Gylen Bunkhouse, Kerrera | The Sound of Islay | Part One

The photocopied maps came out too light, so I am tracing the crinkly outlines of the islands with a fine liner as I visit them.  Day three and the rain is pinning me down on this one; it drips off the bracken, streams down the tracks.  Looking south from a bunkhouse byre on the southerly tip, towards where my tent is pitched near the ruins of a castle.  There are horns, skulls and whale bones on the windowsill, a Mongolian yurt in a nearby paddock.  Its occupant is the cook: a Glaswegian homoeopath who grew up in Malawi and has been telling me about the parrot sanctuary just down the road…

In the course of her monologue about the island and its eccentric inhabitants, the Glaswegian/Malawian dropped in the information that there was space in the bunkhouse tonight and that wild parties were often to be had there.  I had the sense that she was looking at me meaningfully here, and when she changed the subject and went on talking about the sheep and how they destroyed the wildflowers, I began daydreaming about what it might be like to spend a rough and tumble night in a Kerreran yurt.  Now she’s gone off to ‘give the bread into second kneading,’ leaving me with my maps, a sketch of a whale vertebra, The Brothers Karamazov and the rain.

The month of September stretches ahead of me, cloud covered, damp, light withdrawing and yet intensely open.  The bread maker with the flirtatious eyes said she used to be in training as a psychotherapist, but got sick of other people’s problems and came away to this pocket of bracken, sodden grass and castle.  It looks south, away from Oban and its light pollution towards the Ross of Mull, Inch, Seil and the other tiny islets which are duly outlined and named on the information board next to the castle, the only object detracting from my otherwise superb camping spot.  That and the sheep, shitting everywhere, squatting down to piss all round my tent so that a slightly more directed gushing joins the million other water sounds as the rain percolates through this green sponge of a landscape.

So: looking to the south while the yeast is doing its occult work, looking through a window (past horns and driftwood) for a window of less grey clouds, an opening moving in from the Outer Hebrides so that I can cycle south to the ferry port and begin the journey during which (Callum assured me as we planned this over ordnance survey mapping software) I would have tailwinds almost all the time, the prevailing south westerlies helping me onward.   [Continue reading...]