Farewell, Jura; Nice Knowin’ Ya, Oban

Slept soundly last night and woke at 4:20am to sunlight blazing into the room. Got up at 7:00 to shower and organize my gear for the afternoon bus ride back to the dock. Today’s itinerary, although full of traveling on two ferries and three buses from 2pm to 9pm, leaves me enough time to walk one of Jura’s beaches in the morning, something I’ve been eager to do all week.



The beach nearest to The Manse is Corran Sands, where I stripped off my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers, and walked the strand to the sound of lapping waves and wind. The sands here are white, sometimes hard as cement, sometimes soft as flour, sometimes yielding under a heel or toe like foam-rubber accepting weight. I let my bare feet explore all the textures, from hard smooth rocks and crackly dried brown seaweed to the padding of green prickly-looking groundcover. The sky was as gray as the water, but the wind wasn’t so cold that I needed more than a light jacket.

I kept remembering the lyrics from a song by Joni Laurence—“Let it out, and let it in; let it out, and let it in. It’s like breathing.” The waves seemed to keep time with the song, and an hour and a half passed in no time at all while I filmed video with my camera and took in the views.



I meandered a lot on the way back, watching the tide at the pier, lying down to get a picture of the islands in the bay through the pier rings. The bicyclists riding by must have thought I was nuts sprawled out on the pier with my cheek to the ground and my camera level with the cement.

A hugged George and Margaret goodbye, took my last bus ride with Gwen, and the little Eileen Dhiura chugged me back to Islay. Waiting outside a general store for the big ferry, I met a gal named Christine (kres steene eh) from Holland, who was also taking the boat from Islay to Kennecraig, and the same bus as I was from Kennecraig to Inverarary. She had just finished visiting a sister in Jura who works on the Jura House gardens. We passed the time quickly from Islay to Inveraray, talking about our lives, our families, and our respective stays on Jura. She went on to points east, while I hopped the next bus northwest to Oban.

The adage “you get what you pay for” rings true for hostels in Oban. The YHA hostel was booked, so I ended up reserving at an independent hostel a short walk from the bus stop. At a mere £9/nite, it’s serviceable at best, with only a toilet in the WC (the washbasin is in my room), a separate shower (with only a handheld showerhead and a questionable door bolt), and a cramped and cluttered dining room/kitchen combo that’s barely big enough for three people to function in comfortably, yet is expected to serve eight or more at a time.

I’m here for two nights, giving myself a day to transition from Jura before I head off to the WWOOFing week in Fort William on Monday. Besides, travel options on a Sunday are limited, and getting to Fort William from either Jura or Oban would have been near impossible.

I got to Oban around 9pm (still daylight) and bunked my first evening, Saturday, with three 20-something gals from near Inverness who are on a bicycling/surfing holiday. Somehow surfing and Scotland just don’t pair up in my mind, but apparently it’s quite a sport on the west coast. I was astonished that so much gear and clothing and groceries strewn around the room last night could fit into the three small bags they took when they left this morning.

Taking advice from one of the hosts last night, I avoided the morning rush by showering before 7 on Sunday morning and dining before 7:30. No one was going for a ferry (they don’t run that early on Sundays), so the morning rush turned out to be just me and a fellow who works at the hostel until about 8.

When I got in last night, a worker was handing out tickets to a full “Scottish Show” Saturday and Sunday at McTavish’s Kitchens down the street. (McTavish’s is also affiliated with the hostel.) I passed the restaurant and the Caledonian Hotel last night, and wonder whether this town was one of the evening stops that Mosu and Grandma and I had on our 1978 bus tour through the UK. I specifically remember a Caledonian Hotel on that trip, and an evening of traditional Scottish music and food, including haggis. And I think the bus stopped at Fort William for a tour, which would be a logical place to visit from Oban before circling back south. I’ll need to check my old travel notes to see if they have that detail.

Sunday was lazy and somewhat boring, mainly because Oban itself feels like a ho-hum, in-between place, a tourist-driven port city that ferries folks to the Hebrides, whale watching tours, nature treks, and other water- and island-based activities. Dozens of three-story stone hotels line the waterfront, and one street behind the main drag is elbow-to-elbow row houses, all converted to B&Bs. Although houses surround the city, Oban feels as if it exists solely to move tourists from one place to another with all the efficiency and charm of a trucking company.

After walking around town and laughing over an Oban ambulance, I spent over two hours at midday at the only Internet café in town, posting blogs for June 4-6 and feeling grateful to have this service available on a Sunday. Caught the 2pm showing of Pirates of the Caribbean 2. I was glad to see it, but was confused over several plot points (how are the monkey and the captain still undead?), thought the sword fights went too far over the top, and found the sea creature men hard to swallow. Especially Hammerhead, who looked more like a reject from Dr. Moreau’s lab or a Harry Potter jinx gone awry.

“It was all much more fantasy than the first one.” A woman at the table next to me at The Pancake Place echoed my own thoughts to her companions afterward. “There’s absolutely nothing real about the second movie.”

The film had let out a little before 5, and I was hungry. Pubs and restaurants usually don’t start serving until 6 or so, and nothing looked appealing. The one promising restaurant I found, the Studio tucked out of the way on a hill, was booked all night. So I ordered some takeaway fish and chips from Norie’s, went to the bay, and watched the swans groom themselves on the sparkling water. It was warm with a light breeze. I walked around the streets some more, got to Tesco’s grocery store and a local coffee shop too late to buy dessert (each was closed), and decided on this place on the main street of Oban.

They’ve got good hot sticky toffee pudding here. Sweet, cakey, and moist. The UK can’t make a good cake and call it a cake, but they do make a good cake in the name of pudding.

My mood today has been inward, and although I wasn’t in the mood for much interaction when I got back to the hostel, the evening picked up good energy after I met my new roomies, Donna and Isla.

Donna was bright and youthful. At just nineteen or so, she was staying for a second stint of four days at the hostel to work at the seal recovery center ten miles outside of Oban. She’s from Glasgow, and has a weekend job now at the center, after doing her internship/volunteering there. She bursts with excitement over her new career.

Isla was just coming off a deeply personal woman’s retreat on Mull, and was trying to ease her return to the real world to avoid the spiritual bends. I was feeling the same about my time on Jura, and we had a wonderful sharing of how important it is to stay with the moment, to listen for and heed the signs of our spirits, no matter what.

“Oban doesn’t hold energy,” concluded Isla, who has had the same response to the city as I have. “It leaks away.”

That’s a good way to describe this place—an energy leak, a transition place, a pass-through location. I’m glad to be one of those travelers who are leaving first thing tomorrow morning.