All fFowers in Time Bend Towards the Sun

At the mouth of the River Clyde in western Scotland, fingers of wild terrain stretch out into the Atlantic Ocean. Here a fistful of islands provide wonderful sailing for the yachts that harbour in the marinas along the mainland. With seemingly endless open beaches and coves, there is enough to explore and sail back to in following years. There is equally so much to discover on the islands themselves that the discerning few return year after year, and experience the calm and beauty of this part of Britain that Time has forgotten. Commanding the skyline is the Isle of Arran with mountains towering into the clouds, a vacation destination for geology students and hill walkers, who pack into two substantial Youth Hostels during the summer months. North of Arran lies the Isle of Bute, less dramatic, but with a wealth of changing countryside ranging from rocky outcrops, through moor and loch, forest and pasture, to highland hills in the north, complete with heather, wild deer and goats. It is on Bute we'll wander a while to escape big city living and the frustrations of modern life.

From the little port of Wemyss Bay, (pronounced "weems") proud new ferries sail across to Bute in just thirty-five minutes, a half hour of dramatic scenery peering across the sea to islands and mountains. The ship ties up in Rothesay, a huddle of old-time bakers, butchers and grocers around the grey stone walls of the 9th century castle. Right by the ferry terminal is a long low building housing a shrine to Victorian ablutions, all marble urinals, porcelain Water-Closets and cast-iron flushing cisterns. Here you can relieve yourself in glorious imperial splendour! Outside, along the seafront, well kept gardens divide town from beach for the veterans to stretch their legs and sniff the blooms. Fountains sparkle among palm trees, quite a surprise at this latitude, but evidence that the warm waters of the Gulf Stream still lick the west coast of Scotland.

Behind the promenade park, a line of freshly painted villas, the same vintage as the public toilets, display their home-painted signs declaring "B&B" and "Guesthouse." Hanging baskets of flowers and tubs of shrubs dress the columns of each doorway where Mrs. McClusky or James Cameron fuss over the new arrivals that have come over from the mainland for the weekend. Tea needs to be drunk, and a game of golf before dinner, just up the hill from Rothesay.

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