We are considering the possibility of visiting some of the other Inner Hebrides next year (Islay alone has eleven whisky distilleries - eleven!) But I do get a slight pang at the thought of not seeing that beautiful main street sweeping around the bay, at not having dinner at Cafe Fish watching D take down great platters of shellfish with fanatical determination, at not sitting outside McGoghan's with a pint and, of course, not spending most of the week looking out for Tobermory Cat (or Ledaig to give him his proper name).
This time around, as well as spending a fair few hours stretched on the apartment's comfy sofa with a book and a mug of tea, we paid a visit to the Isle of Mull Cheese farm, the Tobermory Distillery and the Glengorm farm shop where we bought two of the tastiest steaks that I've eaten for a long while. We went to Iona and walked across that tiny, holy island and hurled bright coloured stones into the rain-swept sea. We fished. We ate fish. We drank pints in the pale, tremulous sunshine that appeared later in the week. We ate more fish. We went to see a folk artist from Kent who sang in an old fashioned bluegrass style. We ate some cheese. And then we ate some more fish. And drank some whisky.
Good times, my friends. Good times.