Jane’s Dad visited us the week before last. Not content with having dragged him all over Skye and the Outer Hebrides in 2004, we took him out to Argyll (with one eye on the weather report) and caught the two-hour ferry to Islay, legendary home to Bowmore, Bruichladdich, Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Ardbeg, Bunnahabhain, Caol Ila and Port Ellen (and visited them all, even if we didn’t sample every one). The island itself turned out to be every bit as rugged and beautiful as its neighbours, with the threatening rain giving dramatic skies at every turn. Best of all were the flocks of Barnacle Geese wintering over from Greenland. Everywhere we went sounded like Rautavaara’s Cantus Arcticus for birds and orchestra. (One of the best pieces of classical music I’ve discovered in years—seriously. It’s The Lark Ascending with honking.)
By Sunday the rain had made good on its threat, and the ferry ride back was rough. It was worse when we got off: the drive home in the dark on the flooded Loch Fyne road would have made a fiendish video game. And this was a few days before the west coast was hit by a month’s worth of rain in a single day (although we’d already had the wettest November in thirty years).
Still, all that water made for some good photos. I took so many that it’s taken all weekend to sort them out. Here are the best.