even slower

Can you believe it -- I am slowing down even more. There is a coastline to walk (Islay has a 120 mile circumference). There are a handful of villages scattered throughout. (I'm in Bowmore -- one of the larger ones at 300 inhabitants. Large enough to warrant a school. And by the way, don't be like me and give it a mainland pronunciation. The right way to say it is Boh-more -- it's Gaelic for sea rock, of which there are many.) But this morning, I linger. I stare out the window for a good bit. Ah, there's rain out there across the bay. Is it heading our way?






Breakfast? I ask for my home stalwart -- oatmeal, called porridge here, with fruit and honey.





Yesterday's dinner was an eating indulgence. I need to scale it down for a few days.

My hosts leave me interesting reading materials each time I come down for a meal. For instance, there is the Islay newsletter. Even for this small island where surely everyone knows everything about everyone, there is a "letters to the editor" section where people opine about the forthcoming referendum on Scotland. They feel the editors have made assumptions (that Scotland will stay part of the UK; I myself have heard this before -- Scots are slow to embrace change and when given a choice, they inevitably pick the tried and true). The readers want to correct this. One person writes:

The independence referendum is the most important event in Scottish history in the last 300 years. (We should) allow Scotland's wealth to improve the lives of ordinary Scots rather than propping up a failed British economy, run for the benefit of a small elite in London.

(She then goes on to say that everyone she knows is voting for independence.)






This, of course, is the standard argument for all breakaway movements. Substitute Catalonia for Scotland and Madrid for London and you've just made a speech I've heard many times in the south of Europe.


Eventually I decide I should take in a distillery today. There are three I want to visit and Andrew, my host, tells me it's better to spread them out. So today it will be the one with the best (I'm told) tour -- Laphroaig (pronounced La-froyg).

I'm sure you don't know the lay of the island, so I'll give you a quick island tour: Bowmore, is on a bay, to the west. To the south, you'll find Port Ellen and three of the big distilleries are just up the coast from Port Ellen. One other significant port is to the east -- Port Askaig, from where you can board a ferry to the neighboring Jura Island, or go full blast and travel to the mainland. People who come by car always come in this way.

Two of the distilleries I'll likely pop into are close to Port Ellen. And luckily, the bus connections to Port Ellen are moderately good. I am able to say "no thank you" to the ever obliging Andrew and tell him I don't need any lifts today: I'm riding the buses.

I thought myself to be oh so clever in fitting in a modest hike before the distillery tour. We all checked the weather forecast  and it assures us that it will not rain. Fine. I take my pack and set out.

I don't know if it's the love one has for one's own turf or whether I am indeed objective, but I have to say, Port Ellen takes a backseat in my eyes to Bowmore. Not that it's not pretty -- it has that island look that your grow fond of here.






And when I gaze out across the small harbor, I like that single row of white houses. Very dramatic, with very imposing clouds rolling in today! (Gulp...)






But I've become attached to Bowmore. Though why compare? Let's just say Port Ellen is different: more somber. Or am I influenced by the weather?

The clouds keep coming and sure enough, within a few minutes the rain comes down. I hide in a covered alley and dig into my pack to retrieve the rain jacket.

And I continue on the hike. Up a narrow road, then veering into a path through the woods. Spooky woods! Wet woods, overgrown with ... oh I don't know. Stuff. I do later identify the foliage of what they locally call a trinity flower -- a lily of sorts. It's not blooming now, but the clumps of leaves are quite striking. Unexpected, here on a very northern island of Europe.






Eventually I come out to a strip of sand. They call it Whispering Sands. It's drizzling a bit and perhaps I am influenced by that, or maybe it just doesn't stand up to Machir Bay -- the sands from yesterday's outing. I look out, snap a photo, turn back.






And now it's time to walk to the distillery -- some 40 minutes up the coast from Port Ellen. A nice path takes you along pastures spilling out into the northern most part of the Irish sea.





It's newly built to accommodate visitors, though today, I am the only one on it there and back. Free samples of whisky notwithstanding, everyone else drives.

The tour of the distillery is fairly interesting. I have in my life been on tours of beer breweries, wineries, liquor distilleries, bourbon distilleries and now scotch distilleries and that's all rather curious since, with the exception of wine, I drink none of the above. And yet, I almost always like the tours. There is a great deal of local pride that's quite evident when you visit these places. Today's tour guide is a woman born and raised in Islay. It's probably part of the job description that she be that. (She tells me -- I worked as a social worker and for years no one wanted to listen to me so I quit and now I do this and it's so much more rewarding to talk about island history to a group that really is curious about it) She is quite good. Knows her stuff, speaks enthusiastically, projects well.

You dont really want to know the ins and outs of scotch whisky production. Get barley, allow it to sprout, smoke it with local peat, mash it, ferment it, store it in barrels imported from bourbon country (that would be Kentucky!). There you have it.






Of course, the story is finer in the detail. It's when you consider, for example, the relationship between the peat -- which is nothing more than compressed heather, grasses, moss, whatever grows in these parts -- and the barley that is smoked in it that you begin to realize how truly unique the final product is going to be. I mean, this is Islay scotch for you -- that smoky taste, the hints of a landscape that runs down to the sea.





At the end of the tour, I buy nothing. Not even as a present, though I have some Scotch drinkers back home who may have liked any number of the whiskys I sampled (a person on the tour asked her boyfriend -- why is it that only men like whisky?  Curious, isn't it, how the vast majority of people you know who drink it will indeed be male). My nose tells me that I will do even better along the smoky peaty continuum at the other distilleries.

And indeed: I walk back to Port Ellen and catch the bus back to Bowmore, where I go straight to the Bowmore Distillery, sample their scotches and purchase gift bottles there. I tell myself that the notes on the Bowmore batches are much more pronounced than in the earlier samples from the tour. But is it that, or is it that I favor something coming from the village which is much closer to my heart?


Dinner: eating in Islay is not easy. There is a good sandwich place  but it's closed today for a private event. There is an upscale restaurant -- reluctantly I go there, only to find that it's fully booked. That only leaves me  with the place I ate the first night here. Pub like food. With lots of boiled vegetables on the side. I ordered Scotch broth (a dense soup with lots of barley in it)...





... and a slice of Scottish salmon. All fine, though last night I swore to myself I would never eat seafood again and here I am eating fish.

The skies cleared tonight. If I stay awake long enough, I may finally see a classy and classic sunset. Oh, it's 10:00 o'clock. Here it is! For you. With good wishes for a sweet and restful night.

the sky of Islay

It rained at night and then, by mid morning, the clouds passed (temporarily) and the sun poked through. You will see a lot of this view out my window and, because of the shifting clouds, it will never be the same.





I slept superbly. My corner room is an oasis of peace. It is as I wanted it to be. How wonderful when you can say that.

A commenter sent a link to a Donovan song about this island. (Another commenter sent a link to Celtic music and scenes from Islay, but it's longer, so I give you this one.) I think the locals would forgive his mainland pronunciation of the name. The song is beautifully evocative. Listen to it if you want, as you read along.

Breakfast is in a cheerful dining room, with a view toward the bay on one side and toward the kitchen on the other. The little girls -- daughters of the Guest House hosts -- are up, getting ready for a birthday celebration. Their voices are the voices of vacation days, the carefree days where the rush is only to get to a party on time.

Breakfast is cooked to order. Mine? Oh, the scrambled eggs and Argyll smoked salmon! (On the wall before me, I have the artwork of a local artist who loves to paint the distilleries here.)






No distillery for me today. Plenty of time for that. (Though Andrew, my host, does pour his guests drams of a peaty smoky whisky to get the morning started right. It is fitting for the time and place and goes well with my smoked salmon!)






Upstairs again, as I get ready to leave, I glance out at the sky.  It hasn't even been a full day since I've arrived and already I see an Islay rainbow.



 


Andrew had asked if I wanted to come along with them to the other side of the island. Lilly, their freshly six year old, is having a birthday party there and this will give me a chance to see the far western coast of Islay. (I plan on using the occasional bus in future days. I may even rent a car if I want to be really adventurous. It's all vague in my mind right now. I take each day slowly.) I happily accept the offer.

The birthday party is joining Becky and her gang of Wellie Walkers. Let me explain: Becky, a creative spirit from around here, offers walking treks in different parts of Islay. (Why "wellie?" It stands for Wellington boots -- highly recommended for the walks as there are streams to cross and wet marshes to navigate.) She's gearing this one toward a young set with some beach activities thrown in.






As the kids take to the sands and the adults watch, grateful for a bit of respite as the young energy is put to use playing in the pebbles and trickling streams, I go off toward the craggy cliffs and indulge in a beautiful moment, where it's just the sound of the winds and the sea. With an occasional sheep. Always there will be the sheep.


















(kissing?)



The beach has an array of pebbles and, too, bits of slate. As kids use these to help with the construction of sandcastles, the adults speculate if the slate is native to the area of if it is washed up from a cottage roof somewhere. They are oddly beautiful and I pack some to take home.

A castle building competition is in full swing. You can tell where the kids get an assist from a grown up...






...and where they just let their exuberance take them -- in this case away from the castle and toward building a damn. A failed project in the end, but such tremendous fun while it lasts.








(a wellington has many uses)



I'm told if I go out to sea here and keep going straight, my next land mass will be Newfoundland.






There is a vastness about this place. For the Atlantic Ocean before me and, too, for the remoteness of life here.
















On the way back, I listen to Andrew's travel stories. He and his wife are intrepid travelers. I tell him at this rate he will surely exceed me in my travel ambitions. He grins and says -- you have a passport -- that's something. There's a standard British pub quiz question that goes like this -- which country has a population where fewer than 10% have passports? The answer is America!

Andrew stops by an oyster vendor (who harvests them, then keeps them in tanks, right here, on his farmstead)...










Driving down the curvy one lane road, we pick up someone walking home -- a teacher of Lilly and Eliza it turns out. The girls both are in Gaelic classes in school. Small ones: Lilly has one other girl and five boys, Eliza, the seven year old, has nine total. Neither parent speaks Gaelic but they think the girls will profit from exposure to the language. (The island parents have mixed views on this: two thirds prefer to send their kids to English classes. When asked why, they answer that since they dont speak the language at home, it's pointless to teach it to the kids. Is it pointless? Andrew drops me off at the Center for the Preservation of Gaelic culture. I pick up two CDs of music, remembering the beautiful one I bought when on Skye.)

I walk back to the Guest House thinking - this island is really addictive. Even if you're not (yet) visiting the distilleries.


I take an early evening walk into town.  It almost seems busy now! Islay-style busy!






I make my own rounds. To a news agent and card store. To the Tourist Office for bus schedules. To the post office. To a cafe-restaurant where I can get a tea and scone.






Small stops. Excuses really. Asking questions, getting answers -- it's another way to have exchanges with people who live and work here.

Then back to my room up over the bay. With the stellar view(s).







Every once in a while, when there are enough takers at their Guest House, Andrew and Alison cook a seafood dinner with whatever they can get right now from the Islay fishing boats. Tonight's such a night and the bounty is tremendous: the oysters, crab claws, Islay scallops, lobsters.

Loving the coastal towns of France (as I do), I have been lucky to have had many a mixed seafood dinner in my life.

I feel I can never order one again.

Because it will not be able to compete with what Andrew and Alison put before me tonight:

the oysters -- so plump and buttery that it is as if in their oyster life, they had the most comfortable of circumstances:





Then came the crab claws. Andrew said that the fishermen tell him that they only pull off one claw and then throw the crab back and it regenerates the missing claw. He doesn't know if this is true, but he'd like to believe it is.

My crab claws are huge, tender and a dinner in their own right.






Then came the scallops. Enormous ones! Perfectly pan fried.






And finally (sadly after there was very little room left in me) -- the lobster. With boiled young potatoes in butter. Here's my lobster before:






Here it is after:






The thing is, judging by the price of the dinner, my hosts dont make much (if anything) from this effort. The meal would be a budget breaker for me anywhere else -- so much so that I would never order it. But my hosts have this love of doing something well and they have the ingredients at their fingertips and that is why I ate the most incredible mixed seafood dinner of my life.

The Isle of Islay is not without her surprises.

to Scotland

When I first imagined this trip back in January, I had been reading an essay by someone who had traveled recently to the Hebrides -- an archipelago of islands off the western coast of Scotland. [To explain: there are the Inner Hebrides -- 35 inhabited islands in all, but with fewer than 20,000 people living on them, the ones you'll recognize are Skye and possibly Islay; and then there the Outer Hebrides -- which I've not been to, but most people have heard of Harris and possibly Lewis. There, only 15 are inhabited.] The author extolled the virtues of the light on the islands. Yes, I remembered my own rapture when visiting Skye some five years back, when Ed and I crisscrossed Scotland together.

Time to go back, I thought. But to a different island. Islay was an obvious candidate. It's surely not crowded (Population: 3,200). It's fairly easy to get to (a small commuter flight takes you there from Glasgow). It has a rather mild Gulf Stream climate. It has eight working whiskey distilleries. Now, I know little about Scotch whiskey (or whisky as they write it) and am not likely to ever choose it back home, but traditions are fascinating no matter where they take you and so Islay became the island to put on my shortest of short lists of places to visit, come summer.


The day dawned bright in Berwick-upon-Tweed. I had my last filling breakfast (which has really become brunch for me, as the thought of sitting to a lunch after such a copious breakfast is daunting)...





[In a brief exchange of travel reports with another guest, I learn that yesterday was at least initially very wet and crowded on the Holy Island. But lest I gloat about choosing to put myself among the millions who turned out in Yorkshire to celebrate the victorious ride of the Tour de France, I have to insert here that, though the skies remained clear, the English mood dampened considerably as the homegrown Cavendish -- a hopeful for the jersey -- suffered a terrible crash just moments before crossing the finish line. The press all had front page photos of the horrified faces of the young royals and the PM who once again had to swallow hard as an Englishman failed to deliver the much desired sporting victory. Me, I want to say -- it's in the race, people! It's all in the race!]


And now a last look at my very favorite set of blocks in Berwick-upon-Tweed -- which happen to be just outside the Granary Guest House door...





...and then I yet again accepted the gracious offer from my wonderful (and this is no hyperbole) hosts of a lift to the rail station. Dave says -- we'll probably never see her again. I think about that for a bit. It is a one sided thing, this stop at a guest house, where you get a glimpse into another set of lives. The guest decides if she or he will ever pass this way again. True, I leave behind an even more detailed glimpse into my comings and goings with a link to Ocean, but it's not only the news friends seek -- it's the exchange. And the vast majority of people come and go and that fleeting shared space is indeed very fleeting. 


We say our goodbyes, however final or not final they may be and I face the train schedule posted at the station screen. I do hope the train to Edinburgh will not be late.

It is late.

I look around me. Passengers wait patiently.








(this one is actually for the later train to Glasgow)


The clock moves alarmingly forward, past the time of scheduled departure.

Well, I have some flex. In Edinburgh, where I do not bother to step outside the station, I catch the speedy 11:30 to Glasgow. On time. Bus to airport? Arrives instantly. Glasgow airport checkin line -- short. Security, despite dire warnings in the press that the UK is gearing for heightened alert and detailed screenings -- moves quickly. I'm at the gate, with time to watch the first Wimbledon serve before they call my flight.

The plane to the island is a small twin prop. I watch it spinning as we mount over the western coast of Scotland.





The young woman pilot is teaching her officer flying procedures. But, the skies are partly cloudy, the flight is short (30 minutes) -- I have no complaints.

We land at one of those island airports that has a short runway and a tiny waiting room. Two flights come in each day.

I've arrived in Islay. And by the way, it's pronounced eye-lah. I have had it said in every which way, but the locals are adamant -- eye-lah.

No buses run the island on Sunday and so I take the cab to the next village up from the airport -- Bowmore. That's where I'm based for the next 8 days. A long time to be in the middle of nowhere. To be in a place where nothing is going on. Where there are no great sights, no dramatic walks that take your breath away. No real shopping to be done, no gardens, parks. Only one good restaurant in the area and it is so good that it is expensive. Not likely to be my daily fare.

So why here? For the light? Well maybe, but really for the calm. For the cab driver who spins tall tales on the way to my guest house. For the red faced old man on the street who tells me where the grocery store is and then asks where in the States I live (my accent says it all) and when I say north of Chicago, he asks -- Illinois? and when I say no, Wisconsin, he asks in a barely understandable to me brogue -- oh, Madison? When I show surprise, he answers -- I should have been in American studies in school...

I'm staying at the Bowmore House...


 


...a bed and breakfast recently taken on by Andrew and Alison (and their two delightful little girls). It's not a complicated place, but it's so full of heart and immaculate care and my room has the best views coming at me from two exposures.

Andrew was, of course, responsible for sending me to Pooley Bridge and Berwick-upon-Tweed, so I owe him big from the get-go. He also coached me through countless steps of booking his place, flight connections and all the other small details which usually are no problem, except when you're traveling to an island that stands alone, stuck between Ireland and Soctland, not having the benefit of obvious access to it.

Alright. Enough text. A few photos for you from the first walk through the village:



the mountains are from the next island down -- Jura




The Bowmore distillery




beyond the village






And now it's evening and I definitely am ready for dinner. At the Lochside Hotel (where I'm told I can get a pub-like supper),  I ask about the herring starter. Don't know, says the young man serving the tables. Don't much care for seafood myself. The black pudding (meaning blood pudding) I would recommend.

I'll take the herring. 


 


...Followed by Islay scallops.
The main course comes with boiled potatoes and carrots and cabbage and squash. In copious amounts.
It's satisfying. All of it. The kind of meal that calls for a nap afterwards. Or, in the alternative -- for a moment in your room, leaning back in a comfortable chair, looking out at the bay waters and the vast sky that changes rapidly before you. There wont be a full presentation of a sunset tonight. It's 9:30 at the moment and the clouds are rolling around at the horizon. How about a pre-sunset from both my windows? Yes, so lovely. And of course, there is the island light. Unique and beautiful.




view to the south




view to the west