Islay. Described by Wikipedia as the ‘Queen of the Hebrides’ (who wants to be King after all?) and the happy recipient of ‘clement’ weather from the Gulf Stream, will be my home for the next two months.
That probably isn’t the most complete introduction to the island I landed on this evening. Although my parents have been trying to drill this truth into me from a young age with endless boat-trips I’d insist on being sea-sick on and trips to their friend’s houses where I’d be invariably grumpy at having to do hearty things outdoors, it took until quite recently for me to realise that the Western Isles of Scotland are magical.
There’s a kind of modest austerity to the landscape in the summer, perhaps as a result of the winter months which leave the Highlands and Islands shrouded in, dare I say it, doom and gloom. The white sand and turquoise sea framed with monumental rock formations crested in lush green lands is all so fleeting, making it all the more special.
From the moment I stepped off the ferry onto Islay I was in full poetic mode. With this landscape I was sure that I’d get at least some kind of spiritual epiphany this summer, failing that, a fairly good tan.
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