A long day lay ahead of me on the weekend I decided to go see the Islands of Mull and Iona.  For one thing, the tour left from Glasgow, so I had to take an impossibly early train, which meant I’d have to leave even earlier to walk the mile to the train station.  And when I got there, the ticket machine couldn’t locate my e-ticket, and the ticket counter was dark and closed.  So I wound up having to pay for another ticket, which really ticked me off.  But in for a penny, in for a pound (£27 to be exact).  I needed to make the 6:07 train so that I could get into Glasgow on time; the bus was leaving at 8:30.  Despite the drama with the tickets, the train ride itself was uneventful, and I arrived in Glasgow at 7:30.  I walked (in the rain) to Buchanan Bus Station, and waited for my tour bus to arrive.

When the bus showed up, and I saw the driver was Stewart, I was delighted.  Stewart, you may recall, was the driver for my Speyside Whisky tour I took last year, the one where there were only 5 of us on the tour.  There were a few more people on this tour (ten), but Stewart remembered me and seemed as happy to see me as I was to see him.  I was suitably complimentary about his tour guiding to the other people on the bus, and I think that eased everyone’s anxiety.  We knew we were in for a good time.

Because the Hebrides are islands off the coast of the Highlands, the first day of driving was mostly stopping to visit Highlands-related sights.  But I did like the way Glasgow looked as we drove through it (industrial, shiny, and large) to get to Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park, our first (rainy) stop.  It was really just a bathroom/coffee break, but Loch Lomond gleamed in the rain.  I sheltered under a ledge at the coffee shop, and discovered a nest of five baby birds, maybe magpies, though I’m no birder.  They seemed hungry, and a parental bird flew to the eaves on the other side of the coffee shop, but these little babies were left alone, tweeting their displeasure.

Stewart and I chatted about whiskies and places I’d visited since I’d gotten back to Scotland while we waited for the other passengers to get their caffeine. He was interested to hear when I had arrived, and whether I was teaching Scottish literature again (which I am).  And he asked if I’d be coming back next year.  “I hope so,” I told him, imagining for a moment the Scottish books I would teach.  But then the moment was over, and we all hustled back on the bus.

We stopped a number of places, including Glencoe and the Three Sisters, which never get old to me.  Especially in the rain, the Highlands reek of Scotlandness.  Glencoe was suitably misty and broody, and The Three Sisters disappeared into the low-hanging clouds. I felt that wild call again, that primal spirit of place that Scotland holds for me, though I don’t know why.  If any place (besides Louisiana or Venice) should capture me, you’d think it would be Ireland—being as I’m Irish, and yet, I don’t have a compelling desire to go there again.  (I mean, I wouldn’t say no, if someone invited me to go with them—I’m not a lunatic!) Maybe the difference depends on my staying in Scotland as long as I have been—my affinity for the place has grown.

At the bottom of the glen, we stopped in Achnambeithach, a National Trust for Scotland heritage place.  It’s really just a white cottage at the base of the ben (that’s Scottish for mountain!), and I’m not sure why it’s a heritage spot, but the views are spectacular. Now that I think about it, maybe it’s not the cottage that’s the historical site, maybe it’s the bridge…hmm.  Anyway, you can look back up into the whole glen and be inundated with beauty.  The rain had let up a little bit, and blue sky peeped through some of the heavy clouds, making the dull, rain-soaked green of the mountains flash veridian. The light gleamed off the loch, and the stream that fed it bubbled.

Returning to the road, we ate lunch at the Glencoe Visitor Center (I tried cock-a-lackie soup, which was not my favorite, not the least of which because it was a chicken soup, and I don’t eat chicken), then drove through more mountains until we got to our first ferry stop of the trip, the Lochaline Ferry Terminal which would bring us to Mull. The trip over the Sound of Mull to Fishnish took maybe 20 minutes, and Stewart encouraged us to get out of the bus if we wanted to, although it was raining and between rain and sea spray, I’d just as soon stay inside, cozy and dry.  But others got out and apparently gawped at the many jellyfish in the water, which they were only too excited to talk about.  For myself, I was eager to be going to an island less touristy than Skye had been two weeks before, and couldn’t wait to see what Mull would offer.

And Mull delivered!  First, we saw some seals—I’d say they were sunning themselves, but actually there was no sun to be found, so they were merely lazing on a little islet.  We stopped to take pictures, but the distance made the seals somewhat indistinguishable from the rocks.  We stopped again at the site of three old wrecks, apparently hired by some wealthy gent in the early 1900s to sail around the world but they never left Mull, just sat there in the water and decayed for 100 years. We stopped to look at some Heilan coos, and a scenic overlook at Lochan na Guailne Duibhe. Then we drove up to Tobermory, where we would all be staying for the night.

 

Tobermory is a lovely fishing village, where fresh fish is on the menu at all the local restaurants.  The buildings are each painted different colors, like Portree on Skye, and I was staying at the very end of the harbor, in a little red cottage apartment that was ghastly expensive. (Because Rabbies claimed they couldn’t find me a place to stay—even though I booked the tour two months in advance—I had to find my own accommodation, and this was what was available.)  It was clean, with a comfortable bed and wonderful black-out curtains.  The downside of Otter Apartment (besides the fee) was the doorlock situation—which is to say, I couldn’t figure out how to lock the door when I left the building.  But fortunately, no one felt inclined to enter the apartment while I was out.

I would have liked to have eaten at the Mishnish Restaurant (the yellow building in the photo above), first opened in 1869 and a Mull institution, but silly me, I hadn’t made reservations.  (I am not used to making reservations at restaurants, but that seems to be a thing you do here in Scotland.)  So after being turned away by a concierge with a pitying look, I got a few items at the local Co-op grocery instead, and made a passable dinner of mint-yogurt potato salad, Doritos, and a Coke Zero.  Then I crawled into bed, read a little, and went to sleep.

Stewart picked me up a little before 9 the next morning, the last person on the bus before another day of touring.  We drove along the single-lane roads of Mull, thousands of foxglove plants purpling the hillsides—so lovely, and so deadly, making a photo stop at an old stone bridge dating from the 1800s. All the burns and waterfalls collected in a river that ran beneath the bridge.  When we arrived in Fionnphort we took another Ferry to the Isle of Iona, but this time Stewart stayed behind with the bus, because only inhabitants of Iona can have vehicles on the island.

I ate lunch at the Argyll Hotel, whose dining room was decorated in pleasant seascape blue and gray—another nondescript cheese and chutney sandwich and a bowl of soup.  But because I ate lunch instead of hot-footing it over to Iona Abbey (a poor choice, considering the quality of lunch), I didn’t get a chance to look at it, and I’m sorry about that, because it appeared lovely from the ferry, and it is a Christian pilgrimage site. Iona is where St. Columba established a monastery in the 6^th Century, when he came over from Ireland, and it’s the place from where Christianity spread in Scotland. Since I missed the Abbey, I went to the ruins of the Nunnery, took photos, and then called Mom to catch up with her.  (She was fine.)

The big activity for the day was taking another ferry to the Isle of Staffa—really just a boatride in an old, dusty tub that took an hour.  The Atlantic swells impressed me, tall as they were, but I was seated inside, so I didn’t feel them as much as others who were sitting at the back of the boat did.  One guy mentioned to me that he loved the rolling so much, and the next time I looked at him, he was fast asleep. The ride was loud—the engines booming—but we saw some seals before we arrived at the Isle of Staffa, and it was beautiful.

The rocks form natural steps (not that you’d take these steps, because you’d take your life into your hands) and long columns, almost as if someone chiseled the side of the island to look this way. The island name of Staffa is from the Norse meaning “pillar” which makes sense. What I didn’t know was that in order to see the puffins, which apparently settle here in the summer, I’d have to climb up this itty bitty, windy but very scary tall stairway to get to the top of the island, and all I could think was I’d get halfway up there and have a panic attack because I do not do heights well at all.  So I stayed at the little boat launch and read or watched the tidal pools.  The air was seafresh and salty and I saw some jellyfish congregating in the tidal pools.  The wind was terrific, though (another reason I was scared to scale the wall), and so I pulled up my raincoat around me to keep the wind at bay.  The other option was to go to Fingal’s Cave (which everyone said was amazing) but that also required walking on a very narrow step path right above the water, and I just imagined I would slip.  (I had on my sneakers, but honestly, I am just clumsy, and I didn’t want to risk a fall.)

Our boat arrived after another hour, and I climbed onto a seat toward the back this time, where the Atlantic swells were huge. The ship bounced so much that sometimes it felt like I were on a rollercoaster, and the other passengers “whoooed” with every swell. But it was fun, and I saw several puffins flying in the air, so I didn’t feel too deprived about missing them on Staffa.  They flew so quickly they just looked like stripes of orange and black.

By then it was late in the day, when we got back to Mull, and we drove up to Tobermory, but not until after we’d stopped again at the stone bridge, where a herd of Heilan coos were congregating in and by the river.  With the sunlight hitting the water just so, the cows looked as if they had been painted there.  But the smell was realistic enough: the path that took us to the cows was awash in cow paddies, so I was extremely careful where I stepped.

The nice weather of the day gave way to more rain, so when I got back to my apartment, I zipped out to a food truck for fish and chips, and slinked back, a little damper, with dinner.

The last day of the trip began early enough, and we had to make our way to yet another ferry, this one from Craignure to Oban, another rainy passage.  Because the ferry had been overbooked the day before and was still backed up, Stewart couldn’t get our bus on the 11:00 ferry—he was shunted to th 2:00—but we went as passengers of the ferry.  It was a huge ship, ginormous.  I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a ship that big, with multiple decks, several coffee shops and a diner.  I thought about getting something from the diner, but I didn’t really see anything I wanted (and I did not fancy another drab cheese and chutney sandwich), so I wandered the decks and got an iced latte in one of the coffee shops in the stern of the ship.  Let’s be honest, this latte was basically a large glass of milk and a shot of espresso.  And it was delicious.  That’s the kind of latte I like—mostly milk!  Once I added sugar to it, I was hard-pressed not to suck it down in two sips. (I’m mostly kidding.) After I’d finished, I decided to head out on deck (even though it was raining) and watch the water.  I had hoped to see whales or dolphins, but I suspect they didn’t want to come out in the rain 😊.  I enjoyed the air, wet as it was, and stayed outside till I grew cold.

Oban, where we docked, was great.  Yeah, it was raining like hell, but I really enjoyed what I saw of it.  I walked the high street for quite a distance, and stopped into Oban distillery to see if I could take a distillery tour but the answer was no. (They only take 16 on a tour, and I was #17.) I ate at Nories Fish and Chips for lunch (established in the 1960s), and then wandered down toward the water where I found the Oban Chocolate Company.  Its reasonable prices encouraged me to buy a small bag of truffles, and a bag of white and milk chocolate cats.  I wandered some more and watched the harbor for a bit (hoping for dolphins, but alas), and got some icecream, then made my way to the other side of the harbor where I knew Stewart would pick us up.  There was still an hour to go, but the rain was relentless, so I holed up in Costa Coffee, and waited out the rain.

When Stewart arrived, I said, “I went to Oban distillery, but they wouldn’t let me on the tour.”

Stewart said, “That’s no’ right. D’you go to the tastin’ bar and have a flight?”

“I would have,” I said, “if I’d known about it.”

He shook his head, as disappointed as I was.

(I’ve yet to try a dram of Oban whisky, but then I haven’t really stopped in any bars.)

Pretty much after that, all that was left of my Mull and Iona tour was a stop at Inveraray (where I called Mom again), a stop at Kilchurn Castle ruins, and then the ride back into Glasgow, although we made a picture stop in Glen Croe, near Loch Lomond.  At the base of the glen is an old military road, but we were on the “new” road at the side of the bens, where large metal nets ridge the mountains to catch boulders and falling objects.

As I was getting off the bus, Stewart told me that he hoped he’d see me next year, with my husband, on the Islay whisky tour, and I hope I can arrange that, because Stewart is a great tour guide, and even though I don’t like peated whiskies (which Islay is famous for), I’d be thrilled to get reintroduced to them with Stewart’s guidance.  I’ll have to see if I can contact Rabbies next year to find out when he leads the tour, assuming that a) I teach in Scotland again, and b) I can arrange it. Even if I don’t think I’d enjoy the whisky, I’d enjoy seeing Stewart again.  And if C could come with me, that would be even better. (Get your passport, C!!!)

More photos: