Postcards From Across the Pond

On Monday we went to Tobermory, a fishing village set up by the Scottish Government about two hundred years ago, so it’s not that old. I think they told us why the houses were painted those bright colours, but I can’t remember, and I can’t be arsed to look it up.

What I do know is that Tobermory was the backdrop for a kid’s TV show call Balamory. None of the people on the tour were young enough to remember the show, except for Ryan, the bus driver, so the town wasn’t as big a draw as it should have been. But it was on our itinerary, so we went.

Tobermory was on our itinerary mainly because it was to be the jumping off point for the Staffa boat tour, which we did not go on because the weather was so bad. However, the day was sunny and mild, and the wind was low, so there didn’t seem to be any reason to cancel the boat trip. But I’m not a sailor, so what do I know?

This wasn’t all bad news, because it meant we could drive forty-five minutes over a single-track road, spend an hour in Tobermory (trust me, that was enough; we walked to the end of the street, turned around and walked back, and that was pretty much it), then spend another forty-five minutes driving over the same single-track road back to the hotel, where we dropped off one of the group, and spend an hour driving over the single-track road to the ferry that would take us to Iona.

This time, we got to the island, and it was nice. Windy as hell, but nice. Although not quite as nice as when my wife first went there. We took a tour of the Abbey, then went exploring, along with about seven hundred and sixty-five other people. There are only two hundred permanent residents on Iona, but there seems to be five of us tourists (yeah, I’m guilty as well) for each resident.

Consequently, walking along the road toward the north beach was not as secluded and soothing as it was during my wife’s initial trip, what with the groups of walkers, cars, and the fucking cyclists zooming to and fro. We were trying to find a place to get out of the wind so we could eat our packed lunches, but it seemed all those spots were taken up by other tourists. In the end, we went almost to the north beach, took a path less travelled, and sat in the lee of a hill.

That turned out well. Sheltered from the wind and sitting in the sunshine was pleasant, and the scenery was stunning. After we ate, we continued to the beach, and that was even more stunning.

The island might have been crowded, but it was isolated, and desolate, and looked like the sort of place where you wouldn’t get next-day deliveries.

We had a good time, and good (ish) weather on Iona, but waiting for the ferry, the heavens opened and it bucketed down. But this being Britain, and all those in the queue being inveterate travellers, waterproofs and umbrellas suddenly appeared, and the downpour didn’t really seem to bother anyone much.

However, we were still all soaked by the time we scrambled onto the boat.

One of the prize sights people hope to see in this part of the world include Sea Eagles. I was not fortunate enough to encounter one, but I did see a chaffinch who identified as a Sea Eagle.

At dinner that night, one of the appetiser options was soup. The waiter came to ask who had what and we said, “Two soups,” which got us baby boomers giggling but went over the heads of the staff whose birthdates all begin with the number “2.”

Tuesday was travel day. We were up, packed, and on the bus sharpish because we had to catch the Fishnish ferry, which allowed us to travel a bit north to another ferry at Corran (which you could practically spit across) and drive on to Glencoe.

From there we headed toward Stirling Castle, which was a perfectly adequate castle. Quite interesting, really. Then we headed for home.

Things I learned while on this holiday include: while the Scottish Highlands possess a rugged beauty, I prefer the twee villages of Sussex, and old people have had a lot of time to acquire grievances.

Upon checking into our Premier Plus room, we had a pleasant surprise: we got the room we had on our very first stay—the one at the end of the hallway—and realized it is bigger and better than the other “Premium Plus” rooms. So, our first taste of Premium Plus was actually Premium Plus Plus; no wonder we were disappointed on subsequent visits. That extra bit of space makes all the difference.

I also got the free WiFi for free, having finally figured out how to do it on the final day of our previous visit. Turns out, all you need to do is ask for the password. So, I asked the young lady behind the bar for the password, and she told me it was in the email I received. I told her it was not, and she assured me it was. I repeated that, having checked, it most certainly was not. And she told me it most certainly was. So, I gave up.

When we returned to the bar with our books, I found the young lady who had given me the password the first time, (at which time she had assured me it was in the T&C, and I can assure you it is not), and she happily handed it to me on a printed form, while the other young lady looked on.

Small victories.