Queen of the Hebrides! A visit to the Scottish island that a family matriarch once called home.
A trip to Islay forced me to slow down for a few days.
Islay is not a destination, it’s a way of life. That’s a fridge magnet in a cafe in the village of Bowmore, on the island of Islay, in Scotland’s Inner Southern Hebrides.
It’s true, I’ve realised after only a day here.
Islay (it’s pronounced “eye-lah” as in Isla, like Isla Fischer, the former Home and Away actor who had Scottish parents) is a way of life where you ideally need to have a car. And where every one knows the bus timetable off by heart, or has a copy. Public transport here is extremely limited. There’s no bus at all on Sundays, I’m warned by other travellers as soon as I arrive. Oh, and you must book ahead at many of the pubs for dinner, given there’s limited options.
Still, people have gotten and are getting by. Tourism is bringing thousands of visitors to the island every year, thanks to its nine distilleries that’s Islay’s home to.
I imagine that for Mary Shaw, my second great grandmother on my mother’s side, who was born 153 years ago and spent time on Islay before emigrating to Canada with her family, there may have been bigger problems than what to do, anyway. Being bored was probably a luxury then.
Are you doing family history, who here’s doing family history? Well no one is interested, especially your family, an Australian comedian joked in a show at the Edinburgh fringe. I get it. My father supposedly has a ring from Tutankhamun’s tomb given to him by an uncle. Yet no one in my family bothered to ask any questions about this, let alone write anything down.
I’m lucky that there’s been more interest in Mary Shaw and we have some details about her life. According to records given to me by my mother, she was born in 1872 and at some stage spent time in the village of Port Ellen in Islay as well as Bothwell in Lanark, about nine miles southeast of Glasgow.
Emigration to the supposed New World and New Zealand was already happening by the time she was born, after the potato famine affected Islay and other places. Shaw married Duncan McKerrell Williamson, from Glasgow. They had nine children.
Shaw died in 1941 in Toronto.
With its towering Douglas fir trees, glistening lakes and green velvety mountains, the scenery on the bus trip from the town of Oban, where I’ve been staying for the past two nights, to Port Askaig to catch the ferry to Islay, remind me a lot of Canada. In particular British Columbia, where I spent three months in 2023 and 2024.
The bus reaches the port just as the ferry is about to depart. Looking at the number of people getting on compared to the seats, it doesn’t feel like there’s that many making the trip. Islay though depends on tourism, along with agriculture and fishing, so the staff wait for us and welcome us onboard.
As the ferry staff tell me that I can put my suitcase in a rack, I feel like I’m embarking on a big trip, although one hour and 55 minutes isn’t long for an Australian. And it’s nothing compared to the trip that Shaw would have made. While becoming the first person in my family to go to Canada, she journeyed across the seas on a voyage that would have lasted several weeks or even months.
The ferry is big and fancy. The larger ships are capable of carrying as many as 450 people and over 100 cars. A menu boats that the mac and cheese is supposedly world famous. I wonder if this is catering to all the American tourists who I’ve seen in Scotland over the past week. You can find the recipe here. Apparently it’s not as good as it used to be.
I’m sure the Americans are trying to get away from Trump, who incidentally had a mother born on the Isle of Lewis. Do we all have some Scottish in us?
I sit down at a table with the BBC on in the background. From the window I see the country’s flag, with a white saltire over a blue field, flapping in the wind at the front of the boat
When we arrive, I catch two buses, one from Port Askaig to Bridgend and after a wait of about half an hour, another to the village of Port Charlotte, on the western shore of Loch Indaal. Out of the window, there’s cute white-washed terraces and cottages, white, sandy beaches, black rocks, and grass greener than I’ve seen in England. Is the grass greener on the other side (ie in Scotland?)
The weather can’t seem to make up its mind. One minute there’s rain, the next there’s a flash of sunlight. “That’s Islay for you,” says the second bus driver to me, with a laugh. He drops me off across the road from the Port Charlotte Youth Hostel, but it’s not open for check in until 5pm, so I go to The Port Charlotte Hotel for a drink. It doesn’t take long to hear a Kiwi accent from someone working there, who tells me that they’re booked for dinner that night. Among the conversations I overhear is a man saying that Islay needs more young people.
The hostel, which belongs to the Hostelling Scotland network , and is situated in a former distillery warehouse, is one of the best I’ve stayed in. The managers, Lorna and Karl, a couple from the south of England and Germany, who I guess are in their 60s, have given it such a a homely feel and it has a huge focus on sustainability and community. On the walls in the kitchen and the common room, overlooking the sea, there’s postcards from all around the world that previous guests have mailed them after their stay here. There’s a “wee breakfast” that they offer (for a fee), the toilets are gender neutral and have free sanitary pads and tampons (as is the situation across all of Scotland, in theory at least), and there’s even an Islay Monopoly version available.
In the common room, there’s books on the birds and wildlife and the island’s history. In one, titled Isle of Islay - Looking Back, there’s a black and white photo of with the caption:
Lower Killeyan, The Oa. The white patch in the foreground is washing laid out to dry in the absence of bushes. This was a crofting settlement but most of the houses were abandoned during the 19th century, a time of mass emigration. Some people were moved to the new village at Port Ellen, but many emigrated to the New World. Now their ancestors visit the island to see how the people lived.
I think of Shaw, my mother’s great grandmother. We assume that she was a housewife. I’m not sure what sort of life she would have had, but I bet it wasn’t easy.
The book details how the then United Free Church, today the Museum of Islay Life, was built by the women carrying stones from the beach in their aprons. In the 1840s and 1850s one high road was built as part of an employment programme for people suffering from the potato famine, it adds.
The visitors from the hostel who come to Islay today to learn about this are from all over the world, mainly the UK and Europe plus North America. I’m sharing a female dorm with a woman from Seattle who looks to be in her mid-30s and has been travelling around Scotland for two weeks. There’s another from the UK, and one from Korea. It’s snug, but the beds are comfy. I chat to them and also meet other travellers in the communal kitchen. Many of them are repeat guests to Islay, and to the hostel. According to data from the Scotland Visitor Survey 2023, nearly 70 per cent of overnight visitors to the wider Argyll and the Isles region were returning visitors.
Lorna tells me that herself and Karl have lived in Islay since 2008 and have welcomed people of all ages, even though some have asked if they’ll be able to stay. because it’s called a “youth hostel!”
“It’s the flow of wonderful people isn’t it?” I hear her reply to a man originally from Hawaii but now living in London, when he tells her one morning that the hostel has a reputation for having the island’s “best kitchen”. Well, it is a hub of activity, and conversation.
On the first day, I feel in such a rush, as usual, to explore and see things. But Islay will force you to slow down, whether you like it or not.
After breakfast, I catch the bus to Bowmore.
According to the last census in 2011, there were just over 3,000 people on the island. That’s dispersed over 62,017 hectares, meaning a population density of 0.06 people per hectare. The population declined by seven per cent in 2001-2011, according to Islay Development Initiative, while some other Scottish islands are said to have grown in terms of numbers.
The bus driver warns me that he’s going to be off work for a funeral later. On this island, just one death can bring things to a standstill, it seems. I’m dropped off near Charlotte St, opposite the beach, and go to Little Charlotte's Cafe. I sit down with my book, which is fittingly Table For One by Emma Gannon, which I picked up at the Edinburgh International Book Festival.
After coffee and cake, it doesn’t take me long to hear an Australian, who I ask on the way out for directions to some distilleries and other restaurants. There’s now torrential rain and wind. I find myself ducking into shops just to keep dry along the way.
After going into the mini-market to look at some souvenirs (whisky soap?!) , the woman who runs it tells me that she’s also closing the shop for about 10 minutes for the funeral but I can stay there. I hear bagpipes being played soon after. The whole village has stopped to pay their respects.
When she comes back in, she’s wiping away tears and I try to offer some words of comfort but can't of course. The funeral she says was for Jennifer Gillies, a local artist, who was about 60.
After buying some presents for people, I go to Seasalt Bistro for fish and chips.
I visit The Celtic House Coffee Shop an independent book and gift shop with an upstairs cafe, too, until the girls working there tell me that they’ve spotted the bus through the window.
I’ve only been here for half a day. But I’m already feeling like all I’m doing is Islay is eating and then sitting around waiting for the bus and it feels like the timetable and limited transport is starting to dictate my schedule. I am someone who wears a badge of honor for productivity, even when on vacation. I don’t do well with limited public transport, either! But then I remember how much I’m rushing around, trying to cram things in when not on holiday, and how much I did in Edinburgh, when I was on one. And it’s such a treat to be here.
At the bus stop, it feels like there’s a mini-cyclone. I meet a woman in her mid-30s with her daughter. I get chatting to her and can tell from her accent that she’s not Scottish. She tells me that home is now Edinburgh though and she lived in Australia. Her family now lives in Islay. Her kids have a great lifestyle and go to the beach.
As idyllic and as close-knit as it is here, for a minute I ponder what life is like in this little village on this little island, and what you give up to live here. I think I come from a town in Australia that’s tiny, so I feel like I have some insight into small places. But it’s nothing compared to this. My mind also goes back to a post on X I saw with a photo, the name of far right thug Tommy Robinson written in the sand on another Scottish island, Iona, only last week. I haven’t seen a Black person since I arrived, although there seems to be tourists from everywhere. I wonder whether it’s a monoculture here or not. But maybe I’m also paranoid, given the current climate in the UK.
The woman adds that it’s hard to get housing on Islay and that leaving and going to the mainland even for just a weekend, with taking the car on the ferry, can cost about £1,000.
After I get back to the hostel and have a shower, I visit the mini-market and buy some oat cakes, which I’ve discovered are a Scottish thing, and some cheddar cheese for dinner (the local Scottish cheese is unbelievable!), since I haven’t booked anywhere.
On Sunday, I walk to to Port Mor Community Café in Port Charlotte, about 10-minutes down the road, meeting some wee sheep on the way. The cafe is carbon neutral and uses a 6KW wind turbine to generate electricity, with a ground source heating system to provide heating, and solar panels for hot water. Don’t tell Trump, who isn’t a fan of Scottish wind farms, as we recently learnt when he was in the country. I have a coffee while looking out over Loch Indaal.
My trip to Islay also coincides with the island’s book festival, now in its 19th year, and born from a small book club in Port Ellen. It’s volunteer-run and has featured the likes of Ian Rankin and Jenny Colgan in the past.
All the events on the programme sound interesting. There’s a discussion with poet Len Pennie who writes mainly in the Scots language, and who according to the festival site is trying to promote minority languages and destigmatise mental illness, and Natalie Jayne Clark, who has recently penned comic crime novel, The Malt Whisky Murders.
But being reliant on the bus and with no service at all on the Sunday, I can only attend the ones that are on in the village of Bruichladdich, about two miles from Port Charlotte.
Type “Bruichladdich village” into Google, and all that you get on the first few pages is the distillery named after it, or results for whisky. Please don’t ask me to say that name, too, either before or after a few drinks. It’s only when I type “Bruichladdich village Islay” that I learn that the village was built around - shock - the Bruichladdich Distillery. It was constructed in 1881 by brothers Robert William and John Gourlay Harvey. Fun fact: it was also built from stones from the seashore.
Indeed, a site on Islay tells me:
If it wasn’t for the distillery, Bruichladdich probably wouldn’t exist. I guess this applies to some other villages on islay as well. Take for instance Port Charlotte, that village was built with the sole purpose to house the workers for the Lochindaal Distillery. And I guess the same goes for Caol Ila and Bunnahabhain.
I buy a ticket to Night Train to Odesa by Jen Stout, a Shetland-born journalist who has been covering Russia’s war in Ukraine. I already missed seeing her speak about this at the International Journalism Festival earlier this year.
I start walking to the hall, along a path, the wind so ferocious that it’s pushing me. But when I reach the St Kiaran's Church, on the main road between Port Charlotte and Bruichladdich, I wonder if I’m lost so then decide to turn back and go to the Lochindaal Seafood Kitchen for directions. I meet a guy who’s already seen me at the pub and he tells me no just keep going past the church.
I turn around and set off again and ask why do I doubt myself? But also if I’m being honest it’s already becoming a bit frustrating having to rely on foot and limited bus to get anywhere on this island! It’s nice not doing that much for a change, on the other hand.
In the end, I go down the road to the Bruichladdich Mini-Market and Debbie’s Cafe and have a cheese toastie for lunch. There’s some local cyclists and runners there. The owner, who starts talking to me mainly because she likes my watermelon earrings, is very friendly and says that I can wait there until the next talk although I buy a coffee too. I begin chatting to the other owner, and she tells me, among other things, that she has done youth work in Belarus and Canada. She really wants independence for Scotland, she adds, among other things.
With an hour until the next session at the festival, I visit the distillery. It produces three different single malts, plus a Botanist gin which uses locally-foraged botanicals. Bruichladdich was the first Scotch distillery to earn B Corp certification. Many distilleries are also now adopting a sustainable distillation process.
I’ve already tried Bruichladdich’s gin, so I sample some whisky and buy Mum a small bottle of their classic ladie.
Manda Scott is a Glaswegian-born former vet who was shortlisted for the Orange Prize for Hen's Teeth, and also the author of the international bestseller Boudica: Dreaming. At the festival session I go to, she’s discussing her latest book Any Human Power with poet, writer and human rights advocate Emily Arnold-Fernández.
When I hear Fernández mention that one of the questions raised by the book, which Scott describes as a “mytho political thriller", is “how can we become good ancestors” for those we leave behind, I think of Shaw. What does this mean?
Interestingly, a central tweet in Any Human Power is based on the post from a 12-year-old girl that was taken down, Scott tells the audience. She stresses that we have agency and can spread ideas and that there’s capacity for change, during the hour-long conversation. “Changing our mindset is one of the hardest things to do,” she adds, however.
Interestingly, when Scott is asked what she thinks of Islay, the author says:
I’ve not seen any young children at all. I assume you have them. It seems there’s a population skew.
According to some figures that I find later, 28 per cent of people in Islay, Jura and Colonsay are aged over 65. And yes there are kids, I’ve seen school kids on the bus.
After buying a festival bookmark and a copy of Any Human Power and having Scott sign it, I wonder how the hell I’m going to get back to Port Charlotte. Although there was a flash of sunlight before, it’s raining again now. I call a taxi driver who I met on my first day outside a bus stop. She’s unavailable.
Just as I walk outside to brave the rain, a couple in a car pull the window of their car down. They recognise me from the hostel, and ask me if I want a lift. When I get in, they tell me that they’re from West Yorkshire. It’s their second time on Islay, but their first was without a car, “so we know what it’s like”.
When I get back to Port Charlotte, I walk up to the mini-market. It’s shut, but on the way back I stop in at the Port Charlotte Hotel to book dinner for Monday night, since it’s my last night on Islay and it’s one of the top-rated restaurants. The woman taking my details appears to be Australian.
I’m hoping The Museum of Islay Life will be open the next day, Monday. When a woman pulls up in front of a lawn with graves, I assume that she’s in charge and I may be in luck. “Is it okay to walk on the grass please?” I ask. “As long as you’re okay with the dead,” she jokes, as I climb up the hill to the museum. I tell her about Mary Shaw and she tells me that there’s plenty of Shaws on the island.
The museum, run by a charitable trust and relying on donations, grants and members, houses up to 2,700 objects, over 1,200 books, and nearly 5,000 photographs, from prehistoric to recent times. It’s located in Port Charlotte’s ex Kilchoman Free Church. And it’s won two awards.
At it, I learn that Islay became part of the Scottish realm in AD 1266 when The Treaty of Perth was inked byKing Magnus VI of Norway and King Alexander III of Scotland. There’s some carved stones from the 1500s on display, and a carving representing a crucified savior on a plain cross from the 16th century. There’s also an exhibition commemorating the nearly 700 men who died when the two US troop carriers SS Tuscania and HMS Otranto sunk in Islay during World War I.
I learn about Islay’s illicit whisky industry, too.
After the museum, I get the bus to Bowmore and walk up to The Round Church (the packet does what it says on the tin), which looks down on the street. The ex Kilarrow Parish Church has been called the best-known building on Islay.
I have fish and chips at The Lochside Hotel & Restaurant, which has a stunning view of the water, listening to a girl younger than me tell another girl (both Australian) about her time living in Scotland so far. The weather can’t decide what it’s doing again, but the sun is out.
After getting the bus back to the hostel, I contemplate going for a swim at the beach near The Port Charlotte Hotel. The water looks inviting and because of the Gulf Stream is said to be warmer and, well, the other fridge magnet in the book shop said that life is better on an Islay beach. But after dipping my toes in, I chicken out because I had the flu in Edinburgh. Partly because I’d done so much. Yes, it has been good to slow down for a few days.
Instead I head for dinner at the hotel, where I can still watch the Loch Indaal. It also has a glorious Victorian era lounge room, decked out in purple and green. I have ratatouille vegetables and then chocolate fondant for dessert plus a gin and tonic, with gin from the Bruichladdich Distillery.
The next day I panic that I’m going to miss the bus and therefore my ferry trip back to the mainland, but then the bus back to Glasgow and most importantly, my train back to London, too. My ferry has already been re-routed. But at 8:17 on the dot the bus shows up. The driver explains to me that I’ll have to eventually stand because all of the school kids need to sit, which is fine. He seems to know every single one of them, and where they get on and off.
I get talking to an older man, who I estimate is in his 70s. He tells me that he’s travelling back to Glasgow for a week to go to the dentist to do other things. When we reach Bridgend and the driver drops us off and we wait for another bus, we talk some more. He tells me that it’s hard living on Islay when you become sick. I comment that as lovely as it is, it’s a shame that there isn’t another bus service, say for instance a shuttle bus? After all even if you drive here or rent a car, the main attraction is the distilleries, and you can’t drink and drive. There’s no bus on Sunday, we say.
He laughs, and says: “It’s a strange island.” He tells me that his mother was so religious that “she wouldn’t hang out the washing on a Sunday.” I tell a Scottish friend who is very Scottish in a text later and she says:
The ‘religion' thing’ might be referring to the ‘Wee Frees’, Presbyterian fundamentalists who can be quite extreme. They used to be big all over the Highlands but now are mainly in Lewis and Harris, Skye etc. Apparently children’s swings used to be tied up on Lewis on Sundays. No ferries, no shops open and no hanging out of washing!
Later, when I do some more Googling, I see there’s stories of Islay residents doing their own advertising for doctors. And after a supermarket cyberattack, shelves were left empty for days.
As for me, even if Islay been slower than other holidays, all I really wanted to see was where Mary Shaw had lived. After she emigrated from Scotland to Canada, her daughter, Bella, would follow her with my grandfather and his three siblings, to Toronto.
Robert Louis Stevenson, the Scottish writer best-known for Treasure Island, said that “the mark of a Scot of all classes [is that] he... remembers and cherishes his forebears, good or bad; and there burns alive in him a sense of identity with the dead even to the twentieth generation”.
Although she could never have known it, I indirectly derived two huge opportunities from Mary Shaw. The chance to live and work in the UK (via an Ancestry Visa, because of my grandfather), and citizenship and a passport for Canada, thanks to my mother (who was born there), allowing me to do the same there. To see where she spent time has been fascinating and although Islay is sleepy, I have a feeling I’ll be back. Turns out the Aussie comedian at the fringe was wrong - seeing where your ancestors are from is worthwhile.
Highlights of Glasgow
The Tube?!
I only spent a few days in Glasgow and can see that there’s plenty of highlights starting with the.. tube. Yes, even my Scottish friend thought it was funny that an entire line on the city’s subway is what, the equivalent of London’s circle line, if that? And she laughed that there’s no map inside the trains. Well, there are only 15 stations?
Incidentally, only last week Londonist published a tribute to the metro system dubbed “a clockwork orange” for its direction and color and which is actually the world’s third oldest, trailing only London's and Budapest.
Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum
Our first stop in Glasgow was Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, which is home to 8,000 items, split into 22 themed galleries. As we enter the west court, we see a completely restored 2.3 tonnes Spitfire plane hanging from the ceiling. There’s also the 1951 “Christ of St John of the Cross” painting by Salvador Dali, which has an intriguing story behind it, and Sir Roger the Asian elephant, which has a more shocking tale. A church organ originally built by Lewis & Co. for the 1901 Glasgow International Exhibition, is on display and is played daily, too.
I particularly like the 50 white, lit floating heads in the foyer, by Sophie Cave, each one with a different facial expression, below.
The Hill House
The Mac and cheese on the CalMac ferry isn’t the only famous “Mac” in Scotland. Charles Rennie Mackintosh was a “weegie” (as I discovered Glasweigans are called), born in 1868 and went onto become a world-famous architect and designer.
The Hill House or the “Dwelling House”, as he described it, in Helensburgh, about 50 minutes from Glasgow, was commissioned by Mackintosh and his wife, artist Margaret Macdonald.
It was home to the Blackie family from the esteemed Glasgow publishing dynasty Blackie & Son Ltd, for nearly half a century. Today at Hill House you can explore the Blackie family’s cloakroom, boot room and daughter’s bedroom. Interestingly, Mackintosh's designs were more popular in Europe than Scotland, we learnt from the exhibition.
It was particularly fascinating learning about the relationship between Mackintosh and his wife Margaret, a graduate of the prestigious Glasgow School of Art.
There’s a good cafe and the gift shop, where I picked up a tote bag covered in roses, is award-winning, as well!
Thanks for reading and Happy September! Xxx