During September 2001, I spent a couple of weeks holidaying at the Bunnahabhian distillery cottages, on the inner Hebridean island of Islay, an island internationally known for it's malt whisky. Some may have noticed the spelling of 'whisky'. No 'e' before the 'y'. That marks it as Scots, as opposed to 'whiskey', an Irish version and as far as my memory serves the form of spelling used by some American 'whiskey' manufacturers. Enough of the whisky lesson and to my tale.
On the morning of the eleventh I rose early and headed, binoculars at the ready, from my holiday cottage, south along the rocky shore of the Sound of Islay to look for wildlife and hopefully an otter. After about half a mile or so I come across the wreck of a fishing boat that had obviously come a cropper some years before. More about the wreck of 'Wyre Majestic' in another tale.
I settled into a comfortable spot, apart from the annoying midges that is, in the rocks about twenty yards from the water and near the shipwreck. The backcloth to the wreck being the beautiful Isle of Jura. The tide must have been just right for boat movement in the Sound because within ten minutes three ships passed, all heading north. First was a fishery protection vessel named, 'Vigilant', flying a yellow and blue quartered pennant. A red and white fishing boat then passed. It had the letters, G Y on it's flank. The morning rush then concluded with the, 'Hazel Anne' a small crabbing vessel out of Campbeltown. I continued my patient wait and soon am alerted by a snorting nose to my right. Then I spot, no more than ten feet or so from the rocky shore and about 30 yards from my position, two seals slowly fishing their way north up the Sound. They dipped below the surface and reappeared several times as they pass in front of me and out of sight beyond the wreck. I guess they were grey seals, but not being up on seal identification perhaps they were common seals. They were probably more interested in a fishy breakfast than considering my identification skills, or lack thereof. I next spy a hunting buzzard to my right and a merlin heading speedily out over the Sound. To Jura, who knows?
My ears then pick up the sound of splashing. Directly in front of me and about 30 yards distant I see an otter. It quickly goes out of sight amongst rocks and I wait with baited breath. My patience is rewarded, the otter comes out of the water onto rocks about 20 yards away. It seems oblivious to my presence. I slowly and with great care sight it through my binoculars. It is so much bigger, bulkier than I expected, such a big head. Sea water drips from the otter onto the rocks and the morning sun glistens off it's wet coat. It is a wonderful sight. I am afraid to breathe. Hanging from it's mouth is an eel. Soon devoured to the accompaniment of loud crunching noises. Breakfast lasts a good few minutes then, after a bit of preening, the otter gracefully slides back into the water. I am entranced as it spends the next few minutes playing about, diving and reappearing before climbing out and onto the rocks again. Some more preening then it once more slides gracefully into the water, not a splash, before heading south along the shore. It seems to be hunting as it moves away from my position, head breaking the surface for a few seconds before it arches out of the water as it executes a dive, it's final action is a wave of it's tail. It is gone. I think it was waving at me, it knew all along.
All this played out against a backcloth of the Isle of Jura. The Paps, the local name given to Jura's two prominent mountains, have a raiment of early morning mist clinging to each like velvet duvets. On a higher plain the morning clouds are being dispersed by a watery sun. The effect being a diffused light ranging through hues of pastel blues, wispy white and sombre grey hanging over glistening hillsides of purple heather, bronze to scree greys. Mind stopping beauty and all before breakfast.
In the afternoon I am aboard a small craft, the 'Angie' whilst Roger guides it north out of the Sound of Islay, past the Bunnahabhain shore, heading for Loch Tarbert, a natural feature that almost cuts Jura into two islands, but not quite. On board is an English High Court Judge, an apple farmer from Somerset and their families. Our trip turns into a wonderful afternoon. We hug the Jura coast and shortly before swinging into Loch Tarbert we hove to by 'Sgeir Traighe' a small flat island inhabited by grey seals and a whole raft of different seabirds. Shag, oyster catchers and much more. Stars of that day being a large cow seal and it's pup, only a few hours old. We bounce on through ever choppier seas and as we turn into the wide mouth of Loch Tarbert we pass close to a raft of razor bills and then two Great Northern Divers, then Roger draws our attention to a Golden Eagle high over the the Jura headland.
A really interesting period of raised pebble beaches, shapely rocky islands topped by short bushes and trees, giving the impression of green short haircuts then follows. Browsing amongst Jura's rocky shoreline we spy red deer and wild goats. At the head of the loch, now a narrow channel, made navigationally interesting by a cluster of green topped islands that necessitate careful manoeuvring we drop anchor for afternoon tea amidst a spellbinding backcloth of islands, sand, rocks and blue sky.
Too soon we are wending our way through a maze of channels back to the open Sound of Islay before scudding along on a stiff breeze and a strong tide to Port Askaig where a dram of Bunnahabhain single malt and pub grub awaits to finish a fantastic day.
It is about 5.30 p.m. When we enter the Port Askaig Hotel. There are a few people in the bar area, nothing unusual. We order food and drink and as we wait and chat the landlady comes into the bar area, she looks shocked, her face ashen. She speaks to everyone in the bar, obviously about something they have knowledge of, updating them of an incident we have no knowledge of. It is not clear what she is describing so when she leaves the room I ask what has happened. We, my wife, son and daughter in law then learn of the terrible events in New York and Washington, unbelievable events that over the next few years would shape a new order and have far reaching consequences to communities throughout our small world.
Was this what they planned?
Over the intervening years when I am reminded of the terrible events of that day in September 2001 my mind often wanders to 'Sgeir Traighe' and to a seal cow and it's hours old pup, and I wonder about their fate.
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