Lagavulin Bay glimmers behind its namesake distillery, one of three titans along Islay’s whisky coast. I have the urge to curl up in the bushes while the waves gently slosh upon the rocks and listen to the wind speak the passing time. The rich, sherried whisky of Lagavulin tingles on my tongue and evokes leather armchairs, dusty libraries, and Cuban cigars. It is another moment when Scotland overloads my senses and recalibrates my sensibilities. There are literally castles in the sky here. What life have I been living?
The background of the world is all blue – rippling cobalt, misty periwinkle, and flat cerulean – yet everything I can touch is green. Whisky works its alchemy upon my vision as I stand looking across the bay to distant Kintyre. After days of impenetrable fog and besotted confusion, the sun reminds me this island is part of our world. Or is it? Every bend in the road leads to scenes where wind-blown boats bob in the waves and romantic ruins molder on hilltops. The sunshine brings into perception a chill heat, the feeling of both extremes at once, balanced in between, and I can’t bring myself to move until the shade passes over me.