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.

The Paps Are Alive to the Sound of Music

Got up at 6:20am to plan today’s walk to Barnhill and have an earlier breakfast so I could catch the 8:05 bus to its northernmost point, Ardlussa, which is about six miles from Barnhill. Gwen makes only two runs a day during summer, unless by special appointment.

I ducked into a garden for a photo of some lovely prayer flags catching the breeze, then headed north on the narrow lane. I was soon accosted by a handful of very friendly orange cows who probably would have come up for pets on their very wet noses had I not gently edged them away over a ditch so I could pass.


The road to Barnhill is paved, then graveled, before it degenerates for the last four miles to a rugged road that only a 4x4 with new shocks has any business going over. The view is endless grasses in all directions (green at this time of year), with occasional glimpses of deer and the Sound of Jura and the mainland of Scotland beyond. The UK has so much coastal land, yet most of it is completely undeveloped. In America, houses would be crawling over every hillside in an attempt to claim their part of the water view. Certainly that’s what it feels like in California and most of the west coast.

Barnhill is famous for having been George Orwell’s home while he wrote 1984 in the Forties. It’s a pilgrimage site for diehard literary fans, but the place is a private residence and closed to the public, which tends to dampen the effect of bragging rights. It’s the white house in this photo.


For me, going to Barnhill was a chance to try out a long-distance walk—12+ miles in preparation for the coast to coast walk in two weeks. I covered it in 6.5 hours, including 45 minutes for lunch and another 50 dallying for photos, breaks, and rests.

On the way back, I sang—loudly. Only the hills and grasses and heath birds could hear, so I really belted. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” (while it was raining), “Memories” (loads of ’em), “Magic All Around Me” (which was absolutely true), “This Is the Moment” (and it was)—lots from the repertoire I created while I was learning from Scott. I felt totally happy and in love with life, and the four miles of rocky road went by in just over an hour.

Arrived back at Ardlussa in time for a siesta waiting for the bus, and enjoyed the banter with Gwen and another rider as Gwen delivered milk and bread and forgotten sunglasses to residents and pointed out landmarks such as “her” viewpoint (a section of road that friends cleared of trees so she could enjoy an unobstructed view of Loch Tarbert on her daily runs).

I felt very tired when I got back, so I showered and napped before walking into town for my last supper at the Jura Hotel—leek and potato soup, haddock with cheese, mushrooms, and shrimp, and the Craighouse Special for dessert: toffee ice cream, bananas, butterscotch, and whipped cream. Thoroughly replenished in the fuel department.

I have found that the most deeply affecting parts of this trip are also the ones most difficult to record. Tomorrow I leave Jura, and I feel both sad and glad. I saw the guestbook waiting for me to sign at The Manse and felt tears spring to my eyes—this has been the best stay of the trip so far. I’ve felt fully received as family at The Manse. Being able to learn about the island’s unique culture from Ani, to sit with her friends over tea, to share personal time (and laundry duties) with my B&B hosts, and to get out in nature in ways I never have before—they have all created an experience that surpasses all others to date.

As fearful as I was to come to a place where there’s “nothing to do and nowhere to go,” I’ve been rewarded for following my intuition. I’ve cracked open parts of me that I once barely sensed were there. To attempt to put them into words is as pointless as it is difficult. This has been a deeply internal process, at a subconscious level, to grant me a new kind of self-poise and balance.

I discovered solitude and its joys. Clarity and its patient ways. Resiliency and its reservoir of optimism that keeps affirming my body, my mind, my spirit’s ability to meet each day, each challenge as it comes.

Today it doesn’t matter if I’m alone or with other people. I am as I am, walking this planet along with millions of others who are here to experience this world.

Until now, I didn’t ever feel as if I truly owned my life. I get that now. I have infinite choice available to me, all of it good, all of it okay, all of it safe.

What will I choose next for this life that is mine?

Ghosts, Gardens, and Guests

Slept poorly last night thanks to a headache that moved from the left side of my forehead to across my skullcap. I think it’s from the exertion in the heat yesterday. This body has never taken well to the high temperature + exercise combo deal, and a headache and a day’s recovery time aren’t unusual. I need to get back to drinking a liter of water a day, instead of all these liters of tea.

I put a load of laundry into Margaret’s washer this morning, and have spent the past hour reading in bed. National Geographic, Aug ’05 edition. About alternative energy sources, cave paintings in Indonesia, Brazil’s wet time of year.

The hand soap here is from Avon and scented as Jasmine/Exotic Rose. It smells like Sandra and the comforts of home. I feel loved every time I use it.

I don’t quite tiptoe around rooms, but I don’t like to make a lot of noise in the B&Bs I stay in. Even ringing the bell for attention at the Jura Hotel pub took me several times to feel comfortable about. This is old stuff, outmoded ways of living in which I’m supposed to be quiet, not a bother, not intrusive on my host’s privacy. At all the B&Bs I’ve visited so far, I’ve been the sole guest or eating breakfast alone. I don’t like that form of solitude—I feel self-conscious being the only patron, although I do like having the bathroom to myself at any time of day. George and Margaret tell me that having only one guest for a few nights has been a relief after being solidly booked for the past week or so, which sets my mind at ease. I’m less worried about interrupting their routine as I tromp in and out all day long.

George and Margaret have invited me to join them to hear a singing group that comes once a year to Jura. They’re performing at noon at the Jura House gardens, a place I wanted to visit but hadn’t quite figured out how to get to miles down the road. I feel like one of the family, being included in their outing this way.


In the meantime, I spent a somewhat rainy morning visiting Keils cemetery, about half a mile from The Manse. It has an older and newer section, with a famous marker of the purportedly oldest person on the island buried there—a 180-year-old man who died in 1645! At the opposite end of this spectrum is the body of a fetus, buried here a few years ago by the child’s unwed young mother. George officiated that one; I could hear the grief in his voice as he talked of that ceremony.

In the older part of the cemetery, I came upon a large, fading tombstone that read, “In Memory of Jenny, daughter of John McPhail Tenant in Knockrom, who died the 8 August 1835 aged 3 years & 1 month.” A smaller stone in front of it said, “MARION, 11th Oct 1907.”

I stood at Jenny’s grave and suddenly felt weak-kneed and nauseated. I sat down and bile rose in my throat. A golden-haired girl, died of fever. A story comes. Her work, undone, to ride the sea lions and seals in the bay. She flings her arms around its neck, dives and collects fish and shells. They rise together, she comes up laughing and dry. They swim to the small islands in the bay, she astride the seal’s back. She collects pebbles, strings them together, tosses them into the air. They return to the ground as jeweled necklaces. She returns and gives them to her father so he can buy his own croft and no longer be a tenant.

I mentally calculated—3 years, 1 month old. Today could very well have been her birthday, July 6, 1832, 178 years ago. Happy Birthday, Jenny.

I stopped at Jura’s parish church to look over the island’s photo gallery, hoping to find some information on Jenny’s family. Alas, the oldest pictures date back only to the 1850s. One shows the cemetery as it looked around Jenny’s era. There’s another of the McPhails of Lealt—the wedding of Angus McPhail and Mary McColl, 1854; they had seven children, who all moved away from Jura as adults. I wonder at their relationship to John McPhail and his young daughter whose bones lie beneath that stone.





Went to the wee beach that’s across from The Manse and found some interesting shells and stones and the white husk of a crab that’s barely half an inch long. It kept blowing off my hand when I tried to photograph it.

The visit to the Jura House with George and Margaret (shown here in the garden) was like entering a little Eden under overcast skies. It has a wonderful walled garden that’s overgrown and lush—and, amazingly, tended by only two people. They sell many plants and seeds there. It was like the Lost Gardens of Heligan all stuffed into a few acres. We walked quite a ways through a shaded wood to reach the heart of the garden and the famed “tea tent” where they sell tea and homemade baked goods and gifts during summer.

We went to hear a “harmony” concert—a group of a capella singers who sing songs in Gaelic and African and other languages. The setting was exquisite. We were at a wooden table beside a seven-foot tall flowering plant whose sweet fragrance kept filling my nose as the voices filled my ears. Little birds—siskins, robins, and others—darted among the branches and took scone crumbs from my fingers in midflight. Bees buzzed the flowers. I felt like we were listening to the beginning of Will Vinton’s Mountain Music, when all the music that people make is in harmony with birdsong and forest growth.

I was getting tired of eating only at the Jura Hotel, so when we got back, I went into town to buy dinner at the Spar, but found little to select from for premade meals. They heated up a frozen cheese and ham toastie for me, and I added an apple and a yogurt and picnicked on a cement wall overlooking the tiny harbor outside the store.

Took the mile+ walk back to the B&B for the seventh time, at least, since coming here, and I am still seeing new things all the time. The swans were closer on the beaches, their little gray cygnets poking their beaks into sand beneath the algae and kelp shallows. I missed the otters again this evening at the river near The Manse; I think I came home too late.

A new guest arrived at The Manse tonight—George had said someone was coming on Thursday—and to my surprise I recognized the voice booming from the room next to mine. It was Geoff, the biologist I met at the Inveraray hostel.

When I heard him talking to George, I was pleased; then I caught myself circling my room, unsettled, wondering how to announce my presence, wishing my hair were clean and tidy. I laughed at myself. Calmed down. Forgot about the hair. Finished gathering my freshly brewed cup of tea and Perry’s computer parts, which I was already collecting to take downstairs, then headed out the door, deciding then and there to stop to say hello, instead of scampering by, trying not to get noticed and hoping I would be anyway.

He was surprised to see me. George left us to chat—me leaning against the banister with my tea, Geoff in his room, leaning back against the wall. We exchanged stories about getting here, and he asked if I wanted a lift into town for dinner at the hotel. I declined, having already eaten and being ready to work on organizing my journals for the first time in a week. I felt fine with this choice, knowing it was right for me, and was actually glad I had no energy about either staying or going in his company. He’s here on more hunts for red- and black-necked divers, leaving tomorrow after he checks out his 5k square plot of land near the ferry dock.

Right now it’s 8pm and the sky is still very bright. Even when I wake at 2:30am, the sky is so light that I can’t see stars. A dull orange glow in the east is Glasgow—sheesh, it’s miles and miles away. I’ve watched early morning sunrises glow pink on the water.

Both sky and water are gray right now. The midges have been OK today—the two sprays I’ve been using have kept them from biting. The product of choice from everyone I’ve asked is Avon’s Skin So Soft moisturizer. It really works.

The highland cows are moving around in the field tonight. They’re here for grazing only—the manse rents the field out. One of the cows is very pregnant, but Margaret says they’re not sure when she’ll pop. She was bred twice, and by her size should already be due. But if the calf isn’t born soon, it will be a September baby, which would coincide with the timing of the second breeding attempt.

I like everyone I’ve met on the island so far. This is a place where people wave from their cars as they pass me on the road, and almost everyone smiles and says hello when I approach. Even the grocer at the Spar has been amenable and gruffly humorous.

As Christine said over tea in her kitchen two days ago: “It all depends on what you put out to the world. You get it back.”

I like what I’ve been getting back here on Jura.

The True Skinny on Dipping

One of the more popular things to do on Jura is walk. The island has several marked trails, an annual run (yes, run) up the Paps, and, from what I’ve heard, some very interesting caves and coastlines, especially on the west and northwest sides. Right now, I’m on the east side of the island, and have found out from George how to get to the secluded Market Loch, four or so miles from town.

I left The Manse at 9:15a, stopped at the Spar for an apple and Snickers bar to supplement my lunch, and found the trail to Market Loch easily from the main road out of town. The trail used to go through a shady plantation of fir and pine trees, but most of the land was recently harvested, so the path is exposed logging road much of the way.


And it’s hot today, with the sun beating down on areas with very little shade. The hillsides are still strewn with the debris of clearcutting—splintered wood, brackish ditches, sawn-off tree trunks, empty fuel and oil cans, fern trying to grow amidst the jumble of leftover limbs and branches. Where it tracks along the edge of a gorge toward a skinny waterfall, the trail turns into real footpath that goes uncomfortably close to the cliff before veering off into a half mile mass of waist-high fern.

The map showed that before I got to the gorge, I’d pass the Stones of the Glen—one of the many sets of standing stones on Jura and in the UK. Only one stone was still standing, with four fallen nearby. All were six to seven feet long, granite, narrow like needles. The standing stone had a thin edge that pointed straight toward a distant hill toward the northeast. The map shows a cairn on that hill. Are these two sites related? I got out my compass; the edge points about 25 degrees off magnetic north. The location of magnetic north changes slightly each year. Was the leading edge of this stone dead-on magnetic north at the time it was set into the ground ages ago?

Shortly before I reached the loch at 11:15, I spotted someone else leaving it—the same man in black that I’d seen take a different logging path earlier in the day. I was glad to have the place to myself, and wondered how he had made such good time ahead of me. Must have been a shortcut over the heathered hills. I saw no trail in the direction where he went.


I ate some lunch—peanut butter on crackers and the apple—and gathered the nerve to strip down for some skinny dipping in the lake. I’d never done that before, being usually too bashful of someone coming upon me unawares, and then fearful of their snitching my clothing from the bank and leaving me high and drip-drying.

Lake swimming wasn’t really in my childhood repertoire, either. I grew up near ocean beaches in San Diego, and my few school-based lakeside camping experiences were miserable affairs of water and teenage cliques that were both too cold for my comfort.

True to form, it did take me some time to work my way into this chilly loch, slowly walking in on smooth stones that hurt my feet to stand on, and easing down until I was neck-deep in dark yellow water. My body looked like it was encased in amber, the water was so brackish with peat. No stink, though, and the temperature was alternately warm, then cold as the current shifted. Amazing that this water ends up so clear by the time it reaches the distillery miles away. Many of the rocks deeper in had thick plant life growing on them. They were like walking on a long shag carpet that has lots of padding underneath. Soft and comfy and easy to stand on as I treaded water.

I swam out a little, thankful again for the time my Grandma spent teaching me how to swim at the TraveLodge pool in Hawaii when I was nine. Her brother had drowned as a teenager, and although Grandma didn’t swim, either, she made sure I knew how to dive for pennies and do the crawl all the way across the pool.

Today I was without makeshift water wings, though, and I didn’t go very far from shore for fear of getting tired too far from the bank. I stayed long enough to commune with flies hovering over the water, just missed a fish jumping up to grab one, then returned to the upholstered rocks to get out and get dressed and bask on a boulder to dry. The warmth from the rock seeped into my buttocks, even though the sun kept ducking behind cloud cover to leave me shivering.

This end of the loch has been edged with concrete berms, a small aggregate concrete pad, and stones stuck together with cement. While the cement was still wet on the rock wall, someone had written, “Will ye nae come back again?” I liked the Scottishness of that invitation.

It was very quiet at the loch. I heard the light lap of wind-ruffled water against a stone, the bomber buzz of a fly, the whine-up of a mosquito, the baa of a sheep practically invisible on the high hill to the right. A splash of a fish jumping up from the loch, the twitter of a bird coming over the crest, the muffled tapping of my stylus on Perry, the lift of wind as is passed my ears.

Beyond all that, stillness. Creation recreating itself all around me, silence begetting silence.

At last I gathered my gear and climbed the hillocks at the south of the lake to see the water views and how far I’d walked today. No trails here, just clamber over the heather and rocks as best—and as non-invasively—as I could. The sun was strong again, and I was already sweating off the memory of the cool swim.

I walked back to The Manse, cleaned up for another walk into town for supper, and while heading home for the last time today watched a seal sitting on a near-shore rock. He looked around, raised and lowered his tail, scratched his face with a fin, then looked around some more. Two herons were out this evening, big gray ones. They flew away with big, swooping, heavy wing-beats that glided one along the shoreline and the other away over the water.

I’m proud of myself for living today the way I did, for breaking through tiny inhibitions that I used to hide behind. I stopped to say hello to Christine and Catriona at their garden in the morning, got the grumpy grocer at the Spar to smile on my way out of town, and tried new things like hiking four miles to swim naked in a loch. I got a good workout, climbed a small mountain, ate well, napped well, accepted a last-minute lift into town to dinner, accepted a ginger beer from a party of four after I gave them the table I was at, watched a sea lion on its rock, and pretty much won the war of the midges.

Yep. A full day.

I am very much liking this stillness of life, sitting and watching the world reveal itself to me, having it teach me. I stop thinking and figuring and naming and identifying. I begin absorbing, taking in, accepting, knowing, claiming my own readiness for anything.

Not “Why?” Not “How?” But, “What now?”

Today, this is the essence of Being. It’s a state I want to practice more.

Surprise. Jura isn’t nearly as scary as I’d expected.

Getting to Know Jura

I spent last night at Glenmora, Mrs. Logan’s house that’s halfway between the A846, the only road on Jura, and Keils cemetery, one of several cemeteries on Jura. Mrs. Logan’s is one of the few newly built homes here, finished a few months ago. It’s specifically designed for B&B service. My cozy en suite room, plush bed, and personally cooked breakfast were particularly welcoming after a week of shared space at the Inveraray hostel.

This morning I moved into the second lodging for this island stay: The Manse B&B down the road. Most homes in the UK are named and they often reflect their former purpose—The Old Schoolhouse, The Old Brewery, The Forge, etc. I was surprised, then, to discover that The Manse is not only a still-functioning home of the island’s pastor (“Baptist flavor with Pentecostal influence”), but that the pastor and his wife were my hosts!


Because I arrived on a day when they had no other guests, I got to select between two rooms. I accepted the larger one—a twin and double bed, sofa to sit on, more spacious overall. It has throw blankets for cozying up on the bed, and biscuits with tea. I like that. Margaret and George are the proprietors. The view overlooks the water at the east and promises some lovely sunrises.

Took a leisurely walk into town a little after noon and watched an oystercatcher pick at something in the wavelets. It got done and sauntered away with an air of utter contentment. If an oystercatcher had chops, it would have been licking them. I went to see what had occupied its time. A crab almost as wide as my palm was exposed on the sand, its body neatly flipped open like a compact, all legs still attached to the bottom half. Every bit of flesh in the dish—the part that none of us eat because it’s so unpalatable—was gone.

A wander around a tidal beach uncovered a large spiral shell about 2.5 inches long. A break was in its side, as if the shell had been dropped to get its owner out. I counted the ridges on the spirals—57. Do ridges on spirals indicate age for a sea critter, like trees and their rings?

I met Ani—the Tibetan Buddhist nun directly responsible for my side trip to Jura—and her granddaughter, Lauren, for lunch at the pub at Jura Hotel, the only place to eat out on the island. My venison burger was local red deer. I enjoyed being in Ani’s company again; she’s grounded, gentle, direct, dry-witted, inspiring.

I stopped after lunch into the Jura distillery across the street, where I sampled the Superstition smoked barley whiskey and got two mini bottles, a little bigger than the size they serve on airplanes.

I had planned to bus to Ardlussa to see the north end of the island, and then bus back this evening, but Ani met a friend in town, and we went to visit him and his wife instead. Lauren and I walked back to town to the only store—the Spar—for milk and bread and ice cream sandwiches.

The Spar is compact, functional, and cramped, with waist-high freezers in the center of the store for frozen foods and ice cream, ceiling-high shelves for canned and boxed goods, a stack of produce bins with sad-looking fruit and vegetables, and a standing glass-front refrigerator for meats and cheeses. A narrow staircase at the back leads to an attic shopping space full of hardware, stationery, maps, gardening tools, and other sundries. I almost got locked in there last night when I inadvertently shopped at the store right before closing.

I fell into line at the grocery counter behind a slender, unshaven, unbathed, unlaundered old man who was wobbly on his pegs. He was buying a quart of whiskey, a super-size can of beer, and a box of 100 cigarette tubes that had spilled on the counter. These are cigarettes without any tobacco, just filters attached to paper tubes. A hundred for 99p. It requires a special machine to stuff them. The young female clerk was collecting the tubes and repacking them in the box, trying not to crush them. The old man took his beer and booty on credit, and I breathed fresher air once he was gone.

“A short but cheerful life” proclaimed a lady waiting behind us, with a nod toward the old fellow through the door. Indeed.

When Lauren and I got back to the Rob’s house, we sat in the kitchen for tea with Rob’s wife, Christine, and their two dogs, a chocolate lab named Brea and a collie/something mix named Sophie. We talked and talked and laughed and talked some more when Ani and Rob and Christine’s daughter, Catriona, joined us with her fiancé, Willie. Christine’s daughter is getting married in August and Ani is doing the flowers.

Christine drove us to the north end of the island, giving me a tour of the island. It took almost an hour to get there from Craighouse. Although the road on Jura is an “A” road—what would often be a very busy highway on the UK mainland—here it’s barely a single lane with occasional pullouts for passing. It’s potholed, cracked, winding, and bumpy, and driven at least twice a day by Gwen in her minivan bus. Many homes are far from town, and many islanders don’t have cars, so Gwen also delivers milk and bread Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and groceries Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.

Christine gave a wonderful personal commentary of the island, including a bit about the area called the Tarbert, a thin spit of land over which ships were once dragged to get them from one side of the island to another. For all its land (about 29 miles by 7 at its longest and narrowest points), Jura has only five or six landowners, and it’s still a layered tenancy.

Some of the coves and bays are owned by the Asters (as in The Asters), and some archaic rules of inheritance are still in force—for instance, precluding children from inheriting unless they’re married or have a son. As recently as a generation ago, landowners could walk into a tenant’s kitchen with no “by your leave” and lift the lid from a pot to check if the food inside had been poached from the land.



The views, however, are spectacular. Red deer wander the wilds, and we saw several small herds on the way back. It’s stag hunting season now. The waters are calm this time of year, but Christine says the weather can be ferocious in other seasons.

Everyone I’ve met here knows about blogs—and some of the folks have wifi in their home. Jura is the most out-of-the-way place I’ve been yet on this trip, and they’re the most Internet-savvy people I’ve met. Go figure.