isle of islay, continued

In my room at the Bowmore House, I have two windows: one toward the town, the other onto the waters of Loch Indaal, which isn't a lake at all but a bay that spills out into the Northern Atlantic Ocean. Bowmore is as close to the coast of Northern Ireland as it is to Scotland and indeed, if you wanted to sail with a load of whisky to a major city, you're far better off going south to Londonderry (in Northern Ireland) than west to Glasgow.

The views offer that kind of idle speculation. And I am constantly looking out the windows, because at all times of the day, what I see is bewitching.

Here's the view toward town just before dawn, with all its shades of blue, pink, azure and gold.






A few hours later, the canvas is different and it is telling: it's going to be a fine day on the Isle of Islay!






Get going! Do not linger over breakfast! You hear? Do not linger!

(I linger...)






In the breakfast room, there is much discussion with Andrew, the innkeeper and Martin, a local who stopped by, on the topic of where I might find the purple hue of Scotland in August. I'm sure they're amused by this longing that I have, but then, if you live among heather, you're used to the August palate of pinks and purples. For me -- everything is new, because summer on Islay is not at all like late spring here.


I settle on going to Lily Loch. That is, after I find it. It's nowhere on the map! -- I complain to the men in the room. After losing my way a number of times on the trails, I have long ago purchased a very detailed map of Islay.
I suppose it's just a local term for it. It's because of the lilies there, though I guess they're past their bloom. Andrew points to where I should roam.

I drive toward Port Askaig, where the people who ferry over from Jura and then the mainland come in. The landscape here is lovely -- I remember it well from my hike toward the lighthouse last year.






I pull over just where Andrew indicated there's room for a car and find the trail he spoke of.

Yes! He's right! Heather.






There is, you know, more than one kind of heather. This...






Or this, and probably a dozen more varieties...






As I go off trail and stomp through the bogs, I'm grateful for my boots.

Selfie number one attempts to show of the wellies. As in the past, Alison (of the incredible pair of innkeepers -- Andrew and Alison) has lent me hers.







Where in purple hue, the Islay hills we view...







Stunning!






I come to a hill that looks over the straight that separates Islay from the next (even smaller and more desolate) island of Jura. The Islay hills spill into the water. A ship moves through the lightly choppy waters.






And the heather: it's all around me, isn't it?






I go down to the water's edge. (The Paps of Jura in the background!) It's breezy but warm. After the hike, I'm done with my fleece pullover.







I get too bold. I've got wellies! I can cross roaring brooks! (No I can't. Damn slippery stones! Just managed not to slide down into said roaring brook.)








So what, besides the heather, is blooming on Islay in August?


The rowan (which, frankly, reminds me of Poland) has its berries.






Fuchsia! (It tells you something about how mild winters here are. I think the temperature range on Islay is between 40 and 65F.)






The ever beautiful Scottish lily, which is not done with its bloom! Well, it's not really a lily -- I believe it's a "montbretia." Nonetheless, if you follow local custom, you'll say -- wow, that's one beautiful lily.






I've looped the hills and the straight. I've spooked at least a half dozen grouse. I've taken (too many) photos of purple hues. 

Time to get in the car and be really brave and follow the four mile single track road to the Bunnahabhain Distillery. Honestly, if I'd have to do this every day, I'd quit and find work elsewhere. (Though I suppose you get used to it.)

I slow down, open the window, take the photo to my right. There's nowhere to pull over, but no matter -- it's as beautiful as can be.






Andrew told me that Bunnahabhain did a special handfill (where they open the casks and fill just a small number of bottles, to be sold out of the ordinary sequence). They are selling the smaller bottles and you can choose between the peaty ones and the unpeated (meaning you'll get smoke in your mouth from one and more of a sweeter sherry flavor from another).

It's a smaller distillery and it's quite informal. Few people come here and so they are generous with their samples and completely disarming in their friendliness.










I make a few purchases and return to the car.  Time to brave my way on their little road.

Don't worry! -- the woman at the shop tells me. We're done sending out the trucks for the day!
Oh, it's not the truck drivers whom I mind. They know this bit of road inside out. It's the visitor who doesn't know to go slow around corners or who cannot drive backwards to find a passing spot at the side of the winding, hilly road.

Phew! Made it. I'm on the "main" road again, grateful for the space it offers. You do not appreciate two full lanes of road until you lose one.

This time, the feathery brushstrokes of the clouds are what cause me to pull over and take out the camera. The sheep are the side show.







I'm back in the village of Bowmore now. I realize I have yet to walk through it and check out what's what this year. I head for the one cafe/bookshop/souvenir place and it's a lovely one -- it's where I first discovered the Slinky Malinky cat books that Snowdrop loves so much.

A local lassie, at the book shelves. Note boots.







I meander with a smile, remembering past visits, thinking of the changes that have taken place here and in my life in the year I've been away.

I walk down to the pier. School starts here on Wednesday and not surprisingly on this brisk but sunny day, I see the local laddies and a lassie taking a swim in the Bowmore way: jumping straight into the water from the pier. It can't have been warm in the water!







Finally, I eat dinner at the Lochside Restaurant. Andrew said that this year they really upped their attention to the food. I agree. I have a wonderful fresh melon with fruits, followed by a superb pot of Islay mussels steamed in whiskyed cream.






I walk back to the Bowmore House -- it's bathed in a lovely tone in the evening light. Yes, that's my corner room on the top floor.






On past trips, the days were even longer: in mid June, sunset was at 10:15. Now it's at 9.

I'd forgotten how breathtakingly beautiful a sunset here can be. There's a solemnity to it: I think about important things as it goes down. Visually, it's beyond reproach.







So ends my first full day on Islay.

Before coming here, I wondered if my stay, at six days, was too long. I'd done many and perhaps most of the good walks. I've visited each of the big distilleries and some of the small ones. But I realize now that coming back again and again is like visiting your grandmother's home each summer. Nearly everything is familiar and known. You merely want to repeat your favorite days again and again, because they're gentle and beautiful and they offer a path to clearing your heart and soul for the year ahead.

isle of islay

I tell them I brought them the good weather. The island people have been living under sheets of rain for months. They say their summer ended in June. But miraculously, Sunday, the day I arrive in the Isle of Islay, the rains retreat.

Sure, it's just a fluke, but I am grateful for these small favors that Islay is so good at delivering when I am here.

And it isn't easy for me to get here. Take Sunday's travels: I wave a very fond farewell to Sylvia and her daughter -- hosts of my stay in the Borders -- and catch the bus to Edinburgh.

 (At the bus stop in Walkerburn...)






It's not a short ride -- maybe 90 minutes.

During it, I watch people get on, most buying return tickets (Brit speak for roundtrip) to Edinburgh. Are they going there to shop? To see a friend? To work? The bus runs every hour on Sundays and it is full by the time we pull into Scotland's capital (in size, Edinburgh is equal to Glasgow, but for tourism, it outshines Glasgow by a ratio so high that you have to wonder how the people living in the "second city" feel about their more prosperous and refined cousin to the east).

As I get off, I think -- I could rush to catch the next train to Glasgow. Leaving in ten minutes! But why? isn't it better to spend a few idle minutes here and to catch a later train out?

I walk to the large John Lewis store which is sort of a nice-ish place that anchors a big (if up to now indifferent) shopping mall. Signs of change: all the shops around it have closed. They're tearing them  down and putting in a completely new shopping experience, to be completed in 2020.  I read that this is one of the largest redevelopment projects in the UK right now.

It's a sign that Edinburgh is upping its game. It's popular. People come. People spend money. In the US, Macy's is closing 100 stores. But in Europe and in the UK, people still go out to stores.

Is this a good thing? Maybe. I'm reminded of Les Halles in Paris: theirs is also a multi year project where a much much bigger mall in central Paris is being completely torn down and rebuilt to meet the demands of modern (expensive) tastes. The new structure is gorgeous. The old one, like the Edinburgh one, was horrific. So, progress, right?

I am in John Lewis, looking at dresses for Snowdrop's first day of school. I mull over these...








... I make my purchases, I walk over to a window. Outside, the sky is gray, the buildings match the sky.






The new shopping center's images are glitzy and gold. You can see them here. Edinburgh is capitalizing on its ever growing popularity. For me, the city center is so packed with tourists these days that sometimes it feels like New York at rush hour. Someone has done the math: Edinburgh is surging forward.

(The sound of bagpipes -- ubiquitous in this tourist-filled city.)






I catch the little train that shuttles back and forth between Edinburgh and Glasgow, then catch the bus from Glasgow to the airport and finally board the little plane that does the daily run to the Isle of Islay.

It's a cloudy day, but on the approach to the island, we dip below the cloud cover and, as always, come swooping down along the shoreline, so that if you sit on the right side of the wee plane, you see the island's claim to fame: the whisky distilleries. Lagavulin, Laphroaig -- look, you can spot them, hugging the rugged coastline.






Lagavulin:






Laphroaig:






This is when I take in my island breath. It's where I deliberately let go. I haven't any plans for my stay here. I'll walk some, I suppose. I may visit a distillery, though I've seen all the main players. Maybe I'll not move from my room -- I'm at the Bowmore House, in the same room I've occupied for several years now. I'll come down to breakfast, chat with my most wonderful hosts -- is there a better way to spend a pensive (dare I say meditative) week?

I drive (yes, you do have to drive here) into Bowmore. Oh, so familiar!







To the guest house, where the view from my room is as grand as ever and, because of the changing sky, completely novel each time.






(Oh! Two Bowmore young women just in from a swim! It's barely 60F! Hardy Islay stock indeed!)






I eat dinner just down the road, at Katie's Bar. It's a place where locals gather for haggis and seafood, or just to have a beer at the bar.






I opt for the seafood. All Islay catches!






On the way back, I pull over to take a good look at the familiar landscape. I'd always visited here in June. How different will it be now, in August?






That's tomorrow's puzzle. For now, I return to the quiet of my corner room at the Bowmore House.

the animals, the river, the hills

 At the Windlestraw Inn, where you surely come to unwind, explore, take in the country air, the weather becomes an important point of discussion: how is it now, how will it be, say, in an hour or two. The consensus at breakfast is that we have a morning window of good clouds -- the kind that don't do anything dramatic and that occasionally part to reveal a quick sliver of sunlight -- and after that, well, probably a bit of a slide into the usual.

The weather deftly disposed of, we switch our attention to politics. I'm there with the Italians, whose English isn't adequate enough to participate (I must spend a year in the UK to practice! -- she says; her husband looks troubled: does she mean without me?) and I'm there, too with the Aberdeen couple whom I met last evening. I know they are both scientists and so I plunge into Brexit talk, knowing that whatever views they hold are likely to be informed and based as much on fact as on passion.

And I learn something: they voted no (not a surprise considering over 60% of Scots voted no to an EU exit) and I comment how the Scottish seem more generous on issues of social welfare and immigration.
Maybe, she answers. But in fact, Scotland's "no" was different from London's "no." London is worldly, Scotland has a declining population. We need immigration.
Her husband agrees. We've been thrilled with the influx of Poles. In my (biotech) firm, we hired a Polish man who is terribly overqualified and an excellent worker. I asked why he's doing this -- he should be higher up! He reminds me that he earns ten times what he would in Poland.
The Polish people -- they squeeze together in small apartments and they work hard to send money home. We expect the wave of new immigrants will do the same.

I ask about their Prime Minister Theresa May. Perhaps there's some sympathy for her in Scotland? After all, she may be the leader of the Conservative Party, but she cast a "no" vote to Brexit.
Ha! You have to remember that Scotland suffered (for 15 years) under Margaret Thatcher. She hated us! May comes along twenty years later, but we, Scots have a long memory. There's no love lost for the Conservatives. She thinks a while. Perhaps our memory is a tad too long. We hold grudges! 

Ha! So there's a dose of passion after all!

She smiles, with that bit of wistfulness you save for something you wish weren't as it is. Like in your country, we thought we had an extreme (in Thacher). These days, her positions seem so tame!

They're returning to Aberdeen. Me, I have a plan for my own day: I had seen signs for the Peebles Agricultural Society Grand Open Show and if you've been reading Ocean for more than a year or so, you'll know that I love Scotland's agricultural fairs! There is no better way to get close to the farming communities that surround me. Here's where you come face to face with the locals who know their stuff. And you see the animals, expertly raised, tended, herded, handled. I have a weakness for watching those who do things well. The people who proudly show the best of their herd at these fairs do things very very well.

I get off the bus just a handful of miles before Peebles. I'd seen these grounds being prepared for the fair. It's a beautiful setting, against the backdrop of undulating Borders hills. Oh! There's a John Deere on display just as I enter!







What I did not expect is the mud. It's ankle deep in places and there's no good way around it. Every person here (with the rare exception of dumb outsiders like me) is wearing rubber boots. The kids are splattered beyond the knee cap but it hardly matters. They're prepared.

Me, I'm in my low trekking shoes. I have a clean pair of pants on and I quickly realize that for the second day now I'll be washing clothes and using the warm radiator to get things dry. My shoes will need a thorough rinse as well. I'll be looking for clean brooks on my hike later in the day.

Let's concentrate on the animals. Sheep dominate. Of course they do! And it's not just the standard white. We have the gold. And the beautiful black.






And everything in between.

I watch several competitions. Here, he's trying to herd them back for the judging. If you ever watched sheep being handled by humans, you'll agree that it's a bewildering game. Sheep respond in ways that, to the layperson, seem dumb and unpredictable, though I'm sure there's reason behind their movement.












(Watching, learning, perhaps rooting for a family member...)






In this competition of rams, the handlers all get low on cue and the sheep -- well, they do their group thing which I completely do not get. The judge takes notes.






To get the rams to where they should be, two people grab the horns and drag the animal into position.






The two finalists. (Spoiler alert! The lighter shaded one will win!)






I force myself to move on. There's more to the fair than just sheep. There is the competition of crooks and herding sticks.






And cattle! I bring you greetings from the Scottish Highland herd in Wisconsin (you know, the one belonging to the corn farmers up the road from our farmette)!






And even rabbits.






But ultimately, the sheep dominate. I dare say, in looks as well as numbers.






For the little kids, there are a few diversions, though frankly, they're a bit of an after thought. A few will ride now and then. Most, however, toddle around between stalls and competitions.






 I leave satisfied. I have had my day of sheep.







Where to now? Well, there is a hiking path to Peebles that looks promising. Can't be more than four miles from fair to town. I already had an unexpected cloudburst at the fair. If it rains again - so be it.

It's along the River Tweed. Are all my hikes here slated to be near the river? I look around me. It's a stunning landscape!






Here, too, I find riverside flowers.






The trail serves also as a bike path and so it's easy to navigate. But halfway into it, the scenery deteriorates. I'm meandering between some light industry and the Peebles sewage plant. Eventually I reenter the forest, but I am by the road. It's a poor ending to my Borders hiking adventures.

And so I decide that it mustn't be the end. The weather is holding. I should finally venture into the hills!

In a book of trails I find one out of Peebles that actually looks quite tame and more importantly, there are no warnings about bogging your way through mud or losing yourself in the forest. I turn off the bike path and head for the hills.

In terms of views, it is without doubt the best of my hikes here. Within an hour, I've left all traces of Peebles (or peoples!) behind me. I'm in the hills alright and they're alive with the color of tall grasses and harebells -- the same ones I so associate with Islay!







Very quickly I come to a clearing with a view toward the hills. I pause for a time-release photo...






This makes my stay in the Borders feel complete. I am deeply content.


As I dip into the valley to climb the parallel hill, I am impressed by signs from a local farmstead welcoming walkers. This, to me, is one of the best things about visiting Scotland: the knowledge that I (and you and the rest of the world) have a right to roam wherever I want. That the land, all of it, is open to me. That I can gaze out at a forest and love its deep green hues from any vantage point, that I can meander any which way and feel that the planet is as much mine to love as the person's who formally "owns" a field, a garden, or a meadow.

 As I descend back toward Peebles, I am stunned at the beauty of these hills. And the flowers! Oh, that rosebay willow herb!







The weather holds. The clouds, suspended in their desire to dominate, hold off with any rains. Every now and then I see the play of sunshine on a distant hill. It's just magnificent!







Eventually Peebles come into view. It's a pretty perspective.






And now I'm in town, poking around the High Street...






And in a shop of locally woven goods there are pretty children's scarves and I do think Snowdrop would like one...






I visit, too, a chocolate shop recommended by the diners last night from Peebles. It's abuzz with people eating cakes and sipping tea, but I settle for a berry smoothie and several gifts for my Islay hosts and this really does wrap up my Borders adventures.

From the bus on the ride back to my Inn, I watch the people leave the fairgrounds. Muddied boys and muddied farmers, satisfied, I'm sure deeply satisfied, maybe there was a ribbon won, maybe there was just a friendly conversation with a fellow farmer...






Yes, I see the sheep are mostly still there, but trailers are hauling livestock away, to be returned home, to the fields and the hills were they belong, were they spend their days grazing, heedless of the weather...






And now I'm at the Inn, waiting for the guests to come down so that we can all go in for a masterfully prepared dinner. Oh! A mirror! A selfie.






Sylvia, one of the innkeepers, jokes that she has put my little table at the head of the room so I can preside over the rest. I have brought down a book to read. I am happy to merely look around me.

But an extraordinary thing happens. The couple next to me -- newcomers -- ask me if I would join them at their table. In all my years (decades!) of solo travel, I've never had such a spontaneous and kind invitation.

They are Canadian transplants to England and they are actually celebrating an anniversary and I joke that I am ruining their most special evening, but they assure me that they've been together long enough that I am ruining nothing at all.

It should come as no surprise that they are wickedly funny, kind and with fascinating life stories.







Now if only their path took them through Wisconsin...
A road trip, maybe? -- the husband muses.

Yes, of course! Those you left behind in Canada! Right through Wisconsin!


The next morning dawns gray. The grass is wet and I see puddles in the courtyard.






We know better. It means nothing at all! IN an hour all may change.

I come down for my final Borders breakfast of eggs and salmon. Of mushrooms and tomato. Breads, yogurts, fruits. And then I hurry to begin my convoluted journey to Islay.