Wanderings of a Glasgow Girl

We had been gifted Scotland’s wettest ever week in which to escape after exams and, as skint students, we were going budget. So, whilst the rest of the Britain migrated south, we headed west to the isle of Islay: a bewildering land where sheep are rife and phone signal is non-existant.
The first few days are saturated quaint rows of white-painted cottages, heather and local ales and by day four we are regulars at the village pub. Our new pal, Tom the farmer, tells us of a beach that we should go see. His description is vague but enthusiastic and I resolve to go if we have time.
However, our final day arrives too fast. It’s still raining, however i’ve come to appreciate the constant drizzle (“dreich,” would say Tom). It completes the island’s eerie beauty. On today’s agenda is a distillery tour (goodness knows why: give me a wee dram of vodka over a whisky any day) and we should have left already except the weather is particularly hormonal and we’re avoiding its wrath.
Two hours later, the fire’s cracking and we’re deep into a heated game of articulate. We’ve missed our tour. I do remember eventually that we have only twenty-two hours left before we journey back to civilisation so, soon as the game is up, I announce that we’re all going to find Tom’s beach.
The instructions:
1. Go that way.
2. Drive past the sign for Octofad.
3. Park wherever.
4. Find the gate.
5. Head for the sea.
He did not mention the bull.
Luckily, after a long second in which our eyes lock and my heart almost escapes my chest, he decides the grass looks tastier.
We battle on through knee-deep mud and finally reach the crest of a small hill and wow it is spectacular. The fields suddenly drop away and the sand surges up to meet the grass in a semi-circle of almighty dunes. An infinite ocean pounds rhythmically at the land; battering the rocks and carving the already flawless bay to its will. It’s a universe away from the usual sweltering sardine-can of a beach one would find in Magaluf. I attempt to whoop with glee but the scream gets tangled in the gale and I end up choking on my hair.
We hurtle down into the cove where suddenly the wind is sucked away leaving an air of tranquility. I go to speak but Joe’s hand clams my mouth closed. He points to where an otter is playing in the shallows. We silently stand for a while. I drink everything in – the sights, sounds, sensations, smells – I need this to be imprinted in my mind forever. I think I’ve found my favourite place on earth.