31/8 Whisky On The Rocks
I like to call it “motorbike hiking” when I meander along small roads through the countryside. Today it’s more of a “whisky hike,” with the premise of not wandering too far off the road afterward. One shouldn’t disregard the charms of the island itself, but today the priorities are different. In fact, I won’t be visiting every distillery, only the ones that lie on the way to Port Askaig. I’ll leave Islay again via Port Askaig today. I’ll start straight away with my home‑grown favorite, Laphroaig. The visitor centre is eerily empty, completely unlike Talisker. The latter probably benefits from being on a truly beautiful holiday island, so the foot traffic there is much higher. That works in my favour for browsing and photographing in peace. Of course I can’t resist picking up a few souvenirs, and I stash a few small items. The same goes for Lagavulin and Ardberg, which follow Laphroaig within stone‑throw distance. At Lagavulin there’s a tasting of an excellent dram. But I also realize this will be the only dram I’ll try if I want to stick to naturally skilled driving.
On the beach just behind Lagavulin I’m approached by an old man who has earned that title in the positive sense. Sitting on his bench with the cottage in the background he presents an idealised picture that would have been worth a photo. Out of respect, and because he immediately draws me into conversation, I “miss” the snapshot. I don’t miss a very pleasant, albeit brief, chat. Despite the language barrier I felt the urge to stay as long as there was something to tell. A moment in which (further) travel also feels like a kind of pressure, one I surrender to once more, and thus miss other beautiful moments.
After Ardberg I continue clockwise around the island, unfortunately arriving at the last distillery of the day because I have to be back at the ferry at 3 p.m. Bowmore—here I also leave a bit of money, but no bottle. Not just because of the price, but also because the stuff would have to be stored somewhere. Or do I empty the toolbox? Oh, well…
Around half past five I arrive at the destination harbour, Kennacraig, and have to choose between wild‑camping 46 km away or a campsite 128 km away. It’s a warm sunny day and I have a tailwind, so I pick the campsite also because traffic is light. Around 7 p.m. the now higher mountains increasingly block the evening sun, and as it grows shady it also becomes noticeably cold. I keep my jacket on anyway, holding out until eight. At the beautiful Inveraray Castle a lot of fence and tree growth block a clear view of it. Just behind, however, an unfenced forest path leads into the inner park grounds and I get my snapshot. Someone looks out of a window in the castle and doesn’t seem to like it. As quickly as I entered the park via the forest path, I leave again.
Up to this point it could have been a wonderful day, but some disappointment had to follow. The campsite is a former B&B and, of course, fully booked. The friendly owner suggests I drive a few kilometres back to Fort Williams. That Fort Williams, where I previously filled up, is a kind of holiday spot for people who want to let loose in nature—a gathering of party‑goers. Absolutely not my thing, so I ask if there’s somewhere quieter. The idea of driving to Glasgow, less than 70 km away, and looking for something there flashes through my mind. If I’m going to party, I might as well do it properly. But I quickly discard that thought. In the end she offers a better solution just around the corner, only 15 minutes away: Camping Beinglas (what a name, right in the middle of Scotland), solidly placed in the hills. I set up my tent, take a shower, and look forward to the steak I saw on the grill in front of the house. Silly only because everything gets cleared away right in front of me. Kitchen closes at 9 p.m. Fine, money saved. Instead there’s cheese and bread, and for a good night a Laphroaig.
