isle of islay, continued

Who said you can't predict island weather? The forecast said rain and rain it does! A morning look outside confirms it. Wet slate roofs, wet streets, wet skies.






I linger over breakfast. I read tales from an oral history book from Islay. Here's my own retelling of one such tale:

There was a Mac(something or other), he worked the land, tended his herd. One day a Department of Education official came by (making distributions). "How many children do you have?" "Aye, I have seven sons." "And daughters?" "Aye, each son has a sister!" "There you go then!" The official leaves. the farmer laughs -- "I didn't tell him it's the same sister!"

You could while away many an hour watching people come and go and reading the local press, the whisky books, Islay lore.






But by noon, I want to go out. The pull of the outdoors is too great.

Even though it's raining hard.

I drive back to the area of the Loch Gruinart. I'm told I can find an RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) Center there. 

No one is staffing the informational tables when I arrive, but I help myself to some literature on the Islay birds that are frequent visitors to the bay.

Two birding trails are maintained by the Society and despite the rain, I decide I'm game for at least one of them. As I step outside I revise that to "just part of one." It's really raining. I have my rain jacket and I borrowed a bigger umbrella from my hosts, but the wind is too strong for it and it quickly flips itself into small and useless fragments.

Still, there is a forest. It's calmer in the lush grove of mosses, trees and shrubbery.

I make my way along the trail.






I see no birds, no wildlife, nothing at all. Just rain. Plenty of it. And very wet trees.






In two places, the trail leads to viewing areas. One is closed off to walkers. They've sent a herd of cows onto it to chomp down the grasses so that new shoots and buds would be ready for the 50 000 wild geese that come to winter over here between October and April.

I look at the cows. Does the rain matter less when you are huddled next to your next of kin?  I've rarely seen cows bunched together like this.






The rain messes with my lens. Each time I use it, I have to wipe it down with the corner of my shirt underneath my rain jacket. Speed is essential. Don't look, just click and study your result later.

I know I'm in for a gray series of photos.

Oh! The foxglove offers a hope of color!






I'd walked the other side of Loch Gruinart my second day here. The photos were full of pastels and sunshine. It's quite different on this day!






I come to a small hut, somewhat hidden in the bushes and grasses. I go inside. There are windows which you can swing open to look at the wetlands before you. A guy is sitting, gazing outside at the wet terrain. Clearly a birder.

See anything?
Not really.

He continues to sit and gaze. Could I do that? Spend long periods of time just looking at the same wet landscape in the hope of hearing a corncrake or spotting the hen harrier flying low in search of prey?

I couldn't. I would want to walk.







And I want to walk now, the wind, the rain notwithstanding.

But is there anything to see?  Ah, the reliable rosebay willowherb. Thank you for coloring the hills and vales with your purple fire.






I'm out of the woods now. I finish that trail and the rain still continues to pound on me, wetting my trousers and hiking shoes completely. Squish, squish. Isn't it lovely when your shoes let out gurgles and squishy noises?

But in walking back to my car, I see the arrow pointing to the second trail over the moorlands. I'm wet anyway. Maybe that trail is even better? Can I really leave Islay without walking this bit of turf that possibly may be the trail of all trail?

I know I wont encounter the terrible markings of yesterday's hike. The Society has done a wonderful job of maintaining the trails. People come here mainly for the birds. I suppose they bring with them a variety of walking skills.

There is a sign that says there are some mud issues on this second trail and that wellies are recommended. Well, I don't have wellies, but I'm wet wet wet. What could it matter?

And it doesn't matter. I can side step the worst stretches. And the views are grand, if only the rain would quit slanting in from the bay, hitting my face, my camera, making it nearly impossible to see. Camera out, quick lens wipe, snap, hide inside the jacket with the sticking zipper.






And here's a delightful surprise: the heather. It's lovely and I don't have to brush against it (besides, do ticks work full force on rainy days? ).

I take in a deep, satisfying breath. This I can stare at.






And I'm going to post one more photo of the moors -- one that has meaning for me. Because I know that if I look exactly in the middle of it, I'll see the speck of white that is the tail of a romping deer. My guess is that it's a roe, but I cannot be sure. It disappears as quickly as it comes. My camera routine (out, wipe, shoot, hide) barely catches its last leap out of the heathered field.






And now I am content.

A bleet from behind me. What about me? Have you forgotten about us sheep?

Oh, that's not possible:

How do you keep
wet sheep
from being cold?







Sheep stare.
Rain everywhere.
Sheep graze
Sheep gaze.







I'm back in the car, jacket dripping alongside the dysfunctional umbrella in the back seat.

And as if I wasn't already on a remote stretch of a fairly remote island in Europe's more remote country, I want to push this even further: at one of the northern tips of the island, after following a road seemingly endlessly to no identifiable destination, you can eventually find your way to the very remote Outback Cafe and Art Gallery.

Alison tells me: turn right at the telephone booth.

It seems surreal: there's nothing here, absolutely nothing. And there stands this phone booth, with an operational phone inside. Though I suppose it makes sense: in the past it would be accessible to farmers who lived up either of the forking roads.

Or sheep use it to phone friends.

Sheep stroll
To make a call...







The road is really less and less of a road, but I keep going. (A quick photo in between the wipe of the windshield blades.)






But when I eventually come to the gallery, I find it to be very warm and lovely. It's ironic that in this dry space I take no photos, but I am in a hurry. I make a wee purchase of something for my Warsaw apartment and then hurry back...

Past sheep, who are clearly asking someone to open the door for them...






Past sheep who stare.






I'm in a hurry because I have a FaceTime date with my granddaughter. It's wonderful to catch her liveliness even here, on Islay. I show her sea shells I found for her. And a toy sheep that I picked up in the Borders. And when we say good bye, I hurry off to the Celtic Shop for one last shopping adventure. The shop keeper brings me my macchiato to where I'm selecting books...






... and a plate for Warsaw...






Small things with big meaning.

I walk over to a restaurant to pick up a gift for my Bowmore hosts and as I wait to be helped, I watch a multigenerational family at table. I smile. It reminds me of family dinners at the farmette.






In my room now, looking out. The skies are constantly in motion. They are navy blue, they are puffy white. Sometimes, there'll be a silver streak of sun on the water even as there are sheets of rain over the hills.






Islay's weather -- it's nothing you worry about, because there is never a promise of anything at all. You make do with what the hour brings for you.

I'm back at the Harbor Inn -- one of the nicer island restaurants, even as I order the classic simple meal of fish and chips and mashed peas. The fish is fresh, the peas are wonderful, the salad reminds me of home.







This is my final Islay evening. Did I miss the sunset? Was there a break in the sky? I don't know -- I was talking to Ed back home.

I look out now -- one flickering light in the window across the street. A car on the opposite shore leaves a ribbon of gold as it moves along the road. The last lights of Islay.






I'll be leaving the island in the morning. Lights go out, night takes hold. Tomorrow, I'll be in Edinburgh.

isle of islay, continued

I sleep well on Islay. Is it the whisky? The quiet of the night here? Is it that there are no chickens to set free at dawn? Nowhere that I have to be?

But last night was this rule's exception. Restless. Ate too much? Change in the air?

Up at night, I look out over the waters. A light in the middle of the bay, shimmering.

And then, just as the night recedes, I look out again. Still there. Plainly visible now. A fishing boat in the calm night.






Out my other window, the street lights are still on. The slate roofs, gray blue skies, white walls made golden along the path of the street lamps.






Restless nights bring with them their own rewards.

Breakfast. At the bay window again. Back to salmon and eggs.






Today I'll go to that part of the island that is the main draw for most who come here: the rugged southeastern coast that is home to the three major distilleries (Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg) -- the ones I see (if I'm lucky) on the flight into Islay.

As I drive out of Bowmore, I note the preschool children with their mothers or grandmothers... I think about Snowdrop and her day and how different it is from the day of an island child. (Not better, not worse, just very different.)






As I drive up that more well traveled road to the distilleries, I see that here, too, the heather spreads its prickly branches across the hills.






But I don't go into those hills just yet. I have a small agenda. First stop is the whisky drinker's perhaps most beloved distillery -- Laphroaig. (Not that the other whiskys are less favored; Laphroaig, at 2.7 million liter capacity, is just that much bigger than the others -- Lagavulin at 2.25 million, Ardbeg at 1.1 million, Bowmore at 2 million liters) and so it has a larger following.






I want to find out if this year's release (the peaty and dark Lore) is available in the US. They think it is, or at least will be. No need to buy it then. But I do something else while here. Andrew, my innkeeper, suggested I might want to become a Laphroaig friend (he is one). You can do that: in registering as such, you get your own designated square foot of peat. And you get to collect rent on it: a small bottle of 10 year old. All this costs you nothing. It's just a way of creating community among Laphroaig's followers.

Here I am with my "certificate of ownership."






Alright. I move on to my next stop -- Ardbeg Distillery.






I like to learn a little bit more about this island's whisky business each time I am here and so inevitably, I am drawn to some tour or special visit. There is a lot to choose from, as each distillery has organized visits, often theme based, always quite small and therefore intimate.

This year, Ardbeg added a new tour (I like to think of it as more of a tutorial) called "whisky and wood." Andrew suggested that I try it as no one knows much about it and it's likely to be less in demand.

He is right: I am the only one on the tour and so I get my own guide for about an hour -- a woman who has been with Ardbeg for only three years, but who has lived her whole life in Port Ellen (just three miles down the coast).






The focus is on what happens after the whisky is already made: where does it go? Most people acknowledge that the components of production (ingredients, peat smoke, quality of water, etc etc), while important, are only the first step in the making of a quality whisky. Resting the whisky in barrels imparts the flavors we find so appealing.






And so I learn about the barrels. Always oak (American -- younger, smaller, or European -- older larger), charred or toasted --giving that smokey taste and the whiff of vanillin.

There is at Ardbeg the first fill -- always Bourbon casks from Kentucky. And then all hell breaks loose and you start to play. The second fill may be to another bourbon cask.
Why take it out of a bourbon cask and put it right back into another bourbon cask? I ask
My guide has great patience for such novice questions: because of course (!) it picks up more of the bourbon soaked wood's properties.

Or the refill will be to a sherry cask from Spain. Or a wine cask from France. Maturation  (by the sea, always with the breeze of the sea not too far off) of an Islay single malt in these barrels gives the sought after taste of a fine Islay whisky.

My tutorial includes a lesson in what exactly a barrel does to the flavor of a whisky and so I get samples of three -- a pure 1999 first fill bourbon (which is never sold), a second -- a refill to a bourbon cask, and a third -- a refill to a sherry cask.

And these are matched for me with foods: I'm told that the smokiness of the firstfill bourbon would go nicely with smoked mussels. I'm given a sample of mussels to judge for myself.

The second, a 12 year old bourbon refill is softer. I'm given a smoky Isle of Mull cheddar to eat alongside the whisky.

And finally, the third pairs so well with dark chocolate and I am given a sample of chocolates from Oban made for the distillery: dark with a salty caramel filling. Fantastic with the sherry casked whisky!

Of course, that's a lot of whisky to sample (and there are some more samples to be had of their limited editions) and so I come prepared. Andrew has these sets of tiny bottles which you can take with you (especially those of us who are driving). From the drams you get on the tours, you sample just enough to get the first tiny taste and you pour the rest into the wee bottles to take home so that you're not drinking and driving afterwards at the same time that these exquisite whiskies do not go to waste. It's a clever idea and I have five tiny bottles in my pack to show for it.

But again I buy nothing. I agonize over this: the Ardbeg festival bottle (Dark Cove) is just the whisky I'd have in my store, to pour for any visitor to the farmhouse who loves or is intrigued by whisky from the Scottish isles. But they tell me it can be had in the U.S. And so why pack it here? (One reason is that it's extremely hard to obtain in the States, but in my mind, that's not a good enough reason. If you really want it, you can get it.)

I leave with only my tiny five bottles and, perhaps more importantly, with a really satisfying feeling of knowing just that little bit more about the craft of whisky making.


I don't return yet to Bowmore. I want to do one last hike on the island. It's very close to Ardbeg: the main road ends at the distillery, but you can follow a single track (yet again!) up north for five miles more and when you cannot drive another inch (because even the pretense of a road ends), you can walk up over the hill and to the coast.

And here's where the skies really open up. The air is still and very warm. They say it's only in the mid sixties F, but it seems much warmer than that. The sun is out. It feels, for the first time that I am on Islay, like it's summer.

(Here's the last mile of the "road." As usual, your eyes must be glued to the bend to make sure there is no car coming straight at you.)







Alright. The "road" ends at a farmstead. I get out and open the gate to the pastureland (as always, crossing a farmer's field is allowed, expected, welcomed).


Sheep stare...






Sheep, take care!






Ewes with blues...







And then I leave the farm and follow the "trail" over to the hills, which are beautifully covered with heather!






It really is a sight to behold, with great reverence and respect for the beauty of the landscape, unmarked by human hand.






Well now, but this virtue spells doom for the casual hiker. Unmarked. Indeed!

Yes, I have my stick, Alison's wellies, my emergency pack with phone even though there are no signals here. But these are not enough. Very quickly I come to understand why this hike is rated as "most difficult."

The path goes up one hill, down the next. But am I even on a path? What's deer track and what's my path? Which way to return?

And the bog! Patches of turf and heather help keep me out of the deepest mud holes. But there are burns (aka small streams) making their way to the sea and sometimes you don't even know you've come across one until your boot goes that much lower into the wet ground.

The air is still. Warm. I've long ago shed my sweater.

I'm thinking -- enough. I've reached the last summit of this walk. I can see the shore below. Take the photo and head back.






Doing a time release photo on the soggy heather covered turf is a challenge. But I get one in!






Slowly, with many mistakes, I find my way back.

I am very relieved to be at the farmstead again, where the walking is heavenly, easy, and the breeze picks up from the sea...


Ewes in twos...
















Yes, smug, tickled, and satisfied until I look down on my hand and find the first tell tale sign of a tick.

Do you know about the Scottish tick? It's tiny! I mean, smaller than a pin ball. I remember this all too well from camping in Scotland with Ed. Trying to pick out ticks at the end of the day in the tent with a flashlight was a challenge I do not look forward to ever again.

By the car, I take seriously the challenge of finding all the ticks before I get in. (They are almost all on my hands and bare arms. And, of course, on my clothing, so I take care to brush these off for a first solid de-ticking before heading home.)

The drive back has two very special moments. One is just at the beginning: in the hills, a flock of game birds traverses the field. I think they're grouse, but I'm not sure. It will be a topic of discussion in the breakfast room the next day.
No, not corncrakes, they don't travel in packs. So... grouse after all?







And another special scene, almost escaping the reach of my camera -- the iconic red deer of Islay.






And now I am ready to drive back, past the distilleries again, through Port Ellen...






To Bowmore and my guest house, where I do another even more thorough tick check, take a hot shower and soak my clothes for a long while in the sink.

Sometimes it feels grand to just be in the quiet corner of one's own room. Especially when the views are this good!







I eat a quick supper at the Lochside. Broccoli soup, pan roasted salmon. It's the kind of place that reminds you of throwing a dinner together at home: uncomplicated, fresh.


And in my room again, I glance out to see the sun do yet another brilliant descent. Behind clouds. Except in moments when it peeks through for a final wave.