The sky was dark and brooding as we set off from Dundee. The rain from above, spray from other traffic and the low, black clouds had us in a depressingly pessimistic frame of mind. As I waited in the car for Linda to make some last-minute purchases from Boots, I tentatively asked Siri what the weather was like in Rothesay. Her reply indicated an uninspiring continuation of the same rain, low clouds and low temperatures as those in Dundee. Undeterred and slightly desperate for better news, I ventured to ask what the forecast was for Rothesay tomorrow. “Sunshine with highs of 16C” came back the reply.
We stopped at a drive-through Starbucks just to the east of Dunblane and parked up facing a field to enjoy our snacks. The rain had stopped and the sky was now white, not grey. The breeze tore at the young birches, their now-yellow leaves hanging on tenaciously, delaying the inevitable. In the field of tall grass in front of us was a small herd of young roe deer, barely taller than the grass and only visible when they started leaping in the exuberance of their youth. We counted at least 12 of them enjoying the moment. The black Labrador in the car next to us also noticed them, apparently wishing to join them, but not quite sure what to do in the way only Labradors prevaricate.
There were breaks in the cloud by the time we reached Glasgow. As we sat in a long, barely moving queue of traffic that extended from the Kingston Bridge all the way to the airport, we were at least able to open the windows and enjoy the warm rays of the sun. And then, with no warning at all, the road was clear and before we knew it we were passing Dumbarton Rock and Langbank, winding our way through Port Glasgow, Greenock and Branchton – all looking resplendent in the bright sunshine – and then Inverkip, once famous for its power station, and Wemyss Bay.
Now the sky was almost clear, with just the occasional cloud to break the monotony. The temperature, too, had risen to a positively balmy 15C – almost “taps aff” weather for the hardy men of the west coast. We did not have long to wait for the ferry, the MV Argyll, a bow-entry-stern-exit affair in which foot passengers enter directly into the cafeteria and sitting area. Long gone are the Saturn and Juno, with their side ramps and wooden gangplanks leading to an observation deck with no protection from the vagaries of the west coast summers. While the ferry was more comfortable and much larger than the old boats, the journey was no quicker, although at 30 minutes, it’s not very long. No sooner had I sat down, or so it seemed, than we were passing Toward Point and its landmark lighthouse, then Craigmore homed into view on the left, with my childhood home, Ardbeg, straight ahead. Then the ferry turned to point directly at Rothesay pier, and we were presented with the awesome sight of the Arran mountains looming over low-lying Bute and its town.
By now it was well on the way to 5pm. I had been behind the wheel since 12.30 and just wanted to sit down with a cup of tea. We decided to make straight for our accommodation at Stewart Hall, a Georgian manor house near Straad, and with fantastic views over St Ninian’s Bay to Arran and its majestic Sleeping Warrior.
We drove up the long, narrow driveway as the house pulled into view. A man approached us and introduced himself as we got out, satisfied we were in the right place. I didn’t catch the name, as I often don’t, so I told him I was from Bute. He seemed intrigued – perhaps he recognised me: I certainly did not recognise him. He asked about my family, so I told him. Then he said “Are you Scotia’s nephew?” It turns out the owner of Stewart Hall, and of our holiday accommodation, is David Irving, who was one of my great Uncle Ian’s (Scotia) best friends. Back when I was a youngster – probably not even in my teens – Scotia and David often tried to get me to develop an interest in sailing and go out on Scotia’s 23-foot yacht, Nogard. At the time, all I remember about sailing was forever falling out of Mirrors into the icy cold Firth of Clyde and waiting for the IBSC rescue launch to come and scoop me out, so I was reluctant to join them.
David and I had a lovely conversation about Scotia and their friendship, and about his life in London after graduating as an architect from Glasgow University.
All the while we stood on his front lawn reminiscing, the sun was sublime over the water separating Bute from Arran, with the Sleeping Warrior gathering a thin blanket of clouds to his chin. The sky was clear and blue, the trees in full leaf with a gentle breeze just to remind us of their presence, the fields emerald green leading to the sparkling waters of the Clyde and the dark and darker silhouette of Arran and its mountains.
At that moment I realised I had come home: until that moment I hadn’t realised just how much it means to me.
Lusobrandane 