Panic...
As our luxury cruise ship got permission to finally dock in the empty, sterile port of St.Ellen we were relieved to be back on terra-firma once again following our harrowing 2 hour maiden voyage of discovery, battling through the blustery high-winds and rainy, rolling swells on the nautical high seas of southern Scotland.
There had been dark times indeed throughout the voyage when it seemed that Caledonian McBrae would be lost at sea as the unhappy crew were close to mutiny as the frozen chips in the canteen had to be rationed, the gravy and grog ran out and then the WiFi finally gave up and went down with all hands. The ships log reported a shortage of sick bags to the coast guard as the charts slid about under the turbulent swell....but made it to port we did!
The onward journey in the hire car was just as bad, as we sped along the wild windswept narrow highway in near zero degree temperatures, the wipers on full speed battling the icy rain offering only occasional glimpses of the endless brown peat bogs through the ‘mist rolling in from the sea’....but we knew, sat there with the heater on, we were finally safe...
...safe at least from the dreaded virus 🦠 and safe in the knowledge that there was absolutely no way on this earth that any virus could ever survive in these these conditions on the bleak, brown, windy, wee, welly wearing, whisky soaked island of Islay.
...pronounced ‘Eye-luh’, this god forsaken place is famous for its 9 malt whisky distilleries so it seemed appropriate under the rules of a declared pandemic to panic buy alcohol for self medicating purposes. With this in mind, breakfast started with a peaty, salty Ardbeg and then later a pungent, lingering ‘La-froyg’ leading nicely on to an eye watering, testicle twisting strength 16year old ‘Lagavulin’.
A well balanced ‘Bowmore’ was then closely followed by an oily, salty brute of a ‘Bruichladdich’ and by the time the palate was recognising the last wee dram of an 18yr old ‘Caol Isla’ passed the lips a strange, nauseating feeling started to progressively creep through the body as the temperature rose and a sudden shortage of breath gave way to flu like symptoms it could only be a highly pathogenic positive sign that it was now time to go and self isolate in a nearby, dimly lit, Indian restaurant with late 1970’s chintzy curtains and a namesake, unassuming, plastic model of the iconic Taj Mahal.....
‘Jim the taxi ‘and ‘Jeanie the fish’ local business folk, had both warned us of some of the other many dangers of the island to look out for. They recounted tales of ten Japanese tourists being trapped for 6 days up their necks in peat bogs when traversing the island on a shortcut to a distillery. The following week a bus load of Germans from Frankfurt were found clinging to the Paps of Jura after a freak wave washed them off the rocks and worse still was an eerie tale of a local farmer when out feeding his hairy highland cooz one day witnessed a French birdwatcher being eaten by crabs in a nearby scenic picnic spot.
The relentless rain on the island has been falling on a daily basis since first being recorded by the Pictish rebel inhabitants of 650-700AD and wind speeds of up to 130mph have been known to blow hefted sheep clean off the hills on a regular basis so with this in mind we googled the shipping forecast for the next available window of opportunity to leave. A hapless flight had tried to land the other day on the tiny airstrip but had got within 12yards of the runway and was unceremoniously blown backwards back to Glasgow so we opted once again for the trusty reliable ferry.
Port Askaig was the departure terminal at the sheltered north of the island where ‘Terry the ticket’ worked and he assured us reassuringly that we would be leaving on the ‘ Pride of Pandemonia’ at 09:30 “come hell or high water”. With a last cheeky, fleeting look at the ‘Paps’ we were on our way home and sailing off back to the disease riddled mainland of Utopia.
‘Panic’, my tune of choice for this blog by the ‘Smiths’ who ironically all died in the global SARS outbreak of 2003 in a bedsit in Rochdale...keep the song alive and well by listening in self isolation to the track here:-
“Panic on the streets of London
Panic on the streets of Birmingham
I wonder to myself
Could life ever be sane again? “
Panic on the streets of Birmingham
I wonder to myself
Could life ever be sane again? “
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