Every summer British holidaymakers pack their suitcases and flock south. Like birds on an inverse migratory path they board planes and ferries, desperate to get a few degrees of extra latitude under their belt.
Of course the doom-mongers warned us it would rain relentlessly, and I the eternal optimist, cautiously packed wet gear whilst praying for just one day of sunshine so that we had pictures to wave in their faces on our return.
Around us diners were seated at rustic picnic tables reading newspapers and munching on fresh prawn baguettes, and the only noise was the gentle hubbub of their chatter. It felt like we had stumbled upon an extremely well kept secret. Where were the tourists? Where was the litter? And where the heck was that rain everyone had said we’d have?
Caught up in the preparations for the arrival of our son, our planning for this trip had been woefully under-prepared. By rights we deserved a dud vacation, but by chance we had stumbled upon a destination that exceeded all our expectations.
On day 2 we negotiated the twisty country roads to meet the ferry that took us to the Isle Of Mull arriving in Tobermory the fishing village made famous by the BBC’s Balamory. We drove up the coast on the quest to find a place we had seen on the map called Calgary. Arriving in a tiny hamlet we turned a corner to discover a white sandy beach with turquoise water lapping at the shore.