The early morning sun breaking above Lochranza brings a welcome orange tinge to the surroundings around Loch Ranza and the Castle directly adjacent to our front door as we take in the early morning vista. The rain ravaged glens of yesterday are coming alive and embracing a welcome respite from the precipitation that has been oh so familiar to them this summer. 
Breakfast is served in the Ministers old study room and we are seated next to a fabulous bay window overlooking the tranquil bay. As we make quick work of the hearty breakfast we begin to threat at not making a thanksgiving prayer pre-breakfast in such pious surroundings.
After wishing our enchanting landlady our farewells we cycle the short distance along the shore road to Lochranza pier where we board the 30 minute crossing to Claonaig on the east coast of the Kintyre peninsula. Seeing Arran disappear in to the distance from this departure point is a truly wondrous sight. The northern hills which were covered in low rain filled clouds yesterday are now visible through sun dissected scatterings of cumulus.
Looking over to the Kintyre peninsular we notice a backbone of high land running down its spine and we realise that we have another hill to surmount if we are to catch our next ferry from Kennacraig on its western coast.
We have factored a 90 minute allowance for this 5 mile trip from Claonaig to Kennacraig. On paper at the time of its conception this seem
ed like an ample allowance. The reality of climbing hills weighted down with panniers and the constant breaks to capture still and moving images have not been accounted for and we find that we have to cycle down off the hill at great speed to capture our ferry with 20 minutes to spare. This 20 minute window turns out to be fortuitous as the ferry closes all its doors 15 minutes prior to departure and before we can catch our breath we are aboard and sailing towards Port Askaig on the Isle of Islay.
En route to Islay the ferry first sails down West Loch Tarbert. As it emerges from the loch the Paps of Jura spring into view, and then command the horizon, as they do throughout our stay on Islay.
To the east there are striking views across the low-lying island of Gigha, to the Kintyre peninsula: and across both Gigha and Kintyre to the still more distant mountains on Arran.
Port Askaig lies at the north end of the island via the Sound of Islay with close-up views of the southern end of Jura. As we arrive in port 2 hours after our departure another steep incline exiting the harbour catches our eye as we begin our preparations for our 15 mile cycle south to Port Charlotte; the best-preserved and most attractive village on Islay.
The Isle of Islay has around 3200 inhabitants, covers an area of 600 square kilometres and has an impressive 130 miles of coastline. Islay is famous for its malt whiskeys and has eight working distilleries on the island making the malt whisky industry one of the most important sources of income for the island.
Three miles short of Port Charlotte we pass through the small town of Bruichladdich on the shores of Loch Indaal which is dominated by its distillery. As we pass we notice an imposing copper still sitting proudly in its front yard with a letter from ‘Bruichladdich’ singularly embossed on 13 whiskey barrels underneath it. Bizarrely, protruding from the still there appears to be the lower limbs of a male hanging from the open end of the still. We find at a later date that this is a joke at the expense of the Americans
and their errm, defense policies.
Apparently the distillery was monitored by the US Defense Threat Reduction Agency during the Iraq war on the grounds that the distilling equipment could be used to make chemical weapons. The distillery maintains a series of webcams and learned of the surveillance after a US agent informed them that one had broken down! Aware of the absurdity of the situation the workforce decided to expose the Americans over exuberant surveillance techniques by sticking these dummy limbs at the end of the still to mimic the eventual destination of a weapons inspector should our American cousins decide to send one over.
As we round the coast to Port Charlotte we are immediately struck by the blinding whitewashed residencies in the village. The village was founded by Walter Frederick Campbell in 1828 and named after his mother. The village was built to provide housing facilities for the folk who worked in the Lochindaal Distillery, which opened in 1829, and was also known as Port Charlotte and Rhinns Distillery. The first licensee was Colin Campbell, but he owned the distillery for only two years and many owners followed him. The distillery closed in 1929 but its buildings still remain and some are now in use by the Youth Hostel in which we will be stopping for the next two evenings.
We quickly settle in to our bijou room which is tastefully furnished with one bunk bed and a sink before making our way to the renowned Port Charlotte Hotel. This is a Hotel that often appears in all the tourist guides and Sunday brochures and we make haste in expectation of fine cuisine.
Ohh dear, such was the service we received we felt obliged to write the following report in Trip Advisor:
As me
ntioned, the meals and desserts were of a very good quality but we found that the barman’s surly manner completely killed the mood of the place for anyone who had not over indulged in the many Islay whiskies that he was selling at Gleneagles prices. Over lubrication of the local tincture is not on our agenda as we decide to soak up the ambience of the waves crashing against shingle and rocky shoreline; the whitewashed houses highlighted by moonlight guiding us back to our cell and sleep.
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