June 19, Thursday

We’re headed to the Hebridean island of Islay.  (It’s the spot where the red line ends above Derry in Northern Ireland.)

For watchers of Parks and Recreation, this is the island Ron Swanson called “one place in Europe worth seeing.”  More on that later … Leaving Arrochar; mountain driving up over the final range toward the sea. Nearby town of Inveraray.  We stopped here to fuel up the car and visit a woolen mill.  The woolen mill had a tea shop, so we also treated ourselves to tea, coffee and cakes. Inveraray is a small town, but looks to have some interesting things (castle, jail, docks, etc) and so I think that we may stop there for a night or two on our way back towards England. The woolen mill in Inverary turned out to be a disappointing tourist trap filled with synthetic junk made in China.  As we were leaving, this tour bus disgorged a horde of senior citizens.  The pace they lumbered out of the bus made them look like a bunch of zombies.

This area of Scotland is chock full of these tourist buses.  I’m glad these elderly folks are getting out in the world, but we flee every time we see one of these tours stop somewhere.  Oldsters flood the attractions and everything they do is so slow. The last town before we got to the ferry terminal was Tarbert.  We didn’t know when we’d have the chance to eat again, so we decided to bulk up even though it was too early for lunch.  We had brunch instead … full Scottish breakfast, eggs on toast, and an enormous sausage roll. Caledonian MacBrayne ferry from Kennacraig to Port Askaig. Me, miserably waiting to board the ferry.  I am fending off a panic attack by sheer force of will, after frantically pawing through my purse for my emergency stash of Dramamine and discovering that I don’t have any.  It’s all mind over matter now, baby.

Adam accuses me of making ferry crossings unpleasant for the whole family, but all I do is hide in a corner somewhere and lose myself in a book.  I fail to see how that ruins anyone else’s good time.  Hmph. It turned out to be the calmest, easiest crossing we’ve ever experienced.  We even had this cushy lounge area to hang out in. It was really windy on the top deck.  The lounge was pretty boring (bad for the kids, but a godsend for me) so they spent a lot of time up playing in the wind.  I didn’t go up there, but Adam wrote this about it:

Once we drew closer to port, the ferry oriented between the two islands of Islay and Jura – where a tunnel of wind whipped up. The kids loved playing on one of the fore decks in the wind – probably blowing about 60-70mph continuously so they could lean forward against the wind and play games jumping around and trying to float a bit with their coats open to simulate wings. Isabella has repeatedly said that she’s having a lousy time on this vacation and hasn’t had fun even once yet.  Adam took this picture and now can show it to her every time she complains.  “Is this the face of someone not having any fun?”

Adam:  I’ve been showing the “windy” photos to Isabella this evening… proof that she was having a good time. She usually adopts a standard, truculent 14-year old attitude. Everything is boring and nothing goes her way, ever.  She is loathe to admit that she’s having a good time and doesn’t want photographic proof provided.   Our cabin in Port Ellen.

Adam:  “Upper Imeraval” (as with most houses in the countryside, there are no addresses, only names) is a quaint , quirky recently modernised former crofters cottage. “Quirky” means that things might work, but in an odd and counter-intuitive manner. It is the answer to the oft posed “now, why did they do it this way?” There are two kids’ rooms, each with two single beds.  To Holden’s horror, both rooms are decorated for girls.  He got over it, though, when Isabella and Josie decided to room together and he got the back room all to himself.  June 20, Friday

This morning Holden and Adam got up way earlier than everyone else (as usual) and headed out to do some manly exploring.  Adam tracked down the Lagavulin Distillery, which is only about 3 miles from our crofter’s cabin.

Islay has some pretty sand beaches, but they are a little on the cold side.  (In this photo, I think Holden has a passing resemblance to Michael Cera.)

Downtown Port Ellen.

The Lagavulin Distillery.  This is the reason Ron Swanson visited Islay … the clip is only 25 seconds long and fun to see because the opening shot is almost identical to this one Adam took yesterday.  We’ve been to a spot Nick Offerman has been!!

Directly across the water from Lagavulin is this ruin of an old castle. (It’s also visible in the Ron Swanson clip.)

Adam:  … Dunyvaig Castle, which hasn’t been in use since the 1670s. There was a sign at the castle warning that it was unsafe to proceed, but the beaten path of weeks suggested that others had been there before us.
Holden and I eventually climbed our way to the top, but not without some degree of danger and a little more excitement than I had bargained for (as in, if Holden misses this next step, continuing the Mayse line solely rests with Torin and Cole…)

 

The boys came back and got the rest of us.

The climb was pretty iffy.  I let Isabella follow me up, but made Josie stay behind and told Holden that since he’d already gotten away with it once, he should stay behind, as well, and not push his luck.

No matter … he found another spot to give me a heart attack instead.

Bored Isabella.  She looks like this a lot.

 At the ruined church of St. John the Evangelist one can find the Kildalton Cross.  It was carved in the second half of the 8th century, and is considered the finest surviving Celtic cross in Scotland. A little less holy:  clam poo.  (Unless you are a follower of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, then it’s worthy of pilgrimage … bless His Noodly Appendage. Ramen.)

We stopped at this beach because Harbor seals were sunning themselves on some rocky outcrops out in the water.  Unfortunately they were too far away to show up in photos.

Peat moss.  This is now harvested mostly to flavor whisky.  It is burned underneath the malted barley to stop it’s fermentation.  It imparts a very campfirey flavor to the whisky.   Peat moss getting machine.    The Islay Woollen Mill (spell-correct keeps wanting me to spell it “woolen” but they really do spell the name of the place with two ls) is owned by a guy named Gordon Covell, who spent quite a bit of time showing us around.  He said this mill has been in operation since 1883, but there has been a weaver on this site for more than 500 years.  The original weavers used the neighboring building which is now a storage shed.  The machines in the photos below have been working since 1903 and are still going strong today.

Gordon’s wife showed us how they create the tartan patterns up in the attic, and his son manages the weaving machines on the first floor.  It’s a family operation but they produce and supply tweeds to tailors worldwide, from Savile Row to Tokyo.

Excerpt from their brochure:  … we have built up a business supplying shooting estates, London tailors and film companies with tweeds and Tartans.  The mill has provided fabrics for films including Forrest Gump, Rob Roy, Chaplin, December Bride, Amazing Grace, Spyderwick Chronicles, Maggie Riley, Braveheart, and others.  

We bought a wool throw blanket for our house (and to use here as well, it’s cold in the mornings.)

Mr. Covell.  He tried really hard to start a conversation with Josie, but she was uncharacteristically shy.  She has a hard time understanding the Scottish accent, and the mill was loud.  He joked with her, “There’s nothing to do on Islay, but you have all day to do it!”

That guy with the headphones on is the son.

Just two ancient typewriters sitting in a window because … who needs a reason?

Gordon’s wife showing us how she creates the patterns.

   A little further down the road … Alpacas.

Adam:  Portnahaven – the “end of the world” as the locals refer to it. On the very southern tip of the island; we could see Northern Ireland off in the distance. This is the “other side” of what you see when you’re at the Giant’s Causeway. Residents here, up until about 50 years ago, had more in common with the folks on Northern Ireland (16 miles away by boat) than they did with other residents on Islay (let alone the Scottish mainland) – where travel by road was much more lengthy and difficult.  

Mr. Covell said folks would travel to N. Ireland “once a fortnight” but most of them had never been to the towns on the other side of Islay.

Tormisdale Croft Crafts is a small, family-owned operation (I think) out in the middle of absolutely nowhere.  It’s a working farm.  The wife spins the wool grown on the premises and knits it into hats, scarves, sweaters, blankets, etc.  They also have walking sticks, knives with horn handles, fresh eggs, and other assorted things made right there on the farm.

In the courtyard we found these two bottle-fed lambs.  In spite of being hand raised by humans, they were still incredibly skittish.  I guess thousands of years of genetic work is at play here … their species has been essentially enslaved by humans.  We’ve altered their genes to increase their wool and milk production way beyond what is natural; we steal their hair to wear ourselves; we steal their milk; we slaughter their babies; and it hasn’t historically been uncommon for men to rape them.  Who can blame them for being skittish?  In a sheep’s version of The Matrix, humans would be the machines and sheep would be the batteries in the slime pods … an abused commodity.

Isabella wearing a hat woven from wool grown here, spun here, and knitted into a hat here.  One stop shopping!

We thought this made a pretty picture so we stopped the car and Adam got out.  The cows were not happy about it.  Here they are all looking at him … about 10 seconds later, they all turned tail and left the area.