Busby Gets Wed.

My mate of 44 years was to get married in Islay, Inner Hebrides, Scotland, and we got an invite!

This was to be no ordinary wedding, scheduled to be on Islay for four days and just getting my CVO Glide Jennifer agreed to ride there - what a girl; going to a wedding on a motorbike.  Never having been to the Inner Hebrides I planned an outward route mainly by road and a homeward route with three ferries.

We decided to leave at 5am so that we were not pushing to get onto a ferry at Kennycraig.  It was a beautiful dawn ride and we only got a bit of traffic through the Glasgow conurbation; but once negotiated it was a slap up breakfast as a reward.  The riding was brilliant, along the west side of Loch Lomond, around the Firth of Clyde and over the top of Loch Fyne ( famous for Salmon) and along the west side to Inveraray; which is a most pleasant tourist town; it must be good by the number of tourist busses disgorging a new batch of the mighty dollar wielding tourists.

True to form I was at least an hour early for the Kennycraig to Port Askaig ferry so it was retrace our route to Tarbert, 4 miles back from the ferry jetty, that had very little in the way of facilities.  Light lunch, chat to three scouser bikers and back to our Caledonian McBrayne ferry, to do the travel shuffle - waiting, waiting, waiting then rush!

A pleasant two hour crossing and a quick run to the Port Charlotte Hotel.  What a view from our three night home:

The whole island of Islay is a picture just waiting for you to capture it on your memory card, every bay, every croft, every animal in the abundant wildlife had been put there just for your scenic pleasure - well not quite for the highland cows and gambling lambs were also to be part of our gastronomic pleasure!  The plethora of highland malts were also designed for human pleasure.  The dichotomy of our lives; Jennifer would not try the lambs (they smile you see) and I would not take part in the amber nectar after 14 dry months my self imposed exile from the demon drink would be steadfastly maintained.  Clans gathering for the forthcoming nuptials but being creatures of habit and road weary after our 350 mile ride we had a banquet booked for 7:30, a true feast fit for a king.

Friday was 'D' day for the main event but KO was not 'till late afternoon and I fortuitously spied a leaflet extolling the virtues of clay pigeon shooting - I'll 'ave some of that!  A quick phone call and all was set at Jim Wilson's, Cultoon Shoot. Fifteen out of 25 Clays for $20; brilliant entertainment and Jim's gay badinage was for free.  Jen kept my score but was only classing a hit as hen I blasted the clay into kingdom come, if I winged it she thought that was as good as a miss; Jim sorted her out.  Scotch broth and back to the hotel to work the metamorphoses into smart wedding guests!  Could this happen with the reduced luggage capacity the leather tour pak on the CVO Glide gives?  You judge:

My schoolboy chum Peter surprised us all, resplendent in his Maharajah outfit, recently bought whilst on one of his regular insurgencies into Mother India;

Fitting for a civil ceremony in the Indian gear and the Celtic cross as a backdrop.  Very pleasant ceremony with a room full of family and friends who had traveled far and wide to celebrate with Peter and Lillian in their commitment to each other.  Onto the reception to be held in the World renown Ardbeg Distillery, once again the malt whiskey connoisseurs Nirvana and me in my self imposed exile from the demon drink.  Bottles of 10 year old malt took the place of dinner wine and a feast was enjoyed by all.

Tables cleared away it was party on.  The traditional band struck up in true Inner Hebbridean style, just prior to this they did the Bride and Grooms first waltz to ensure protocol was observed, and soon had the place rocking with their more usually folksy renditions.  Those islanders certainly know how to party and the highland dancing was a mix of intricate maneuvers and keep fit aerobic class; stunning and all liberally dusted with highland hospitality; I know the Inner Hebrides are not 'Highland' but you get my drift.  Nocturnal bus ride back to our billet, having a close shave with a night matching coal black cow and many lambs who had bedded down in the middle of the single track road as the tarmac was acting as a night store heater.

So Saturday and what to do on an Island.  Wildlife was the solution and grey seals had to be found.  We were advised to travel South to Portnahaven where there was an 80% chance of seals in the harbour - spot on!

Then birds; primarily the Chough, now any self respecting twitcher or pub quiz expert will tell you the Chough is the rarest British Bird; but we had it on good authority there were Choughs on Islay.  Apparently they are like blackbird/crows but with orange legs and beak.  With a keen eye out for our Chough sighting we headed for Loch Gruinhart Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) Visitor Centre.  The centre is located at the South end of Loch Gruinhart on the B8017, you have to understand that the 'A' roads on Islay have passing places so just imagine the 'B' roads; on my very new shinny Harley currently sans stone chips!  But we made it and ensconced ourselves in the cosy hide, hiding from the birds and the constant winds we had been encountering (as an aside the winds were being relentless and with a flat landscape had a good chance to pick up aggression before blasting at you their icy tentacles - it was reasonably bright though!

We were quiet and we watched.  We watched.  We watched.  No Chough but a twitchers red letter day; if only we knew what we were seeing!  The prize was for the mummy and Daddy duck with all their little baby ducks, mmmmm Duck a la Orange; I digress.  We saw no Chough but were both chuffed at what we did see.

Lunch presented itself in Main Street, Bowmore (overlooking the Harbour), in the form of a quaint little fish specialty restaurant that was magic; fish chowder this good was last had by me in Boston MA!  The day was scheduled to end at Lillian's brother Blair's farm with his wife Margaret providing a garden party BBQ - I knew those Highland cows would come back into the picture - it had to be the best BBQ steak bun I'd ever had (of course in those circumstances they always are) and more of the legendry 'Highland' hospitality; anyway I can't resist it anymore so here is my Highland Hospitality joke!

Salesman traveling the wild highlands and gets stranded in inclement weather.  He sees a light on in the croft over the field and heads towards it.  Knocking on the door the crofter welcomes him to the bosom of his family, wife and daughter introduced its a good feed and warm bed for the traveling salesman.  During the night he wakes with a parched throat and goes to the kitchen for water.  Whilst partaking of the cool well peat filtered water the crofters nubile young daughter enters the kitchen with the same intent; one thing leads to another and they are 'at it' so to speak on the crofters kitchen floor.

The sighs of passion soon had the crofter's wife stood at the door staring at the scene before her.  The salesman thought all was up after repaying such hospitality in a caddish manner; when the mothers voice boomed out;

"Morag!  Where's your highland hospitality?  Arch your back and keep the gentleman's balls off of the cold stone floor!"

Had to tell it but it always comes to mind when I am presented with such kindness and generosity of human interaction as was shown to Jen and I whilst guests on Islay.

On the way back to the hotel I wanted to fuel up, but all selling establishments finish sharp and the hotel receptionist said 11:30 was the soonest fuel would be available and we had a 09:00 ferry 23 miles away in Port Ellen, interesting!  Next morning early starter breakfast an ask around for spare fuel, none to be had so Gez, Diane and Michael (alias Frank) volunteered to run just behind us to offer assistance should we luck out before the ferry; we got to freewheeling distance of the ferry and silently rolled to the bike parking slot to the ferry where I announced to no one in particular that I had run out of fuel!  No one admitted to having a spare can at any price; two local fisherman offered diesel but I figured a new CVO Glide would not appreciate such a crude fuel!  Biker brotherhood to the rescue.  The two bikers who had witnessed our shoddy arrival offered fuel if I could get a tube and container.  The mouthful of four star never tasted so good, we now had the means to get a full tank in Tarbert just four miles from the Kennycraig ferry jetty.  Our saviour is the good looking guy in the centre, what a hero and of course a recipient of my 'Ride Safe' biker pen!

After that little adventure nothing much more to report, a wonderful ride across the Isle of Butt and two ferries soon had us on the outskirts of Glasgow and a very wet three hour run to South Shields.

Our first foray to the Inner Hebrides and I vowed to be back.  When Peter and Lillian increase the population of Jura from the present 198 to 200 as there retirement plan forecasts we will have an excuse to return.

Amazing, a friendship of 44 years is now blessed with new friendships that are about 44 days old and a new place to ride my bike, a big up to all those people who toiled to make our sourjorn into the unknown such a fulfilling experience and in the words of the immortal terminator or General Douglas McCarther as he left a South Sea islands; "I'll be back".