by Ellen Himelfarb
Vancouver Sun, 12 September 2006
JURA, Scotland - I left my home in central London at 11 a.m. and by 8 p.m. had finally reached my destination on the Scottish island of Jura.
In that time I could have been in Labrador, Manhattan or Dubai, but in a way this was more exotic.
At least it seemed more remote: A flight to Glasgow; a connection to the Hebridean Isle of Islay; a drive along ragged coastline and "ancient" standing stones, (the provenance of which nobody is quite certain); a hop across the Sound of Islay on what seemed little more than a tugboat but which managed half a dozen cars; more driving, on single-lane roads built for carts and operating on a code of trust.
Only 180 people live here on a permanent basis, and the red deer outnumber them 30 to one.
The lifeblood of the island today is tourism, anchored by the 200-year-old Jura whisky distillery, rebuilt 43 years ago by a collective of local landowners.
But until this month there was only one hotel on the island (the unimaginatively named Jura Hotel), little more than a pub and seldom redecorated in three generations.
We never do sample its hospitality, though we hear dark tales of elbows grazing stucco in too-close quarters and chicken fingers with ketchup.
Instead we are welcomed at Ardlussa (Gaelic for "place of high flowers"), on an 8,000-hectare estate owned for 80 years by the Fletcher family, who are toying with the idea of opening a B & B on the premises and are using us as guinea pigs.
Catriona Fletcher, daughter of the current landowner, Charles, has flown in a cook from the mainland for the event, and within moments of our arrival the table is set with heirloom silver, candles and appetizers of steamed organic artichoke from Jura Garden (more on that later).
When the roast venison main course is brought out, we are told: "Just yesterday this guy was running across our garden."
Ardlussa is located on the northeast coast of the island, facing the Scottish mainland and the town of Tayvallich.
The prominent Astor family -- inlaws of David Cameron, head of Britain's Tory party -- has an estate (one of a handful) to the south, and another Fletcher is to the north, in the cabin where George Orwell sought seclusion after the Second World War to finish 1984. (Locals have been dining out on that bit of trivia for decades.)
When she's in town, Catriona traps her own seafood and bakes her own bread. There's almost no point in undertaking the 40-minute drive to Jura's only convenience store; and even less of a point since the owner heard about Catriona's pledge to quit smoking and refuses to sell her cigarettes. (He's told just about everyone else on the island, too, so as long as she's here she's out of luck.)
Still, staying on her own for weeks at a time at this Von Trapp-sized home, where cellphones are of little or no use, depending on the direction of the wind, seems to suit her fine. When the clouds roll in for the umpteenth time on our second day at Ardlussa, she gazes out the living-room window and says: "I almost prefer it when the clouds are low. Sometimes the mainland seems too close."
In the evenings there are only books and whisky, and the conversation that flows naturally from those. So nights are early, and mornings, too.
We're out before 9 a.m. with Alex Dunnichie, our guide for the stay and owner, manager and driver of the local bus.
In our short time with Alex we learn many things, but those that affect us most directly are the fact that he likes to talk and that he loves to fish. Lucky for him, we are more than happy to take him up on his offer of a half day's fly fishing.
There's great fishing to be had all around the island, even in Craighouse, the cluster of cottages and shops Jura folk call "town." The most rugged wilderness is, predictably, on the northwest coast where, they like to say, "next stop is America," though it is more literally Iceland or Greenland. (You get the point.)
But we have the pleasure of a guide with access to a 4x4 vehicle. We bump and grind up a mossy hill smelling of peat, the stuff spitting up in our faces. But it's all worth it when we crest and view the scene: Quartzite peaks, or "paps," rising like the cliffs of a fjord, and a modest fishing hut that is ours for the next little while.
A treacherous 15 minutes later, we are being offered cups of tea and tying our lines. The trout are so abundant that they swarm in whirlpools. So, it is disconcerting when, by the end of our sojourn, only the guides have managed to snag any. Still, they've made converts of us all.
We have booked a tour of the distillery as the day's grand finale, so that the requisite tastings don't hamper our alertness elsewhere.
Once our vehicle has fought its way back over the crags to the lodge, we head toward Ardfin, home to Jura House, which wouldn't constitute a reason to stop if not for its stunning organic gardens.
The house is owned by one of Jura's stalwart families, the Riley-Smiths, who helped resurrect the distillery all those years back.
Nearly 30 years ago, the family hired a quiet young Dutchman named Peter Cool to manage the gardens, and he promptly spun the grounds into one of the country's first organic-vegetable patches. But this was back when everyone was still eating lard and, unsurprisingly, it made very little impression on the community.
Changing tack, Cool began collecting plants from across the southern hemisphere; he took advantage of the garden's stellar location in the lap of the Gulf Stream to assemble five plots abundant with foreign varietals.
Today there is still the odd bit of veg, but the five gardens are distinct idylls, with sea views and a tea tent amid native wildflowers.
But why settle for tea when you can have the hard stuff? Five minutes after jumping up into Alex's bus we're already spilling out at the Jura Distillery in Craighouse, accepting 16-year-old drams.
And then, after three or four, refusing them. After all, you need energy for the tour, which alternates between the courtyard (chilled by the sea air) and the temperature-controlled (ie., sweat-inducing) units inside.
My knowledge of whisky -- Scottish, Irish or even Canadian -- is poor, so I won't humiliate myself by attempting a deconstruction. (Not to disparage manager Micky Heads, who tries his best to educate me.) But the looks on the faces of the other, more knowledgeable members of the group suggest there is something to this tour.
By now, the day -- one of summer's longest -- is still young, but it's aging fast. There will be another extraordinary meal (Jura-specific: crab trapped at Ardlussa, vegetables from Jura Garden, fruit and sweet cream from neighbouring properties) and the offering of a nightcap. But before long I'll be in my bedroom, slipping into a hot bath and sleeping off the wooziness before the long, long journey home.
