O'er moorland and brae: Lessons on Mull

Mull might have fallen off the Brittany coast and floated here to the Western isles so similar to that part of France are the rose granite rocks and pure white sands that line many of its shores.

Mull is smaller than Skye, but grander. Is central mountains are higher and cast a long shadow, from the top of the island right to the bottom. And, to Aussies, Mull is famous for being the home of Lachlan Macquarie, the first Governor of New South Wales and the 'Father of Australia'.

On the island, one of our favourite characterful places so far is the brightly-painted Tobermory village, built by the British Fishery Society late in the 18th century, at which time the government was attempting to kickstart a fishing industry along Scotland's shores. And typical of governments this happened at the very same time that the herring stopped running. So, as a result, many of these ports amounted to nothing, but, Tobermory still has colourful crab pots and fishing tackle a'top the harbour walls, jostling with billboards offering wildlife and scenic tours, and it all looks busy enough.

Down one end of Tobermory is a whisky distillery which has been there since the birth of the village. At the other end is a smoke house. In the middle there is a dark smoky inn from the Victorian era, looking for all the world as if the bar still props wizened old pipe-smoking sea captains blown in from the briny. A few steps further on is a delightfully informative local museum, cluttered with village tales, legends and photographs.

A perfect little village. We spent hours there. And its picturesque harbour carries its own tales.

In 1588, a graceful galleon of the Spanish Armada moored here to reprovision during the conflict, but when the local chief, Donald Maclean, climbed aboard to collect the money owed for supplies, he was imprisoned in the magazine. Just as the boat was leaving the harbour Maclean managed to escape. But, before safely jumping ship, he lit a bomb which exploded on board, blasting the Spanish galleon to smithereens right there in the harbour. Buried in the mud. Along with the alleged 30 million ducats it was said to be carrying.

Lesson here is: Don't be cheap. Furthermore: Never cross a canny Scotsman.

On a headland, near Craignure, jutting out into the water is the stocky Duart Castle which tells another absorbing tale. One night in 1497, Lachlan Cattanach, the 11th MacLean chieftain, decided his marriage was at an end so rowed his wife across to the deserted isle, Lady's Rock, and left her there. When he returned to the island some time later he found her gone; then assuming she had died he informed the head of her family, the Earl of Argyll of her plight. Not long after he was invited to dinner by the Earl. There, sitting at the table was his wife. Nothing was said. Dinner was eaten. Daniel MacLean left. Thirty long years later his body was found in an Edinburgh hotel room.

Lesson here is: Never, ever, cross a canny, and sophisticated, Scotswoman.

Still in Tobermory, at the old church, converted to an eating place for the summer, our lunch was local seafood beautifully arranged on a slate platter: smoked and cured salmon, crab claw meat, sweetly smoked herring and home made seafood dips of the most delicious kind. As is the seafood everywhere in Scotland. And the berries: raspberries and strawberries particularly. And, the famed smoked haddock, potato and leek soup, Cullen Skink, which is on offer everywhere, not just in Cullen. This is the season to be eating. The seafood is so delicious.

Tonight, we ate at Craignure in the south, at a lovely old inn, around since the 18th century. Drovers used to call in here for a quick pint as they herded their cattle past.

Our langoustine entree was pulled from the sea just four kilometres away, we were told. And the chef sent out a message that my main dish, a whole mackerel, was caught just an hour before, barely 100 metres away on the jetty, by two young local lads who regularly bring their catch to the hotel kitchen for the chefs to buy. If the boys don't fish, the hotel does not offer the mackerel dish. Oven-crisp, with lemon butter, it was divine. Food heaven.

But, in truth, the food in the rest of Scotland has not all been good. If we found ourselves staying two or three days somewhere, we soon noticed the offerings at the village store deplete a little more each day. many of them only have two deliveries a week at the best of times, so, some days, there is little choice of even the basics being available. The locals really put up with a lot to live on these islands, as days-old buns and breads are often all that is available, if that.

With all its water: its inlets, coves and lovely lochs, Mull is a very photogenic. The roads are crammed with wildlife photographers, and the many wildlife tourists and tours Mull is famous for -- hunting down red deer, minke whale, dolphin, seals and otters along the shore, as well as the famed bird life, especially the great golden eagle, flying way too high to really see. On one lay-by, alone, we saw a at least a dozen vehicles filled with photographers, laden with heavy duty lenses and tripods the size of cannons. Expensive cameras everywhere.

Fish farms, growing mussels, oysters and salmon, are dotted around the island's protected waters, and there are boats moored aplenty, even rusty old lugs waiting for a rebirth.

So, the island looks prosperous and has large numbers of cattle and sheep as well, which are regularly moved to market, and an extensive forestry industry which uses heavyweight logging vehicles. And there are endless ferry loads of tourists bussing each day across the island to Iona, along with an extraordinary number of people renting 'Cottages to Let' all over Mull. Practically every house on the far side of the island is occupied with holidaymakers, it seems. Yet shops and facilities are few and far between. Which makes one wonder, how many hours some of these holiday makers must travel on these roads just to buy a bottle of milk, if they run out. And heaven help them if they want to go out to dinner one night.

The roads are hairier than on Skye, and as well as having the usual single lane with passing place restrictions, Mull adds another dimension: Weak Roads, all over the island. Thanks to the trucks, the busses, and the extensive tourist traffic. So, everywhere, the roads are crumbling. But not too many are being resurfaced. Which makes it tough if you are a local and regularly pay your road tax.

Lesson here is: Don't let too many people play on your turf if you don't want it spoiled.