Pacifist's Blog

I didn’t know at the time Kit and Fiona were up at dawn snapping pictures, but today was the day we had to leave Jura. I frankly didn’t want to go, but there was much more to see…

We went to do one last round of washing up and begin loading the car, but when we got back to pack the tent up someone was waiting for us…

We didn’t take the cat, although given we’d been feeding her on meat paste, Quorn sausages and cream for the last three days Fiona made sure to double check the back seat… Back across to Feolin, and the ferry to Port Askaig. We had to wait a bit this time as the ferry needed to go across and fetch the bin lorry, which got the boat all to itself. The original plan at this point was to meander our way down to the campsite, visiting Caol Ila distillery at some point in the day. Then we realised we had to go past it to get to the campsite, so instead we sat in their car park waiting for them to open.

Caol Ila is owned by Diageo and they don’t like people taking photographs, so there aren’t any for this one. For what it’s worth, there isn’t that much to see. The outside looks like a chemical works and the inside is meticulous. Absolutely every piece of equipment right down to the valves was barcoded. The place was entirely clinical. What do you expect for a distillery that sells 95% of it’s output for blending? I don’t know if it’s this or the fact that this would be only my third fourth whisky of the holiday, but I found Caol Ila single malt quite unremarkable. Still, never mind. Our tour guide was a lovely Canadian lady who had only been working there for ten days and we were the only people on the tour so it was very relaxed.

In order to continue to the camp site we would next go past Bunnahabhain, so hey.. why not see if there’s a tour? There was, but we’d missed it by ten minutes. Turns out it’s not possible to do Caol Ila and Bunnahabhain consecutively because their tour times don’t match up owing to the latter only having a couple of tours per day. We had a wander round the shoreline (all bar one of Islay’s distilleries is on the coast) and Kit mentioned something about the Wyre Majestic.

Now, the Wyre Majestic is a 338-ton trawler which ran aground on the East coast of Islay some years ago thanks to a captain who was apparently drunk in charge. Kit (who has taken up painting as a hobby) had previously painted the Wyre Majestic from a photograph, and was fairly certain the wreck was somewhere round here. We couldn’t see anything from the car park, but Fiona spotted a gate at the far end of the distillery leading onto a small cliff path. Wandering along said path and round the corner, it suddenly came into view. Oh yes. Despite being wrecked 38 years ago, they have just left it there.

After spending a short while working out where the photographer must have stood, Kit collected a couple of souvenir stones and we went back to the car. Everywhere you looked people were painting, mowing and sanding down. Our initial theory was that they are all sent for from the mainland in the weeks leading up to the festival, but our guide at Bruichladdich (Friday) told us during the buildup “everybody becomes a painter”..

We meandered along the road (Wide enough for TWO cars!) until we came to Bridgend. Yes, despite there being more roads than Jura, there aren’t that many major ones and all the tourist sites seem to be one after the other. As we were in no hurry, we popped into the hotel and had tea on the terrace coffee on the lawn. Fiona made some casual enquiries and it turned out that Islay Ales, the microbrewery which made the “Black Rock” we’d been drinking on Jura, was just around the corner. So that was our next stop.

This brought us to Islay House Courtyard, a little nest of independent businesses in the grounds of a large estate, including a chocolate shop, a marmalade shop (yes, really), an arts and crafts shop and the aforementioned brewery.

We went into the brewery shop where an argument was taking place. Something about someone having lunch and everyone else being envious. A man looking suspiciously like a younger Andrew Rawlins (complete with real ale T-shirt) made an appearance, leaning around a corner. The conversation went a little like this:

“Can I help you?”

“Hello. Would it be possible to have a look around the brewery?”

“When do you want to?”

“Whenever’s convenient?”

“Alright then. How about now?”

So after he poured two halves for Kit and myself we went outside (“Bring your drinks with you..”) and next door to the brewery, which was slightly larger than a garden shed. And I thought Wychwood Brewery was small – this was tiny. The man in question (Paul – not to be confused with “other Paul” the co-founder) was happy to just chat with us about the state of pubs, the nature of ale and what they were planning to do next. He mentioned that for some bizarre reason, despite not having a large distribution much outside of Islay (90% or so) and the West of Scotland (5%), nearly all of the rest goes abroad to Japan. Huh. On returning to the shop we saw someone buttering some toast which had just popped up from the toaster behind the counter and the argument started again. We bought a case of mixed beers and spent the next three nights trying them out. Most of them were very pleasant – especially the Finlaggan ale. But for the time being they let us leave the ale in the shop while we had a wander around the courtyard. Outside, we found this truck parked up which I’m sure wasn’t there five minutes ago:

Beautiful, isn’t it? I think Kit want to paint it as he insisted I took a picture. The barrels on the back are whisky, all from different distilleries on Islay. Not sure if they were something to do with the festival or if they were destined for the brewery itself… We then went into the craft shop and had another coffee whilst Kit and Fiona mused about buying a painting (actually nine miniature paintings mounted in one frame) of the Islay distilleries. They decided to, and hopefully by now they’ve found somewhere nice to hang it. Of course since there was a chocolate shop we had to buy some chocolates. Oh, and some marmalade. Because there was a marmalade shop. Whisky marmalade. Yum. The nice lady let us try them all out with some oatcakes first.

After that it was getting on so we thought we’d better head off and find the campsite. This was at a place called Kintra Farm and was a whole different ball game to Jura. Firstly, they wanted £17.50 a night which was a wake up call from “please make a suitable donation”. Secondly, the water wasn’t safe to drink, according to signs put up everywhere. Oh… the signs. Do this. Don’t do that. Remember this. Watch out for this. Thirdly, they wouldn’t let you charge your mobile phone unless you paid 50p for 15 minutes (“IN ADVANCE“), fourthly their washing machine didn’t work. Okay, so maybe not so different from Jura. They did suggest we use the laundrette in Bowmore instead. Bowmore is about twelve miles away. The charge for the mobile phone was a serious bone of contention for Kit who brought it up several times over the next three days, and he was relieved when we spoke to another camper on Friday who was “practically dragged out of the shower and yelled at” for daring to plug her phone in without asking first… apparently she then offered to pay only to be told that it was “too late for that” and it wouldn’t be acceptable as she didn’t ask.

We had serious problems putting the tent up this time, not helped by the ferocious wind that came from nowhere. Whilst it was nice to have a campsite which opened out onto the beach, it wasn’t nearly as sheltered as on Jura. Our initial spot turned out to be a bad idea as even with three of us we couldn’t keep the tent still long enough to secure it, so the entire thing had to be manhandled across the field for about a hundred metres. Still, the wind kept the midges at bay so once we did have the tent up it was a rather uneventful evening. Oh, except for the sheep which kept wandering around. Yes, Kintra Farm is in fact a farm, and there is nothing bar a broken fence isolating the campsite from the farm. Nice sunsets though. Unlike Jura, this campsite faced West, looking out over the bay.

Okay, so I cheated a little with one of the photos from Jura. It wasn’t a sunset, it was a sunrise. I never got up in time to see one but apparently they were very pleasant. I would see one on Saturday as we had to be up at half-past-four in order to make it to the ferry. You’d think with the upcoming festival people would be arriving, not leaving. Perhaps it was the locals clearing off for the season…

[Hope you’re enjoying your bank holiday! I’m off to work now – some of us don’t get these days off…]

Tuesday was our last day on Jura so Fiona decided to try and kill us. As previously mentioned, the only road on Jura goes up the East coast – there is no vehicular access to the West coast. In fact, there is barely any access to the West coast. You can walk round from Feolin, or you can take one of the hilarious footpaths from the Road due West and over the mountains. We did the latter. But not until we’d made eggy bread in a mess tin.

Then we went up the road to the interestingly named Evan’s Walk. Now, Jura is regarded as an interesting challenge even for experienced walkers, of which were were not. We’d crossed paths with a few runners on Sunday, and it is said it can take the best part of a day just to climb one of the Paps… but we were going to have a go. This path apparently worked it’s way between the higher points at the cost of taking a slightly winding route, so at least it wouldn’t be too intense.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure of our route. All I know is that we didn’t make it all the way to the West coast. We got just over half way – making it as far as the Loch, which (after consulting with Fiona) I think was loch an Aircill. The path went missing on the way back. Come to think of it, there wasn’t really a path in the first place. Sure, it was mentioned in the guidebook and there was a bridge (well, plank) over a burn next to the road, but after a hundred metres or so everything just kind of dissolved into a boggy mess. I’m just glad it wasn’t raining.

It was fun though. We passed two lochs and had lunch overlooking a third, before deciding to abandon our trek to the West coast and start heading back, but not before we’d been down to the loch for a closer look… on the way back we had a couple of interesting incidents. Kit almost stood on a baby adder which hissed back at him before slinking off into the grass..

And then when we stopped for a teabreak we sat by a burn in a deep valley blasting out tunes on our boombox. The surreal nature of this experience was enhanced by the fact we hadn’t seen anybody else for about six hours, and we were about four miles from any sign of life – even a fencepost.

See that smudge in the bottom-right? That’s the path. The whole trip took us around seven hours, as it was far more boggy and rough-going than we had anticipated, plus we got lost on the way back thanks to the aforementioned path vanishing under our feet. Lonely Planet says the whole trip can be done in six hours, but I presume that’s for experienced walkers who don’t get lost. Still, it’s difficult to get completely lost on Jura as it’s only about seven miles wide, and because we were so high up all we had to do was keep walking towards the sea.

It was a fairly tiring walk, all in all, so we repaired to the tent and played Trophy Buck. JuraCat popped round to see us again and was given more meat paste before making herself comfortable on Kit’s chair…

If you want to read about other people having more success walking in Jura, these guys sounded like they had fun.

Ah! Monday! This would be the first day the distillery opened during our holiday, so we planned to get on the 11am tour and have a good look round.

But first, we had something else to deal with.

JuraCat turned up again, and was given a Quorn sausage. She really didn’t know what to make of it, and would keep coming back and sniffing it, before deciding it wasn’t actually meat. It was another glorious day outside, so whilst the cat was spoiled by Fiona with a jar of meat paste I went outside and took a couple of pictures.

We were never the only people on the campsite, but nobody else stayed more than a couple of days. Perhaps they were afraid they may grow to like the slow place of life. Eventually at around 10am we wandered over to the shop/post office for a look around and hopefully to pick up some fresh milk. Turns out the milk hadn’t arrived from the mainland yet, so we made do with one of each of their postcards and a whole bundle of midge coils.

This was something I wasn’t warned about in advance. Not only does the West coast of Scotland have a problem with midges, they have their own sub-species! And they bite!

The distillery opened and we went in, only to find out they weren’t giving tours this week as they were busy getting ready for next week’s Fèis Ìle. Yes, a huge week-long whisky festival that’s been running for eighteen years, and we came the week before it started. Fine by us as it meant everything was quieter. Since the distillery wasn’t giving tours, they gave us a couple of drams instead. Kit decided at this point that I should be educated on whisky. Now, whilst I’m not averse to the idea of whisky, I didn’t know much about it and couldn’t really tell the difference between a fine single malt and a cheap blend so anything decent would be wasted on me. So Kit gave be a simple bourbon-aged Jura whisky, and a smoky sherry-finished Jura whisky. Both from the same distillery, both made from barley, yeast and water. Could I tell the difference? Yes. Success! I found in this situation I preferred the sherry-finished whisky.

Important note: From Wednesday point on, there is a lot of whisky. I apologise if you’re not remotely interested, but that’s what happened. Since we were on holiday in a region with nine active distilleries, it seemed a bit daft not to make the most of the opportunity. As we do each of the tours, I’m not going to bother with the details of whisky production except where interesting changes are made. If you know about whisky then you already know the process, if you don’t and want to know, you can go and look it up . If you don’t and don’t want to know, you can just skip over those bits.

We went back to the tent to pack a packed lunch, and fuss over JuraCat, who had fallen asleep on Kit’s sleeping bag.

Since this was just to be a lovely relaxing holiday with little to do, we thought we’d go and find a nice beach to chill out on for a few hours. This turns out to be a place called Lowlandman’s Bay., just North of Craighouse. Off we went in the car again, this time taking a tiny side road which wound it’s way along the coastline. We eventually stopped parallel to the shore and decided to walk down to the shoreline. Across about three hundred metres of bog. Yuck. Still, it was nice once we got there.

We disturbed a flock of sheep who seemed as surprised to see us as we were them, and settled out on the rocks for an hour or so. During this time Kit got sunburn and I fell asleep, but not before a crowd of seals offshore took an interest in us. At their peak there were fifteen in the water not fifty metres away, eyeing us with caution. Not possessing a zoom-lens I couldn’t get a decent picture of them, but trust us. They were there. Here’s one:

Okay, that’s actually from the KLF barbecue the previous night. As I said, we couldn’t get a decent picture of the ones here. After all this we staggered back up to the car, smothered Kit in suntan lotion and set off back to Craighouse. But not before a few games of boules on a little patch of sand by the “Service Point”… I won the first few games but quickly found myself losing to Fiona…

Then it was back to the hotel bar. This time Fiona came along with us so we played a few games of Sopio and ate snack food thoughtfully provided by the staff. This time both Kit and I had the “Black Rock” ale.

Then bed.

At this point I should make it clear that the plan for the holiday was to spend the first half in Jura and the second half on Islay, so it should really be called “Holiday to Islay and Jura”, but y’know… I’m writing this so tough. Whilst I was already falling in love with the place Fiona pointed out to me that there were many more Scottish islands out there…

Anyway, I awoke this morning at around half-past eight to find Fiona manhandling a cat which had wandered in. Said cat was promptly named JuraCat.

Our task today was to visit Barnhill. Whilst the name of the place is largely unknown, it turns out to be the cottage where George Orwell wrote much of 1984. Apparently he wanted somewhere “un-get-at-able”. Turns out Jura wasn’t remote enough. No, he wanted somewhere without electricity or a telephone, which can’t be reached by road. Even nowadays to reach it you have to drive to just North of Ardlussa and then walk an eight-mile round-trip. The weather was still holding out, so we loaded up with fig rolls, a camping stove and a kettle. It was on the drive up to Ardlussa we started seeing the deer Jura is known for.

Kit pointed out the panoramic mode on the camera so we had a go at that.

And then came across the shortest diversion in history…

Shortly before we ditched the car and started walking. We saw very few people on the walk up there, bar a cyclist on his way to Corryvreckan, and two people who parked next to us and then seemingly vanished. The stillness of the area was uncanny. No people, no cars, no aeroplanes, nothing. So of course the deer took the opportunity to get a closer look at us

We eventually arrived at Barnhill around lunchtime, so we climbed a large hill due West and started looking at it whilst we had lunch. This is when everybody else turned up. Over the course of half-an-hour we saw around a dozen people come down the road we’d been walking on, stop, make camp for a few minutes, and then turn around and head back. Presumably they were of the “We need to see Barnhill. Seen it. Let’s go.” mentality.

On the way back to the car we were again overtaken by the cyclist who’d made it all the way up to Corryvreckan and was now on his way back. We stopped to make a cup of tea at a nearby burn and were promptly passed by all the people we saw earlier. From what they said, they were all part of a group sightseeing. So that’s alright then.

On returning to the campsite, Fiona had a nap whilst Kit and I decamped to the (only) Hotel bar for a pint. Naturally we chose the Islay Brewery real ales the hotel was offering – Kit had the “Black Rock” and I had the “Saligo Ale”. I think Kit won as mine was far too lagery for my taste. For some reason we couldn’t get the yeast to settle in the bottle, and so created a makeshift centrifuge in the hope of causing it to calm down. I’d taken in my book to read, and Kit spoke to some locals who were apparently there when the incident happened and knew where it took place.

Maybe I should clarify. One of the reasons I wanted to visit Jura was because of what the KLF did here back in August 1994. Read that? Good. This was my pilgrimage, and Kit and Fiona were more than happy to help me pay tribute. None of us could afford a million pounds, but we did have a handful of Monopoly money and a barbecue. I’d brought along the companion book “K Foundation Burn a Million Quid” in the hope of sparking up a conversation with a local who noticed, but Kit preferred the direct approach. For me this was important, as having spoken to a local who was present at the meeting which took place in the village hall shortly afterwards, confirmed [to me] that it actually happened and wasn’t fiction. Not only was said local at the meeting, but he was also in the hotel bar when Bill and Jimmy came in the night before and made themselves comfortable. He said they looked like they were “on something”, and according to Gimpo’s account the pair of them had downed most of a bottle of whisky prior to arriving, which would explain that.

Whilst I had thought I’d identified the boathouse in question, Kit and Fiona had spoken to somebody else (without me) who was certain that it happened a little further North. You must understand that despite extensive research we hadn’t able to pinpoint the exact location, as it isn’t mentioned in any of the KLF’s material. All we know is the following:

• They stayed in the Jura Hotel the night before, then drove to the site in the middle of the night, so it won’t be too far from Craighouse
• They apparently drove ‘up’ to the location
• It took place in an “abandoned boathouse”, so it most be by the water’s edge
• It took place in the same location they performed the Rites of Mu

Whilst I was looking for a boathouse, it never occurred to me that it might not be there any more. After all, this was back in 1994 and it was abandoned then. 18 years later a lot might have changed. So anyway, with the facts we had and the information Kit and Fiona procured, we decided it was probably on an outcrop just opposite Feolin Farm.

So we let Kit start a barbecue.

We had sweetcorn, they had mushrooms (thankfully keeping them well away from me…) and then a selection of Quorn goodies, satay skewers and prawn things. When all that was done we piled the cardboard we brought with us onto the barbecue to create a fire…

And threw the money on.

Whilst listening to the Stadium House Trilogy playing on a boombox we brought along for the occasion. I hope Bill and Jimmy would approve.

There was plenty of left over food so we took it back with us in the coolbox. The idea was we would eat it in sandwiches the next day, but the cat had it instead…

End of day two.

Well, technically for me the holiday began at 6pm on Friday when I finished work. And it promptly started raining. Eschewing the train in favour of the overnight National Express coach service (which I have taken before) I boarded in Oxford just after 9pm then alighted in Milton Keynes just after 11. And waited. And waited. And waited. Finally the coach turned up just before one. Turns out there had been a breakdown just outside London which was holding everything up. This wasn’t mentioned on the service updates website, nor did they tell us when we boarded. We were told, when we had to get off the coach at Keele Services and wait half-an-hour for the replacement coach to turn up.

Still, never mind. We only had a ferry to meet. Arriving in Stirling 45 minutes late (just after the rain stopped) we grabbed a quick McDonalds breakfast and then headed West to Eilean Ceann na Creige, which seems to exist solely as a ferry port. Thus began the longest ferry journey I’d ever been on. Well, to be precise it was only the second I’ve ever been on, the first being the Channel crossing. Strangely, just like the Channel crossing, the second people boarded they went straight to the restaurant and started ordering dinner. I still can’t work that one out. It’s only two hours. Can’t you wait?

The weather held out so we spent most of the journey up on deck watching the passing scenery. Little was I to know that the weather would hold out for the entire week and I returned from my Scottish holiday with a suntan. Oh yes. The journey took place on the gigantic MV Finlaggan which is apparently only a year old and was decorated in a faux-wood panel design throughout. Well, I say gigantic. It seemed big enough to me, holding 85 cars and being completely full at the time.

We alighted in Port Askaig on Islay, and after completing a twenty second road loop waited to board the somewhat smaller MV Eilean Dhiura to Jura, which holds about four cars. Port Askaig seems to be one of the few settlements on Islay which doesn’t have a distillery, yet there is a whisky named after it. Sure, why not? This crossing took just a few minutes but frankly was far more interesting as we had to park in a specific place on the vessel so as to help it maintain balance.

Alighting in Feolin, another place that exists only as a ferry port, we began the drive across to Craighouse, Jura’s main settlement. Jura has only a single road, crossing West to East on the South side of the island before heading up the East coast and gently vanishing to nothing around two-thirds of the way up. So it was easy not to get lost. We passed over numerous cattle grids but didn’t see any cattle. Or sheep. Or livestock of any kind. The island seemed completely deserted of all wildlife bar birds. Presumably those five-thousand alleged deer were keeping away from us. The south of the island is part of the Ardfin estate, which was bought by a hedge-fund manager two years ago. Despite Jura being mostly untamed wilderness, the first thing he did was close off the estate’s gardens to the public and dispose of all the livestock.

Nevertheless, we got to Craighouse and pitched the tent at the campsite. Well, it’s not really a campsite. The Jura Hotel overlooks, in turn, the road, the beer garden, a small field and the beach. We camped on the beach. Everything in Craighouse is within around thirty-seconds of everything else. The (only) hotel, the (only) distillery, the (only) fire station, the (only) shop, the (only) village hall, the (only) restaurant and the (only) petrol station. The only noteable buildings more than a short walk away are the church, the school and something called a “service point” which apparently offers wi-fi. We had no phone signal at this point and the situation lasted for the next four days, which was bliss.

Despite the campsite being free (donations welcome) they had a fair few facilities – a sink for washing up, a washing machine (broken – “new one should have come over from the mainland last week”) and four shower rooms, so we didn’t have to rough it.

By this point it had been a long day for all of us and the sun was setting, so after pitching tent and making dinner, we decided to go for a wander round town. It didn’t take long – we just followed the road up to the service point and back, bumping into a couple of cats on the way. As usual they were terrified of me but Fiona befriended both of them.

Bed time.