Islay, days 9 & 10 (Wednesday, Thursday)

I keep meaning to write this Islay post, but for some reason it's harder than I anticipated. I want to do it justice without being overwrought and cliched, I want to convey the peacefulness and solitude of being on the island, the beauty and timelessness of it. I haven't quite figured out how to do that with words, so I'm just going to post some photos for you and hope they come close.

Our first full day on Islay started with breakfast in the hotel, and of course I had to try the full Scottish breakfast. It was delicious, even the black pudding was pretty tasty on toast with tomatoes, but I had a hard time getting past what it was. No matter how you cook or prepare it, congealed blood is always going to look like what it is. We then popped the Scottish bagpipe Celtic music CD into the Vauxhall's stereo and headed off across the island for the Laphroaig distillery. We (don't want to blame you specifically, sweetie) made a scheduling mistake and we ended up missing our scheduled tour, but we looked around and took some photos and I wrinkled up my nose at the smell of burning peat.


Driving across Islay, navigating the narrow windy lanes and keeping my eyes peeled for sheep near or on the road, its apparent that its definitely another world, of another time. The tiny island is at least 60 miles from any Starbucks or McDonald's. There is a comforting sense of timelessness, and a secure knowledge that there never will be a Starbucks there. Sheep dot the hills and valleys, interspersed with big fat happy cows, and there are a few stone walls and fences but for the most part they roam back and forth across their fields and the roads searching for the tastiest grass in between their naps. The sea is never far from view, and the weather constantly changes from biting squall to warm golden sunshine and fluffy clouds, gentle breezes to gusting winds. When the clouds and fog shift and you are facing eastward, you can see the mountains ("paps") of neighboring island Jura, their bronze summits usually covered by clouds. Time dilates, the rhythms of life are dictated by the seasons and the weather and not by television schedules or timeclocks.

As you pass another driver on the road, you must give a little wave...this tradition tickled me. There is definitely no road rage on Islay. Islay is the perfect antidote to the oversaturation and chaos of London.







Ifound a photo book in the lounge of our hotel, showing photos of the island from the early 20th and today. The only difference was that most of the stone buildings have now been stuccoed and whitewashed to protect them from the sea air, and the cars on the road look a bit more modern.


It's a peaceful and constant island...and I could definitely picture myself living there. There is even a tiny hospital and clinic...and they need nurses everywhere, right? I'd only need the job until I could support myself full-time with my sheep farm and pony-trekking business... It's easy to forget the rest of the world and other troubles there. I think I could learn to do without my Pagliacci's delivery if I woke up to that view of the sea and the paps of Jura every morning.

Now I just need a sturdy pair of wellies.