isle of islay, continued

I'm looking out over the waters of Indaal at sunrise. So calm! Will the midges come out if there is no wind? I've heard grumblings about them from visitors who were on the beach at dusk. Not for long -- they were chased away! (I myself have felt none of the bugs' presence thus far.)







Breakfast. I'm at the bay window today.






Andrew is asking if anyone wants a wee dram with their Scottish breakfast. You would never consider this at home or elsewhere, but on Islay, whisky stirs complicated passions and tasting it in this way reminds you of where you are and what keeps this island humming.






Very soon I see that this day will be even sunnier, even more brilliant than the already grand yesterday.

I have one of my usual morning email exchanges with my Warsaw architect-designer extraordinaire and in chatting to her about colors, I realize how much I have grown to love the pastels over the bolds. (A metaphor perhaps...) And as you'll see, this day will be one of the most sublime pastels.

I decide to repeat and extend a walk I did my very first time on Islay. It wont have the heather. But it will have the ocean. And it will have the sheep. Oh, will it have the sheep! They are goofy in their movements and quirky in their habits (from a human perspective), but they are, in my mind very very photographable.

I drive toward Loch Gruinart. Again, it's not really a lake but a bay that spills out into the ocean. At low tide, its tip is more of a soggy place where farmers harvest oysters.

Once more I need to follow a three mile rutted and hole-filled single lane to get to the tip of the "loch" where my hiking will start, but this road is easier to navigate as you can see what's up ahead. You can be ready for that car or tractor that comes barreling straight at you.

The sheep watch my progress.

In fact, you can see that the sheep share in their preoccupation with the passerby. Here they are, staring at me...












Or, they're in my way. Because they must cross just as I approach.






I arrive at the farm gate. This is where I leave the car and continue on foot.

Sheep, everywhere sheep. Here's a panoramic sweep (the bay, opening up to the ocean) where they simply fit into the picture by virtue of being at the right time in the right place.







Again, staring at me...






And in the next breath, attempting to get away. Sheep are not especially polite.






Stare...






Stare...







In my way!







Stare.






Run.







Toward the sea.

Ah, the sea! Now I switch focus. I am no longer in the grazing fields (and so I see flowers again -- they're chomped down in places where there are sheep).

Harebells.







I'm feeling confident. The walk is beautiful, the sky is clear. I'm wearing wellies, but really, are they necessary? My little local guide mentions no bogs to cross, no swampy mess to navigate.

And then, out of nowhere, boom! A river to cross. How did I miss catching that on my map? No matter -- I have wellies! I poke with my walking stick to find a spot that's less than knee deep.






Success! I am on the other side!

Dunes. And the ocean.






Remember how I thought it would be a still day? Not anymore! The breeze is strong! And it feels so refreshing in the warm (yes, warm, on Islay!) sun.

Waves, with misty sprays as they are pushed back by the wind.







I put down my pack, place my camera on it and do what must be done on this great expanse of beach in the UK: my Chariots of Fire moment.

Ready...








...set, go!






The many great uses of wellies.

I have such a good time running in the waves that I do not notice that the tide is coming in. Until a wave gently nudges my back pack, there on the sand. Oops.

(Looking toward the other side of the bay...)







Ribbons.






Waves.






Butterflies.

(Hey, little one -- aren't you doing this upside down?)






(There: your buddy has it right! Or, am I voicing an opinions on a subject about which I know nothing? Humans are good at that.)






Sands shifting  by the bay.






Last day of vacation.






Abandoned farmstead.






A farmhouse that once stood tall and strong.






In my way!






I'm back at my car.

And again, in my way!






I come to the main road. It's the afternoon. I have a bit of time. I'm close to a distillery and so I decide to stop by. No tour, not even a sampling of whisky (though they offer!). I just want to look at this old place that was shut down until recently and now it's reopened and has a bit of a reputation for being great at marketing its way straight to your heart. (Bruichladdich: they call themselves the progressive distillery and if you know its history -- openings, closures, reopenings, very different design, different recording systems and a total commitment to Islay, being one of the few companies that bottles its whisky here, making Bruichladdich effectively the largest employer on the island. Oh, and if that's not enough -- since 2011, they are also the producer of Islay's superb artisanal dry gin - the Bottanist.)

I poke around. I taste the Bottanist over ice. All free, all lovely, all supremely interesting.

Across the choppy bay, you can see Bowmore-- my village!







And in the late afternoon I go to the village Co-Op to purchase a few nibbles of the healthy kind (otherwise I'd be constantly munching the numerous cookies and sweets left for me by my hosts). Blueberries -- from Poland!

I eat dinner tonight with my fantastic hosts: grandma Sue, Alison and Andrew, and their spunky and disarming two daughters, Eliza and Lily, who are growing up way too fast!







Beautiful sunset after a most beautiful Islay day.

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.