Wednesday 19th, W7D6

 So where was I, or indeed where am I. I'm afraid it can get quite hard to keep track. I am still at the Reraig Campsite and in fact at the next door hotel having just had fish and chips. I was sorry to discover that there's no laundry facility at the site, but yesterday evening the Warden told me there's a good one at Kyle so that was my first morning mission. It's a Community run facility by the harbour, and I was able to replenish my supplies of clean gear, while having a coffee in the Bothy next door, and doing the Herald cryptic crossword. 

As I noted yesterday, the Gavin Maxwell Museum and  Bright Water Centre are no more,  but it's still possible to arrange a conducted visit to Eilean Ban where he lived and wrote, and the Stevenson lighthouse. It took two more crossings of the bridge to find the entrance, eventually alerted by the young French guide (curator?) standing at the gate which is actually on the bridge and looks like an improbable stopping place. So that's booked for tomorrow.

My next planned stop was Plockton, because it has strong resonances for me from the sailing days. In the two weeks of the Classic Malts Rally which I did with Noble and Shelly, Plockton was one of the ceilidh stops, with tables spread out on the lochside with endless glasses of Talisker courtesy of DiAgeo, and a buffet accompanied by traditional musicians from the Plockton sailing club, a tiny boathouse on the shore.

My second visit was with  Cate on the same circumnavigation,  but without the Talisker. As described in  Ninety-nine Days, we'd had to dodge in between a fleet of young dinghy sailors on their Wednesday evening race, to find a mooring. The road to Plockton was the usual dramatic drive along the gorgeous coast looking across, like most routes, to the Cuillins of Skye. I so enjoyed my scenic drives on this holiday (apart from when I was too scared) that I feel moved to say that this is the most beautiful territory in our islands. I know I may be showing a Celtic bias, and I know I haven't been everywhere, but I have travelled quite a bit now in the Lakes, the Yorkshire Dales, the Peak District and West Wales, and I stand by my (biassed) opinion.

So Plockton. The weather today, I must add, has  been glorious all day, enough for me to sit out by the side of Loch Carron with an ice cream. And it was clear this place met my criterion for sowing memorial poppies at places we've enjoyed together. The little island 100 yards from the shore (at low tide) was an ideal spot, so I slithered over the mud and seaweed to get to dry land, sit and contemplate a while, do the deed, and write the resulting poem, attached here.

Finally, just an amusing encounter with my neighbours at the site before I left for my fish and chips at the hotel. A couple from Fife on a week's getaway, grownup children all fled the nest, the wife was kneading dough to make pizza on board their van, using a frying  pan. I was highly impressed (and somewhat embarrassed), having only rarely reached the heights of making toast aboard. Ah well, each to his/her own. So maybe I should stick with the poetry. 

Plockton

Past this eyot once we sailed together   

  a decade and one shortened life ago,

  subject to the wind and tides, 

  but carried forward always by the power of love.

Today I walk across almost dry-footed

  to a knoll of gorse and broom

  and a peppering of wild flowers.

And it’s here I lay seeds from our own home, 

  carried over the miles.

And each year, when Summer comes to this isle, 

  they will blossom in memory of our undying love.

My eyes may never see that day, 

  but I will carry the image in my heart. 

For this year and forever.