MULL - Time for contemplation

Thursday 17th June 1993 - Day 22

I paid the bill this morning and said goodbye to the two girls who had looked after me so well at breakfast. Rather than walk a mile around to the harbour in the rain, I rang for a taxi. The ferry wasn't until 12 so I had a long wait in the terminal building, watching an assortment of people come in and out for tickets. I had already bought mine on Saturday when I went to Lismore. It's my third Hopscotch ticket which will take me on virtually all the Caledonian MacBrayne ferries I'll need for the rest of my trip.

The weather had started to clear up by noon when the ferry came in from Mull. Almost like a cruise liner in dimensions, the Isle of Mull, with a capacity of 1000 passengers and 80 cars, is the largest ship in the CalMac fleet. Once I had bought a sandwich and found somewhere to eat it in peace, I scarcely had time to look at the scenery. Besides, having mistakenly sat on the starboard side, I could see little of the island from my position. As it was, within forty minutes we were already docking in Craignure and I could just glimpse a few patches of blue sky. Thinking that any day-trippers would have gone on the earlier sailing, I was surprised at the number of people fighting to get off. Disembarkation became one giant scrum.

Several coaches were parked further down the pier. Everyone was just piling on without paying, so I assumed that they were for the tours of the island I had seen advertised in Oban. The timetable on the notice board next to the Tourist Information hut indicated that a bus was due right now, but the lady inside already had a queue of people eager for her attention. I went back to the coaches on the pier to ask one of the drivers. Needless to say it turned out to be his bus. He told me that I was lucky he wanted a last cigarette, otherwise I would have missed it. I still didn't understand how everyone else had just walked straight on. The mystery was solved (at least in part) when I realised that you paid when you got off. But how did the others know that? As it was, there was barely a seat left and I didn't even have room to take off my coat. Still, better to be on this one, than wait three hours for the next I thought as the temperature rose and rose and there was no ventilation whatsoever.

It was a tortuous road all the way to Tobermory. Mostly single-track, twisting and turning, up and down. Perched on one of the aisle seats about halfway down the coach, my only clear view was through the front window. Four or five miles out of Craignure, the bus suddenly turned down a side road past dozens of new tree stumps and hundreds of foxgloves. We looked as though we were going straight into the sea, but the driver was just turning around using the concrete jetty. He then had to manoeuvre between a makeshift hut and a worried-looking couple waiting in a van. The phrase "Between the devil and the deep blue sea" sprang to mind. I realised that this must be the ferry point at Fishnish. No-one got on or off and we returned to the main road.

It took about fifty minutes to cover the twenty miles between Craignure and Tobermory. Walking down the main street, I saw stickers in shop and car windows complaining that the A848/9 was the worst A road in the country. It was easy to believe. I hoped to find a map of the town in the Tourist Information Centre and work out how to get to my B+B. I trundled down the main street as far as the pier, but could see no sign of the Tourist Office. Retracing my steps, I asked one of the staff in the corner shop.

It was a very steep climb up the hill and I had to stop three if not four times due to my lack of fitness and heavy bags. The road carried on around past a school and then seemed to go downwards again. A lady was out walking her dog, so I checked with her to make sure that I was going the right way. Thanks to her help, I spotted Aig an Tigh a few hundred metres further on, opposite the Police station. There was no sign outside, so I could easily have missed it.

Strongarbh Park turned out to be a group of chalet-type huts. A scribbled card in the window of Number 4 directed callers next door if there was no reply - which of course there wasn't. I was welcomed by Mrs. McEwan who, for some reason, seemed surprised that I had actually turned up. A rotund, grey-haired lady, she ushered me back around to the other chalet, through the kitchen and into my room which overlooks the Police station. There are four bedrooms, all twins or doubles by the look of it, with one bathroom and a separate WC. The front room contains a TV and a few ancient armchairs, together with three long wooden tables and benches. Outside, the land slopes down to a couple of similar chalets over which you can just see the bay. It's a bit of a come down after the hotel in Oban, although the place seems reasonably clean, if not particularly modern.

Following some much needed food, drink and rest, I felt ready to tackle the descent into town. At the foot of the hill a sign points to the Tobermory Handmade Chocolate Factory behind the corner shop where I asked for directions. I walked up and down the length of the main street by the harbour. Although the tall houses and shop fronts are just as brightly painted as the pictures I saw in the brochures, somehow I had imagined Tobermory to be larger than this. Despite the variety of shops and businesses, it seemed rather disappointing after I'd got used to the albeit sordid opulence of Oban. I've been spoilt staying on the mainland for ten days, but now I realise that I'm back in the islands again. No-where was particularly enticing, especially not the electricity showroom, laundrette or the yachting/fishing shop. The main places of interest to me were the bookshop, the Post Office and the Co-op where I hope to buy food. There's also a bakery, a fish shop offering to send salmon anywhere in the world, a sweet shop with trinkets in the window, a sort of delicatessen and a woollens shop, plus a branch of the Clydesdale Bank, a small museum and the Youth Hostel.

One empty place had obviously been the Tourist Office in a previous life. A note in its window directed me to the pier where a white square building stood. The entrance faces the sea rather than the road which is why I had missed it earlier. With just as much discretion as my B+B, there was no sign. It seems to be combined with Caledonian MacBrayne which has a café upstairs. There weren't many free leaflets, but I bought a few postcards together with two Ordnance Survey maps covering the north and south of the island.

I walked back up the main street looking for somewhere suitable to eat. There were several hotels and two restaurants. I opted for Gannet's which looked to have an extensive meat-free menu and wasn't too expensive. With its good food and friendly staff, it reminded me of Stalker's on Arran, so no doubt I shall be returning there often.

Once I was sure that my vegetarian curry had been well and truly digested, I climbed back up the hill to the B+B. Around 8pm as I was sitting in front of the TV, the builders arrived. According to Mrs. McEwan, they are on a six-week contract working on the school extension. They seemed amazed that I had chosen to stay in Tobermory for ten days, so I didn't let on the full extent of my grand tour. They made Mull sound like Siberia. The four of them all come from Oban and can't wait to go back there, which I was pleased to learn they do every weekend. They seem a nice enough bunch though and asked me down to one of the hotel bars with them when they went out at 10pm. Needless to say, for me it was bedtime.

Friday 18th June 1993 - Day 23

This morning I stayed in bed until the builders had eaten their fry-ups and left. I couldn't seem to get any water out of the shower, so I had a quick bath instead. Mrs. McEwan had no idea how it worked, but after suggesting that I ask the builders, said her daughter would probably know. She was genuinely disappointed that I only wanted toast and marmalade with orange juice. From what the builders said last night, I don't think they rate her cooking very highly anyway. I had breakfast looking out over the bay and the misty hills opposite. Neither the juice nor the marmalade had ever seen any real oranges by the taste of it, but she seems a friendly enough landlady.

I walked down into town, unsure of what to do with myself in the murky weather. I had another look down the main street and spent a while in the bookshop. The harbour was full of boats and yachts of varying shapes and sizes. According to the builders, most of the tourists who come here are "yachties". I saw a lot of divers too, possibly searching for gold bullion from the Spanish galleon Florida which took refuge in Tobermory bay in 1588 and was blown up by the local clan.

After another visit to the Tourist Office, I set off northwards to the Rubha nan Gall lighthouse at Strangers' Point. The narrow footpath part way up the hill soon became dangerously muddy and within 30 minutes it started to rain. Fortunately, the path was overgrown in many places which protected me from the worst of it, but I decided to turn back rather than trudge through the mud. By the time I reached the pier it was absolutely pouring down, so I stayed under the last few trees for a while hoping for a let-up. Eventually I had a bright idea. I ran up the steps to the Caledonian MacBrayne café, but it didn't seem to be open. I made a dash for Aros Hall halfway up the main street having seen a signboard outside advertising snacks. Surprisingly, there weren't too many other people in there sheltering from the weather and I found a vacant table. As the rain eased off, I nipped down to the Post Office and bought a paper to read back at the B+B. Then I called in at the Co-op to get some mixed salad in case it hadn't dried up by evening. As it turned out, by the time I'd climbed the dreaded hill back to the chalet, it was already getting brighter. Mrs. McEwan's daughter was there doing the cleaning with her little boy running from room to room.

Around 2pm I set off again and found it quite warm in the sun. I decided to follow the footpath which leads southwards out of town, past the distillery and into the forest according to the map. Fortunately, I had read about the walk in a book in the Tourist Office, otherwise I would never have thought of going through someone's front garden to get to the starting point. It was another muddy, narrow path snaking halfway up the hill. Again I was surrounded by dense undergrowth, but at least there was sunlight breaking through the leaves. I stopped to look back at the coloured waterfront of the town and wondered about getting a shot with the camcorder.

After a while, I reached a small road leading to a bridge. Here, I took the path signposted to the "Upper Falls" and after a further climb came across a roaring waterfall complete with clouds of spray. Judging by the map, the path led back to the main Tobermory-Craignure road, but you could also go up a little way to stand by the river as it ran over the top. I tried filming the view over to the Ardnamurchan Peninsula opposite, but was wary of getting too close to the edge and losing my balance. I sat down on the bench and studied the map. On the mainland I could see Mingary Castle and the village of Kilchoan from where a ferry sails to Tobermory. Nearby, a large hill known as Maclean's Nose juts out into the sea. As I admired the view, a foreign hiker appeared from nowhere and asked me for directions. I showed him where we were on the map and he went back down the hill after taking a couple of photographs.

I retraced my steps, crossing over the bridge and continued down to the "Lower Falls" which were less impressive than the others. Near there was a signposted viewpoint looking out over Tobermory and the bay. I was surprised to see a huge white cruise liner moored at the pier. It must have sailed in whilst I had been in the forest. Through the field glasses I could just make out its name: REGINA RENAISSANCE registered in Monrovia.

I followed the footpath to Lochan a Ghurrabain where I was pleased to find a toilet in a Forestry Commission shed. There was also a car park, so this must have been the reason for the road I had come across earlier. The path led down to a wooden boathouse and I could see a few men fishing in the middle of the loch. I decided to walk along the banks for a while and ended up going the whole way around. The foreign hiker I'd met earlier was perched on a fallen tree trunk taking photos of the surrounding greenery. I sat to eat a fruit bar on the other side of the loch, then rejoined the footpath to Tobermory.

It was even prettier on the return journey with sunlight playing in the trees, and foxgloves and rhododendrons lining the way. I stopped still in my tracks to gaze at the shafts of light streaming through the gaps in the undergrowth. I couldn't have been more enthralled in a tropical jungle. It's something that has always fascinated me - that rich mixture of light and shadows in forests. Then I saw a tiny stream running down the hill to form a pool of clear water. I knelt down to wash my hands in the natural stone basin and sat drying them in the sun. I heard voices and suddenly there were people. Paradise had been shattered once again. I suppose I must have been closer to the town than I realised, but I was still surprised to see anyone. They were the first I'd met on the path. Later I discovered from Mrs. McEwan that a man had recently fallen to his death from there after returning from one of the hotel bars in the dark. I remember hearing something about it on the radio when I was in Oban. She advised me that it wasn't safe to walk along, so I didn't tell her I'd already been there.

With the builders having gone home for the weekend, some "proper" guests turned up tonight: two very jolly couples who are catching the ferry from Oban to Barra tomorrow and an elderly couple from Peterborough who have booked for a week. From what I can gather, they got married last year at the ages of 69 and 70!

Saturday 19th June 1993 - Day 24

It was another dull start to the day this morning, so I decided to try the forest walks marked on the map north-west of Tobermory in the hopes of finding some shelter in the trees if it poured with rain again. I went through the rows of white-washed houses, along the cemetery wall and left Tobermory on the B882. Just out of town I turned onto a narrow unclassified road leading past some farms where a playful, muddy sheepdog leapt out at me. That was the first reason I was pleased to be wearing my waterproof trousers. Next, it rained. I put my hood up and plodded on hoping it would just be a passing shower. Sure enough it soon blew over and a mile or so later I reached the forest.

I had two options: continuing on the narrow road three or four miles to Glengorm Castle which, I had discovered in the Tourist Office, was rented out as holiday accommodation, or heading off on the footpath to Ardmore Point. Naturally I chose the footpath. It ran along the edge of the forest for about a kilometre, then disappeared into the trees. The path turned out to be a newly surfaced road. Eager to see what lay ahead, I scrambled up some earthworks and saw the mainland directly opposite. Once in the forest proper, I realised that the new road was for all the logging traffic. It was just as well that I'd come today and not in the week when the JCBs would have been crawling around everywhere.

By now the sky was almost completely blue and I felt lucky to be in the shade. Soon the path forked and I headed north towards Ardmore Point. It wound round and round, up and down. After about half a mile, I came to the end of the road where there were several clearings and more mechanical diggers. I doubted that this was the path marked on the map and so retraced my steps to the last junction. There was a reasonably sized clearing, so I decided to stop for lunch. Sitting on a huge tree trunk, I spread my cheese triangles onto some wholemeal bread and gobbled it all up. It tasted delicious! I moved to one of the large stones in the sun, but was wary of getting burnt. I wondered how many miles I was from the nearest human being.

I set off again taking the other fork this time, to find the way lined with foxgloves. After coming to a few more unmarked junctions, I became increasingly unsure as to whether I was on the track shown on the map and resolved to retrace my steps when I'd had enough, rather than attempt the round-trip I had originally planned. The track started to climb and I finally reached another opening. Scrambling up some more convenient mounds of earth, I was surprised to see the bright blue sea off Ardnamurchan Point, the most westerly place on the UK mainland. Dotted with rocky outcrops, the green hills stretched out along the Peninsula and back to unseen civilisation. It was hard to tell what if anything lay ahead, so I decided not to venture further. I had enjoyed my walk thanks to the glimpses of the hills and the sea, which came as an unexpected reward like the waterfall yesterday. By the time I returned to the main road, the sun had been overtaken by grey clouds once again and I raced back to the Co-op to buy some more salad for dinner.

Back at the ranch, Mrs. McEwan has turned out to be another Effie Mackinnon, as I rather suspected when I rang to book. Like the madcap character my sister and I stayed with on Harris nine years ago, she still seems disappointed that I don't want a full cooked breakfast and can't understand why I don't drink tea or coffee. Yesterday I caught her cutting my toast in half with a pair of nail scissors. She also has another regular guest in the mornings - a huge seagull which has been coming for three years and sits on the balcony in front of our tables. The builders say that it gets a better meal than they do, which only serves to confirm all our suspicions.

Sunday 20th June 1993 - Day 25

The Post Office was open for a short time this morning once the Sunday papers had been driven over from the Oban-Craignure ferry around 11.30am. I sat reading by the waterfront and then went up to the CalMac café for a fish and chip lunch. The staff were very friendly and we joked that I was a week early for the first ferry of the season to leave for Mallaig next Sunday.

For want of something better to do in the afternoon, I decided to try the lighthouse path again, hoping that it might have dried out a bit since the other day. It seemed just as muddy as before and as potentially dangerous as the footpath that took me to the loch on Friday. At one stage I could see a fish farm in the sea below, but it wasn't always possible to glimpse anything through the dense undergrowth. In the end, the path wasn't that long and as soon as I rounded the last corner, the view was finally clear.

The lighthouse sat at the end of a concrete pier jutting out from the cliff bottom. I followed the path down, watching where I put my feet and came to a little memorial which was being studied by two elderly ladies. I carried on to the keeper's cottage overlooking the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. Geese cackled at the garden gate. The two ladies came over and sat on the pier sheltering from the wind. We chatted for a while and I left them to their nature books. The sky was threatening rain. Apparently it was possible to reach Tobermory by scaling the cliff and crossing the golf course at the top, but I thought it safer to return by the footpath.

Monday 21st June 1993 - Day 26

This morning I took the 10.30am bus over to Calgary Bay, eleven miles west of Tobermory. The B road runs along the banks of Loch Peallach before slowly winding its way up the hill overlooking Dervaig. From the top, it was like looking down into a huge bowl. Resting in the bottom of the valley near Loch a' Chumhainn, the village is famous for the Mull Little Theatre. Performances are put on throughout the summer for a maximum audience of forty-three. The driver and his friend off-loaded today's newspapers at the village shop and then we continued to the terminus at Calgary Bay over the next ridge of hills. The ride was somewhat harrowing, as I wondered if the little minibus had the horsepower to manage the gradients.

We arrived around 11.15am and I made sure to ask the driver what time he would be back - just after 4 o'clock he said. There was a good-sized beach and the shallow water looked almost tropical in colour, but it wasn't really paddling weather. I could see two or three tents on the other side of the bay and some people setting up camp on the edge of the sand. I opted to walk south on the single-track road towards Ulva. Three huge brown birds - buzzards I think - circled above the cliff tops. Soaring on the air currents, they seemed to be following me. One must have spied a possible meal and swooped down low, travelling so quickly it sounded like the great rush and roar of a jet fighter.

Visibility was poor, but through the murky greyness I could make out what must have been Coll and Tiree on the horizon. I managed to spot the ferry with the aid of the field glasses, although it was difficult to see where the islands ended and the sea began. All of a sudden they started to disappear before my very eyes. I was sure there had been two of them out there, but as I continued walking, they seemed to merge into one low-lying mass. Coll was rapidly shrinking as the rain clouds ran the length of the island. I turned around and headed back to Calgary. The race was on.

By the time I was within view of the beach, a long white cloud was charging up the sound parallel to me. To begin with I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, then I could see it moving against the green hilly background. Hungry, I sat on a stump under the only clump of trees in sight. They were sufficient to protect me from the light drizzle long enough for me to finish my sandwiches. Obviously used to being fed by tourists, two bull chaffinches fluttered about above my head and kept flying down to hover right in front of me. I think I could have got them to eat out of my hand if I'd tried. Looking out from under the drooping branches, I felt rather like a pixie in some sort of fairy glen.

As the rain became heavier, I retreated to the only real shelter for miles: the toilets. I was reassured by a plaque on the white-washed wall which announced that they had been "Highly Commended" in the 1992 Loo of the Year Awards. Decorated with colourful hanging baskets, they were clean and spacious. Fortunately I had taken my walkman with me for once which helped to pass the time. I managed a couple of ten-minute walks during dryish spells, one north, one south, but was forced back by the rain on both occasions. The highlight of the afternoon was the arrival of a group of old ladies on a minibus tour. We had quite a chat, but unfortunately they were heading south otherwise I think they probably would have given me a lift back to Tobermory.

After some two hours I was more than pleased to see the bus return early. Rescued at last! Calgary had begun to merge with Calvary in my mind. The driver chatted to his mate as the bus followed the twisting road going up and round and down in time to the Highland dance music which was blaring out of the radio. Finally warm and dry, I soon found myself tapping my feet and gleefully watching the rain stream down the windows as the bus danced its way through the hills. It felt perfectly surreal.

Back in Tobermory, I went straight into Gannet's and ordered a steaming bowl of mixed bean and vegetable casserole with potatoes and peas. Just what I needed. Later, I trudged up the hill to the B+B in the rain. As I went into the chalet, the couple from Peterborough were watching the news on TV and I heard the announcer reminding the nation that today, June 21st, is the longest day. I hardly needed the BBC to tell me that.

Tuesday 22nd June 1993 - Day 27

Knowing that the couple from Peterborough had decided to take one of the boat trips to Staffa and the Treshnish Islands, I arranged to go with them in their car. By choosing Turus Mara and going on a Tuesday, we had the best cruise on offer - a seven-hour round trip with an hour on Staffa and two hours on Lunga. Having rung as requested to confirm that it was still on, we set off straight after breakfast in order to be at Ulva Ferry by 10.30am. This little port on the west coast of Mull is about an hour's drive from Tobermory. The weather was perfect and the sun was in my eyes all the way down to Salen. For once, the view of the mountains on Mull and the mainland was completely clear.

Ulva Ferry amounted to no more than a couple of ramshackle old buildings with a car park and a Portaloo. It is from here that a small motor boat ferries passengers over to Ulva where nature trails and a museum have recently been set up by the island's owners. On the wall of what looks like the former ferry office, a white wooden square can be slid back to uncover a red panel when the boat needs to be called. With the Sound barely over two hundred metres wide, the boatman on the other side can easily spot it against the white-washed building.

We arrived in plenty of time and so waited by the waterfront with a group of about twenty-five other tourists. Betty spotted a dead jellyfish washed up by the side. Eventually a 45-50ft long, wooden boat chugged up to the jetty and a young girl helped everyone to clamber onboard, while the skipper tried to keep the vessel as steady as he could. Before we had chance to settle down, some sitting in the covered area, the rest of us opting for the exposed stern, we found ourselves already heading up the Sound.

We rounded the eastern tip of Ulva, then followed its southern coastline, past the islands of Inch Kenneth and Little Colonsay. The shadowy hills of Mull dominated the scene, as the morning sun gradually burned off any cheeky clouds. After a smooth enough start, the going became harder as we reached the open sea and the boat began to roll. It was a good hour before we arrived at Staffa.

The island rose proudly out of the sea as we approached from the south-east. Manoeuvring the boat in front of the entrance to Fingal's Cave, the skipper played an extract from Mendelssohn's Hebridean Overture. We came as close as you possibly could to actually sailing inside, mere metres from the tightly packed rows of pillars. Topped with a rough mixture of stone peppered with yellow lichen, the tall, blackish columns give way to a ring of washed-out grey marking the high-tide line, below which the rock colour slides into a warm brown. The boat then pulled well away from the island to reveal the full extent of The Colonnade or Great Face by the lesser known Boat Cave. Turning around, we headed down the east coast, parallel to The Causeway and landed near Clamshell Cave. With strict instructions to be back by 1pm, we were helped off one by one onto the recently constructed jetty.

Wary of slipping on the rocks, Betty and Jim climbed the aluminium and concrete stairway to the grassy flat top of the island where they planned to have lunch. I, however, wasn't going to let the walk along The Causeway stop me from reaching Fingal's Cave. About half our party opted to give it a go and we picked our way over the mass of giant stepping stones. A handrail was fixed into the cliff where the column tops became particularly uneven or narrow. In places I clung on to it tightly, unsure of my balance with a full rucksack on my back. We passed a group of American students sketching and basking in the sun.

After two or three hundred metres we rounded the southern tip and reached the magical cavern. I did what you soon learn to do on these sort of trips - let everyone have their little gawp, get bored and saunter off to other things. I didn't think they would all stay too long, so within a few minutes I virtually had the place to myself except for a couple of people who decided to eat their lunch in a sheltered spot on the rocks outside the cave. As I filmed the sea view over to Iona, I could just make out the cathedral outlined against the horizon.

The cave is entered by a narrow ledge of columns leading into the darkness. Someone came at me around the corner and I had to backtrack to let them pass. One false move and you would soon find yourself squirming in the gully of deep frothy water below. I waited and listened to see if anyone else was coming, then clung on to the rail to guide me in. I had been unsure as to what to expect, but this surpassed all my dreams. It was higher and deeper than I had imagined, but barely twelve metres across at its widest point. Supported by grey-black lava pillars, the roof is a jumbled mass of volcanic debris and broken columns rising to an almost perfect arch. I was alone in a truly natural cathedral complete with basaltic organ pipes, marvelling at the formation of such a wonder. As you look back out through the arched window of the cave's mouth, Iona sits emerald-like on the glistening sea in a direct line, as if planned for Columba long before he ever reached the sacred isle.

I was fascinated by the unearthly sounds filling the rear of the cave. Guttural utterances echoed around with the lapping of the waves. My eyes searched sixty metres into the semidarkness, trying to comprehend how such a noise could be made by water and rock alone. The back of the cave appeared as a stone altar strangely cloaked in pink. I fixed my gaze on it, waiting and willing for an answer. Watching the swell of the sea, I listened to the music, yet I couldn't fathom the origin of the sounds. The cave would not give up its secrets so easily. Perhaps it was Fingal speaking. Anything was possible in such an otherworldly place.

Having sat there a good while, eating my lunch in coolness of the cave, I knew I had to leave. I felt as if I could have stayed forever. It had been a feast for all my senses, but there was so much more that I wanted to explore on Staffa. I picked my way back along The Causeway over the many-sided stepping stones and clambered up the stairway to the flat top of the island. I would have loved to have gone and stood over Fingal's Cave, but, with an eye on the time, I thought better of it and rushed across the neck of the island to film the views, picking up a couple of tiny black stones on the way.

The mismatched group of the Treshnish Isles was strung out to the north-west, while Tiree and its golf ball radome could just be glimpsed on the horizon. Due west lay a vast expanse of ocean flowing all the way to America, the odd white peak of a wave whipped up by the Atlantic wind. To the south I could see sandy beaches lining the shores of Iona, then the great hulk of Mull swinging round a full 180 degrees, locked in a friendly embrace with the sea. From the low-lying Ross of Mull, rising up through the mountain ridges to Ben More, over three thousand feet high, the giant island filled the entire eastern vista. Ulva, joined to its sister Gometra, nestled in its curved arm.

I looked down over a host of rocky coves, known as Port an Fhasgaidh or Shelter Haven. This was the Old Harbour, where boats can be drawn safely out of the water onto the tiny beach. Staffa stretched ahead of me for another half a mile, but the lumpy green ground made it impossible to cover any distance quickly. I was disappointed not to have time to investigate more and seek out the ruins of a stone building, thought to be a folly dating from the1820s.

Hearing a commotion, I turned to see a group of naval reservists fanning out from the top of the stairway in pairs. I suddenly realised that the few members of our party who had been close by only moments earlier had now all disappeared. With the minutes ticking away, I ran across the island and saw the boat ready to leave. Even though I thought it would have been nice to get stranded, I didn't believe they would actually have left without me. I scrambled down the makeshift stairs as swiftly as I could without risking a fall and made it back at 1 o'clock on the dot.

No sooner was I onboard than we sped off down the coast. From the sea, the pillars reminded me of corset ribs squashed between the overhanging mass drooping down from above and the elephant-grey column stumps rising out of the sea. We rounded the tip of the island for one last look at Fingal's Cave and The Colonnade. I was desperately snatching my last moments with The Wondrous Isle. I stared back at it. From a distance, Staffa became a green-topped slate slanting down into the sea.

We charged northwards to the Treshnish Isles with the skipper pointing out Bac Mor otherwise known as the Dutchman's Cap, which could easily be mistaken for an aircraft carrier on a misty day. Our destination was Lunga, the largest of the group. It appeared almost as two islands in one with a low plateau occupying the south and a rocky northern half rising to a peak some 100 metres above sea level. We slowed down, slipping into a seemingly private blue-green lagoon. A brilliant white yacht drifted by. It was as though we had entered another world. The scene was that of a tropical paradise.

It was about 1.45pm as we began the delicate landing operation by fetching a wooden pontoon moored offshore. The skipper had to manoeuvre it and his vessel into place by the rocks. We slowly left the boat, climbing onto the pontoon which we were told could support no more than two people at a time. The girl helped us all off and we picked and slipped our way over the seaweed-covered rocks to larger, drier boulders and finally dry land.

There, a narrow footpath led up the grassy hill. The skipper had warned us to ignore the first puffins we saw and continue along the path around the west side of the island. The less intrepid members of the party including Bettty and Jim soon stopped, content to sit in the sun and watch whatever birds flew past. The more adventurous of us trekked up into the cliffs at our own pace and reached one of the colonies. I think there may have been other sites further along, but this was a revelation in itself.

None of us had expected anything on such a scale. There were thousands of birds in various combinations of black, white and grey. Faced with a cacophony of constant squawking, we approached them quietly and separately, first looking for the best vantage point, then choosing our own strategy to see how close we could get. A young couple lay flat out at the edge of the cliff and waited with their camera. A bird watcher hid himself from view in a natural dip in the ground. A middle-aged lady and myself slid around on the grass between the rocks, wary of frightening them away.

Guillemots huddled together in groups of between one and two hundred, each cloaked in black, pressing its white belly against the cliff face. Lone fulmars waiting for their mates guarded their rocky nests. Puffins waddled along the grass, alert to all around them. One chased a large white feather until it blew off in the wind.

They seemed to arrive out of nowhere, manoeuvring in the strong air currents, then swiftly landing on the rocky ground. After scurrying about like wind-up toys in a Duracell advert with their heads constantly revolving, they would manically dive off the cliffs again. Fascinated, I must have stayed for over an hour, almost losing track of time. The sea was holiday brochure blue spotted with flakes of Persil white. Arching around on the western horizon, Coll and Tiree were clearly visible which was far different to the cat and mouse game I played with them yesterday in Calgary Bay.

Once I had resigned myself to leaving, I began to retrace my steps along the narrow path. I turned a sharp corner and came face to face with a puffin standing on a rock just a metre in front of me. It was like a little furry toy. I felt that I could almost have reached out and touched it. Several of its companions overlooked us as we stood scrutinising each other. Conscious that we'd only been given a little over two hours, I slowly uprooted myself and snook off down the path, turning back to see if they were still watching me.

Further along, I met a plumpish middle-aged lady from our party who had been chatting to the couple from Peterborough on the boat. I explained how they had offered to take me in their car, as we were staying at the same B+B. She was interested in hearing about my grand tour, but I didn't want to waste too much time going into detail as there was still the east coast to explore. It was a pity we weren't there long enough to climb the hill or reach the flat half of the island. I could easily have spent a whole day here.

I scrambled around to the other side of the island which faces the ever-present Mull. In the bright sunlight the views were superb with visibility up to forty-five miles. The skipper said later that it was the best day they'd had in ages. The clouds had been all but banished to the outer ring of the sky. Iona lay to the south with the three humps of the Paps of Jura peeping over the low-lying Ross of Mull. It was a strange jolt to suddenly see them, like looking back in time to distant friends.

As the panorama provided me with a taste of things to come, I thought of the journey ahead. The finger of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula stretched out in the deep Atlantic blue pointing to Eigg, Rum and was it the mountains of Skye I could see behind them in the distance? They're my gateway to the Outer Hebrides and I know I'll soon be passing closer to them.

I longed to be absorbed in the timelessness of the island, but the minutes were ticking away. I scampered across the uneven terrain, half-running through the long grass. I had to be back by 4 o'clock otherwise I could have fulfilled my wish to stay forever, perhaps turning into a rock myself. I looked back to the slanting shape of Staffa adrift on the sea like a leftover piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

Back to the hill overlooking the boat I raced. A host of skerries dotted off the north-east coast appeared as giant's stepping stones enticing me back to Mull. Some of our party were picking their way back over the rocks like bounty-hunters, their cameras no doubt filled with souvenir snaps. I stumbled down the hill, hoping not to be last this time. The rising tide had passed the seaweed line and it was easy to get back onto the pontoon. I found that everyone else had already made their way onboard and so we left for Mull immediately.

Sailing north through a myriad of tiny islands, we spotted a couple of seals basking on the rocks. Then it was past Fladda and on to the very tip of the Treshnish Isles group. The last two islands offered us the ruins of ancient castles and natural arches weathered by the sea. As we turned to enter Loch Tuath, I looked back into the sun. Shadowy islands lay scattered on a silver sea.

We chugged along between Mull and Gometra, stopping once again to watch a couple of common seals on the rocks with a companion poking its head out of the water like a periscope. Behind them, a waterfall poured down into the sea. Filming on a moving boat was not something I'd had chance to practise in Melton before I left, although the hours of swaying around on the Paris Métro finally paid off when the boat was rolling and I needed to keep my balance to capture the scenery on video.

All too quickly Ulva Ferry came into sight, dwarfed by the majestic peak of Ben More standing in the background. Finally the girl came around for our fares and the trusting islander concept of not paying in advance seemed to make sense at last. We all handed over our £17.50 knowing that it was well worth every single penny. The little boat and its crew delivered us safely back to dry land right on schedule at 5.30pm.

Betty and Jim were as eager as me to prolong the day as best we could, so we decided to take the long way home by driving along the narrow coast road to Calgary Bay. The contrast to yesterday could not have been greater. It hardly seemed like the same place with lush green hills surrounding the white beach. Even the winding road from there to Tobermory looked completely different in the evening sunshine. We arrived back just after 7pm and went straight into the bar of the Mishnish Hotel to order fresh haddock, chips and salad. Later we strolled along the waterfront watching a couple of girls trying to windsurf as a rowing boat made several trips to ferry a party of scuba divers back to shore from a vessel moored out in the harbour.

The perfect conclusion to perhaps only the second longest day of the year, but one which will carry on in my mind for a long time to come.

Wednesday 23rd June 1993 - Day 28

Today I decided to take the 10am ferry to Kilchoan on the Ardnamurchan Peninsula which I've seen from just about everywhere I've been so far. The journey over there was included in the Island Hopscotch ticket I bought in Oban, so I only had to pay on the way back. The ferry was the same size as the one that took me to Lismore and there were about a dozen other passengers, mainly locals who chatted away to the crew. We went out past the lighthouse I walked to on Sunday and then cut across to the mainland in just over half an hour.

The ferry docked at Mingary Pier and left almost immediately. I soon discovered that there was very little in sight other than a car park and toilets. Most of the passengers were picked up by friends in waiting vehicles, leaving myself and another man to walk the three-quarters of a mile up to Kilchoan. Oddly dressed, at first he lagged behind, then suddenly overtook me as if having come to a decision. Once he was in front, I recognised him to be yesterday's birdwatcher, although he could easily have passed for a train spotter had there been a station nearby.

Betty had made this trip on Monday when Jim had gone out fishing on a local boat. She had been intrigued by a house along the road which looked as if it was being built inside out. Sure enough the men were still working on it in the sunshine, fixing wooden panels to the exterior of the breeze blocks. I soon reached the village on the main road, but Betty had warned me that it had little to offer. Having not realised that the only public convenience was down at the pier, she had been directed to the back entrance of the hotel by the lady in the Tourist Information hut who explained how she could slip in and out to use theirs unnoticed.

Following the map, I walked north for about a kilometre to find the track leading to Mingary Castle. I was initially a little dubious as it seemed to be a private road to a farm, but after passing the workers' houses and a notice forbidding vehicles, I was able to cut across the yard to a signposted path. Strange noises came from the sheds, but no angry voices telling me I was trespassing.

The path led to an overgrown field where it just seemed to disappear into the high grass. I made a beeline for the castle and was dismayed to find it fenced off with huge yellow signs proclaiming DANGER! It certainly looked to be in a sorry state. Built in the early thirteenth century, it was here that James IV held court in 1495 when he received the submission of the island chiefs. There was nowhere to sit, so I decided to return to the main road and carry on northwards.

It was a narrow road with passing places, so I had to watch out for traffic. I walked for about a mile and started looking for somewhere to eat my lunch. There was little shelter and none of the convenient rocks that I usually managed to come across. Just as I reached some of the rare trees to be seen in these parts, rain began to fall sharply. I headed for cover under the scant branches and found myself slipping down a patch of hoof-marked mud into a river. Fortunately the shower passed overhead before the midges consumed me and I returned to the road hoping that no-one had seen my strange antics.

I decided to backtrack a few hundred metres to a spot I had noticed by the road in the hopes that I could find somewhere to sit down. It turned out to be the start of a track which seemed very popular with fishermen. I crossed about half a dozen people returning to their cars - perhaps the shower had put them off. After diving into the undergrowth as another dark cloud blew over, I finally managed to find what I thought to be a reasonable spot. The sun came out at last and so did all the flies. I soon found out how hard it was to make sandwiches when besieged by swarms of huge insects, but learnt to keep still after moving three times. I'm sure it must have looked comical from a distance, particularly to the man on the tractor in a nearby field. By the time I'd finished, it must have been 1.30pm, so I decided to head back to the ferry. First, I scrambled up a little hill overlooking the sea to shoot the scenery. Craggy mountains stood around me in virtually every direction, both on the mainland and on Mull.

I returned to Kilchoan and sat in the sun for a while on a bench outside the Post Office, then walked down to the pier in plenty of time for the 3.45pm ferry. As I gazed out from the back of the shelter, the white-washed walls provided the perfect frame to the picture postcard scene before me. A tiny stretch of grey-white beach lay next to the pier and Mingary Castle stood timelessly overlooking the sea.

A few people turned up to meet the ferry, but no-one else got on except me. An elderly couple were already onboard, having just come over from Tobermory for the round trip. I stood out on the car deck looking up the Sound of Mull to the backcloth of peaks in the distance. In the middle of filming, I suddenly spotted a Royal Navy frigate heading straight for us. As it cut in front of us and charged out to the open sea, I realised it was the one I saw around Arran.

As we neared Tobermory, I asked the young lad about paying my fare for the trip back, but he said that they didn't sell tickets on the ferry and told me to settle up at the CalMac office. I duly explained my case to the man behind the desk who efficiently tore up the ticket as soon as it came out of the computer. I also bought a ticket for my journey to Mallaig on Sunday, since it's only just dawned on me that it isn't included in my Hopscotch book.

After shopping at the Co-op, I returned to find the kitchen windows all steamed up with Betty and Jim sitting down to a large dinner of fried fish and potatoes. They had been round to put some skate in Mrs. McEwan's freezer, but I don't think she knew they were going to be cooking any. I remember her telling me that she doesn't like guests using the gas stove. Whether that's because it is potentially dangerous or she just doesn't want any mess, I haven't yet discovered. Jim was full of the statistics of his various catches and seemed to have got his dream fish on the boat today. Betty told me they had been digging up worms in Calgary Bay, which sounded about as much fun as I had when I was there.

The good news is that there's still no sign of the builders coming back to the digs. They must have found themselves alternative accommodation, as I've seen them working at the school. Fortunately when I went past today, I was able to hide behind one of their lorries and a pile of bricks.

Thursday 24th June 1993 - Day 29

I was up early this morning for the 7.50am bus to Craignure. Only a couple of people were waiting for it in the main street, so I thought I was going to enjoy a quiet ride. However, as soon as it had gone up the hill, a group of 21 primary school children got on, followed by some chattering locals who were travelling to Oban for the day either on shopping trips or for work. For me, it was almost my last chance to visit Iona as the weather forecast isn't good for tomorrow and Saturday.

I told Mrs. McEwan not to bother making me breakfast, so I tucked into the flapjack I'd saved from Oban Sesame. In Salen, the driver dropped off some sacks of mail at the Post Office, then picked up a couple of foreign campers waiting by the road outside the village. Further along, he stopped again to empty a post box and we finally arrived in Craignure around 8.40am. Once everyone had got off, I managed to buy a day card from the driver for £2.50, giving me a saving of nearly 50%. I had to wait about ten minutes to get on the bus to Fionnphort whilst the drivers loaded mail, newspapers and groceries.

The next part of the journey was all new to me. We went through some very mountainous terrain which I'd love to have a chance to explore. I wish I had discovered this part of the island earlier, as it seems much wilder than the north. There were several plantations of young trees, but few signs of life - barely a handful of scattered houses and not a single sheep in sight. After riding high through the hills and lochs for over an hour on a narrow, winding road, we dropped down to a village at sea level. Bunessan was where most of the groceries and papers were off-loaded. For the last five or six miles, the land became flatter and the islands I'd visited on Tuesday stood out on the horizon. Finally, as we reached Fionnphort at the end of the road, Iona itself came into view.

A ferry ploughs back and forth all day long between the two islands. It would be about the same size as the Lochranza-Claonaig one, just a bit bigger than the Lismore and Kilchoan boats. I went over on the 10.30 sailing, only paying £1.60 for one journey, as I already had a ticket in my Hopscotch book, not that anyone bothered to check it. I sat below decks looking south over the grey sea. In less than ten minutes, we had crossed the Sound of Iona and I stepped ashore on the sacred isle where Columba landed fourteen centuries ago. As if time stood still, a pony and trap were waiting to give visitors a ride to the abbey. Tractors are the only motorised vehicles allowed on the island.

The main street led up from the jetty, past the Post Office and grocer's shop. Within a few hundred metres I reached the entrance to the ruins of the nunnery dating from the early thirteenth century. All that remains today are the chancel, nave and parts of the vaulted roof of the chapel. Many old tombs can still be seen, including that of the last prioress, Anna, who died in 1543. There was a steady stream of tourists filing through on their way to the abbey. It seemed a shame that few took the time to stop and look around them, as if it was barely worthy of their attention. The ground was a carpet of short grass, with flowerbeds adding splashes of purple and red. The gardener was trimming the edges as the sun came and went. I sat on one of the benches gazing at a row of three arches edged with pale stones. The ruins were a mishmash of colours ranging from pink to grey, enclosed by a matching oblong wall. On the other side, children were playing in the school yard. At the far end, a gate opened out onto the road and I rejoined the procession of modern pilgrims reciting passages from their guide books.

The pink stone abbey rose out of the fields in front of me, as a group of workers from the religious community toiled amongst the vegetables. By the roadside, MacLean's Cross, some three metres high, stood over them watching and waiting for more of the faithful to arrive. A marker predicting the end of the journey for centuries of believers.

Following repeated attacks by Norse invaders, little remains of Columba's early Christian monastery today. The present abbey dates from Medieval times and has often been changed or restored. It is currently maintained by the Iona Cathedral Trust which exists solely on donations. The island as a whole is now in the care of the National Trust for Scotland.

With a view to giving myself as much time in the abbey as possible, I thought it best to eat first and visit later, especially since I had to be back on the bus at 3.15pm. In the hopes of finding a quiet spot for lunch, I continued along the road to the northern tip of the island. After a mile or so, past the odd farmhouse, I reached a track leading through sandy fields to hidden dunes. Standing on the highest point, I could see a golden stretch of sand to my left and a group of youngsters disappearing down to what must have been another beach on the other side. Before me lay the circuit of Tuesday's cruise from Mull. Staffa pointed the shadowy mouths of Fingal's Cave and the Boat Cave directly at me. To the north-west, the lumps and bumps of the Treshnish Isles were clearly visible, with the outlines of Coll, Tiree, Rum and Eigg in the background. Looking back down Iona's coast, I could see the ferry crossing over to Fionnphort. In the distance I could make out my old friends the Paps of Jura, some thirty-five miles further south.

After lunch, I returned to the abbey, passing a considerable number of other walkers and day-trippers heading for the beaches. A volunteer in the reception hut handed me a leaflet and I placed some money in the donation box. In front of the west door stands a carved cross commemorating the fourth-century French bishop Saint Martin. Having spent many hours admiring the architecture of his cathedral in Tours during my year at University there, I was surprised to come across a monument to his honour so far from his homeland.

Once inside the nave, the church revealed itself to be brighter than I had imagined. Yet it soon became clear that this wasn't the place for quiet contemplation and recollection, not at the height of the tourist season at least. Some tried to pray, whilst masses milled around them. I put the camcorder away. It would have been too much of an intrusion.

Several doors led through the north wall where there was much coming and going. I passed through to the other side and found myself in the cloisters. Warm sunlight caressed the stone curves as rows of perfect arches ran endlessly round. In the middle of the grassy quadrangle stood The Descent of the Spirit, a strange work of art (by Jacob Libschitz, a Holocaust refugee) which has been made green by the ravages of the elements. Here, few dared break the spell. I half-expected to see a hooded monk shuffle past. What secrets lay behind the upper windows, what events imprinted on the stone walls, what answers to life's questions? Just as in Saint Martin's cathedral in Tours, I could feel the weight of the centuries in the air and in the very fabric of the building. Perhaps there were hidden passageways leading back into history. Scenes from Umberto Eco's Name of the Rose came to mind, as I wondered if the monks had jealously guarded their store of written knowledge. Ancient knights carved on memorial stones leant against the walls like silent witnesses.

In one of the corners came the inevitable reminder of the twentieth century. Bowing their heads in single-file, the tourists trampsed over well-worn slabs leading through a tiny passageway into the cramped giftshop. In a Mecca-like swirl, we all spun around the central table of souvenir key-rings, pencil sharpeners and stickers. Lumps of polished green stone lay in a basket. This was Iona marble which I've heard is becoming so rare that quarrying has been stopped. At the back of the room, there seemed to be a good selection of religious and history books, but the general over-crowding soon chased me back out to the relative harmony of the cloisters.

It seemed a shame that most people, myself included, had only limited time to spend on Iona, consequently rushing to "do" the abbey and seeing little of the rest of the island. With the majority on day-trips either from Mull or Oban, it must be difficult for them to appreciate any of the real tranquillity or timelessness of the place. I felt there was much more here to which I hadn't been able to do justice. Slaves to our coach and ferry schedules, we latter-day pilgrims merely went through the motions like pre-programmed robots.

I went outside, past the old caretaker's house and around the back of the abbey to the infirmary, now a museum. Opening the heavy door, I found a time-switch for the lights and a room full of early Christian and Medieval stones. At one end stood the partly reconstituted form of Saint John's Cross, possibly the first ever Celtic ringed cross. Its position in front of the abbey is now occupied by a replica, whilst the shattered original is pieced together with perspex.

Outside under a perfectly blue sky, two workmen were painting the upstairs windows. A constant flow of people were going through an old gate and down some steps to the sea, whilst all those who were returning looked disappointed. In the next field up, a couple of youngsters lay sunbathing.

I returned to the front of the building and picked up some loose stones to add to my collection. Seeing a sign for Saint Columba's shrine, I poked my head inside, but could go no further with my rucksack on my back. The cell was illuminated by a single candle next to an open bible. Having decided to enter the church for one last look, I heard singing and found that a service had just started.

Beating a hasty retreat, I took the gravel path past a mound of earth, supposedly housing the remains of a cell. On the way out, I went over to Saint Oran's Chapel which sits in a burial ground containing the bones of 48 Scottish kings, including Macbeth and Duncan I, together with numerous other sovereigns from Ireland, France and Norway. Nothing recognisable remains of the tombs today, but the chapel, dating from the eleventh century and probably the oldest building on the island, is intact.

As my own time here drew to a close, I made my way back down the Street of the Dead and through the nunnery gardens. The queue for the ferry was unbelievable and I began to worry that I might not get to Fionnphort for the one and only bus at 3.15pm. When the boat came over, the CalMac employee started counting the charging hoards as they streamed on. The German couple in front of me looked anxiously at their watches when he asked them if they were together. As he reached me, the tally came to 250 exactly and he bravely placed himself in the way of the eager hundreds behind me. The journey was one of cattle lorry proportions with us all crammed into the never used car deck. The CalMac crew skilfully avoided a major catastrophe as we landed, even managing to control the masses well enough to obtain a ticket from every single passenger.

An entire fleet of coaches was parked outside the ferry terminal, yet none seemed to be mine. Having made it across with fifteen minutes to spare, I wasn't unduly bothered. Suddenly remembering that my pen had run out last night, I went into the grocer's to find a biro and buy something to eat. As the coaches started revving up, I stood munching and looking out over a stretch of rock-strewn golden sand, with the abbey perched opposite on the far shore. The smoking huddle of local drivers waited for another boat-load to be disgorged and a dozen of us made it onto the bus to Craignure, once its destination became apparent.

The ride back through the mountains and lochs was so inspiring, I sat at the rear of the bus and tried some filming. The road was very bumpy, but due to the convoy type situation, we were constantly stopping at passing places either to let impatient cars overtake or clear the way for vehicles heading for Iona. Consequently, I managed a few shots, but then the battery ran out.

In Craignure, I had another quarter of an hour to wait before being allowed on the Tobermory bus, as the door was kept shut until the ferry came in. The view of the mainland was a revelation of mountain peaks poking their way into the blue sky. Glencoe and Ben Nevis were clearly visible some forty miles away up Loch Linnhe. Meanwhile, the queue of day-trippers stretched the entire length of the pier and I watched the tour buses manoeuvring onto the vehicle deck. The German driver had a particularly hard time of it.

Finally at 4.50pm we were all set to brave the dreadful A848/9 again. At Fishnish, the driver dropped off a girl carrying a huge box, on which she promptly sat at the end of the jetty waiting for the ferry from Lochaline. The foreign campers we'd picked up this morning got off in the same unmarked spot somewhere near Salen and some of the locals were given a door-to-door service. On the final stretch back to Tobermory we became stuck behind two council road works lorries. It was rather pleasant to be able to observe the scenery in the early evening sunshine without being bounced about. Eventually, they found a passing place broad enough to let us through and we made it into town around 5.45pm after a round trip of well over a hundred miles. I went straight into Gannet's for a plate of scampi and chips, before returning to the B+B.

Friday 25th June 1993 - Day 30

Betty and Jim left this morning, having wrapped all their frozen fish in newspaper in the hopes that they could get it home alright. Mrs. McEwan was so dubious as to what to do with the skate they left her, that I don't think she'll even risk it on her seagull friend.

It was an awful start to the day with much drizzle and grey cloud. I had intended to take the mid-morning bus to Craignure and visit Torosay Castle which is just up the road from the ferry point. Instead, I wandered in and out of the shops for a while, bumping into the two old dears I met at the lighthouse on Sunday. They were impressed with my recent excursions and wished me well for the future.

Later, as the rain was still pouring down, I bought a newspaper and resigned myself to spending the day at the B+B. Then I spotted the lady I chatted with on the Staffa cruise and had to half-undress before she recognised me, since only my nose was visible amongst the layers of waterproof clothing. She was just calling in for a coffee with her daughter, so invited me along. They leave tomorrow and were doing a spot of last-minute shopping. They were very interested in where I'd been and where I was going, which meant I ended up staying with them for about an hour.

Back at the ranch, I sat in the lounge watching the rain sweeping in from the bay with as much force as one of Martina's serves. As it lashed against the window, the sun was incomprehensibly shining at Wimbledon. Rain stopped play for me at any rate.

Saturday 26th June 1993 - Day 31

With the Peterborough couple gone, I had to survive breakfast with an American double act: a man with his son who was going to Cambridge to read Chemical Engineering. They had decided to spend three or four days in Scotland.

After a very wet start to the day, the weather surprisingly cleared up and I decided to take the 11.50am bus over to Craignure. Torosay Castle is 1½ miles up the road from the ferry terminal. A miniature railway - unique on the islands - runs between the Old Pier and the castle, but I wanted to try out the forest walk I'd read about. However, when I reached the pedestrian entrance, I was disappointed to find it closed due to the danger of falling trees. Consequently, I had to walk along the road to the vehicle entrance and then follow the winding drive down to the car park, past a farm housing the Isle of Mull Weavers.

Sitting in twelve acres of ornamental gardens, Torosay Castle is a Victorian mansion built in 1858 by the Scottish architect David Bryce. I paid my money in a sort of wooden hut and walked past all the souvenirs. Inside, the hall contained a box of newspapers for lighting the fire and dozens of stuffed animals. It is very much a family home, with the upper floors still lived in. Up the stairs I went into the main rooms open to the public. Here were cabinets of various mementos and china acquired over the years, including pictures of Winston Churchill who was a frequent visitor in his younger days.

The library was filled from floor to ceiling with books covering three of the walls. Visitors were invited to sit on the sofa and delve into a stack of magazines piled on an Edwardian table. In the next room, an old telescope was trained on Duart Castle. There was a display of "evidence" of the Loch Ness Monster with copies of famous photographs and recent sonar scans. In another cabinet I came across souvenirs of the family's escapades in the Antarctic earlier this century.

Apparently, the current head of the family, David Guthrie Jones, has a very adventurous past. Captured on his motor gunboat during World War Two, he successfully escaped from Colditz, then after the War, sailed around the world on his yacht and later became an MP. The big red book from his appearance on This is Your Life was there to be thumbed through.

In the centre of the room was a huge table covered with scrapbooks containing newspaper clippings cataloguing decades of local events. I happened across several pages relating to the Queen Mother's visit to Iona in the 1960s with a picture of her being greeted by schoolchildren on the jetty where I queued the other day. There were various reports of terrible floods and even a hurricane. I could have stayed for ages. In fact various little signs around the house encouraged you to do so, particularly if the weather was inclement. It was very refreshing to find a castle which was visitor-friendly, where you could take your time to stop, look, touch and not be afraid to sit on the furniture.

Once outside, I went down the steps at the side of the house to the magnificent Italian statue walk. The way is lined with a series of life-size figures sculpted by Antonio Bonazza. Their white forms stand like petrified tourists caught walking on the grass. I descended more steps to the water garden. Dry and overgrown, it looked as though it was being reorganised. I followed the signs to the Eucalyptus walk and came to a view of Duart Castle, framed by the overhanging branches. A gate was set in the fence, but the terrain was too wet to cross. Following the path around, I emerged into the Japanese garden. An arched red wooden bridge spanned a pool surrounded by a ring of stepping stones. Birds were roosting in the wooden mock temple. Through a clearing in the trees and across the grey sea was Duart Castle, behind which lay Ben Cruachen and the mountains I saw on the way to Inveraray.

Back towards the castle, near the potting shed is set the rockery. On the other side of the outer fence, I could hear the gardener endlessly riding up and down on his tractor. Flowerbeds lined the vast expanse of lawn, where a pair of white lions sat and a domed folly hid in the far corner. Two elaborate square towers stood up on the edge of the terrace. Having seen other people come down the steps, I climbed up and entered one. To my surprise, it housed a very comprehensive display of the geological history of Mull, complete with photographs, timecharts and models.

The lady of the house was weeding up on the grassy terrace between the ornamental stone flowerpots and sculpted fountains. A mile away to the south-east, Duart Castle sat on its promontory, still guarding the Sound of Mull after six hundred years. Never have I seen so much of one castle having paid to visit another.

On the way out, I stopped to buy some postcards and found one citing a poem entitled Mull Weather. Composed by an anonymous Summer Visitor and printed in the Oban Times, it seemed particularly appropriate following yesterday's deluge:

It rained and rained and rained and rained -
The average was well maintained
And when our fields were simply bogs
It started raining cats and dogs
After a drought of half and hour
There came the most refreshing shower
And then the queerest thing of all
A gentle rain began to fall.
Next day 'twas pretty fairly dry
Save for a deluge from the sky
This wetted people to the skin
But after that the rain set in
We wondered what's the next we'd get
As sure as fate we got more wet
But soon we'll have a change again
And we shall have a drop of rain.

I walked back to the pier in time for the 4.50pm bus to Tobermory, picking up a small grey stone along the way to add to my growing collection. Once back in town, I went in Gannet's for the last time and ordered a cheese, onion and tomato quiche with potatoes and peas.

I returned to the B+B to find an elderly chap sitting in front of the television. With his knobbly knees, baggy shorts and odd socks, he looked more like a 1950s wacky Scout master than the retired school teacher he informed me he was. We had a bit of a conversation, but I soon realised that he was rather hard of hearing. Later as I was writing in my room, I heard a young Spanish couple turn up having been directed from the Tourist Office (presumably as a last resort). Thankfully the girl spoke reasonable English, as I wouldn't have given them much chance with Mrs. McEwan otherwise. Norman returned a good hour and a half after saying he was going out "for a few minutes". I wasn't convinced that he knew where he had been exactly. I mentioned the arrival of the Spaniards in the room next to him, since he'd told me he was an early riser and liked a walk before breakfast.

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

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May 1998