I have been back in my old stomping ground - otherwise known as the Island of Islay.
Ah, beloved land of my teenage years! I was your original Teenage Fanclub ;-)
I travelled with my sister Claire, and we stayed in a 'Youth' Hostel - although Hostelling Scotland have dropped the word 'Youth' and anyone can check-in, from babies in slings to limber grannies on sleek bikes.
We met French, Germans, Chinese, Scottish folk, cute kids, and whisky nuts (in-depth conversations about barley and ABV percentages? Oh-kaaay...)
There were even baby rabbits lolloping by the front door. Pleased to meet you, Thumper.
We hitch-hiked to Portnahaven, which feels like a magical village at the end of the world (of course there are no trains). There is a lady who bakes cakes and leaves slices beside an honesty box in her garden. Ginger and orange, oh my oh my.
There were seals in the bay, sticking their speckled heads above the glassy surface. I tried to get them to come closer by throwing day-old pizza from a plastic tub (an activity my daughter would describe as 'Maximum Goof').
The seagulls swooped in for the dry Margherita triangles, and the seals looked suitably embarrassed for me.
Like old times, Claire and I walked miles between villages - from Portnahaven to Port Charlotte, past herds of sheep, white-washed farms and distant memories of barn dances.
'Walking miles' was such a great thing of youth: just floating around with a head full of schemes and dreams and 80's pop ballads. There was always time - time to clock the roadside butterflies, or look up to see geese fly high beneath airplane trails in the vast blue sky.
As the self-proclaimed, Woman-Who-is-Always-Hungry, I was indeed reliably hungry for dinner at the lovely Port Charlotte Hotel.
The founding Members of The C&C Club (established 1976)
After a lovely weekend of island memories, we packed up and left the hostel. As we stood at the village bus stop, a German man (blue hair) cycled up and asked -
Were you staying in room 7?
Yes?
He held out a small plastic bag, tied-up to hide a mystery item of clothing. A swim suit, maybe?
I opened the bag to a find a crumpled sports bra. I swung it in the air and we exchanged a giggle with a Dad and his boy at the bus stop, whom we already knew from the hostel.
Here we all stood, and the hostel owner had sent this Blue-Hair cyclist, like a winged messenger on wheels.
Go find the women who have just left! Give them their bra! Wish them well and bid them to return one day.
How very Islay.
'Westering Home' may have to become an annual pilgrimage. Somebody warn the seals.
