone points in Mexico and New Zealand, on sand bottom points in Australia, on reef passes in Madagascar and desert kegs in Mauritania, I have fed heartily around these North Atlantic Islands we call home. But just as frequently, if not more so, I have searched for quality surf and been found wanting, a state of affairs which I am starting to consider might be a symptom of my own wantonly open mind, rather than bad luck.

Surfers are drawn to their particular brand of surfing for a variety of different reasons, societal (the rich lineage of longboarding talent I was exposed to as a young surfer in Sennen certainly had an effect on me), practical (bodyboarders waltz through airports as unencumbered as springtime lambs while I toil over the Sisyphean task of manoeuvring a longboard coffin bag through a crowd), or geographical (if you're a child growing up alongside the hi-fi, hollow points of Snapper Rocks or Lennox Head in Australia, you're likely to reach for similarly hi-fi equipment). So when longboarders choose to longboard, they do so with half an eye on marginal days of the future, on as yet un-dreamt waves which longboards alone can bring to life, I certainly did myself. These waves of scant consequence have brought me endless joy over the years, they have unlocked the quietest corners of the surfing world and left me giggling on many a secluded beach, but they might also have been the very things which have been holding me back.

While I certainly am a forecast checker and map scourer, my surfing experience has never felt wholly reliant on the alignment of each and every star. I have never been much of a strike-missioner, seldom inclined to rush to a place at the behest of a promising chart before rushing out again as quickly as I arrived (a part of me admires the determination and single-minded focus of those who do). To travel in such a way is to regularly score amazing waves, but it also requires the wearing of those metaphorical blinkers, blinkers which I've never managed to make fit.

My first visit to North Uist was in 2011 when my mum agreed to lend me her pride and joy, her leaf green VW campervan. I packed the van with two childhood friends (Matt Travis and Jack Whitefield), one wise old sage (Nick Pumphrey), and, after we collected him from Glasgow airport, a future friend and travel partner (Diogo Appleton). On the way up we swam in Loch Lomond while Diogo played fruit ninja, we scampered around waterfalls on Skye and eventually found our way to Lochmaddy, North Uist and the grass-crusted dunes of Hosta. We parked the green van on the machair beside the sandy track and drank beers through the constant glow of the midsummer gloaming. The surf was only ankle high but I vividly remember that night. The furthest north I'd ever been in my life and the horizon's gentle hold on the final breathe of light.

For the second visit I towed a trailer with a pushbike as part of a motley caravan of Chris Mclean, Kepa Acero and Lee-Ann Curran. All our boards, wetsuits and possessions for the fortnight long trip were strapped and shackled to three trailers and stowed in front and rear panniers. We left the van in Ullapool and cycled onto the ferry to Lochmaddy, so it was along the rocky coast of North Uist where we first felt the weight of our loads. I had remembered North Uist as a flat-ish island and advised my cycling partners accordingly. But the definition of flat takes on a whole new meaning when towing a heavy trailer on a pushbike into a squalling headwind. We made it to the Sollas Co-op just in time to buy chocolate and other supplies and carried on, once more, to Hosta. Again the sea was flat, this time it was also onshore and the dunes were daubed with drizzle. We pitched our tents and wondered what on earth we had let ourselves in for, the trip was due to take us through Harris to the north of the island of Lewis and back again. At that early juncture, it felt all but impossible. But it was, of course, possible. We met lifelong friends, surfed crystal clear waves on the hottest day of the year and had one of the most fulfilling trips of my surf travelling life. All starting from that rainy night on North Uist. So trip number three beckoned, I was determined to surf this time but wondered what the un-forecastable moments would be, what else would elevate the trip, would offer brief but beautiful immersion in this special place.

Many things can be predicted, weather, swell, football results, general elections… and, predictably, there was precious little swell in the North Atlantic for our trip to the Western Isles, except for a few weak lumps from the north blown down by a Faroese breeze. As usual we were un-blinkered, open to awe and the little waves that broke ended up being just enough to fill our cups. But it was the unpredictable things which, predictably, illuminated the trip. As is always the way (for those who pay attention) they occurred from the outset, like when a heron drew alongside the 19.15 train from Penzance to Bristol as it crossed the Royal Albert Bridge over the river Tamar and matched its speed for a few magical seconds. Or when a munching alpaca standing upon a pebble beach on the shore of Loch Carron watched the 15.00 from Inverness to Kyle of Lochalsh chug past. Wonderful, unpredictable things.

Back at Hosta again, and we are greeted not only by the smooth undulating calm of the evening high tide, but by the ghostly peaks of the Kildas - Hirta and Boreray - and by the flashy green of the setting sun. The next day I video-called my son, outside, in my underpants, at 7am, the sun was already warm on what would be the hottest day of the year. Everywhere was clear and hot except the Kildas which were swaddled in cloud. The sand flats of North Uist stretched and steamed at low tide and flies buzzed over the machair; Berneray, Pabbay and everywhere were drenched in sun. All day the sun shines and all day the Kildas are whipped wisps on the horizon, their island peaks completely shrouded. Yet more seeds are planted in the furrows of my dreams.

The surfs are as joyful as unexpected surfs always are, easy peaks in the desert of our expectations, tandem canoe rides and finless slides. Waves of the most average order on another most worthy surf trip. A trio of sojourns to North Uist and not a single wave above waist high, but all the other golden moments present and correct. Another reminder never to forget to keep your vision of success fluid, not viewed only with blinkered vision.

The reflection of a mountain on the surface of a loch is just as beautiful as that loch dappled with rain, and the rush of cold on skin the joyful same either way.