I paddle automatically, feeling the load in my kayak steady its action on the water, savoring the crisp air. I am back in Scotland. Back amongst the rocks, the islands of the west coast. Among friends too. Barbara, Evelyn, and Ed. We are an international team: English, Dutch, German. We cross toward Mull feeling the speed and motion of the water change as it focuses towards the narrows. In places close to hear, the islands concentrate the tidal flow into jets that run to eight and a half knots. We'll be there later in the trip. We begin near Oban, the fishing port on the mainland at the end of the "Road to the Isles."

The sound of Mull weaves north from Oban. Fort William lies down the loch to the east. There's always a sheltered alternative if the weather breaks. We snake north, running the tide through extensive but harmless rips, watching the black backs of porpoise surface silently in the chop. This, for me, is the lead-in, the warm-up, a chance to ponder the history of the ruins we pass. Tobermory lies to our left, a steep town of pink, dark blue and white houses rising from the slipway. There's a whisky distillery here.

The wind has shifted, and I can smell a blend of seaweed, windblown salt and seabirds. Gone is that musty rankness of the estuary, the fine mud smells, the still water, salt marsh. The sea is on the move, in the air. Soon, I will feel the sea muscling beneath me. The wind on the move, however, is not necessarily a good sign. I scan the sky.

The Treshnish Islands

When we cross to the Treshnish Islands, the wind is blowing hard. We paddle close together, a tight group of bright kayaks. Squalls of rain run across our line of sight, dark curtains that are more imposing than the islands, including Mull, behind. Without thinking, I keep direction by the most prominent landmarks, but find myself straying as the walls move. I rebuke myself and steer by compass.

"Lunga is a favorite island of mine. I could spend a whole summer here, just watching the birds."

The Treshnish are a row of green islets laid out in a finger toward south, culminating with the enigmatic Dutchman's Cap. With Netherlanders in our party, we must visit this outlying island, but for the moment our target is Lunga, "Long Island." We thread past the first in the group. There are two castles on adjacent rocks. Neither turns out to be very impressive to look at. The builders were subtle. Each gully that could lead up the cliffs is headed off near the summit by walls cunningly constructed of loose boulders. But stand on the top and there is no sign of defenses, just a sea of tall grass shot through with flowers. My wet leggings become festooned with the hinged anthers from the grasses.

Barbara and Evelyn probe their kayaks quietly between the rounded rocks in the midst of the island group, sheltered from the wind. Sand is visible way down below. Seals have hauled out on the rocks; there are seals in droves around every corner. Rounded heads appear from the water, then vanish with a splash.

We finally land on a finger of shingle at a "corner" of Lunga. This can be a good place to land. There is some flat grass nearby, although there's a beach on the side of the rocky point that hoards seaweed, dead seaweed, by the truckload. We camp here. I know the position of a hidden well that will give us sweet water.

Lunga is a favorite island of mine. I could spend a whole summer here, just watching the birds. To begin with, there are the puffins. They land on the cliff edge within a couple of feet of you when you lie there on the short grass. Then they turn and give you what could be construed as a disapproving look from mournful painted eyes, and walk toward you! The cliff edge is peppered with puffin burrows. Birds pop in and out constantly. Then there's the stack separated by a narrow chasm from the cliff. The side of the stack facing the cliff is occupied by vast numbers of guillemots, razorbills, shags, and dizzily below, on the steepest part of the cliff, kittiwakes. The birds generally drown out the sound of the sea thundering through the chasm below.

Lying awake in the night, I hear a hunting call, the wail of a shearwater flying past my tent. I slip outside and listen as more fly past. I've not heard them here before, so I creep across the island and up onto the cliff, ultimately reaching the top of the island. I still cannot discover if these birds nest here or are just passing over, but with so many rabbits burrowing into the turf, the ground must be suitable for shearwaters. As I make my way back, stumbling down the steep path, I catch the gentle churring noise of storm petrels in a dry-stone wall. It's a comforting sound, almost like purring, echoing from every crevice, from beneath every stone.