I wake up to the reality of new Autumn colours and views of a seemingly whitewashed Tobermory over the Sound of Mull, with early morning boats and ferries occasionally drifting past through the still waters.
Despite the Atlantic storm which welcomed my arrival less than 48 hours ago, I’ve been more than happy in my isolated Airship … even if the damn thing won’t fly. Not even in an ex-hurricane.
I wonder if life still exists outside of my perspex bubble.
At the ruined castle, I literally can’t stop myself. Primarily because I have a ferry to catch.
I encounter no life on the ten mile drive to Lochaline, other than birds and cattle; and even on arriving in town there are only two human beings around.
The ferry arrives on time and I push my voiture onto it, like I know what I’m doing. Suddenly a great many people appear from out of nowhere, and join me on the boat.
We carry on up the Fishnish, a pier on the Isle of Mull from which it was hoped an industry might develop – fishing, perchance.
Seems those fish all buggered off, though.
On disembarking, everyone turns right, so I turn left.
Grass Point is a blank, a dead-end road which is owned by the cows. There is a white van parked illegally, although I expect minimal repercussions for the driver and their kids, who bizarrely are all dressed in tiger-print onesies.
I am seeing things.
I’m tracked everywhere I go by a business of ferrets, who are making their way around the island in a rented minibus – slowly.
I see the same people time and time again. We tend to arrange meet-ups in passing places, usually ones with an outstanding view of things we’ve never seen before, except in books, on postcards and on snapchat.
Out here on Mull there ain’t no viewing platforms or walkways, just boggy paths and sheer drops.
Except for the walkway outside Tobermory, a natural feature next to where a waterfall has been created by what looks like a landslip.
At the town is a harbour, which is working it’s way through the Pantone Colour System.
Human beings are parading up and down in their luminous expensive weather gear, having driven here in their dull grey oversize SUVs.
To escape, I climb the nearest steep hill for some respite from the creeping mediocrity.
It’s tough at the top. It’s tough to get to the top; and tougher still when you get there and are immediately thrown in prison. Mind you, it’s a decent view for the average island criminal.
I roll back down the hill, and straight into Cafe Fish on the harbourside, where my langoustines are eaten neanderthal-style, with bread-and-butter. This causes a scene, and I’m obliged to pay cash in order to leave.
Down the street, the museum is a bakery with a Dakota wheel and selected items from a 1500s sinking (but no treasure).
The public and I wander through the exhibits, nodding our heads and stroking our chins; all the time I know everyone is wondering if it will look bad if they dash out without making a donation. Wait until the proprietor has his back turned, ha!
The road out west is switchback city, and my car delivers me to Calgary Bay – a secluded place under occupation by dogs and children, although I get by somehow.
On the creeping realisation that I might get stuck here tonight, I go for a long stroll along a deforested dirt track that goes absolutely nowhere.
I then drive slowly back to Fishnish, even though I’m in the early onsets of a panic and a rush that I might miss my return ferry, while trying to take in the shifting moods of the isolated landscapes in front of me.
On the coast road, I can see a distant boat out on the Sound, and it’s definitely going one way or another – I just can’t tell which way.
Arriving at the small dockside terminal, thankfully that boat is moored and here to greet me, which is a little fortuitous I admit to all those present. Which is mainly dogs and cows.
This is where a woman abandons her partner in their winnebago, to walk on board beside me. The driver then contrives to park his large campervan within a few inches of my car door, forcing me to clamber out of the passenger side with as much dignity as I can’t find.
Up on deck, the crew have brought along a stiff breeze. I stare at the jagged landscape and contemplate volcanic activity.
Resolve not to have langoustines for lunch again anytime soon.
Everyone drives off the boat at Lochaline, which is probably to be expected. And then they all disappear, the missing.
The road I take is surprisingly well-travelled at dusk, in particular by deer, who pretend to be startled in the full glare of LED headlights.
It’s a tentative drive to Lochailort Inn, where on arrival I’m told my name is Nick, and I will eat duck, and I will drink Best, and a bottle or two of Skye Red.
In the bar, Colonel Sanders is sat next to me for the duration, although I don’t flinch, and he passes no comment on my menu choice.
He takes longer to tell his story than it took to build his house – and we still don’t know how long that took.
An American is on a bar stool drinking red wine. She has four guns. Quite likely I’m the only one in the room without a ballistic weapon, and I wonder if I should be concerned as I gulp my bottled ale.
The landlady informs us, this random collection of drifters, that John Carter Cash has been here on shooting trips many times. This is well-received and a few of those present exchange silent looks of surprise which say ‘ooh, imagine when I tell this to everyone back home!’
As the evening eventually winds down, Colonel Sanders is still entertaining us all with stories of lawless activity up the road in Mallaig over the decades.
Although at some point, he got ran out of town.
We don’t know why; all we know is he won’t be going back.
An Outside World 