The wind whipped across emerald fields and violet-hued heather gleaming in the midday sun. These vast stretches of life were interrupted by rocky outcroppings and crags of grey granite. The morning dew still lingered in the grass, clinging to our boots as we trekked through the Scottish countryside in search of a somewhat secret circle of standing stones hidden somewhere in the landscape.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” My dad asked, his doubt an ever present force.
“That’s what Google says,” I replied.
“Vince, you’ve been around your son long enough to know you’re in for a long hike,” Simon added.
My dad shook his head exasperated.
We had to cross the River Kilbride, which came out of the hills through a dammed reservoir, cutting through the fields like a gash in the earth. It proved to be a struggle to find a way across. The river was really more like a creek. We ended up just climbing down into a section that was fairly shallow and scrambling up the other side.
Soon our efforts would be rewarded.
On the other side of the river, behind a little cliff of rocky crags, was two standing stones, still standing as silent sentinels after 5,000 years. I made an offering of flowers at the base of one of the stones. There had once been three stones, but the other had fallen to time and the force of gravity long ago.
When we first came to Scotland, we drove to Glasgow to pick up my friend Simon, only to find a worldwide cycling event had shut the whole city down, with our hotel literally at the heart of it. We had to walk with our stuff through the maze of people and interrupted intersections. The next day we woke up early before the bikes to get the hell out of Glasgow.
From there we drove through the lochs of the highlands to Kennacraig, where we got a ferry to take the car to Islay.
Islay is a whiskey-producing isle off the west coast of Scotland. It produces 1/3 of the world’s scotch. The peat from its boggy landscape is used to smoke the barley, giving Islay scotch its smokey flavor. The island is fairly large and isolated. Its population sits at just around 3,000.
We stayed in the southern town of Port Ellen, home to the once-famous Port Ellen distillery, and to the port used to bring barley to the southern distilleries. That first evening, Simon and I tried Islay Wines, a lovely little operation in Port Ellen run by a Scottish woman who makes fruit wines with the native fruits of Islay. After that we had drinks at the bar, and walked to a restaurant in the countryside.
The next day found us wandering the land in search of the standing stones. After we found them, we drove over to another standing stone, where someone had sacrificed a sheep on a hillock and placed its skull at the base of the stone.
That’s old Gaelic for ya!
We would do many hikes on Islay in between getting blind drunk on scotch and beer. My dad really appreciated the old stones of an older land. The distilleries were great, but for me, Islay is really about the rugged country, beautiful views, and putting a few more miles on your shoes.
But all things come to an end, and after all the adventures, jokes about sexualizing sheep, and a few wee drams of scotch, it was time for us to part ways. My dad and I left Simon on Islay so he could catch a flight back to Glasgow from Islay’s tiny airport.
As of writing this, my dad and I are aboard the Kennacraig ferry headed back to the mainland.
The highlands are calling!
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