Kintyre in October

[rhythmaning]

We were over on the west coast again for a week in October, staying in the same cottage we stayed in during July. It was rather different, though. For one thing, it was darker - no long summer evenings. And it was cold.

It was fine weather driving over - a hire-car full of painting materials; a fast drive, late lunch at the Loch Fyne Oyster Bar (mussels and chips; perfect) - late because we were running late, and they wouldn't let us book after 2pm, so once we arrived we had to wait for a table (so we didn't eat till three or three thirty) - and then south, stopping at Tarbert to buy supplies.

It was our wedding anniversary (well, the previous day was; but both my wife and I were out, at different events - I was saying farewell to a former colleague who was heading south for a job in the City; somehow I managed not to have a hangover, though I deserved one. I guess I was just too sensible. That'll be me); I put the champagne in the fridge. In fact, we didn't have it that night - having had a large(ish) lunch, we had a simple supper, and saved the champagne for the next day.

There was a fire laid in the grate, to save me from trying out my nascent fire-building skills. Aside from a bout of childhood pyromania, I'm not very good at making fires. Lighting them is so much easier. But a fire is a wonderful thing: sitting on the sofa, with a fire going, reading with some quiet jazz (however loud it may be) was just so relaxing. Even better with a single cask glass of Macallan. (We got through about half a bottle in a week between us; a healthy Macallan habit, I'd say.)

We had some splendid Loch Fyne kippers for breakfast: clearly overdosing on fish again, despite the Seafood Cabin being closed for winter. Indeed, everything was pretty closed - most of the Skipness inhabitants were away for the week - some in London, others in Shetland for a wedding, leaving a single representative to give us coffee.

We went for a long walk along the shore, both ways. The weather was so different from the summer, the light had a different quality. It was breezy, a bit wild.

Dinner was Loch Fyne bradan rost - hot-smoked salmon - heated through and served with salad; and champagne. Outside it was dark: on a whim, I went out and was astounded by the stars - I hadn't seen stars like that for many years. Living in the city, you forget what the night sky can look like - the joy of a million pricks of light. The Milky Way was bright; the planets clear; and the stars so, so beautiful: they were so numerous, so brilliant - it was humbling: a whole universe out there.

A lot of the time that week was spent sitting reading, breathing in smoke and whisky fumes; listening to music; and looking out of the window. I read several books - but that, I think, is another post.

We went to Kilmartin, eating first at the Harbour Inn in Tarbert - it wasn't very good; indeed, it was rather unappetising. Kilmartin was empty; the stones haunting. It is a very special place - third on my list of palaeolithic sites (after Callanish and Avebury - both a wonderful, and very different: Avebury on a foggy day; Callanish in the long Hebridean summer evening); special indeed. My wife hadn't been there before (stones are more my thing than hers), and she was impressed, too. The light was similar to when I was there in the summer - overcast, threatening rain - so I didn't take any pictures.

I had to get good at building fires. My first effort failed, my second was glorious; I got to know what to do (though I doubt I shall remember) - I made it work. I like playing with fire - it is hard to leave the flames alone. And they make a hell of a mess. But they do look lovely, and warm a cold room.

We went up to Lochgilphead - my wife looking for photoframes (she was leaving some prints in the cottage) - and then we went to Crinan for a wonderful lunch at the Crinan Hotel. It couldn't have been more different from the poor fare in Tarbert - true, more expensive - but delicious: we both had halibut (which I rarely - if ever - cook at home). Superb.

After lunch, we went for a stroll beside the Crinan Canal. It is a little strange, walking along the embankment with the canal on one side and the sea on the other. The canal cuts off Kintyre, allowing ships to cross into the Clyde without having to go around the Mull of Kintyre. One of the boats in the basin was called Para Handy.

We drove back the long way, taking the long-cut around Knapdale. This was mostly because I thought it would be a good idea to drive that road during the day - the next evening, we were going to the Kilberry Inn - but also because I looked like a great road to drive along. It was quite slow - twisting back and forth (and some real hairpin bends). The road came down to the shore and followed it for a long while. The sea was very calm. Seals sat sunning themselves lazily in the shallow water; and we saw a stag beside the road, ignoring us.

The next day was wet; we stayed in. It was still wet, with heavy, heavy rain when we left in the dark to drive back to Kilberry. It was a horrible drive - really unpleasant: it was hard to see the road as it twisted and turned, the wipers going flat out. I seriously considered turning back - it was the worse weather I have driven in for a long while (since a snowstorm ten years ago, when my mother tried to get me to drive down a road which was closed off). The rain poured on and on, flooding bits of the road. It took much longer to drive than I had expected, even having left extra time.

Still, I am very, very glad that we didn't turn back. Aside from the feeling of giving up - how wimpy! - we would have missed out on a really good meal at the Kilberry Inn. This used to be a pub, famous for its bar meals - we did eat there when it was a pub (believe it or not, we were on the way to Mull; the long way round). It was recently taken over by the people that used to run a restaurant in Tarbert (now empty; like the chip shop - how can a fishing town not have a fish and chip shop?). This struck me as rather curious - exchanging a restaurant in the town - small though it may be - for a restaurant forty five minutes from the nearest habitation. Well, the nearest major habitation. But it is a lovely place, and the food was excellent. We both had a starter of scallops (just the right amount), and followed it with venison casserole, which was truly scrumptious (venison is now back on my list of things I'd like to cook). We shared a half bottle of red (I can't think what it was, or where it was from, but it was hefty, and went very well with the venison) – one of the things I don’t like about driving to nice restaurants in the country is that – well, I am the one that does the driving, so I have to watch what I drink. The restaurant was great; we had a wonderful time.

It had stopped raining when we came out, the clouds blown far away: the heavens were decked with stars. It was beautiful. The road was quite, and without the rain, much faster. There was a lot of wildlife out: as we drove along, we saw a large owl sitting patiently in a tree beside the road; a couple of foxes ran across the road in front of the car; and I had to do an emergency stop to avoid hitting a small deer. It all seemed rather magical – a completely journey to the one on the way.

We spent one day driving down Kintyre, on the east coast of the peninsular. It is another lovely windy little road – lots of ups and downs as it moves from the shoreline to the cliff tops – and back again. It was beautiful countryside – on the west side of Kintyre, you get the views of Jura and Islay, but on the east, Arran over the water dominates: as you drive south, the view of Arran changes. Kintyre itself is lovely.

We stopped at Carradale for lunch, and went for a walk to the bay – a broad expanse of sand. The footpath to the bay lead us through an assault course in a wood – lots of mud and boggy bits and homicidal rhododendron bushes. There was in fact a much easier route – we walked back along a track. The bay is lovely, south facing and empty.

After Carradale, the road ceases to be single track (shame!) and is more normal. We carried on through Cambeltown and cut across the peninsular to Machrihanish village: another walk a long the beach – this time from the south (when we were there in the summer, we parked at the north end of the sands). The golf course seemed busy; we skirted around the course and walked for a while on the sand. I think I prefer the north end of the beach – it feels more wild, more remote: there are houses and hotels – and a golf course – at the southern end (though this does mean you can have a drink at the end of your walk!).

We explored Cambeltown a little, eager to seek out Springbank – if only to pay our respects. The whisky shop seemed to be closed. In fact, just about everything in Cambeltown seemed to be closed. It doesn’t have much going for it, aside from the distillery. We popped into the courtyard – if only to say we had been there – and went on our way. I didn’t like Cambeltown – run down, left to ruin. It felt rough and unloved. I tried to imagine what it must have been like a hundred years ago, when there were twenty one distilleries; smoky, probably. We drove back up the fast road, on the west, as the sun set over Islay.

The next day, we woke early; by chance, the dawn sun was hitting Arran through the clouds. It was beautiful, misty and abstract. A rather good way to end the week.