shewhomust | A sunny weekend on Bute

It was D's idea for the four of us to unwind from the splendour and excitements of our stay at Auchinleck with a weekend on Bute. He wooed me with the argument that it's another island for my portfolio, one I hadn't visited yet: that's not technically correct, as we had used Bute as a stepping stone between ferries on our way home from Kintyre, But that really didn't count, and an extra weekend sounded good.

So it feels appropriate to start with this picture of a Victorian worthy durveying the gardens on the front:

because my initial reaction, arriving from Wemyss Bay, was that yes, I could see that this was very much a Victorian seaside resort, but whatever that may suggest of the cheap and cheerful, or the somewhat fown-at-heel, is balanced by the beauty of the scenery - not dramatic, but quite stunning (and not what is suggested by the phrase "in the Clyde estuary" which traditionally describes the location of Bute). Appropriate, too, because the gentleman in question, Alexander Bannatyne Stewart (and on another visit to Bute, I'd like to visit his garden - and fernery - there) reminfd me so much of D. when he was younger, and had more hair. "It's a long time since I've worn a frock coat," says D., but he was wearing an academic gown when we first met, and the effect was similar.

Nearby was this memorial:

It's a phenomenon I've written aabout before, but I continue to find it fasvinating. Bute has several fine examples, but none to compare with this one.

I don't know what I found so very appealing about the square at the end of the town:

The open space? The trees and benches? The red paint of the bar at the far end? None of these things is particularly special, but the overall effect made it a pleasant place to be...

Alleyways between the shops along the front hint at secret corners, an older town behind:

Just round the corner, only a little way uphill and looking as if butter wouldn't melt in its mouth, there's a corner of a quiet little Scottish market town, complete with mercat cross:

(Why did the seagull cross the road?)

But even that isn't the full story, because look in the opposite direction and there's a castle:

A serious, fortified royal castle, defending the frontier between Scotland and the (Norwegian) Western Isles. It was closed, and beyond the obvious I don't know why, but we walked the perimeter, and peered through the railings.

We weren't staying in Rothesay, but a few miles up the coast, in the grounds of another castle:

This is Kames Castle, a historic tower house with outbuildings which served briefly as a children's home, and is now a number of self-catering properties (not including the castle itself). We were staying in the gardener's cottage:

We were free to roam the beautifully maintained grounds, including the walled garden - but the cottage turned its back on the grounds, and the view from our door was up the hillside to the inland road:

We took that road to explore the far (not very far - it's a small island) side of the island, starting at the popular beach at Ettrick Bay:

What can I say? It's a beach, and we paddled, and if the sand wasn't as golden as the beaches of the north-east, it did have a beautiful view of hills, and it wasn't horribly busy, just enough families to feel pleasantly companionable.

Taking the south road home, we screeched to a halt: had we really seen what we thought we'd seen?

The giant pencils mark the studio of local artist Ruth Slater, some of whose work I had seen as posters in Rothesay. The phone box is a book exchange:

durham_rambler found a volume of Ian Rankin that he hadn't read, and I picked up some free postcards, also by Ruth Slater.

We had parked in haste, pulling off the road at a junction where a lane led up an overgrown slope. It was only when we returned to the car that I looked up and saw where it went:

For a moment, looking at this stone cottage, I was in Brittany. Looking the other way, trees shaded the road to the sea:

Another day we visited the standing stones at Kingarth. Just a group of three stones (one of them propped up with a metal rod):

People had been leaving offerings:

- well, I assume that's why they'd been jamming coins into the cracks in the stone (the coins are corroding, they are less durable than the stone).

After lunch - a very pleasant pub lunch ooutside the Kingarth Hotel, with plenty of sunshine and a view over green fields - we found our way down to another beach, and then continued our circuit of the island, stopping occasionally to admire the view:

The bay is allegedly a good place for spotting seals, but we didn't walk down - not the only time that day we didn't really have time to explore as much as we might have. Not the only time that weekend, in fact. I'd happily visit again, to see what we didn't have time for, and possibly some of the things that were closed, too (D. was disappointed not to see the grand house at Mount Stuart; I'd have liked to wander round the castle, and maybe the museum, too).

But the next morning we were back in Rothesay, waiting for the ferry.