gray, with a splash of color

After waking up to a thinly sun splashed morning...






... I arise to what was fully expected: a day of rain.

I am so grateful for it! the excesses of life have caught up with me and I want a day that's slow and not too focused on any ambition. No great walk, no great writing, no great anything, in fact.

Well, I do have a very fine breakfast...






With it, Andrew pours me a wee dram of Laphroaig 16 and I tell him thank you very much, I like it, but now I am thoroughly confused. I feel myself to be such slow learner! I had already determined that if I'm going to love this week of whisky, I'll favor peaty and smoky over something mellow and mild which, to me, almost feels like simply pouring alcohol down your throat. Then, someone poured me a sample of a bourbon cask peaty smoky and I added that to my check list: the sweetness of the American bourbon perfectly complemented the Scotch whisky flavors. But when Andrew then poured a sherry cask peaty dram, I was back to square one because that one, too, was intensely flavorful -- very Islay evocative.

So I am back to the same question that I had presented to my host the day I arrived: if I am to buy one bottle that is THE most peaty smoky flavorful evocative, plus only available for purchase here (or at least only on this side of the ocean), what should it be?

He gives me the same answer as he did the first day: go to Ardbeg, buy their 200 birthday special edition distillery release. It's remarkable. And you can only get it at the Distillery.


As I linger over breakfast, two very friendly older sisters sitting at a nearby table (and their equally nice husbands) ask me about my Islay visit. It seems they have traveled to the island before -- when they were young. They have memories of play on the empty golden beaches of the island. It was a magical time.

Then they fill me in on a little secret that they learned in the village.
At the grocery store! The local boy there was telling everyone, even though it's a secret. Prince Charles is coming to the island!

I smile at that: I seem to be crossing paths with royalty on this trip. I tell them about my encounter with Princess Anne at the Royal Highland Show.

Later, I ask my host, Alison, about the Prince's visit.
I did hear something about that. It's nothing to us. Famous people come and go. Life goes on anyway. She thinks for a bit. Maybe if the Queen came, maybe we'd take note. 
So, no idea what he's doing here?
No, all I know is the last time he came to Islay he flew his own plane here and he crashed it on landing. That was twenty years ago, but people still talk about it!

I'm on my way to the Ardbeg Distillery, which is on the eastern most end of the snaky coastal road. (The big three are all there: Laphroaig, Lagavulin, then Ardbeg, all along the rocky coast of the Atlantic.)

But I do want a short walk, so I pull into a golf course that's at the water's edge, just a few miles south of Bowmore. It's raining, but I'm thinking of the five month old yesterday -- if she could take a light shower on her young face, so can I.

Just past the golf course, the dunes rise above a majestic expanse of golden sand. This is the island's longest beach -- maybe seven miles total -- and I wonder if this is where the sisters once played.






I don't stay. The rain is intensifying and I am without adequate protection. (How long does it take to dry the wool on a rain drenched sheep?)






I continue toward the town of Port Ellen -- this is where the big ships come in to take the whisky to the mainland. The town has always struck me as almost making a statement to the world that passes through this way: we are not fancy. We are island people. Life is not rich or princely for those who stay and make a living here.






On to the distilleries. It's all very close, really. From Bowmore to Ardbeg (the farthest of the three) it's all of 22 miles. I notice they have completed a several mile long paved walking path from Port Ellen to the distilleries. A brilliant idea. You don't want people driving after they take whisky tours, which always include a lot of drinking. A few brave souls are walking and I almost stop to give them a lift, but then I think about the value of a brisk hike and I continue on my own.

At Ardbeg, everything looks freshly painted and lovely.






I hear that much effort has gone into polishing the place for its 200 year birthday.

Inside, there is a cafe place where a number of people are eating lunch. At one table, a local woman, one who once worked at the distillery, is celebrating her birthday. It's a warm scene, a lovely scene really.






To the side, a girl -- daughter of a cafe guest, wanders over to a mirror. I smile at this: Snowdrop now loves to look at herself in the mirror. Or does she still? I've been away so long!






I ask to sample the whisky Andrew recommended for me. Oh! It is the best. Absolutely magnificent. I make my purchase.


And then I drive home (past a wet and windy landscape) ...






... and take a nap.

Lovely day, rainy day. I don't have to go outside and play. I don't have to.

But I rouse myself in time to make one more shopping visit. To the Islay Woolen Mill (about four miles up the road)...






...where they still use the old weaving machines...






... to make these:






My daughters love these blankets! I no longer need Islay reminders for myself back home. I have my photos, I have last year's sweater and mug with little jumping sheep on it. But if I take Islay things  home to them, I am passing on my love of the island. I like that.

As I make my purchase, Gordon, the mill owner asks me where I'm from. He is a great story teller -- I remember this from last year. I apologize for coming in so late (it is near five, almost closing time), but he grins and tells me -- I'm afraid to go home. We're doing some work on the house and if the new carpet hasn't arrived today as it should, the wife will be mad.

I smile. I tell him that we're having a patio door put in at the farmhouse and when I come home I'm hoping -- so hoping! -- that by magic it will be in already!

Gordon seems happy to continue chatting...






... so I ask him if he's heard that the Prince is coming.
Aye. I'm invited to the festivities tomorrow at Ardberg Distillery. He's here to celebrate their big birthday. (Laphroaig is also 200 years old this year and Prince Charles will be cutting over to them as well. If he manages to land his plane safely!)
Is your wife going too? That's exciting!
She is. Me, I've met the Prince before.
When he was here twenty years ago?
Yes. You know, he and I share a hobby: we're both fox hunters. 
I ask if he has to dress up for the lunch festivities.
Aye, I was instructed to be "well suited and booted." 

As I leave the Mill with the throw blankets, I think -- maybe I should make one more stop. I'm right by it  -- Islay's very secret, very beautiful co-op garden. Last year, spring came earlier and I visited later. The secret garden (it really is quite secret --  few people know about it) was beautiful, but in an understated sort of way.

This year, it's incredible.






It's really not primarily a flower garden -- vegetables are grown here and you can purchase these if you want, though I still don't know how that works, as there's never anyone there. But the flowers that do grow here are in fact breathtakingly beautiful, especially on a gray and wet day like today.






Tonight, I'm eating dinner with Andrew, Alison, their two daughters, Eliza and Lily and their grandma. Andrew has made spicy meatballs with tomatoes and peppers and as I wait for the food to be ready, I join a conversation of three new guests -- two older men, brothers as it were -- and their friend. They've just made the long journey by car from England and they're enjoying a Bowmore whisky. They've come for the weekend, and this is by no means a first for them. They do this every year. For the distilleries.

As the men talk, Alison reminds her girls that they need to practice their dances. Tomorrow is their last day of school, but on Saturday, they have dance exams. The girls not only study Scottish Gaelic in school, they also have dance classes that teach them the Scottish highland steps.

I am enchanted by the scene before me. Three friends (and Andrew), enjoying a wee dram of Bowmore, two girls, going through their dance routines.



(can you tell there had been a face painting party earlier in the afternoon?)


It is indeed a splash of color. Of a different sort. A wonderful sort.

counting sheep

Every shade of sky has its own magic. This morning, the gray clouds bring out the beauty of the gray slate roofs on the village houses of Bowmore.






I glance at the weather charts. They say rain, but not until the afternoon. I was going to not move that much if the weather was poor, but now it looks like I can't use it as an excuse to lay low.

Breakfast, splendid as always, this time by the bay window. Alison and Andrew rotate this best seat in the house and sooner or later, I have my morning meal here.






You'll note the wee dram that they offer for breakfast. It really is wee for me, as anything more would make me feel nappish rather than adventurous. But it surely is an excellent complement to the plateful of eggs and salmon. Today's selection: Bowmore Distllery's Enigma.


Now for the hike.

There are many corners that I have yet to explore on this island. One such corner is again toward the north (as was yesterday's hike), along the coast of a slip of land that juts out into the open waters (the sea to the west and a bay known as Loch Gruinart to the east).  The tip of this tongue is called "Ardnave Point" and it's supposed to be quite lovely. You can make a circuit of it by starting at a family farm that stands at the tongue's base, picking up the path along the coastal sand dunes, and turning in toward the farm again where the "tongue" merges into the Islay landscape again. The estimated distance for the walk is 5 miles, so surely it shouldn't take more than a couple of hours.





Quite a bit of the drive is along a single lane road, but you know, after a few days here, you begin to drive with a certain bravado, or at least indifference to the troubles that may ensue when, say around a corner or over the hill you come face to face with the headlights of another car. At home, driving head on toward oncoming traffic seems rather insane. Here, it's part of the everyday. Shrug your shoulders, crank your vehicle into third or fourth and move along.
 


I leave the car by the Ardnave Farmstead. There is a sign that welcomes the occasional hiker. It asks you to close animal gates and explains that birds are frequent visitors here, many of them loving the dung that farm animals leave behind. It also warns that there are cows and those can be dangerous, so please steer clear of them.

But as I begin my walk, all I see are ewes and lambs. Lots and lots of ewes and lambs. So many ewes and lambs that their loveliness (nearly) ceases to make an impression on me. I can tell I've been in Scotland a while now: the sheep have become wallpaper for me. Lovely -- yes, of course, but merely background material. It would be a rare sheep indeed that would cause me now to stop on the road now and take out my camera.






Still, you will see lots of photos of sheep on Ocean today and here's why: they are such excellent props for the scenery! Take a photo of the famed Jura Paps and you'll have gray hills against a gray sky. Yawn. Bud the sheep make everything come alive!






Walk with me through the meadows of English daisies and buttercups. And sheep.


















The land across the bay is where I'd hiked the previous day (parallel to the coast of Jura). You can see the northernmost point here:






And again in the photo below, though what's interesting there is that the black faced lambs are with their white faced mum and the black faced ewe is with her white faced lambs.






How can you tell which ewe belongs to which lamb? This way:






Above, the sky is alive with the racket of the oystercatchers. They're tough to photograph without a telephoto lens, but these guys stayed around for a few seconds, just long enough for me to snatch a quick shot.







On other cliffs, you'll find... sheep.






Toward the end of the coastal walk, I run into a problem.

Cows.

Now, I grew up around cows. I spent nearly every summer of my childhood with my grandparents in rural Poland. Cows roamed the meadow and the riverbanks where we played. But the farmers in Poland used to loosely tie the front legs of cows with rope, presumably so they couldn't run away. They could move, but not great distances, or at least not with great speed.

Remembering the sign's warnings, I make a huge circle to avoid the Islay herd. As a result, I find myself once more ankle deep in mud. My new lesson is this: where there are yellow irises, there will be mud.






I try to keep my distance, but I cannot resist getting a little closer to this cow -- who seems to act as a bird rest...






Near the very end, I have to face the music. This cow has decided to stand right by the gate. I need to pass through that gate. Oh, how she laughed at me as I "nice bessy" my way past her! I'm sure of it.






I had been amused to read on the notes to this particular walk that navigational skills are required. I thought about this for a bit. Do I have such skills? I don't carry a compass or a GPS device. And again I shrug off any concern. It's a loop around the coast of a tongue, for God's sake! How can you lose your way?






Easy! Put in a few hills and plenty of sand dunes, lace the meadows with paths that go nowhere and you may find yourself walking endlessly along a coast, missing the turnoff for the farm and the place you left your car.

(I also blame the daisies and the buttercups: so playfully distracting!)






Speaking of flowers, I searched for the wild orchid... and I found it!






In the end, I only take a few (yes, a few) wrong turns, but they surely add many minutes to my hike and I am lucky that I do stumble upon my car only minutes after the rains begin to come down on the hills of the Isle of Islay.

In the parking lot, another car has pulled in next to mine. A mother gets out with her baby to change a nappy. Instinctively I ask the age of the little girl.
Five months, the dad tells me. He then proceeds to ask about the hike and we talk about it for a while. It's drizzling steadily now, but he thinks the rain may pass and in any case, they've seen rain before. I think about my own 5.5 month old granddaughter and what she'd make of these cliffs and meadows with sheep on them. Would she like a bit of rain on her face?


Back at the Bowmore Guest House, the afternoon sprinkles keep me indoors, though I do brave them for a quick saunter over to the Bowmore Distillery just up the road a bit. Having completed the master tour with Eddie the Master Distiller last year, I have risen to the status of a "known fan" there and so it feels good to poke in and admire (and sample, because they always are generous with showing off their product) their whisky selection for this year. I make a purchase or two. I am loyal to Bowmore.






And you'd think this would have nicely capped my Islay day, but in many ways, the best is yet to come.

Tonight is the night that Andrew, with the great assistance of Alison, cooks up an Islay seafood dinner for his guests.

I join three Americans for that meal of all meals. In addition to squash soup and plateful of veggies, there is Andrew's famous potato casserole.











Then we are treated to Islay crab claws...






... and sea bream, and scallops, and that wonderful, wonderful Irish Sea treasure:






Andrew and Alison join us for a while and we talk of travel and its vicissitudes...



(everyone around this table loves travel to distant places)


... and the real experts among us (I'd probably be near the bottom of this lot) discuss the finer points of whisky.






It is an extraordinary evening and I am immensely lucky to be in great company of people who are passionate about what they see and do on this planet.

Sleep comes easily on this night. I think I gave into it somewhere on the last few steps of the walk up to my corner room at the Bowmore House.

today is the day

I left you with a sunset yesterday and I begin with a sunrise. I do not actually witness a sun rising, but I do get up to see the start of a new day. I love to see this street out my window -- it never looks the same to me. The play of light is splendid on the white houses.



(before sunrise)





(after sunrise)



Breakfast at the Bowmore Guest House.


 
 (the top right windows are my own)


You'd think by now I'd no longer be thrilled to wake up to eggs and smoked salmon, but Andrew does a perfect plate, with all my favorite trimmings. And the salmon is just superb!






I talk to my hosts about my plans for the four days (only four!) that I am here. Today's weather is supposed to be the best by far and so I want to do my grand hike now, while the chance of rain is near zero (it's never completely zero). I'd purchased a detailed map of Islay (at the Royal Highland Show, of all things), wanting to devise my own trail. There are no signposted paths here.

Roughly speaking,  the island has a road running along the coast, like a big, snaky N. Bowmore is exactly in the middle. There are lesser roads branching out (and dead-ending) into Islay's belly. The northern coast (above the N, so to speak) is barren and uninhabited.

There is one road that I haven't yet followed: it's the one leading to Port Askaig, where you would catch the ferry either to travel to the mainland (a 2.5 hour trip), or to go to the next island -- the more mountainous Jura. (Jura is really barren -- it has a total of 200 residents and the only access to it is via this ferry.)

What if I followed the road just to the port and took off along the coast heading north on foot?

Andrew tells me -- you could do better than that: go up from the port along the narrow lane that dead ends at Bunnahabhain Distillery. From there, you can walk along the coast, all the way to a lighthouse (the Rhuvaal Lighthouse) at the northern tip of the island if you want.
I ask about the Distillery. Is it good one?
Yes, he says without hesitation.

I'm not ready to address the whisky side of Islay just yet, but if you're on the coast of the island, you're never too far from a distillery (there are eight here right now) and it helps to have a picture in your head of what's what.

I fill my small day pack with essentials: a walking stick, the map, a notebook and pen, my disabled phone.
Andrew says -- maybe you want to tell them at the distillery that if your car is still around when they close at 5, they should send out an alarm. Of course, we'll know if you haven't come back, but still...

He is sweetly protective of his guests (and especially of this solo hiker who loves to poke her walking stick on remote terrain).

The drive to Port Askaig is (like most other drives here) pleasantly short. Along the way, I pause for a sheep photo. It seems the sheep here are always placing themselves before lovely vistas. Here, you see the "Paps of Jura" -- the higher hills of the next island.






And at the Port (If you can call a handful of houses and a landing dock a port), I watch the Jura ferry for a few minutes.



(looking east)





(looking north)


Okay, but my focus is on the walk and so I get back in the car and take the lane that leads to the Bunnahabhain Distillery. It's a three mile stretch of road and it is a single lane with passing points.


 


Honestly, I can't imagine how they transport whisky along this road. I am happy that I do not encounter traffic. The passing points are far between and the pavement drops off to a ditch, so that if you're not careful, you can easily back your car right off the road and leave the rear wheels hanging. At least the island etiquette is clear. If you see a car far up the road and you're near a passing point, you wait, sometimes even a minute or two, until the car has passed you by.

Toward the end of the road, I pull my car into a space that could, I suppose, be called a parking area. I note that there is no one here doing a coastal hike. I'm pleased to have the hills to myself. A booklet on suggested Islay walks warns that the terrain can be very boggy, but I'm fine with that as well: if it gets too rough, I can turn back.

First though, a look away from the coast. It's beautiful here -- the wild rhododendrons are just at their peak!






And now I'm ready for my adventure.

Of course, you can't get lost if you're doing a coastal walk. I mean, there's the coast, with the Paps of Jura always to my right heading out...






... and you have your starting point, and your ending point, and then you turn around and retrace your steps. They say it's about five hilly miles to the light house. I have vague ambitions to get to it, but I wont mind giving up if I tire of the trek.

But though you can't lose your way, you can lose the dirt track that makes moving across this boggy landscape that much easier. And sure enough, after about two hours of relatively smooth hiking, with only a few boggy missteps, I lose the track and have to go cross country. The light house is visible by now and I am determined to make it there, but my hiking shoes let me know that they are not cut out for this. They and of course my feet, are completely wet.



(the bog, the lighthouse, the mountain on the Isle of Mull)



I kick myself for losing the track. I blame the deer.






They criss cross this terrain along known to them paths and they create a maze of intersecting trails that are to human sensibilities awfully reminiscent of a beaten down track. These have a way of suddenly disappearing and you stand confused among heather shrub and a damp, mossy earth.

Oh, but let me not forget to show you the hidden beauty here (apart the views which are stunning all the way)...



(looking south toward the distillery and the strait)


Wild orchids!






All that I learned about Islay last year came from the people who live here. Becky, a woman who took me on two guided walks, taught me to spot the orchids. Eddy, the master distiller, taught me to cut peat and he showed me where the bluebells grew in late spring. I am so aware now of Islay's low growing beauties!






I'm also aware of something else: I walk in the sometimes secretive company of deer. They watch over me from all vantage points.






But, too -- of birds. You would think that these are sweet little accents: a bird chirping overhead -- how lovely! But no, these birds are not happy with my presence. Two of them, the size of a large hand and swallow-like in their tail, though I couldn't possibly identify them further, hover over me, screeching to high heaven. They do this again and again, so that I know I surely must be near a nest. I try to explain that I mean to harm, but they don't give up their war on me. Two wee birds, intent on scaring a monster of a human -- that's how much they love their offspring!






Finally, I am within touching distance of the lighthouse! It's the northernmost point on the island.

I am so smugly satisfied, so delighted that I made it here that I forget about the usual "selfie at the summit." You just get the lighthouse.






The return is much easier because I know the danger points and, too, my shoes are so wet that it hardly matters. (My leap across boggy terrain isn't as fluid and lengthy as it once would have been and so it's always a guessing game as to whether I'll make it to the next dry patch of grass.)

And 4.5 hours later, I'm done.

I could not explain here how happy I am with this excursion! To you, the reader, it seems so benign: she walked, she came back. But to me, each year that I meet my solo hiking goals is reason to rejoice. And so, buoyed by the day's adventure, I decide to walk down to the distillery and pay them a visit. I did my walk. I can handle a distillery -- Islay's most remote distillery.






What's there to handle -- you ask. Oh, the utter friendliness of these people! It's overwhelming! You walk past a warehouse and the worker looks up, smiles, waves, shouts a greeting. You enter the visitors' room (here, it's small, with only one attendant) and you feel you've come home. Your offered expensive drams of their finest whiskys for free. I tell the man I've walked to the lighthouse and back and I feel he is celebrating my success!

The whisky he gives me is a first batch, from this November. It's their peatiest, smokiest and it was aged in bourbon casks, so that there is a heavenly combination of peat and vanilla. It's unbelievably good! Why don't I drink this stuff back home?






I ask if this can purchased in the States. We're tryin' he tells me. We're tryin'. Out comes my wallet.


On the drive back, I again pause just before pulling into my village of Bowmore. Yes, it's the sheep.






...on a strip of sand between the bay waters.






And now I am back in Bowmore (pronounced: boh-MORE).






Dinner tonight -- it's at the informal  bistro-like "Taste." There is a great restaurant in the village and this is its lesser cousin and they're both related in some financial fashion to Bowmore Distillery which stands majestically to the side.






I have cauliflower soup...






...and sea bream over warm potato salad for a main...






...and you will not be surprised that both are excellent. No, it's not just hunger! It's the touch of the sea on the fish and the earthiness of the potatoes served with it.

In my room for dessert, I have a wee dram, gratis of my hosts, along with a few chunks of very dark chocolate. I can't say that I am a food and drink traveler. I love and search out good food and I'll groan loudly if I can't find something fresh and honest, but I wont pick my destination with just food in mind. Still, when it all comes together for me, as it does in Islay, I feel I've struck gold.



(a golden sunset out my window)