Ferries run several times daily back and forth from the islands and Oban. Buses of tourists cross Mull, traveling from one port to the next. Both conveyances also carry older schoolchildren to Oban and back once a week, because of a lack of secondary schools on Mull and Iona. Indeed, everything and everyone on the islands rely on the ferries and buses.
The ferry ride from Oban to Mull takes about forty minutes and was a refreshing experience for us two landlocked dwellers.
We landed in Mull, directly found our bus, and met our chatty but very careful driver, Frank. We sat in the upper deck for the views.
Frank kept up the patter about local sights, the economy (including tree harvesting, noting the stacks of logs along the road, as well as rows of saplings to replant on 30-yr cycle—larch, spruce, and pine are being replaced with oak, ash, and hazel); wildlife to spot (none seen this trip); history (czar Alexander’s nanny came from Mull and taught him Gaelic); celebrity inhabitants (Genesis and Phil Collins); opinions (too many vacation rentals, not enough housing for locals); and complaints about tourists who will insist on taking their cars to an island with one-lane roads. Encountering several such drivers that day, we, too, were amazed at their cluelessness and the hazard they presented.
Frank shared that he had returned only a year ago from two decades in Australia, where he believed he picked up the accent. We couldn’t tell him that he did not sound the least bit Aussie. Rather, the trilled Rs, long vowels, and guttural rumbles of a true Scotsman overwhelmed any “strine” he might have acquired.
We rode at good speed across Mull and its rocky landscape of gorse and scrub grass best for sheep, of which at least four kinds thrive there. Lochs and inlets filigreed the land.
A few points were unnerving, as when Frank had to maneuver the bus across a wee bridge only a few inches wider than the vehicle.
But we made it safely and in time for the ferry to Iona, which was a much shorter trip.
We opened our picnic seated on stone benches ringing the crumbled chapter house of a ruined convent and watched as birds flew in and out of their homes in the walls. Though we had no time to properly explore the abbey, St Columba walked everywhere.
entering and exiting their rocky nests.
We returned the way we came, with a tireder Frank, whose voice had given out but who couldn’t resist pointing out this site/sight or (re)telling a local anecdote.
Dined at the George Street Fish Restaurant, which is next door to the George Street Fish & Chip Shop. Haggis cakes and fried squid for starters. Lovely grilled salmon for me. Fish and chips for Richard. Shared a shot of local whiskey, listening to Rod Stewart singing American standards.
