#colonsay

The first of the real autumn storms, coupled with increasing Covid-19 cases, really began to bite as we spent a night on Colonsay and then sailed on to Islay. Almost nothing at all was open on Colonsay, and restrictions in Scotland meant no alcohol could be served indoors, so our plans to visit the Lagavulin distillery had to be paused.

As if taunting us, we could smell the whisky in the air as we cycled inland from pretty Port Askaig. The whisky lost from the barrels during the ageing process is known as ‘the angels’ share’ – and the sheer quantities of it on Islay must mean the angels get good and drunk.

We cycled across to Port Charlotte and one of M’s favourite pubs of all time, the Port Charlotte Hotel. It rained for two nights and a day without letup, and we hung out anywhere indoors that we could find, including the away team changing room at the community centre (“visiting linesmen will run the line closest to the shore”). A dram in the garden of the Port Ellen Hotel during a brief sunny spell was the closest we got to a grand whisky tour. We’ll just have to come back.

40mph gusts followed us on the ferry back to Kennacraig on the the mainland. Luckily the trees saved us from the worst of it, but we still got cold and wet in some sharp showers on the way to Crinan. The Paps of Jura towered above us as we crawled up the coast, though our reward was spotting three red squirrels in space of a few minutes. One sat on the mossy stone wall near us, clutching an acorn and twitching its little fluffy ears. 

Crinan was jammed with yachts with polished wooden decks; one was so huge it had its own motor launch strapped to the back. The harbour was beautiful, with a clutch of whitewashed buildings and a tiny lighthouse. An old boatshed had been converted into a gallery, with horrible oil pastels on sale for £6,000 a pop. We quickly realised that Crinan was a little out of our price range.

We made it back to Oban along the wet logging road just as night fell. It was the first night after the clocks had changed, and darkness at 5pm came as a real shock. We sailed for Mull with the end of a hurricane coming for us, after smashing America to bits: our time on the island was mainly spent trying to keep the tent upright, and then sitting by the fire in the Mishnish pub in Tobermory, drying out socks that had been wet for days. 60mph wind was forecast and we managed to squeeze onto an earlier ferry than planned, narrowly avoiding getting stranded.

The end of the trip came sooner than we had hoped. England was about to go into a second national lockdown, so we needed to get home pronto. Luckily it was far easier than last time, when I almost got stranded in Delhi in March 2020; this time it was a two-day cycle from Glasgow to Edinburgh and then a long, slow train south. As we crossed back over the English border we raised a glass: to a truly memorable adventure in a topsy-turvy year.

Read the first Island Hopping blog: Back in the saddle