... in Islay

 

 We took longer than intended to get ready and leave, so I was in a slight state of heightened tension when we left home 45 minutes before our gate was due to close. Fortunately we arrived, parked and got through security with just enough time for a toastie before boarding. And also time to sample a gin being handed out in duty free. Husband reached for the bottle to put some in the tiny plastic cup, before the flustered sales assistant pointed out that there was already a few drops measured out in the sample cups.

A family ahead of us seemed to struggle with getting on the plane and finding seats - thus holding up the entire process. It was unclear how finding a seat number was so tricky, but even more peculiar was that they engaged in an equally lengthy and confused process getting off again at the othe end. 

At Glasgow we went through the exit and then back round to check in. This time we had a sample of whisky in duty free, followed by a haggis brunch. One menu option was vegetarian haggis. What the fuck is that when it's at home! But this was not the only questionable aspect of our chosen eatery as Husband was given a wine glass with his bottle of beer, and needed to ask them to change it for a beer glass.

Before long we boarded the tiny plane to Islay, so small that hand luggage didn't fit in the overhead lockers, and needed its own seat on the fortunately half empty flight. As we arrived, we flew along the southern coast, with clear views of the white coastal distilleries of Ardbeg, Lagavulin and Laphroaig before turning northwards and coming into land on a runway next to a beach - and for a while it did almost seem as though we would just land on the sand.

Just Inside the door of airport building, a lone carousel (or rather, conveyor belt) was turned on while a man stood outside the door we had just come through and fed the hold luggage through. We only had hand luggage, so headed outside to the bus stop, which contained an above average quantity of sheep droppings. 

Either side of us stretched out a long, empty road. It started to rain. And was windy. I had revisited the guide book from our 2003 visit which reference the non cycling club, and their being unable to do much the wind. 

At the bus stop we chatted to a man who had an appointment to visit his cask at bruichladdich at 9am the following day. Our appointment was at 10.30. He planned to get his bottled at the next opportunity, despite it only being 6 years old.

Before long the bus arrived and we went forth to Bowmore, arriving too early to check in, we had no option other than to go to the Harbour Inn for a couple of drinks. The bar had an odd thing going on whereby coins were placed and balanced on the stone wall.

As we were in Islay and in a bar it seemed remiss not to sample some whisky. So we treated ourselves to a 17 year old caol Ila. Which wasn't bad. Husband was almost emotional. 

Suitably tipsy, we wandered up the hill to check in, passing the only fuel station in town which comprised a lone pump on the pavement in a residential street.

Once our bags were dumped we went into town to the Bowmore distillery. We looked in estate agent Windows on the way and saw that the B and B we were staying in was up for sale.

At Bowmore we went to the dram bar and acquires a tasting tray.

After working our way through 4 shots, we concluded that we still didn't like Bowmore. And we're comfortable with this decision, Despite prominent warnings on the wall about this meaning you possible were wasting money buying whisky at all. They had a large world map on the wall in which visitors could put a pin to indicate where they were from. It was interesting to see the huddles of interest in whisky around he world, including New Zealand. 

We went for a wander around the harbour, looking across the calm water to bruichladdich on the opposite shore. Fishermen had come in and on one trawler was a bucket of mackerel and a bucket of dog fish that hadn't finished dying yet - and were apparently good crab bait. Which presumably still applied if they were dead. 

I wondered why fisherman wore yellow wellies. Husband said it was so you could see them when they were upside down in mud. That query resolved, we went back to the B and B for a rest and coffee before dinner.

We returned to the harbour inn for dinner, whose restaurant looked out over the water, and setting sun. And we dined sumptuously, starting with the softest oysters we had ever tasted. Disappointingly the mussels had sold out. Husband had lobster and I had crab, which was a little challenging. And everything came from local waters. Possibly brought in on the trawler we had seen earlier. The crab may even have been tempted from the water by a dead dog fish. The waiter, however, was rather useless. Husband quoted a survey about dumb people being too stupid to know they are dumb people. The waiter was incompetent more than dumb. 

Outside the weather dropped and lifted, hiding and revealing the opposite shore line, all the time adding character to our whisky.

Not all the food was fabulous. The potato salad had orange and lemon in it. This was a surprise. And not a good one. Sometimes a chef should just stop trying to be clever, and modern. 

We staggered back up the hill to the B and B. It was dark, quiet, cool and wet. We wondered if it was less lively in winter. 

That night we slept well and in the morning the sky had glimpses of blue amongst the grey. We went down for breakfast where all the guests sat around a single large table. Husband asked for a full English - to the ire of our camp Scottish host who suggests husband will be sent home without breakfast. Having completed breakfast without causing further offence we wandered down to the harbour to see bruichladdich from afar and then to the bus stop which to catch a bus over there. 

This was clearly an island where everyone knew everyone. The bus driver grimaced in a friendly way to the people who had parked in the road, momentarily causing a news worthy traffic jam. But he clearly knew them. He waved at every driver that came passed on the opposite side of the road. I was unsure if this was through familiarity or akin the Shetland way, where the locals just wave at every driver. It was a great scenic drive, along the rugged beach edge which was being gently slapped by the surprisingly choppy water.

And we were on the island at an exciting time as it was the monthly animal auction. Fine specimens of red meat on legs were being herded into pens for sale while men in wellies walked around examining them in a knowing way. 

He tells us that Kilchoman distillery is a 5 mile walk from the road, and visitors do the walk but are clearly tired on collection. Shortly afterwards, we arrived at Bruichladdich. There were more storage sheds at the distillery, but it was now given over to a lot of gin production. The distillery was now owned by remy, which seemed a shame following the inspiring story of the local people buying it off a large corporate which had first attracted us.

We checked in for our cask visit and before long a slim, attractive blonde took us to the shed where it had been quietly distilling for the past 14 and a half years. It had rained heavily overnight causing some of the path to have washed away, and a small flood of water to collect in the gift shop.

We went into the cool semi darkness of the distilling shed. The still air gave off a faint whiff of whisky. Row upon row of casks, stacked on wooden shelving 3 or 4 high filled the shed. She found the row where ours was housed, and we eased our way down the narrow walkways between the rows to find its cask number on the end. Then we went round to the other end and rubbed away a tiny fraction of 14 years of dust and mildew to see my name stamped on the lid. This was a surprise. And a good one.

We went to one of the buildings further up the hill, where the casks are filled, to collect the annual sample. Back in the visitor centre, we were given complimentary bruichladdich glasses to samp,e our whisky on site. It was slightly smoother than the previous year, but it also had a bit of fire to it. Then again, it was cask strength. An oakiness was starting to come through as well. This was now a tough decision. There was no option to put it in a different cask to finish it. But we didn't want more oak flavour. The moment for bottling was possibly approaching. 

We tried some samples of the whisky they had available for tasting. There were 2 cask strength whiskies which were bottled to order and could only be bought there. One was 62.4%! I let bro the elder know, given he judged all alcohol by ABV. He was suitably floored by this information. Unfortunately we couldn't buy any as we were flying back with hand luggage only, so couldn't take liquids in that quantity. 

We went outside to wait for Lamont, our taxi driver, to take us to Laphroaig as unfortunately the bus timetable was inconveniently infrequent. He told us about stupid Americans, particularly one set who asked how they could get to zero barn. He was confused, and unsure. After a while they showed him the map, and pointed to Oban. Presumably, he reasoned, Iona was ten na. He was also of the view that he more they said gotcha, the less they've got you at all. Our agreement in American bashing just set him off. The colonials had also enquirer do you have the internet here - even though they'd been emailing him for weeks prior to their trip.

It was a slow road there, which we drove along slowly. Admittedly, the peat landscape did make the roads somewhat bouncy, and lamont was probably interested in his suspension remaining intact. 

The long road down to the south was single lane with passing places. 

Ahead of us, at port Ellen the maltings chimneys were gently smoking. Finally we arrived at Laphroaig and were relieved of an exorbitant taxi fare. We didn't bother going to the peat field to plant flag on our square foot of Laphroaig land, but did claim our leaseholder rent plus a few other whisky samples. The leaseholder arrangement had developed somewhat since our last visit. Then the wellies and flags were scattered in an out room. Now there was a fancy computer system to plot your square foot and lockers for wellies.

We chatted to a bearded young man who was kayaking around the island. He hadn't got to his intended destination he previous day so had pulled into Ardbeg and asked if he could pitch his tent there - they were very welcoming and let him, perhaps taking pity on his bedraggled state. 

We walked on to Lagavulin along a new, recently constructed wide off road footpath that meandered along the edge of woods It was hot. There was only us there, and the road was quiet so there was no sound other than the occasional baa from a sheep. This is the island's busiest time, and it is probably nicer when it's quiet. 

The inside of Lagavulin was decorated in the style of how its offices may have looked in the late 1800's. Leather and tweed armchairs were arranged around a fireplace where we sat to sample whisky. We were now starting to see familiar faces from previous distilleries. 

Lagavulin was the least warm and welcoming so far, so we walked on to Ardbeg. In he interests of time, we didn't divert off to the Dunnyvaig Castle, a small ruin that had it's heyday in the 1560's.

With minimal warning, the weather turned from sun to rain. A lot of rain, largely sideways. We got to just outside the distillery and lingered under the trees as these afforded some protection from the rain - just before the completely unprotected walk down the drive, through the car park and to the distillery. We remained there for some time. Doubting that it would ease anytime soon, we girded our loins for the walk and arrived dripping, bedraggled, legs wet through. We hoped they would take as much pity on us as they had the kayaking man.

We were not the only damp patrons. When we got in, initially there wasn't anywhere to sit in the restaurant. But after a few minutes wait we were seated. 

We feasted on Shetland mussels cooked in a very tasty cream sauce, followed by haggis, neeps and tatties which was served with a dram of uigeadail. We were now feeling the chill from our wet clothes, which couldn't be dried in the Eco slot style hand driers in the loo.

It was a fabulous room for lunch, with a high, dark, wood timbered ceiling. Replete, tipsy and cool, we made our way outside for the last bus home of the day. We had no cash to pay for the tickets, but he bus driver was fine with us going to Bowmore, getting cash out here and then paying. This was the sort of service which we were unfamiliar with.

The weather had now lifted, so we wandered up the hill to visit the round church that overlooked Bowmore, and then around the churchyard outside. Graves had spread beyond the initial church walls, so walkways had been broken through to allows the dead to spread farther and farther afield. There were war graves - many for bodies found between August and December 1940, presumably washed up from the Atlantic.

A rainbow arched over the distant hills.

We were too full for dinner so returned to the B and B and dozed for most of the rest of the day. 

The next morning the weather was not discernibly better. After breakfast we made our daily perimeter check of the harbour. Husband hadn't remembered that my square foot of Laphroaig soil was from his secret Santa bottle to me and is therefore intricately linked with our getting together. He then let on that he had engineered getting me as his secret Santa recipient.

We bought some souvenir distillery prints and visited the tourist information shop. This had a book of local walks. Husband saw one which he thought would be nice to do, if the weather was good. We didn't want to buy the book but sneakily photographed the details of the route, put the book back, went outside and then waited at the bus stop. It was the same driver who had picked us up from Ardbeg the previous day which made us wonder if there were only two bus drivers on the island.

It was a relatively speedy ride to port asking from where it was unclear how to buy ferry tickets as the office was closed. So we went to the ferry and mentioned the ticket issue. The young chap on board said not to worry and directed us on to a small fishing boat moored next to the car ferry. It soon transpired that the car ferry had broken down. So the locals were ferrying people back and forth in a fishing boat. By all accounts, free of charge. On arrival at Jura the fisher men held the boat against a rusty ladder that stretched up the concrete harbour edge which we needed to step out of the boat onto, and climb up. Which was all incredibly good fun. Those with luggage then had hat passed up to them.

At the Jura end, a number of cyclists were waiting to board the ferry and I pitied the men who needed to negotiate passing the bikes down to the chaps on the fishing boat.

We then boarded a minibus for the bouncy ride into Craighouse. 

Jura consisted of one road, one town, one hotel. And one distillery. We could see large hill, or mountain, towering over the island and wondered if it was one of the paps. 

We knew that the distillery tours were fully booked, but popped in on the off chance, and to try a sample or two. It was a tiny set up and we knew we would think of Jura differently now, every time we drank it. Picturing ourselves here, in this peace, with stunning views over the calm sea.

We wandered through the quiet town, visiting it's one shop. There was barely a soul about. Next to the distillery a torrent of water, stained brown with peat, raced down the hill to the sea. Beyond the Jura rugby club sign was a small patch of green with the beach on one side. It seemed unlikely that any rugby had played there for a while.

On Jura the red deer population outnumbers humans. To ease the imbalance husband ate a Jura venison burger for lunch. The sleepy town suddenly spat out its residents as loads of people appeared and congregated in the hotel restaurant for lunch. Having had the place to ourselves for a while, it was became standing room only. 

We sampled some of the rare Jura whiskies they stocked - Fire and a 1996. We were starting to take an increased interest in those which had been distilled in bourbon casks without being finished in something else.

Soon the time arrived for the single mini bus ride back to the ferry. We waited at the harbour for the little boat to come across, the car ferry still being out of action,and then followed the same process to get aboard - climbing down the rusty ladder and stepping out into the boat.

Back on the mainland we sat in the pub garden at port askaig and waited for the bus, and from where we had a fine view f the Jura paps.  Oddly there was a sole cannon perched on the slope overlooking the harbour - pointing at the paps of Jura. It was unclear why.

We watched he large Caledonian ferries car ferry come in from mainland Scotland and recalled that this was how and where we had first arrived on Islay, 14 years earlier. 

The bus arrived and we bounced our way back to Bowmore then booked in to Loch Side for dinner. We were not going to get time to make it to peatzaria. It was a good thing we booked as the place was packed when we appeared for our allotted time.

As its name implies, there were fabulous views over the water. The food was good and fortunately did not include unwanted citrus fruit surprises. 

We returned to the room to watch the final of England ladies versus New Zealand ladies in the rubgy World Cup final. We drank one bottle of our Laphroaig rent before going to bed. 

The next day we were up early, planning to do the surreptitious identified walk to Laggan Point. It looked a bit cloudy outside and we were equipped with precisely nil outdoor walking kit. Not even walking boots. But by the time we finished breakfast, there was blue sky and sunshine. 

None of the guests were down by the time we finished, but they had all congregated when we dumped our bags in the breakfast room for the day, and set off. Initially we needed to walk along the road out of Bowmore, and then down a track to the shore. Before long the path petered out and became marshy. One bit was only passable because a fence handily ran through it, which we could climb onto and edge our way along, raised off the soggy ground. It was quiet. No one else was about. Except for sheep and birds. The coastline was pretty, low lying but rugged, with a number of small sandy bays. Our feet were starting to get wet, as our inappropriate footwear struggled with the relentless dampness. We were wonderfully inadequately dressed and kept a keen eye in the sky - were would be comprehensively undone if it rained. We saw clouds in the distance but hoped they weren't coming our way.

We started to skirt around the quiet, stunning sandy beaches by Laggan farm. The beaches were long and empty. I wondered if it was ever warm enough to swim in the loch waters. We could see a group of people playing on top of one of the headlands. This was outrageous. We had walked for 2 hours and there was someone else already here. Furthermore, they had driven, as we had now left the marsh and come back round to civilisation. This didn't ease the wetness underfoot. The mud road was distinctly boggy and puddle strewn. In many areas, walking in the rough ground to the side was preferable.

As we trudged along the long, muddy, boggy track back to the main road, we heard a noise in the long grass and saw two red deer rise up, and bound away, only visible when they leapt above the grass height in their next bound. We stood and watched for a while, transfixed, as they silently and gracefully ran across the field which hid effectively hid them in its long grass. 

Husband now suggested that he hadn't wanted to do the walk. He was achy and his feet hurt. As did mine. Largely thanks to us wearing the wrong footwear. But he had found the walking book, made me photograph the page and had then bought a map which covered the route. He conceded that the signals could have been misinterpreted but that all those things did not necessarily mean he actually wanted to do the walk. 

Pheasants flew suddenly out of the shrubbery around us. There were deep ditches on either side of the track, showing the peat rich soil. The track had evidence of some attempts to fill pot holes with stones, which husband said wouldn't work as there were no finings. Then we see some with finings. So perhaps they had realised this already.

Finally we reached the main road for the last couple of miles walk back to Bowmore. From the road we had a good view of the paps of Jura. We were both aching, and had painfully sore feet. So it was with relief that we collected our bags and made our way to the pub to change shoes, sit down and have a beer. We had some lunch and our final whiskies - bunnahabhein. And remembered how good it was. We finished off with a bruichladdich, which seemed appropriate before heading out to wait for the taxi. 

It was a primitive process at the airport. As there were few flights, the staff had all gone home, and were only now starting to come back, to open the check in and prepare for the plane due in.

Our seats were right at the back, in a row of 4, a bit like a bus. We taxied to the water, and took off along the coastal runway.  It was cloudy on route to Glasgow where we had a 3 hour wait for the flight back home. I would have bought some bits In the duty free shop had there been anyone around to serve us. In the alcohol section, they failed to stock any of the whiskies we were interested in. 

Before long we were back at Southampton and home, where the cat was clearly pleased to us. Bizarrely, I didn't fancy a whisky night cap.