OBAN - Gateway to the Isles

Wednesday 9th June 1993 - Day 14

It was a bright start to the day. I had my last breakfast overlooking the sea at Nerabus. The Forestry Commission man gobbled up his food and rushed off in his hire car hoping to get a seat on the first plane back to Glasgow this morning. Having just managed to glimpse a light aircraft circling downwards through the clouds, I think I saw it coming in to land on the opposite side of the island. The Welsh couple had offered to take me with them to Port Askaig, as they were going to Colonsay for the day on the same ferry as me. The journey is only possible on Wednesdays when the Claymore makes a return trip to Oban.

After breakfast, Bet decided to take some photos of us all and Patricia rooted round for an old snap of the house to give her as a souvenir. As I had hoped, she gave me a copy of her book about Nerabus. I nipped out to the post box across the road and suddenly remembered that I needed a stone of Islay if I were to keep up my collection.

In his insatiable quest for knowledge, Wil asked Patricia about the island's farms (he had been a manager of a dairy herd at one time) and she was regaling us with all the local gossip. Apparently, their neighbour had turned most of the several thousand pound grant awarded to him by the EC for his dilapidated fences into what could only be described as liquid assets. Consequently, his livestock spent most of their time wandering off, but usually seemed to return home before he was sober enough to notice.

Having declined the offer of a lift from "our friend", who left long before we got to the farming stories, I began to wonder if we would ever make it to the ferry on time. The next one wasn't for another week. Secretly, I thought that I wouldn't be disappointed if we did miss it. Nerabus had been a real haven.

The three of us said goodbye to Patricia who felt that it was rather like sending all the children off to school and returning to an empty house. Finally, we sped off as if in a car rally, arriving with barely five minutes to spare. They insisted on dropping me at the gangway before going to park the car, which wasn't an easy task since there were obviously loads of other day-trippers who weren't taking their vehicles. We met up later on and I asked them to write down their address so that I can send them a postcard from some of the other islands we talked about.

Standing overlooking the car deck, I watched vehicles being directed on to the ferry. It was extremely busy with passengers staking out claims to seats on their newly acquired territory. I moved around quite a bit to try and get a clear view of things with the camcorder. In so doing, I bumped into the brother and sister with their nephew who had stayed at the B+B. They turned out to be going to Oban and then onto Mull. Later, I saw "our friend" and exchanged grunts. Further on I met the three cyclists who were planning to stay on Colonsay until Friday. In the luggage rack I noticed two backpacks covered in bright green plastic. After a while, I spotted the last of my Islay acquaintances - the old couple who had been turfed out of the Youth Hostel. Inevitably, the gentleman was still carrying the mystery cardboard box tied up with string.

A seal suddenly popped its head out of the water and then disappeared into the depths. I finally had time to look at Port Askaig. When I was trying to organise my trip from Paris, I remember wondering why there was so little accommodation available in what I assumed to be a major ferry port. Now I understood. The large white building on the right was the ferry terminal. Then there was the hotel (which I had known about, but found too expensive), a lifeboat station, a row of houses and the Post Office/general store. I had imagined that it would be more convenient to base myself in the same place as the ferry. But I realised that whatever the village had been like, I would never have regretted ending up miles away at Nerabus.

The ferry finally set off at 10.15am, half an hour late. In the hazy sunshine, I could see the Paps of Jura standing like rounded pyramids. Beinn an Oir, the Mountain of Gold had its own little candyfloss cloud clinging around the seven hundred metre mark. As we edged up the narrow Sound between the two islands, I saw a solitary cottage overlooking one of the many grey pebble beaches that seemed to line the seashore. There was no road, it must have been reached by an invisible track.

Off the port side, the sun was shining directly on Islay's green coastline. As the white houses of Port Askaig faded away, we passed the distillery at Bunnahabhain. Here, the land started to rise, but within a couple of miles, it dropped down to sea level. There stood the Rhuvaal lighthouse at the most northerly point on the island. Looking back at it, I realised that we were really leaving. We were now heading out to sea. Colonsay first, then Oban.

It wasn't long before I spotted Colonsay. It appeared as a long, low-lying island. When we were nearer, the ruggedness of the land became more apparent. Golden sandy beaches softened the coastline. One and a half hours after leaving Islay, we docked at Scalasaig to find a scattering of houses. Most of the passengers disembarked here. A couple of people travelling onto Oban like myself, asked the ticket officer if they could walk down the gangway and back. It was against the rules, but he relented when they explained that they just wanted to be able to say they had set foot on the island. I didn't feel that standing on a concrete pier would make any future claims truly justified, so I didn't try my luck with him. "Our friend" managed to get himself on the waiting minibus tour of the island, but I think all the other seats were taken. The Welsh couple set off on their day-trip looking somewhat lost. At least they had a nice day for walking.

We set sail after about fifteen minutes. The crowds had gone now, so it was easier to move around. The ladders weren't monopolised by children running up and down. I saw another seal after we left, then had a brief glimpse of two brownish creatures diving down in the water which I think may have been otters.

As Colonsay receded into the distance, we began to enter the Firth of Lorne. Mull loomed large off the port side with its green hills. I could see dark patches in the cliffs, perhaps the caves and arches mentioned in the guide books I read before leaving France. A white waterfall stood out, pouring straight down into the sea. Nearer to us, off the starboard side, we passed a host of tiny islands. Behind them was probably the mainland. In the increasing haze, it was difficult to tell what was what. One looked like a miniature version of Staffa, with its high black cliffs and grassy flat top. To get a good view of where we were going, I positioned myself in front of the bridge. It was so windy up there that I couldn't film by the rails and had to stand with my back against a bulkhead.

The ferry had slowed right down by now. I wondered how it was going to get through the narrowing gap ahead. We were heading straight for an island in front of us, with still no sign of Oban. I wished I'd looked at the map before I left to give me an idea of the geography of the place. Slowly up through the Sound we went. Finally there was Oban spread out around the bay looking just as I had imagined. To the left, the seafront was simply a row of hotels with trees in the background. I strained to see if I could pick out the one where I was going to stay. The town centre seemed to be two-tiered with shops around the harbour, then houses halfway up the hill. Perched on top is McCaig's tower or folly, the famous Colosseum-type structure overlooking the bay. Since we were late arriving, we had to wait a while for the Mull ferry to leave before we could dock. Once alongside, the remainder of the town came into view, together with the railway station hiding behind the ferry terminal.

By this time it was around 2.15pm. I set off for the hotel on foot, through the busy harbour area and the crowds of holidaymakers. The weather had turned very muggy, with none of the cooling sea breezes I was used to. It turned out to be a longer walk than it looked which made me wish I had taken one of the taxis by the station. Anyway, I easily found the Wellpark Hotel past the new cathedral and along The Esplanade. All the rooms are named after islands. Mine is called Colonsay. It's on the first floor, looking out over the rear of the building. At first, I was disappointed not to have a sea view, but soon realised how noisy it was on the front with all the traffic. I have my own bathroom, TV and radio. A huge lounge is located up a flight of stairs at the end of my corridor and the breakfast room is on the ground floor.

After a bit of a rest, I went out to explore the town around 4pm. The harbour reminds me of Plymouth, with all the blackboards and makeshift adverts put out on the pavement offering cruises to Mull, Iona and Staffa. After only two weeks on the islands, it was odd to walk through such crowded streets. I wandered around the town centre amazed at all the shops - Boots, Menzies, Woolworths - not just the old Spar in the village. It's quite a shock to see so many cars and people. I suddenly realised that there hadn't even been traffic lights on the islands and found it all rather overwhelming. In the Tourist Information Centre I picked up as many free leaflets as I could lay my hands on. It was pandemonium in there with dozens of people queuing up to try and book accommodation.

For dinner tonight, I had haddock, peas and potatoes in the self-service part of MacTavish's Kitchens in the main shopping street. Upstairs they have a proper restaurant where they put on Highland dancing for the tourists. I'll probably end up in there again now I'm back to the problem of finding somewhere for meals.

Thursday 10th June 1993 - Day 15

I took breakfast this morning overlooking the island of Kerrera, watching the boats come in and out of the harbour. Further out to sea, Mull was cloaked in mist. The hotel staff seemed friendly enough. The two girls couldn't believe that I only wanted orange juice and toast. Everyone else was having kippers or proper fry-ups.

I went out to do my washing in the laundrette I spotted yesterday - only to find that it closes on Thursdays. I had another look around the shops and booked myself a seat on a bus tour this afternoon. Before that I had time to investigate the replica of the Colosseum of Rome which presides over the bay. I'd read about it in the guide books before I came. A banker called John McCaig had it built between 1897 and 1900 as a memorial to his family and to provide employment for the townsmen. It's quite a steep climb to the top of the hill, but there are a couple of benches where you can sit and get your breath back. The interior is landscaped with grass and trees. Passing under one of the arches, you come to a viewing platform complete with the sort of 20p-a-go binoculars you find on seaside promenades. I had a good view of the town and Kerrera out in the bay. On a clearer day, you would be able to see over to Mull as well.

On the way back, I found a newsagent's selling the best value sandwiches I've seen so far. For £1.20, I got about third of a French stick bursting with tuna and salad. I ate it at the hotel, as I had to return to leave my dirty washing and pick up the camcorder.

At 2pm the Oban and District coach set off with about twenty-five passengers. I was probably one of the few people who paid the full £4, as most of them were Senior Citizens. First we went up through the hills surrounding Oban and then drove south along the shore of Loch Feochan. The driver was a cheerful, talkative chap in his fifties who sounded as though he spent all his spare time investigating the local archives and reading history books. I'm sure he could have won Mastermind with his specialist knowledge. He gave us a detailed commentary and stopped from time to time to let us admire the view. He pointed out to us the cottage used in the film "A Ring of Brightwater' and an almost castle-like house owned by one of Barbara Cartland's former husbands. We also saw a tiny Post Office which appeared to be scarcely the size of a beach chalet.

Next we crossed the famous Bridge over the Atlantic which links Seil Island to the mainland. Designed by Telford in 1792, it has a very high back and is host to a rare species of fairy foxglove. We had a good ten minutes or so to stretch our legs and take some pictures. Near here stands the inn of Tigh an Truish (House of the Trousers). After the Jacobite rising of 1745, the wearing of kilts carried the death penalty and so it was here that the Highlanders changed their clothes when venturing across to the mainland.

The driver told us that two local men hatched a drug smuggling plot six years ago and sailed off in a yacht. Suspicions were aroused when they didn't reach their destination and weren't sighted for several months. On returning from Africa, they were finally arrested by H.M. Customs and sent to prison. Moral of the story: it isn't such a quiet, peaceful place as you might think.

We then continued along a road which was at times both steep and narrow, hardly designed for a coach. Only the driver's skill saved one barn on a particularly tight corner from demolition. We managed to pull in near the top of the last hill before Easdale. Through the increasing haze, the driver pointed out the islands offshore. I could just make out Scarba, Luing and Holy Isle, recognising some of the shapes from the approach to Oban on the ferry yesterday.

Finally, we wound our way down to sea level. Easdale is a Conservation village with several rows of white cottages built for the quarry workers and their families. Almost everything seemed to be made of the local slate, even garden tables and chairs. The harbour was the same, not sand or pebble, but slate, slate and more slate. In fact, so much was quarried here over the centuries that the original island has split in two. The tiny island of Easdale opposite was once part of the western coastline of Seil. You could go over there to visit its museum on a small motor launch. Not wishing to get stranded, I preferred to explore the immediate area. A huge dark cliff dominated the harbour where a couple of boys were fishing. Miraculously they caught something in the motionless water and whooped with delight.

Walking back to the outskirts of the village, I saw sheep grazing between goal posts on what must have been the only flat grassy spot available for a game of football. Next to it was another vast pond. The water was perfectly still. Not a single ripple in sight and not the slightest hint of wind. In the distance I could see the lines drooping between two electricity pylons, the one on Seil handing over its power to the island of Luing.

The bus was parked next to a newly-built Ali Baba's cave of Scottish souvenirs, paintings, crafts, foodstuffs, etc. It appeared to be some sort of co-operative involving local artists, offering a free cup of tea to my fellow trippers on the coach tour. Shunning their tourist trap bait, I went in one of the craft shops in the main street and bought some of their postcards instead. They were better quality anyway. The tearoom next door was deserted, even though there were quite a few people milling around. It seemed rather sad.

When the hour and three quarters were up, we all piled onto the coach for the drive back to Oban. Returning by the same route, we did at least manage to see a bit of sunshine along the way. The bus stopped near MacTavish's, so I went in for a baked potato and beans just after 6pm.

Friday 11th June 1993 - Day 16

It rained overnight, but was fine and muggy this morning. I managed to get my washing done in the laundrette. It cost me £5 for a service wash and everything was properly dry this time. I had a potter around the town while I was waiting for the lady to do it. On the way back to the hotel, I bought a vegetable samosa for lunch from "Oban Sesame", the health food shop on The Esplanade.

This afternoon I went on the coach trip to Glencoe for £6. It was a different driver, not as chatty, but the passengers were much the same sort of bunch as yesterday. Out of about twenty people, there was only one other "youngster". We headed north, over the Connel Bridge, soon stopping for photos at Loch Etive. Then it was around the tree-lined shores of Loch Creran and up the coast at Loch Linnhe. As the sun pushed away the clouds, the water became bluer and bluer, mirroring the sky above.

At Ballachulish, we came up against Police warning signs. There had been an accident involving a coachload of German holidaymakers and an Army vehicle. Consequently, a section of the A82 was closed further down the road. We were still able to drive through the Pass of Glencoe, although the driver said he wouldn't take us as far as he usually goes.

Some one and a half hours after leaving Oban, we reached the Visitor Centre run by the National Trust for Scotland. There was a gift shop and a fourteen-minute video explaining the historical background to the infamous massacre of the MacDonalds by the British Army on 13th February 1692. Known in Gaelic as the Glen of Weeping, Glencoe has also been called the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

On such a sunny June day, it was hard to think of anything other than the beauty of the surrounding landscape. The driver took us up through the Pass, explaining how it looked different each time he came, depending on the seasons and the weather. He regaled us with tales of swirling mists and snow drifts when the road would be blocked for days on end. It was as though we had crossed some magical boundary. He became alive with enthusiasm and passion for the place he so obviously loved. He showed us pockets of snow still hidden in the craggy mountain tops, somehow unreal in the middle of summer. One spot was called the Lost Valley. Then he told us the story of Ossian's Cave high up the face of the Black Rock. We stopped at a crashing waterfall and later at the foot of the Three Sisters, watching hikers set off along the steep paths. Others further up were no more than colourful dots on the hillside.

We all looked in awe at the mountains, sensing some latent, inner power. Everyone was constantly moving from one side of the coach to the other, eager not to miss any of the views, even though we knew we would be coming back down the same way.

I tried to do some filming, but found it impossible to get everything in the camcorder viewfinder. The only flat land was just up from the Visitor Centre where a river ran into a small loch at the bottom of the valley. The driver was surprised to see a few deer feeding with the sheep. It is unusual for them to be so low at this time of the year he said.

Sitting towards the back of the coach, I peered through the rear window for as long as I could until the glen was finally out of sight. What a pity we couldn't have stayed longer.

We had just one more photo stop on the way back. This was for Castle Stalker which sits on its rocky islet at the mouth of Loch Laich. Built around 1540, it was the ancient seat of the Stewarts of Appin. It was featured on the cover of a travel magazine I bought in Paris last year. I found it such a lovely picture that I always kept it on top of the pile of books next to my bed. With the loch appearing as a silver platter in the sunlight, I was pleased to finally see the castle for real, albeit at a distance.

As we returned to Oban, the driver told us the story of the Appin murder dramatised by Robert Louis Stevenson in Kidnapped. The incident occurred in 1752 when Colin Campbell of Glenure ("The Red Fox") was shot and fatally wounded. His assailant escaped and an innocent man was tried, then hung in Ballachulish some months later. It is said that the name of the true murderer, possibly the convicted man's son, has been passed down through the centuries by word of mouth and Campbell's ghost is reported to have been seen on more than one occasion.

I had my dinner reflecting on a very worthwhile trip through the hills and along the lochs with a scattering of fir trees thrown in. A perfect recipe and good value for money.

Saturday 12th June 1993 - Day 17

The day started bright enough for me to see the hills on Mull properly for the first time since I arrived. Up until now, they have been mere murky outlines, leaving everything to the imagination. After seeing the 8.45am ferry to the Isle of Lismore chug past the hotel window when I sit at breakfast every morning, I decided to see what it was like.

I walked around to the harbour in time for the 10.45am crossing. The boat was further on from the Mull and Islay ferry point. I hadn't been this far down before and there seemed little sign of life, yet the departure time was drawing closer. Seeing the boat being tossed up and down, with the ramp grating against the concrete jetty, I began to feel apprehensive. Like a naval landing craft, it looked even smaller than the one that took me from Lochranza to Claonaig. Having already bought my ticket in the Caledonian MacBrayne office, I tried to look purposeful and strode up the slippery ramp, then across the empty car deck.

Not knowing where to go, I climbed one of the vertical ladders and sat up top next to the bridge with the other passengers. In all, there were six of us. A man with his son and grandson, plus two middle-aged ladies. Almost immediately, we set off on the fifty-minute crossing, past the row of hotels along The Esplanade and out through the narrow strait separating Kerrera from the mainland. I had a good view of Dunollie Castle perched on the headland about a mile around from the hotel. Once out at sea, I soon realised how windy it was. The boat was bouncing up and down in time with the waves. Sea spray was coming over the railings. I turned to keep the sun out of my eyes and whoosh, the back of my head got absolutely soaked. I was glad to be sitting on the life rafts, even though they were wet as well by then.

It was worth paying £2.60 just for the ride. A free shower, sunshine and fabulous views of the hills on both the mainland and Mull. There only seemed to be two members of crew, chatting away to each other in the wheelhouse. Just before we arrived, one finally emerged to check our tickets.

A short string of mismatched houses greeted us when we landed at Achnacroish. I took the only road out of town, leading up the hill, past the school and a couple of farms. I crossed a few people who were presumably making their way back to the ferry. After walking what seemed further than I had expected, I finally came to the road which runs down the middle of the island. Not having drawn up a plan of action, I decided to head south where I could see less sign of habitation. Within a mile, I reached a solitary house and a minor road signposted Achanaduin Castle. Grateful for some shade, I stopped under the trees opposite a red telephone box.

I opted to walk off the "main road", hoping to reach the castle. A hundred metres from the junction I picked up a couple of small stones to add to my collection. Half-black and half-white like liquorice alsorts, they struck me as being quite unusual. The single-track road wound its way down, then up again. I wondered why it couldn't be flat. I was sure that if you added all the downs to all the ups, they would cancel each other out. The scenery reminded me of The Rhinns of Islay: rugged and craggy with few houses and hundreds of sheep. The winding road gave me tantalising glimpses of the sea, like promises of things to come if only I carried on over the next hill, around the next turn. It's like heading for that pot of gold, you feel sure you will be rewarded in the end.

With the sun still beating down on me and the general lack of shade, I was worried about suffering heatstroke. I plodded on in the hope of finding somewhere to sit down. I passed some barns in the fields and a couple of farms set back from the road. Fortunately, it started to cloud over and the temperature dropped. I followed the road until I could see the ruins of the castle in the distance. The land banked steeply down into a rectangular hollow. I wasn't too keen into venturing into unknown territory which may well have been boggy. Mull lay directly in front with the hills of Morvern on the mainland to the right across Loch Linnhe.

I returned to the ruins of a croft I had passed a few hundred metres up the road. Clambering through one of gaps in the stone wall, I hoped no-one had seen me in case I looked suspicious. There wasn't much left of the old place, so I had to crouch down low to find shelter from the increasingly vicious wind. The roof had long since gone and the walls were only a metre high. I ate my tuna roll watching the sheep moving between the rooms, grazing contentedly.

I was very aware that I had to be back in Achnacroish for the 3.45pm ferry, as the last thing I wanted was to get stranded there until Monday morning. Trying to retrace the journey in my head, I found it difficult to calculate if there would be more hills on the way back or not. With this in mind, I decided to start walking as soon as I finished lunch. The wind rather than the gradients turned out to be my major problem. It became so bad, that I had to zip up my hood completely. I can well understand how it can drive people mad. Fortunately, there was little traffic, but I did have to jump onto the grass a couple of times to avoid vehicles coming from behind or around a corner. It was just impossible to hear them.

I made it back to the pier with over an hour to spare and was pleased to be able to shelter in the spartan waiting room. I kept a look-out for the ferry coming in from Oban. No-one else was waiting for it as far as I could see. For a while, I thought it might not turn up. Finally, I spotted it in the choppy, grey sea. Then I saw the man with his son and grandson. As the ferry came in to the pier, dozens of people suddenly sprang from nowhere. Within barely two or three minutes, we all rushed onboard and the boat was already manoeuvring its way out. I headed straight below decks this time, but the wind was behind us which made the crossing smoother.

Sunday 13th June 1993 - Day 18

It was a cool, dull start to the day. I went down to the Heritage Wharf complex by the harbour. It includes a glass workshop and one of the Woollen Mill shops where I was able to buy some postcards. The centrepiece is "The Oban Experience", bringing the history of the town to life. It is designed as a sort of walk through time. You start in a reconstruction of a Victorian station, then move on to John McCaig's study. Old film footage plays on the wall behind him, while his dummy is animated by clever projection of moving features on to his face. He tells how Oban developed into a major seaport in the last century and then grew with the arrival of the railway. Finally, a video about Skye is screened in the auditorium and you exit via the gift shop and theme tearoom. I bought myself a cottage cheese, pineapple and salad-packed croissant at my favourite newsagent's and went back to the hotel to read the Sunday papers.

Later in the afternoon, the weather looked a little more inviting so I took the path I had seen through the trees behind the hotel. Eventually, it led around to the foot of the hill where Dunollie Castle stands in ruins overlooking the northern entrance of the harbour. This was the seat of the MacDougalls, the Lords of Lorne, who once owned a third of Scotland.

It was such a steep climb through the trees that I wondered if it was wise going to the very top, particularly in case I couldn't get down again. In places, it would have been easy to break an ankle. I met two elderly men whose wives I had seen looking concerned by the roadside.

I soon realised that the climb was worth it for the view of the bay and Kerrera. When I arrived, it was deserted. All that remains are the keep and ruins of adjacent buildings, now overgrown with ivy. I walked into the darkness of the room at the base of the tower, trying to decipher what was there and what it had been. I could just make out a fireplace, but nothing of the splendour of its past glory. I went up what was left of the stairwell to the first floor, soon finding that it wasn't safe to go any further. Still, it was nice to have a whole castle to myself, even if it was no longer intact. It was like being a child again. I would have perhaps stayed longer, quietly pondering over the dramas that may have taken place between its walls, but I heard voices approaching through the undergrowth. Invaders from afar. The spell had been broken.

As I picked my way carefully down the hill over the jumble of soil, rocks and tree roots, I saw dozens of youngsters water-skiing, canoeing, scuba-diving and jet-skiing down in Ganavan Bay. I'd read that it was a popular spot, but hadn't realised that it was quite so close to the town. I returned to the hotel via the main road, mindful of the busy traffic.

Boards hang out the length of The Esplanade with each hotel and guest house striving to outdo its neighbour. "Tea and coffee served all day". "Private facilities in all rooms". One even boasted ice cream. Many were open to non-residents for dinner. With such a wealth of accommodation on offer, it made me wonder why I had found it so difficult to book somewhere. And my hotel doesn't even serve dinner.

Monday 14th June 1993 - Day 19

I had another wander around the town this morning, buying some delicious vegetarian pasties from the health food shop. I also bought a pack of video tapes in case I never see any more until I get to Inverness and after the blister I got on Islay, I found myself a pair of thicker socks to wear for long-distance walking. I went in to pay for my seat on today's advertised coach tour, but was told that only two other names were on the list. The lady said that it wouldn't run without a minimum of eight people. I loitered around outside willing passers-by to go in and book a few more seats. Finally, another couple turned up and it was decided to run the trip with just the five of us.

Within a few minutes, Mastermind turned up with a minibus and we set off northwards past Dunollie Castle. Four miles out of town, we turned off the main road and drove through the village of Dunbeg. The driver told us that it had been created during the war for a floating dockyard and was handed over to the local council in the 1960s when more houses were built. It is now the site of a marine research laboratory whose low white buildings looked the perfect location for a James Bond film.

Our first destination was Dunstaffnage Castle, once the capital of Dalriada, the original Kingdom of the Scots. It was to here that the Stone of Destiny was brought over from Ireland via Iona. In the mid-ninth century with the Norsemen attacking from the west, the seat of power was moved to Scone, near Perth. The stone was used at the coronations of subsequent Scottish kings until it was taken by Edward I to Westminster Abbey in 1296.

The building looked square and impenetrable with round towers. A MacDougall stronghold until 1309, it was seized by Robert the Bruce who then appointed the Campbell clan as its hereditary keepers in the name of the Crown. The driver told us that it is now in the hands of the Ancient Monuments commission, who charged what he considered to be an excessive entrance fee given that the interior was bare. The lady keeper was out sweeping the drive. None of us dared approach her and he steered us around the side to the ruined chapel. Apparently, when they took over, they cleared out all the old gravestones in the common burial plot and threw them on the side, so they could mow the grass more easily. He reckoned that people often found teeth and things lying around in the gravel paths. Scratching around with his feet half-heartedly, he obviously didn't approve. We all tried to occupy ourselves with the remaining carved stones inside the chapel walls. Even if some were worn by time, you could still see that many featured the old skull and cross bones. Perhaps he could see us wondering exactly who and what we were walking on. Once he thought we'd had enough, he led us back to the minibus. Recognising me from the trip to Seil Island, he asked me if I was enjoying my stay in Oban. I explained about my journey and we wound our way back to the main road.

We crossed the Connel Bridge and turned onto a narrow road running down the shore of Loch Etive. One of the local buses pulled up alongside us and asked our driver if he could give a lift to an American tourist who was walking to Ardchattan Priory. A mile or so down the road, we spotted the man and, much to his surprise, took him with us.

The driver dropped us all at the gates, giving us an hour to look around the Priory and gardens. It is one of three Valliscaulian houses and was founded in 1231 by Duncan MacDougall, Lord of Lorne. It is said that the last Parliament meeting to be conducted in Gaelic was held here by Robert the Bruce in 1309. The history books say that it was burned by Cromwell's soldiers in 1654.

We wandered through the ruins, examining the carved gravestones and remains of some arched windows. The driver dug into his seemingly endless store of historical knowledge, remembering newspaper cuttings which had sent him running to the library archives and various manuscripts he said that he had come across. It was more of a guided tour than a simple bus trip.

Before he got too carried away, I disappeared into the grounds. There was a map in the driveway, next to the honesty box. I managed to find an ancient lavatory in what could well have been a garden shed in previous times. Ardchattan House itself stands in a beautifully well-kept garden overlooking the loch. The glorious sunshine emphasised the colourful mixture of blues, whites and yellows of the flower beds.

Making our separate ways back to the gates, I think we were all a little reluctant to leave. The driver was chatting to the American. He mentioned that he wanted to visit Dunstaffnage Castle, so we dropped him at the turn-off point. He did quite well considering that he couldn't have paid much for his original bus fare. As we pulled in, another tourist was waiting for a bus back to Oban. The driver reckoned that she had just missed one, so gave her a free lift too. And here was me thinking that only island bus drivers were friendly and helpful.

Tuesday 15th June 1993 - Day 20

I had an early start this morning, leaving the hotel just after 7.30am to be in time for the 8 o'clock CityLink bus to Inveraray. There was barely more than half a dozen people waiting when I arrived. I understood why the lady in the tourist office had said that you didn't need to book. As I was looking out of the window, a girl on a bus opposite started waving madly in my direction. The seconds ticked past as she continued to gesticulate and I suddenly realised it was one of the pair that worked at the hotel. I thought afterwards that it was perhaps quite fortunate, as I had forgotten to warn them I wouldn't be there for breakfast. By this time, they had started bringing me extra orange juice and always tried to give me a table by the window. At least she would have guessed that I'd gone out for the day and not thought I'd done a runner.

Despite the dull weather, the scenery along the route was spectacular. Loch Awe seemed to go on forever. Beginning as a white river, once past the dam, its waters were perfectly still, reflecting row upon row of fir trees on the opposite bank. Following the contours of the landscape, the road runs parallel to the railway line at the foot of the mountains. Through the narrow Pass of Brander, the loch gradually opens out into a vast silver carpet setting off its wild surrounds. We rounded the northern tip of the loch and made a detour to Dalmally to pick up passengers. Returning to the lochside, we were greeted by the picturesque ruins of Kilchurn Castle, featured on many a postcard.

Inveraray looked about as awake as I felt when we arrived at 9.15am. Together with a couple of other tourists on the bus, I think I had expected somewhere a little bigger. Most of the white-washed shops up the wide main street had only just opened and the Tourist Office was still shut. I walked over to the entrance to the castle on the outskirts of town. The driveway wound out of sight for a good mile. A side road led off to the wartime Combined Operations Museum, but I doubted that I would have time to visit it.

Finally, I came to some iron gates through which I had my first glimpse of the pale, baronial castle. Hidden amid the dark green trees, it appeared as a fairy-tale vision. At each corner stood a round tower topped with an ice-cream cone roof. A square tower rose from somewhere out of the invisible centre. Was it made of marzipan and icing? I half-expected to see a unicorn in the garden.

Seat of the Duke of Argyll, chief of the clan Campbell, the original castle was rebuilt, together with the town in the mid-eighteenth century. However, it was not designed to be approached by the impatient twentieth century tourist on foot. I continued along the grassy verge until I reached the car park and the rear entrance. It was too early to go in, so I followed the nature trail signs into the forest. A German family was standing on the bridge photographing Highland cattle in the field below. I walked down the tree-lined path a short distance, then returned to the castle for opening time at 10 o'clock.

Once inside, I discovered that a party of German tourists had just arrived. A guide was showing them around with an interpreter, so it took ages for them to go through each room. I tried to dodge them by doubling back as soon as the way was clear, but managed to get myself trapped in the Armoury Hall having underestimated their combined strength and speed. This immense hall forms the square tower I could see from the outside. It contains over 1,300 pieces: pikes, cutlasses, claymores, shields, ancient guns, everything a warrior could wish for.

The State Dining Room was quite impressive, the table laden with huge gold galleons. According to the leaflet I picked up, the castle houses a grand collection of eighteenth century French furniture and porcelain. The Tapestry Room was my favourite with huge works stretching from floor to ceiling. One even went around a corner and formed part of a door. Upstairs, only a couple of rooms were open with costumes on display plus family portraits and mementos. The last stop was the kitchen and then the gift shop, after which I headed back into town.

I walked along the main street again to buy some postcards. Further up is the famous Bell Tower of All Saints' Episcopal Church. Had it been a clear day, I would have liked to have seen the view from the top. I managed to buy a sandwich and some crisps in the grocer's, then sat on one of benches by the waterfront in the company of several noisy gulls. Low clouds were gradually heading up Loch Fyne and it soon started to drizzle. I went up to the Jail Museum only to see a party of school children going in. To let them get ahead, I ducked into the next door gift shops which had been converted from two prison cells.

Returning to the museum, I started with the torture and punishment exhibition showing all the things they used to do to criminals, witches and such like. On display were a few pairs of handy thumbscrews together with prints of hangings, mutilations and people sitting in church in sackcloth.

Next I moved on to the Courtroom which is set out as it would have been in the 1800s with extremely life-like dummies representing the judge, jury, defence, prosecution, witnesses and accused. Even the judge's wife occupied a seat on the VIP benches. Visitors can sit on the public benches and listen to extracts of trials that actually took place there. I stayed for about fifteen to twenty minutes listening to the tapes and watching people's reactions when they first walked in and saw this curious mixture of tourists and nineteenth century dummies all sitting there together. Many did a "double-take". One girl said "Excuse me" as she brushed past an old man, not realising that he wasn't real.

I finally managed to drag myself away from this entertaining spectacle and went into the Old Prison. Built in 1820, it was completed before the introduction of prison reforms. The cells on the ground floor housed an exhibition about the people who were kept there: men, women and children, not all of whom had been convicted of any crime. The four cells on the first floor were furnished as they would have been at the time, with little heating, ventilation or sanitation. Overcrowding was frequent, with no means of exercise or work provided.

Crossing the yard outside, I turned to enter the next building and came face to face with a man dressed in his arrow-patterned prison uniform. I suppose that's why they call it a living museum and it's a novel way of keeping an eye on the tourists. I went into the New Prison which dates from 1848. Here, conditions had improved. There were water closets, washrooms, a doctor's room and accommodation for the warders. Boards hung on the walls of some of the cells, detailing the prisoners' stories. Those who were sentenced to transportation didn't sail for Australia immediately, but often spent up to a year working in dockyards such as Chatham before getting onto a ship.

On the second floor, cells furnished with hammocks and guardbeds contained dummies of prisoners making fishing nets. One cell contained a treadmill and cranking machine which were used in other establishments to keep the inmates occupied. Some places even forced them to move canon balls around all day, just to give them something to do.

Up the narrow stairwell to the third floor more cells lined the corridor. The top floor housed a gallery used for exercising in bad weather. I went out past the old airing yards which were nothing more than cages. There stood two more prisoners in uniform and a Victorian lady all dressed up in her finery.

I came out through the official souvenir shop which had stacks of horror and murder books, jail t-shirts and postcards. I was tempted to buy my nephews a pair of handcuffs, but thought someone might throw away the key.

Verdict: educational, entertaining, excellent value for money. No wonder it has won so many awards. I could have stayed longer, but I wanted to be on the 3.20pm bus back to Oban, as the next one wasn't until 7.50pm.

Having put my return ticket in my purse for safe keeping, I was dismayed not to find it when I came to get on the bus. I can only imagine that I must have inadvertently given it away in the five pound note I used at the castle. Fortunately it was the same bus driver and so I didn't have to pay again. The return journey turned out to be even duller than this morning. Yet the mist seemed only to add to the beauty of the landscape. White clouds hung around the mountain tops. Living in a place like this, it must be easy to believe in ghosts and the wee folk.

Wednesday 16th June 1993 - Day 21

This morning I took the green Gaelic bus to the Sea Life Centre near Barcaldine about 20 minutes north of Oban. It turned out to be another enjoyable place for a day out. There are separate log cabins for the gift shop and restaurant, as well as the main marine building set on the shore of Loch Creran. Blackboards advertise the times of the displays and talks to be held. At the entrance, touch pools are provided where you can handle starfish, whelks, crabs and sea urchins.

Next you pass by a series of tanks containing various fish together with octopus, crabs, terrifyingly huge conger eels and frighteningly ugly catfish. In the recently built seal pup nursery I saw a premature pup that had been rescued last week. A few minutes after I arrived, he was whisked away for feeding. The acclimatisation area was also open to the public. There, all the creatures are kept in huge open-top tanks before being transferred to the display areas.

Around mid-morning it was feeding time at the two seal pools. They have three resident seals: two females and one male, who were "rescued" as pups a few years ago by well-meaning members of the public who had not released them back into the wild early enough. Since they could no longer fend for themselves, they eventually ended up here. Usually, when rescued seals are brought in, the centre's policy is to release them as soon as possible after treatment. These three weren't very hungry today, especially the female who is due to have a pup soon.

I went back inside to watch hundreds of herring circling endlessly around in a huge ring doughnut-shaped tank. You could look at them from underneath and also stand in the middle. It looked about as futile as Formula One drivers racing around Silverstone, but I learnt that it was their method of catching plankton. And guess who told me - Mastermind, the walking library, who happened to be there on one of his coach tours. I had in fact noticed it in the brochure, but I wanted to spend more time here than the schedule allowed, so I came under my own steam. We got chatting of course and I told him that I'd been to Inveraray yesterday. He said that his father was a witness at the very last trial to have been held there. It was in 1930 for a man accused of murder, but found not guilty. He then went on to tell me all about the rays in the next tank. Is there no end to this man's knowledge?

At 1pm I returned to the touch pools where one of the staff gave a short talk about the creatures living there. Quite a crowd had gathered, comprising mainly of children who really enjoyed it. She showed us a tropical starfish which must have been feeding when she picked it up, as its stomach was clearly hanging out underneath!

By 2pm it was feeding time for the different types of ray and flatfish in a huge, low tank. I had spent quite a while watching them earlier in the day. Most of them blended in perfectly with the sand at the bottom of the tank, although some were more brightly coloured. The girl brought some small fish, but not many people managed to get them to eat any. The trick was to make them take the fish before letting go, otherwise they all just dropped to the bottom. But with their mouths being on the under side, most people were scared of losing their fingers and let go too soon. It all looked somewhat difficult, so I just had a go at touching them when they came up to the surface. They weren't at all slimey as you might think. With my new-found confidence, I went back to the shark pool and tried stroking some of them. You had to wait for one to swim past on the surface and just run your fingers down its back. They moved too quickly for anything else. These were British sharks, about fifty centimetres in length with long tails. It was quite an experience. There was even a stingray hiding at the bottom amongst the seaweed.

Outside I walked a little way along the lochside nature trail, but it was starting to rain and I had to head back to the main road for the bus. I got absolutely drenched waiting for it to arrive. After only a short distance it stopped at an infant school and began filling up with children. We then had to go delivering them around all the houses and finally returned to Oban about 4.30pm. I had a last look in the shops, before eating a baked potato in MacTavish's and going back to the hotel to pack.

..... Go to the next chapter ......

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May 1998