We sleep in, today. Up at 6:35 or so, which gives us enough time to prepare for our breakfast. Indeed, we have an appointment at The Harbour Inn, across the street. All three of us have the Full Scottish, which is not blinding (I ask for the bacon to be crispy -- it is not), but nice, and filling.
adc re-enacts the famoud tOMoH breakfast pic
Say, it is about time we explore the town, is it not? We walk up the street to visit the church, which is well known for being round, so the Devil cannot hide in a corner. That is really its claim to fame: from the inside, it is fairly uninteresting, plain and bland as Protestant churches tend to be, a functional place of worship.
We take a walk in the surrounding graveyard, where adc is suddenly annoyed: a huge gaggle of barnacle geese took off in the neighbouring field as she was pulling her camera out. JS and I heard the cacophony, but we did not realise adc was likely the cause of it.
How many distillery workers in those graves?
Commonwealth war casualties
A gaggle of barnacle geese takes off behind the wall
adc manages a better picture
On our way downhill, we stop in every shop to look at random tat for tourists (a lot looks quite nice), interesting books, maps, posters, whiskies etc.
Back home after 16:00, we eat a bag of popcorn past its prime, and consequently narrowly miss the Islay Whisky Shop's closing time. Grr.
A quick trip up the street for some take-out at the Cottage Café (Soup of the Day, which is Leek and Potato, for adc and me, then Haggis Supper for adc, and Veg Pakoras for me -- JS is living on leftovers). It is easily the cheapest meal of our stay, as well as the worst. At the same time, it does the trick, and I am satisfied.
This was a strange day. Of course, the tasting was pleasant enough (the whiskies were cracking, mostly), yet I felt like I was wasting my time the whole day. See, it was supposed to rain from dawn to dusk, which convinced us not to hike. In the end, it was dry from around 10:00, and just drizzly prior. We could have been hiking instead. Bah! The ladies had fun, and, really, so did I. The fact I did not drink, in case we would take the car in the evening, did not help me relax. Truth is, we were always going to visit Bowmore (town and distillery), and today was the best day to do so. I am just a little grumpy.
Early start, today. We head out in the darkness and drive to Port Askaig, which we reach before sunrise. Indeed, we are aiming for (and make) the 7:35 ferry across the Sound of Islay -- to Jura. It is exciting indeed. JS and I have not been since 2008. adc has never been.
The crossing is fairly straightforward for the crew, perhaps less so for us. The first car in, we are stuck behind the drawbridge, with little visibility, but close enough to the water that we see every wave up close. It literally splashes the car a few times. Because of the limited visibility, we do not immediately realise that the ferry is progressing sideways, like a crab: the current is so strong that the propellers are used mostly to stay on a straight line.
Anyway, ten minutes after boarding, we disembark in Feolin, then drive up the A846 -- virtually the only road on the island. There is a huge articulated lorry behind us, and I am keen to not let it catch up. It is a pity, in a way, because there is much to see: dotted in the breath-taking scenery are deer. Everywhere. We stop often to take pictures.
This is their land
Their house
We drive by Craighouse, where we lose the lorry, and continue all the way past Ardlussa (and past the Lussa Gin distillery), where a sign reads: "End of public road in 3 miles." We press on, and, after a while on a single-track, desolate road, come across a car. A few manoeuvres to let it pass, then I flag it down:
tOMoH: "Is there much further to go?" Driver: "SoRRy?" tOMoH: "Vous êtes Français?" Driver: "Oui." tOMoH: "C'est encore loin?" Driver: "C'est la fin de la route à 200-300m."
The Arona on the Jura speedway
We push onwards to the end of the Ardlussa estate, where the road terminates indeed. Further on is a mere track, totally unsuitable for vehicles other than four-by-four. There, we find a parking spot and a plaque. I fancy the hike to Barnhill and Corryvreckan, one day, but not today: a twenty-two-kilometre round-trip, it would take the rest of the day. We take a few pictures and turn around, satisfied that we have been standing close to the edge of the world.
Back southwest, we stop in Tarbert and park. A hike awaits us: the coast to coast. At this point, where the Ardlussa and Tarbert estates meet, the island is but a couple of kilometres wide. 'Estates,' by the way, says it all: the island is divided into seven private properties -- like a lot of Scotland.
The walk is simple and beautiful. Sea birds and deer abound. Low tide in Loch Tarbert makes for a gloomy sight. We enjoy a sip of Isle of Jura d.1976 (57.5%, Harleyford Manor for Geoffrey Folley, b.1980s) by the loch , and it has never tasted better. Here, it just makes sense, its imperfections blending in with the ruggedness of the surrounding landscape.
Loch Tarbert at low tide
We retrace our steps to the road, then continue to the east coast. We take a detour through a field to see the Tarbert Standing Stone, before driving off to Craighouse for lunch.
Tarbert Standing Stone
Covered in moss and lichen
The other side
Once there, we are turned away: the Jura Hotel, once home to the best chips in all the land, no longer serves lunch. Bah!
The Antler's it is, then, where seafood is in short supply, today. JS has a Tomato and Veg Quiche, adc has Fish & Chips (the best fish in a fish & chips she has had, she reminds us for the rest of our stay), and I have (fairly-mediocre-but-oh!-so-comforting) Mac and Cheese. We vote against dessert.
Woke Brigade, look elsewhere!
Fish & Chips (adc)
Tomato and Veg Quiche (JS)
Mac and Cheese (tOMoH)
It is time to hit the distillery. [notes to follow]
We are out of there fairly swiftly, and slip into hiking boots again. The Craighouse view walk is short and sweet, with a beautiful view east onto Kintyre and even Arran. There is a view of the north panorama, but it is inaccessible, owing to overgrowth.
With the window in the frame, one gets a better appreciation of just how far they are on the horizon
It is soon time to head back to Feolin ferry, though, and we will probably have to squeeze it to make it on time too. En route, we come stuck behind a car, stopped in the middle of the road. WTF? Ah! Deer to the right. We stop for pictures ourselves, as they drive away. A couple of hundred metres later, we catch up to them as they get out of the car for more snaps. I stop behind them: it is the French from this morning. We chat a bit.
Frenchman: "Did you see some deer?" tOMoH: "Deer? No." Frenchmen: "Ha! Ha!"
They have been in Scotland for a couple of weeks. It is their fifth stay on the island.
tOMoH: "Did you catch the northern lights, last week?" Frenchman: "Not from here. We were on Arran." Out come the phones and the jaw-dropping pictures. We are jealous.
We board the ship, recognise the sailor from this morning, and remark he has long shifts. "I'm still here until 22:00," he says. "And at 8:30 tomorrow, it starts again."
We disembark after a pleasant crossing, park straight off the boat, and enter Port Askaig Hotel's restaurant.
We receive a frosty welcome, to say the least. Apparently, we came through the wrong door (the other one reads "Snug Pub", and I have not been here in sixteen years, which means I do not remember protocol) and are made to go out and back in. The landlady does not hide her disappointment when I ask for a jug of water (she rolls her eyes), but she brings us food menus too. Happily, things improve from then onward.
adc is looking for seafood. Not everything is available, and some things she has had already during this stay. She orders scampi. The landlady explains that they are good, but frozen and not local, unlike everything else on the menu. A nice touch. She puts music on, which lifts the mood too.
As we settle in, it becomes obvious this is a locals' pub, and said locals seem used to being amongst themselves; some talk in grunts, some watch videos on speaker, and the whole can perhaps feel intimidating. To ease up the sitch, the food is excellent.
JS and adc have the Cullen Skink
I have a Cream of Broccoli
Salmon in Basmati Rice (JS)
Venison Burger with Chips (adc and me)
As we make our way through the food and the evening, the landlady becomes friendlier and chattier. I go to the bar to order whiskies. I ask about the music: it is the second time this particular track (a Scottish version of About You Now) plays tonight, and we have been hearing it everywhere, on this trip. She has loads to say about it -- obviously a fave. It is sung by Skipinnish or Tide Lines, who share the singer Robert Robertson. Alongside Runrig, that is all she will play in the pub. She tells us about her favourite song of theirs, a cover of Mark Knopfler's Piper To The End, and how they sang it in this very pub during a private session for her. It is a moving story. While she tells me, it dawns on me that I may recognise this voice from somewhere.
At the pub, I wondered if Tide Lines might be the band who sing the song I became obsessed with on our previous trip, and have still not been able to identify, two years later. Tonight, thanks to an Internet search from the cottage, I find out they are indeed. The song I am after has never had a physical release, however: it is an acoustic version of a stadium banger, so different from the original that, had one played the OG to me, I would not have flinched.
It is difficult to describe how happy I am to have identified that one. It is the perfect ending to a wonderful day. To think that, with the welcome we got in Port Askaig, I almost told the ladies we would take our appetite elsewhere!...
The weather is supposed to be dreary from mid-morning onward, so we will focus on the south of the island, today.
Firstly, we drive to Port Ellen (and spot a few geese along the way), where the new distillery is very pretty with its huge glass front. Across the courtyard, the tasting room is perched on the first floor of a separate building. Hard to see much of the interior from street level, but it is obviously targeted at rich punters in search of an "experience," rather than at those who gave Port Ellen its reputation, when no-one knew the name.
The swish still house
The tasting room, that one expects is lavish. Pagodas in the background, the only remaining feature of the 1967 building
We pass by Highland coos, come head to head with wild goats, and spot a reed bunting or two, as well as twites. From atop the cliff, we see gannets skimming the water. The weather is beautiful, which makes for an excellent, if unchallenging hike.
More challenging for non-humans, as illustrated by this gnawed-at hare leg
How much further?
How much further?
...aaaaaaand we are there.
A winged companion joins us...
...and shares amber liquid with us
Wild goats block our passage
I was well pleased to spot this caterpillar, then JS found half a dozen of them larking about
From there, we go back down the road to Kilnaughton, and park the car to find the Singing Sands on foot. It is another unchallenging walk, but one that turns out very rewarding. The sands in question are not singing (probably superseded by the Singing Sands Tribute Act), but the beach is gorgeous.
The blue lagoon
Our path takes us right and up the hill
The Singing Sands
Still trying to find tour dates and tickets for the Singing Sands Tribute Act. Answers on a postcard...
From here, one can appreciate the detours that CalMac takes to circumvent Islay's shallow waters
On our way back, we stop by the lighthouse -- we actually stop short of it: the tide is coming, it is windy, and some of the waves promise soaked clothes for the rest of the day, if not a full bath. Also, we are hungry.
Coming down on Kilnaughton
Carraig Fhada Lighthouse
Our next stop is Port Ellen, where we have decided to lunch at Sea Salt. It is, unfortunately, closed. As is everything else. JS spotted a place, earlier, near the petrol station, and reckons it is open. It is indeed: we end up at No. 1 Charlotte Street (the café is called Little Charlottes Café, without apostrophe, much to my dismay). They serve humble, hearty food that suits us perfectly. adc and I have the Black Pudding Toastie, whereas JS has the Roasted Veg Toastie. JS and I have a Tomato and Basil Soup on top. We even have dessert. As we enjoy our lunch, the Luxembourgers from last night enter. We laugh.
Also a ballroom, a ceilidh venue, a hotel, a petrol station, a restaurant, a bar, a fire station, a bus shelter, and a diamond-cutting workshop
Tomato and Basil Soup (JS and me)
Roasted Veg Toastie (JS)
Frangipane and Mixed Berries Tart (me)
Passion Fruit and Lime Cake (JS)
Our afternoon activities will naturally take place on the road to Kildalton. We see the Portintruan distillery from the road, still under construction, though well recognisable as a distillery, rather than an indistinct heap of rubble. We manage to overshoot Laphroaig, and head for Lagavulin instead. When we discussed Islay with adc, she said she was not interested in the island, because she does not like Lagavulin; that made this stop non-negotiable. It is also entirely pointless: the shop is decently stocked, but the prices are laughable. Pushing two grand for a 25-year-old, or £455 for a 21-year-old Benrinnes Special Release 2024. We easily leave it all behind.
Our next stop is Ardbeg. The Kiln Café is closed for the season (refurbishment), but the bar and shop are open. For comparison, a 25-year-old here is just north of one grand, which is a lot of money, but half of Lagavulin's asking price for an equivalent age statement. They have a couple of incredible single casks (a 38-year-old and a whopping 47-year-old) behind glass. Prices on application (also known as: if you have to ask, you cannot afford it).
adc gets to try Ardbeg An Oa (46.6%, OB, b. ca. 2024) and is seduced by it. It is widely available, so we leave empty-handed, though not before bumping into the Luxembourgers again. We share a few pleasantries and bid good bye for the final time.
The clock is merciless. We trace our steps back to Laphroaig in the hope that we reach there before they close. The place is heaving, but we manage to reach the bar. We are given a complimentary Laphroaig QA (40%, OB, ex-Bourbon & Un-Charred American Oak Barrels) (thanks, I guess...), and we get a sniff of a Fino-matured single cask (picture right). The shop is, again, on the overpriced side, for someone accustomed to prices from twenty years ago, but more reasonable than Lagavulin's. For illustration, they have a 34-year-old and a 33-year-old somewhere between £1,000 and £1,500.
We take a look at the museum, which is different to what it was in 2017, and leave empty-handed once again.
Laphroaig's cutest dwellers
It was a mandatory string of stops, but one would be hard-pressed to call them successful. At least, we saved cash.
From Laphroaig, we head east again, and stop to visit Dunyvaig Castle -- for the first time, I am ashamed to admit. It is not in great condition, and some passages are so dangerous we do not risk them. There is, however, a bench nearby, with a direct view onto Lagavulin. JS insists on taking Park & Recreations-style pictures, and we enjoy the opportunity to sit down a bit. That is when adc spots harbour seals in the harbour (how topical). We spend a while observing them.
The view from Ron Swanson's dream house
JS climbs the castle walls
No, you are not jumping to that other piece of the wall
ABSOLUTELY not!
Well, hello!
We need to move before sundown, though. Our final stop on that stretch of land, after a sporty drive on unnamed, unnumbered country roads is Kildalton. En route, we meet rabbits, a few deer and several pheasants.
The Kildalton chapel and crosses (both High and Small) are wonderful as ever. It helps that, apart from a couple of Italians who struggle to distinguish the High Cross from an XVIIIth-century tombstone, we are alone. It gives an eerie feel to the place that is well adequate.
The chapel
The Kildalton High Cross
The Kildalton Small Cross
Looks even better from this angle
The sun is quickly going down. A passing hunter on a quad with his two dogs signals it is time to go. We stop at Storm-Pods to take pictures of Dunyvaig from another angle, then drive back to Bowmore on the old road.
Timely arrival: we spend half-an-hour on the harbour, gazing at the colourful sunset.
Reflecting on the day, we acknowledge all the distilleries have interesting bottlings available, none well priced -- or affordable to us. Lagavulin being the worst offender on that front.
