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EARLY MORNING IN PARIS

I had it in my head that I should wake up in my tiny hotel room in Paris at 6:30, which would give me enough time to shower, do a final pack and walk over for the 7:30 train to the airport. I had been sent a message from Air France that everything must be charged or subject to confiscation, cameras and kindles included and so I was sure to top it all, just in case. And I gave myself time for the expected prolonged security check. The flight is the 11:05 to Washington D.C. -- even with added layers of waiting and long lines, I should have enough time for a coffee and a croissant at the airport.

That was the plan.

Here's the reality (it's going to be different than you think):

I woke up earlier. That's predictable. I always wake up earlier than I have to. Then I hear a ping on my computer. Email message. I want to ignore it. Probably junk.

Just thinking about whether to check that email wakes me up sufficiently so that it's pointless to try to sleep again.

The email, it turns out, is from Air France. Flight is delayed. But just an hour. At this point.

Damn. Could have slept more. 

All this means is that I go about everything in a more leisurely fashion. I stare out the window and think trivial thoughts. About whether Paris is more fun in the dead of winter or the height of summer, for example. It surely is wonderful to have light stream into the room just after 6 (as opposed to after 8 in wintertime). Even if there still is a moon up there in the morning sky.





Packed, ready to go. Suitcase has the addition of several books I picked up at the airport in Edinburgh. (Would you believe it -- childrens books! As if my grandchild, who is yet to be born, can follow the complicated story of the smart giant, as only the English can tell it!) Still should be within weight limit, but the suitcase is getting to be extremely stubby and fat.

Leisurely. Think leisurely. Okay, I'll walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. They're open now, though only the joggers' rhythmic stomp breaks the stillness at this hour. It's beautiful and empty and I am just in love with this early morning walk, just minutes after 7.






This will be my one glance at the Eiffel Tower...






But truly the star attractions are the chestnuts and the empty chairs and benches...






Satisfying. Very satisfying. A fitting ending to my short stay here. Sun is up. Time to get going. Just one last glance and I'll be on my way.






Done. I carry my lumpy suitcase down to the RER station. (The one fault of the Luxembourg stop is that there is no down escalator. Over the years, I've cursed every single purchase that bloated my suitcase and made my walk down these steps awkward. This time, I take it in stride. You get a lot less excited by trivial things when you get older.)

At the airport, they move the check in for the Washington DC flight to the (mostly) European terminal F (to ease the burden on the screening in terminal E, which has mostly intercontinental flights).  How will this work? It's the transatlantic flights that are doomed to have the additional layers of screening.

Well now, there are practically no lines at security. Even my (hard earned by frequent flying) fast pass is pointless -- it all moves quickly. And nothing extraordinary happens. No one asks me to power on any device. Most people don't even remove shoes. It just feels very normal. And fast.

And so now I have more than three hours at the airport. I'd say that's quite enough time for this breakfast.





FLIGHT

It is my first time on the new double decker Airbus 380 and after very complicated machinations, I find myself on the upper level (still sardine class, but fewer sardines up there).





It's a mighty big plane and I'll happily return to my lesser ones now that I sampled the flying giant. The downstairs section is too crowded and the upstairs sardines have to sit in the back, which is sort of like hanging onto a dolphin tail in the ocean: there's a lot more flipping and flopping back there when the air gets choppy.

Still, I had the only empty seat on the plane next to me and so I offer no complaints.


ON THE FARMETTE SIDE OF THE OCEAN


No sane person should ever pick connecting flights that arrive and leave from different airports. But what am I to do -- it's all I could get with my piddly miles. In D.C., I arrive in Dulles and leave from Regan (UPDATE: I'll leave that spelling for you, Regan, even though I ought to be a better proofer!).

Now, on the up side (or down side, depending on your spirit of adventure), I have a huge layover. Seven hours. Ed tells me -- go to the museums.  Tempting!

But the plan quickly develops rips and wrinkles. First -- the DC weather just doesn't jive with Europe's cooler temps. And I'm wearing my hiking shoes because they no longer fit in my wee suitcase. So that's a bummer.

Then there is the matter of the suitcase. Did you know that even if you send your suitcase through to your final destination, if you have different connecting airports you have to lug it from one to the other yourself? Well you do. And wishing to save money, I take public buses and metros. During rush hour. Whisky is heavy. As are the slabs of slate I picked up on the beach. And don't forget the chutney. So all this presents new and fresh challenges.

And one last little glitch in the "I'm going to have a fun few hours in DC" plan:  my Paris flight comes in late. Going through customs, catching that bus, connecting to the metro -- it takes forever. So by the time I drop off my suitcase at Regan Airport, my seven hour layover has just been whittled down to 2.5 hours -- not enough to motivate me to go back into town.

So here I am, sitting at Regan spewing off all these tedious travel details which would put anyone to sleep. Without even a photo from D.C. to add color to the post. Well, one: of the Capitol, as seen from the airport. Because it really is quite beautiful, even at a distance.





I'll be in Madison late tonight. I expect to do just one thing before crawling into a comfortable bed in the quiet of the farmhouse summer night: check to see if the bottles survived their long and complicated journey.

movement

Waking up in Paisley, just short of Glasgow, I know instantly I am off island. My room at the Ashtree, while pleasantly looking out on the green space to the back (and if you peer intently, to the church grave stones beyond!), is a room that reveals city skies and Scottish stone, made dark by too many years of history -- much of it not for the faint at heart. (Here's a photo of the front of the hotel. The colors are telling.)





Still, it was a good sleep, as all sleep in Scotland has been for me and I go down to a bustling breakfast room refreshed.

This being the UK, there is a cooked breakfast (their term for anything that has protein and is served hot in the morning), but I say a polite no thank you. It would be unfair to compare it to the fabulous eggs and salmon (with a dram!) on the island. Porridge: I settle for that, slowly winding myself down and easing into the habits of my daily life back home.






From here, I am less troubled about my connections. This is what I had dreamed of for my home state: rapid and frequent train connections to all key points north east west south of the city. Scotland has them. The trains from Paisley to Galsgow run every ten minutes. From Glasgow to Edinburgh (a distance comparable to that of Madison to Milwaukee) -- every fifteen. I ride with commuters who sit back and read -- what a luxury for your morning trip to work! -- or, just stare into nothing at all and imagine the day ahead.






In Glasgow, the switch to the Edinburgh train is so easy that it's almost laughable that I should have worried when I studied connections during the planning stages of this trip.

And in Edingurgh, I get off at Haymarket -- a stop that puts me right on the route to the airport. As of last month, in addition to the airport bus (in Madison, we don't even have that connection to the center of town which I think is shameful), there is now a tram that zips you right to it in style.





And at the airport, though I'm taking the cheap Easy Jet flight, I know I am within their weight limit and I know my suitcase is likely to survive the brutal handling at the airport. (A bit of a hopeful attitude there.)

The flight to Paris is on time, the weather in Paris is superb.

Of course I've paid my dues in the past. And tomorrow my connections on the return home, which I made with the use of frequent flyer miles (meaning you take what you can get and are thankful for it) are brutal and long, requiring patience and a bit of an adventurous mindset. I hope Islay has reinforced both in me.


Paris. What can I say -- may there always be a place in my life, in your life that allows me, that allows you to transition so magnificently from one stage to the next. Where you're comfortable and most everything is familiar, beautiful, sensually pleasing.



(my very first minutes are in the Luxembourg Gardens)


If I have one sigh of disappointment it's that my reliable and perfectly positioned hotel underwent a total facelift. And lift itself it did! Right into a category of comfort that exceeds my budget. I suppose someone understood that a place so close to the gardens and the river, on a street of magnificent calm and quiet will always fill its rooms, even if it charges twice what I'm used to. I have one last stay booked at special promo rates for one night sometime in October and I shall taste that fourth star that they so wanted to earn then. But only then.  (French hotels have somewhere between two and five stars; I nearly always stay in three and in the country, I'll consider two star places).

But today, I'm at the rather academic (three star) Sorbonne (it is across the street from that university and, too, their prices attract the shabbier pocket of a faculty person or a student) -- which is fine, depending if your next door neighbor is studiously quiet, or is in Paris, in Paris, damn it! -- to experience freedom from parents, institutions and the oppressive drinking laws back home. Tonight, it appears I have the former, thank God.



(the room is tiny, but good enough for me)


I really have no time in the city. None at all. I check into the hotel at around 6 in the evening and I need to leave at 7 in the morning so it's just a brief walk and a dinner, but I shall make much of it, that's for sure, because I need that brisk paced gallop up and down these streets, in the same way that I needed that marathon dancing spell at my daughter's wedding. Movement is so good for any number of things, transitions being one of them.


LATER

Walk accomplished. Scenes from it, coming up. It's summer so I never know if I'm photographing tourists or locals and honestly, does it matter? This is Paris:



(you'll see more children now, in July, than in any other month here. they're not in school and not yet away for the family vacation)









("where the hell am I??")




(this is the one time that I longed for Sorede: when I saw these market apricots, which probably came from there)




(love...)





(...is everywhere)





(as are raspberries)





(...and scooters)





(a selfie)



As for dinner? I don't want to do anything but eat a meal at a place that makes me happy and so I go to my reserved spot at  Pouic-Pouic. Lovely and lively, delicious. I am never disappointed.



(outside)





(inside)


As I eat my girolle mushrooms and crab, and my gambas (shrimp) and veggies, and my way too large portion of berries and cream and ice cream, I think about how they know me here, at Pouic Pouic and they know me possibly because I am the one who always come here to eat alone. They treat me royally and in fact, I think they over compensate. Today they comped me a desert wine and they always call me by name. Madame Camic, how did you like such and such, Madame Camic, would you like a coffee?

Do I mind eating -- or, let's broaden it -- traveling alone? Those of you who know me also know the answer to it: it's yes. Of course I would prefer to do all that I do with my beloved at my side! Of course I would!



(a small birthday celebration at the table across from mine)


It just cannot be. And so I toggle on and I devise trips that will satisfy my need to pack up and go, at the same time that they wont remind me too much of how it could be, were I living with someone who also loved to travel.


And now I am back at the Hotel Sorbonne, in for a too brief night of sleep ahead. I can't tell if it will be as solid as Scotland sleep. That would have to be tomorrow's post -- which, of course, will be slightly off schedule, due to travel.

and in the end...

In the early hours, I'm half awake, tossing a little to get comfortable. As always, I glance outside to see what the sky is doing now, knowing full well that in an hour, it may be entirely different.

Wisps of a sunrise over the waters of the bay.






It's somehow comforting to see the stillness of water -- a silent lullaby that lets me fall right back to sleep.

Again I am nearly the last one down for breakfast. Ah, the bay window table is free for me. A beautiful ending to my stay here.






But my flight isn't until evening. And cross your fingers that I'll be on it -- it's pouring right now and the small aircraft cannot land here in low clouds -- it is entirely a visual landing. I read about the year the plane mistook lights below for the landing strip. Turns out they were lights at a distillery. The pilot managed to avoid bringing the building down and all passengers miraculously survived, but the pilot did not. Since then, during poor visibility, flights simply do not come in.  I do a mental calculation if I would still make my overseas connection on Wednesday if I missed my flight out tonight. The answer is less than promising and so I push the whole matter aside and take on a "we'll see, life wont end" attitude.

At 10,  I have an appointment at the Bowmore Distillery. Perhaps you'll remember  -- my day with Eddie MacAffer was to culminate in a hand fill of a bottle for me to take home, but the hand fill was postponed due to labeling issues. Today is the day to finish, in effect, my meeting with the Master Distiller.

Andrew, my Guest House host comes along. Hand fills are rare and special events: a cask is selected for a limited bottling and the bottling is done by the buyer, straight from the barrel. Unfiltered if you wish. (Andrew says -- absolutely unfiltered! I want every last bit of that barrel flavor!)

Today's hand fill is from a Bordeaux wine barrel. Perhaps 250 bottles (that's how much the barrel holds) will be hand filled over the next few weeks. That's it. My Guest House host collects one from each of the hand fills and like many collectors, he picks up a second for drinking. These are whiskys identified for their superb color and taste.

It's pouring rain as we set out toward the distillery. Andrew remarks that it's appropriate that it should be thus. Islay whisky is not for hot and sunny climates. It is a brooding drink, potent and warming, perfect for the foul weather that sometimes hits the island.

Andrew takes over camera work as I am taught how to do a hand fill.












I cork it, label it and finally register it in their log book.





Eddie is here now, having been called in for the event from the peat bog where he was cutting grasses to allow the peat cutting to proceed.
In such nasty weather? I ask.
He shrugs. You do it no matter what.

I ask him and Andrew to pose for a shot. These two have been so instrumental in making my stay on Islay rich with memories!






Eddie signs my bottle, making it quite impossible for me to ever give it up, open it, do anything with it at all except keep it proudly somewhere in the recesses of the farmette.





We say our warm goodbyes -- but not for good. Next year, I'll show you things we didn't have time for during this visit, Eddie says.

I'll see you then!

I walk back to the Guest House now and I face the absolutely miserable task of packing my wee suitcase. If anything breaks, I'll be crushed. Cushioning bottles works well if you have plenty of clothing and lots of space. I have neither. This suitcase has to withstand four flights, two bus rides and three train trips. I do the best I can.

Right. Done for now. One last look at the spot in my room where I spent many an hour, looking out on the waters of varying hues.






Okay. Chores. There are chores to be done. When the rains pause, I set out to the post office. Ah, the rush of Monday shoppers! I am one of them. (The post office is on a hill; the photo is looking down toward the bay.)






Then I have a meandering browse at the book/souvenir/cafe shop all in one. And finally one last return to the Bowmore Guest House, there, perched on a hill -- with my corner room windows staring right back at me now.





The rain lets up a little, but not enough for me to go for a walk. Besides, I'm done. Bags packed, waiting by the door. Despite the fact that I don't leave until evening, this day doesn't feel like an island day anymore. It feels like a travel day.

My hosts Andrew and Alison have a flurry of last minute guest issues thrown at them just before I'm to leave. Nonetheless Andrew gives me a ride to the airport. This is the way they are. They don't work at being your friend. It comes naturally.


LATER:

And the aircraft landed on the island despite the rain and so my passage to the mainland tonight is assured.





Having booked this flight at the end of January, I had my choice of seats and so I am up front, by the window. As we take off from this at once renowned and at the same time deeply private island in the northern seas, I think -- I came as a curious onlooker, I'm leaving as an Islay friend. Maybe it isn't (yet) a deep or complicated friendship, but I know I'm not just passing through.

As we fly the short half hour to Glasgow, I ask the flight attendant sitting right before me how many of these various Scottish island flights she does in one day.
Four or six, depending.
And how many of them are in the rain? About half?
Unfortunately more than that! 

In fact, it's raining when we land in Glasgow. I haven't far to go -- I'm staying in Paisley, a small town just by the airport. The guest house (the Ashtree House Hotel) was the only one in my price range not torn apart by the crowd at TripAdvisor (though it had its detractors). What is it about Glasgow (and its surroundings) that it cannot produce a smile among those who make their way here? (The Ashtree is perfectly fine and the woman at the front desk knew that Wisconsin is America's cheese state -- how about that!)





I eat dinner at the Ashtree (included in the price of my room) and it, too, is perfectly fine in an old fashioned sort of way (north sea shrimp in mayo and ketchup, highland chicken in a cream sauce).

 And here's a relief: first of all, the Internet throughout this entire UK trip has performed superbly for me and second of all -- so far, none of the whisky bottles exploded in my wee suitcase.

Sunday on the Isle of Islay

It strikes me that I have been writing as if Islay were a country in its own right and though perhaps an islander might feel herself to be first an Ileach and then a Scotswoman, still, in many ways, I never forget that I am in Scotland here.

The thistle. The woolens. The salmon. The shortbread. The heather. The sheep. The ticks on sheep! The Scotch whisky! The list goes on.

To it, I will add "the Scottish Sunday." It's my second Sunday here and so I am not surprised how quiet it all looks. Yes, the grocery store is open and so are the distilleries -- visitor traffic is important -- but there is, in my mind, a reduction of village activity (insofar as it otherwise seems busy out there on Shore Street) that I very much associate with a Scottish Sunday.

It's not that stores close in all of Scotland on this day. The ban on doing commerce on Sundays was lifted in the 1990s and they say that the Scottish people love to shop for home improvement/decorating materials then. I read that the parking lot in an Ikea store is especially full.  In France, the ban on shops staying open today is still much in discussion and only certain stores in certain tourist areas, or selling certain products (food: never interfere with the French need to procure the freshest of foods!) may open their doors on Sunday. But on the continent, a Sunday means a communal experience of shared joviality, be it in a cafe or park or restaurant. Here, I get the impression that on Sunday, most people stay close to home. (The cafe/restaurant in Bowmore, for example, is closed. As is the Celtic shop that also acts as a cafe.)

No matter. I have things to do!

And yet, I can't seem to rush here. At my wonderful breakfast...





...I pick up a book left on my table -- Whisky Legends of Islay by Robin Laing. I'm chuckling right away and I can't put it down! It's not just about whisky (that would be a good travel slogan for the island, no?). There is a chapter on cheese, for example. Being a Wisconsinite, it piques my interest.

Story has it that Islay Cheese (a brand name), once in full production here, was banned from import into Italy because of its aphrodisiac qualities. The book quotes a poem by Angus Macintyre that describes this:

(excerpts from "Islay Cheese")

You Highland women I implore
Upon my bended knees,
Please do not eat one morsel more
Of that awful Islay Cheese.
...
Vincente Dopi - ninety-two --
Well past all thoughts of fun --
Ate half a pound and what'd he do,
But go and Squeeze a nun.
...
An old and shaking Genovese,
His pension was collectin',
Ate just one bite of Islay Cheese
And now his wife's expectin'.

And so on. But was Islay Cheese an aphrodisiac? The author of the book analyzes this possibility. After all, many claim that all fermented cheeses are aphrodisiacal. Add to it the waft of spirits in the island air, or an actual pour of whisky -- well now, you see the possibilities! Still, the author concludes that perhaps Italians banned the import of Islay Cheese not for reasons of its erotic dangers but because of its inferior quality!

These days, there is no more cheese on the island. The Islay Cheese company failed and closed its doors in the 1990s and even though an attempt was made to bring it back to life -- that effort failed too, perhaps because the product was still quite inferior. Blame it on the fact that the new company neglected to hire an experienced cheese maker. Not necessarily for want of trying. I read that it is hard to  convince great talent to move to the island.

Yes, that's the trouble with remote destinations. We, the visitors, may love them, but they aren't without challenges. I listen to one couple at breakfast asking about places to pick up some fresh bread and cheese for lunch. They'd checked the one grocery store and found nothing suitable.
Alison, the obliging hostess at the  Guest House smiles. There is just that one store in the village.
How about other villages? -- the determined guests ask.
The shops there are even smaller. In any case, our store had a bread delivery last Friday. If you go there today, there may still be some left.
Two days old... comments the guest in dismay, possibly returning from France where such a prospect would make a French person's hair stand on end.
Yes, Alison says. If it's there.

Well now, I can't imagine eating much of anything for lunch after a morning meal at the Guest House and so I set out with little more than a pilfered breakfast banana.

But where to?

I had thought I'd go to Jura -- the closest island to Islay. One with a regular ferry and, too, with the very visible and singularly lovely "paps." (I misspoke once and called them "pips" causing gales of laughter and a correction -- paps; you know, because they look like paps -- women's breasts). Here they are (at 2500+ feet, they're far taller than Islay's highest Beinn Bheigier which stands at 1600+):



(paps of Jura, visible on Islay)


But at breakfast, when Alison asked me about my day's plans, I realized I did not really want to leave the island. Or tie myself to ferry schedules. Or tie myself to anything at all.
So where to? -- she asks.
Maybe some of the other villages? Like Portnahaven? I mentioned that one because it is the farthest one on the map that's reachable by car. [Understand: that distance is only 18 miles from Bowmore, though at single lane driving, that's a half hour in the car. It struck me today how texting and driving could never be an issue here. You have oncoming cars that have their headlights pointed at you. If you are not vigilant, you are asking for a head-on. Too, you need your spare hand to shift gears and to wave thank you to the car who has pulled over, or who has waved at you for pulling over. You cannot drive, shift, wave and text. Not surprisingly, I've never seen anyone drive with a cell phone in hand.]

From Alison -- If you go there, find the house with the glass porch. Go through the gate, climb over a fence a follow the path...

The skies over Islay are beautifully varied today: that mix of cloud and blue that sets this place apart from any other place on earth, I think. That light! That gentle, soothing light. How lovely that it should be thus on my last full day here...

The drive is pleasant enough, full of the charm of an island where there are few people and many sheep. (Note the delicate bands of blue sky.)





Portnahaven is also at the western most point of the island. The ocean lies beyond and even on this calm day, the waves and currents have a bristling energy!

I leave the car just short of the village so that I can get a closer look at the lighthouse on the rocky Isle of Orsay, just across a narrow channel.

It's truly stunning here!

And someone has gone to the trouble of planting flowers along the path. The effect is one that would make the grumpiest soul light up.






I walk toward the village itself and here's another surprise -- the houses line a beautiful cove where a handful of children play and fishermen bring their boats to shore.






If you wanted to create something to fit the image of a perfect island village, this would be it.






It's too remote to attract more than the hardy visitor who is determined to see it all. The distilleries, shops, eateries -- they're all on the other side of the island. But Portnahaven has an unrivaled beauty that stops you short.






I follow Alison's advice and search out the path into the coastal hills. She is quite right -- it's a stunning walk, to the sound of the wind and crashing waves and the unmistakable groan of seals sprawled on the rocks across the channel. (There are at least seven seals in this photo. Can you find them?)






The path ends at another cove -- one with sea rocks and just a few isolated homes rising above.






If you ever doubted that Islay is an island of vast spaces and hills that touch a feathered sky, you'd put your doubts to rest here.








(wild orchid!)



As I walk back toward the village, I come across two young women with their Scottish terriers, chatting in front of one of the white Portnahaven cottages.



 


I ask if they live here year round and they admit that they do.
How are the winters? I ask. It's a strange question I suppose, coming from a person who has just lived through one polar vortex after another and yet, the proximity of the sea and the fierceness of the winds and waves seem daunting.

It's actually quite fine. There's a fierce wind, but it's rather magnificent to watch the waves crash so fiercely against the rocks. And of course, we're always happy when it's spring.

I smile. Is there a person on the planet who does not eagerly await spring?

Alright. That's it for excursions today. I turn on the radio and drive home.






My heart is pulling me back to my base in Bowmore, even though the village really does appear shuttered and empty.





I go to the Harbor Inn -- that rather posh place and ask if I can have tea in their comfy lounge. (I could have had it in my Guest House room, but I buck the Scottish tide on Sundays: I don't like to spend this day closed off from humanity. I want people noise.)

The tea and scone are delicious, even as the human noise is nonexistent. I take out my computer and take notes and listen to the sounds of inn people coming and going. I have a view to the paps and a taste of strawberry jam in my mouth. This is my Islay moment too. My Islay/Scottish Sunday.





As I'm right across the road from the Bowmore Distillery, I stop there to pick up a gift for my stellar hosts. Because I seem to come in so often and perhaps because of my day with Eddie, I'm becoming a familiar face! I'm asked if I would like a dram of anything to enjoy in their lounge. Could you say no to the taste of the finest darkest smoky peaty Scotch whisky on your last evening here?


Still later, I do take myself outside the village. Just two miles up the coast, to Bridgend. If you're not going to eat at the Harbor Inn, your last Islay dinner should be there -- Andrew and Alison tell me.

Their advice is never bad. Bridgend Hotel dining room it is.

And it's a good meal! Tiny Islay langoustines over homemade pasta to start with, a hefty chunk of Scottish salmon with new potatoes, and then this: a meringue over strawberries and clotted cream. With a side of clotted cream ice cream. Delicious and so Islay, with a touch of Scottish and you must admit UK too (see dessert).






I drive back and in those short three miles, pick up once again the BBC radio program. Earlier, I had listened to a discussion of the new trade agreement under consideration (the Trans Atlantic Trade and Investment Partnership) between the US and UK (and the EU in general).

There is furious opposition among many to the negotiations over "harmonization" -- where each country bends its rules to accommodate trade with the other.  Negotiating with the US (the opposition shouts!) is a race to the bottom! Everyone knows the Americans care less about the environment and  quality of foods and labor conditions than the EU and UK! Americans doing business here (in the UK) is a direct threat to the NHS! (I wont explain the argument, but it has at least theoretical credibility.)

With car driving, I have become an avid listener to the radio. In discussion programs, the US comes up all too frequently. It's always humbling to listen in on how others view us.

But let's bring this back to Islay, where disagreement and debate can also take on heated tones. At the restaurant, I had taken out once again the Whisky Legends book. One particular chapter deals with the very issue I brought up with Eddie (the Master Distiller): what's the effect of peat removal on the environment?

There seems to have been a strident discussion of this on Islay some 30 years ago. The teams were drawn, but not exactly how you may have imagined. A distillery (not Bowmore) wanted permission to remove peat from a bog where the Greenland geese pause in their migration south. Permission was granted, raising the ire of mainland environmentalists who came to Islay to rally the locals in opposition: it's the environment v. whisky!

Well now, if the environment means support for the geese, the farmers rallied alright. They threw the environmentalists out and told them not to come back. Geese ruin their crop. Only later, after the intervention of the EU, with farmer subsidies and pushing back of peat removal away from the geese migration path did tensions on both sides ease. For now.


My room at the Guest House is a mess. Packing is never fun when I buy things. Coming over with a wee suitcase is easy. Pleasant. Returning with an awkwardly lumpy bag is... awkward. Except for a mug and a sweater (yes, that!) none of the acquisitions are for me and yet they are all very personal. The purchase, when made, is a compliment. A way of saying -- I like what you do here. I want to take some of it home.

Home. Things are happening at the farmette. I should be there now. I will be there soon. It seems a world away. It is a world away.

Tomorrow I have a full day here, on the island, then I fly to Glasgow, over-nighting in some inconsequential spot in order to catch a flight the next day (on the cheap Easy Jet carrier) to Paris. There was a humorous radio discussion of the new security screening regulations, requiring passengers to power up computers, cell phones and tablets. Apparently the discount airlines (Ryanair and Easy Jet) are saying that their passengers wont face this added screening. The radio host joked that these airlines may offer the screening, but at an extra charge for anyone who chooses it. You'd understand the absurdity and humor of this if you knew that these carriers do such things as charge you an extra fee if you want to sit with your partner in flight. And then, when your partner procures her ticket, she'll get the same question and the same option of a seat selection, at an extra charge. Even though you've already chosen her and paid for it.



Home on Wednesday, but here now, still on the Isle of Islay. Funny how until eight days ago, I couldn't even pronounce the name.



(Islay at 10:30 p.m. on this cloudy evening)