where art collides philosoperontap

I’d taken the opportunity afforded by a flat, roadside patch of gravel to stop and capture the view back down the valley through the black clouds to the sunshine and blue sea in the distance below. I was in a buoyant mood having seen my first golden eagle an hour before. Heading back to the car I was approached by an old gentleman and his grandson who’d been quietly sitting in their car on the same patch of gravel, watching for wildlife through their binoculars.

“Have ye heard of the White Stag of Arran ?” (read with Scottish accent). I could hear the capital letters as he spoke. I fetched my own binoculars from the car and followed the line of his pointed finger past the white stones on the hillside opposite, and past the sheep until my eyes alighted upon a white(ish) red deer with a pair of the most enormous antlers I’d ever seen. Admittedly, they were probably the first set of antlers I’d ever seen that were still attached to their owner, and for this reason I was more impressed by the headware than the colour. I turned to the old gentleman who was by now heading back to his car, and gave him a smile and the thumbs up, and went on my way, his voice receding into the distance “Ye’re probably one of only a handful of people in the world (heavily rolled ‘r’) who’ve seen that’.

I checked later with people at the campsite, and it seems that albino red deer can be seen on Arran, but they are very rare. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to the gentleman, who deserved a more emphatically impressed response than he got.

A golden eagle and a very rare albino red deer within the space of an hour !

Remote though they are, even the Outer Hebrides are not far enough away to escape the far reaching tentacles of European legislation. It seems the quirky, rhomboid shape of the passing place sign has offended the Keepeurs of the Livre de Standards (see Note 1), who have dictated that they must be replaced by square signs, an example of which below.

Locals remain phlegmatic.

Note 1 – No attempt is being made to single out the French for blame, I just can’t do any of the other European languages very well.

Ubiquitous feature of travel in the Western Isles of Scotland. A transient meeting place of generosity, where people wait for oncoming vehicles to pass, or to allow people uninterested in photo opportunities to overtake. Invariably involves a smile, a wave, or a short, polite parp of the horn.

Feels like months, but it’s only really been 2 weeks. Five ferry trips and one uninflatable inflatable bed later and I’m in the pretty little village of Port Ellen on the South West part of Islay, with a sun tan that rivals the one I had after two weeks cycling in Vietnam. The sun’s out and the landscape is dramatic in its intensity of blues, browns, greens, purples (that’ll be the thistles) and yellows. The skies are very picturesque with huge cloud formations which change every minute in the blustery wind. Arran was controlled wildness. Gigha was small and friendly with spectacular white beaches. Islay is so far magnificent in its big open moors stretching miles. I drove past some men hand-cutting the peat for the Laphroaig disillery today, then saw it stacked up in the distillery itself. The next island will be Jura. That’s another kettle of fish. Big jagged mountains and lots of dark looming clouds. Happily, unlike the bed, the tent has taken everything thrown at it so far. Have bought a new one which needs checking out later. Photos at a later date when I’ve got them off the card.