Occasionally we watch those “new life in the sun” programs which follow people who’ve permanently left the UK to live and work abroad in warmer climes, and we wonder what it would be like to have long stretches of consistently warm sunny weather. Thanks to the recent heatwave we don’t have to wonder any more: neither us humies nor our Beagles cope well with prolonged heat. It hasn’t even been that hot here on the west coast of Scotland; when more southern bits of the UK were sweltering in temperatures exceeding 30 degrees celcius we were only in the low twenties, but even that was too much.

The gps data from all my recent beach runs with the pups tells part of the story. Intervals of faster-paced running have disappeared, replaced by slow steady plods through the shallows. When we’ve got home after a run nobody – whether in possession of a tail or not – has been fit for anything but napping.

I must concede that a post-outing nap or three has never been unusual for our Beagles, but the quality of their recent dozing has definitely been affected by the heat. Both of them like to be covered during daytime snoozes, and Biggles has driven me nuts by requesting a blanket, struggling back out of it after barely a minute, then repeating his request again once he’s cooled back down. Ironically Beanie has been less of a blankie pest than usual, but only because she’s sought refuge in our bedroom – the coolest room in the house – for much of the day. I know that her sleeps have been just as interrupted as those of the Bigglet however, because one day I was making frequent trips to and from the bedroom to put washing away and I saw her in a different position and state of duvet coverage every single time.

At first I called my pups crazy for still wanting to be covered, but I’ve realized that both Susan and I are exactly the same; we just can’t sleep as deeply without a cover, but any time we do pull the covers over us we’re hurriedly casting them off seconds later. We’ve been waking up nearly as tired as when we went to bed, yearning for a top-up nap to recover from our last one. This presumably is what it’s like to be a Beagle all year round.

Just the last few days the heatwave has backed off a little. There’s been rain and cooling breezes, and almost instantly our beach runs have become more vigorous, post-run napping has been more contented and snory, and blankie request have been replaced by this:

It’s play time Dad!

I think we’d better make the most of this more comfortable weather, because forecasts indicate that the heat is set to return.

Recently we spent a week on the Isle of Islay. Although it’s one of the larger Scottish islands and a popular destination for whiskey lovers, it still only has around 3000 inhabitants and I figured that being there was going to be a very a different experience from life on the mainland. I had visions of getting there and finding that nowhere accepted credit cards, all the newspapers on sale were at least a week old, and that the Islay equivalent of fast food was a potato that had already been rinsed to get the soil off. In reality it wasn’t that bad, but there were still differences that took some getting used to.

Very importantly the island did have a resident vet, so at least I knew we wouldn’t be facing a two hour ferry ride plus at least an hour’s driving if Beanie decided she was due a bit of medical attention. Additionally most of the places that had shops did indeed accept card payment. On the other hand, the so-called petrol station in Bowmore (the island’s main town) resembled a little house on a quiet side-street that just happened to have a single pump sitting outside the front window. When we checked into one of the two campsites on the island, I received a long and unusually detailed lecture on the site rules, particularly concerning what should, and should not, be deposited in the toilet; it immediately brought to mind the Dentons house rules in League of Gentlemen: “here is the sofa bed, with it’s own shower and WC, into which we do not pass solids”.

One thing that didn’t suprise me about Islay is that sheep were everywhere. Biggles and Beanie are much calmer around sheep than they used to be, but opportunities for dog walking were still limited. This is what was outside our van one morning when we wild-camped by a main road.

One of the more popular walks – to the “American Monument” – was sheep free, but instead it took us right through a field of highland cattle. Happily the cattle showed no interest in us, and even more happily Biggles decided not woof loudly at any of them.

The path to the monument

What we had to pass..

The monument was erected by the American Red Cross after two troop ships were lost off the Islay coast during the first world war.

Some more shots from Islay:

The marina at Bowmore

Someone has forgotten what “leave” means

The rugged coastline at Saligo Bay

Portnahaven

Apparently Portnahaven is a good place for wrestling

..and bitey-face

One of the more impressive sea stacks – Soldiers Rock

Carraig Fhada Lighthouse

Cliffs near the American Monument

It’s a boring two hour journey on the ferry, but at least the seats are comfy

On our final day we drove to Port Askaig, expecting to spend the night there and have a little stroll around the shops in the morning before our return ferry. As it turned out, Port Askaig is essentially just a ferry terminal, with a pub, a post office, and a petrol pump. That’s all. I filled up our van at the pump, then set about looking for where / how to pay. I saw no automated payment facility, no payment kiosk, not even a security camera. Was fuel free here? I kind of doubted it, but still couldn’t see anywhere to pay. I wandered down past the pub – credit card still in hand – then eventually spotted a small sign indicating that the Post Office doubles as the petrol station kiosk. Going inside I found someone from the European mainland trying to purchase stamps to send of a couple of postcards. The guy behind the counter was using his best cross-language communication technique (speaking English LOUD and s-l-o-w): “We’ve sold out of stamps just now, so you’ll have to wait until the Post Office opens up properly. Come back tomorrow. Err no, not tomorrow, we’re closed tomorrow. Come back in a couple of days.”

Yep, not quite the remote, facility-free outpost I was expecting, but not exactly the mainland either.

The day following our big walk up Arran’s Cir Mhor was largely spent touring Arran in the van. Ordinarily the pups travel in their fabric crates for maximum comfort and safety, but since we were doing lots of short, low speed journeys on quiet roads we figured a different arrangement would be in order. While one of us handled the driving, the other sat in the back of the van to keep the pups out of mischief as they lounged on the floor and rear seat.

Yes Biggles, you get to be chauferred around Arran and you don’t have to be in your travel crate!

But you will still have to vacate the driver’s seat!

Beanie absolutely loved this! While Biggles simply snored through the tour, she insisted on having the window seat and watched intently as Arran’s scenery passed by. Much of the time we had the window open slightly, and I’d often see her little black nose twitching away as each new scent reached it. She was so taken with the view that we even managed a few soppy cuddles without provoking a yawn and lip-licking.

We had one activity planned for the third and final day of our stay: a walk from Whiting Bay to the ferry terminal at Brodick along part of the Arran Coastal Path. The walk started on regular footpaths before dipping down onto the rocky beach across from the lighthouse on neighboring island Holy Isle.

It then swung briefly inland before returning to the coast for a throughly enjoyable stage that kept us right by the water’s edge. Much of this section involved alternating stretches of boardwalk and algae-covered rocks. The rocky bits were both slippery and smelly (not that the furry types complained about this) but the boarded stretches were great fun for all of us. There must have been several kilometers of boardwalk in total, constantly winding and undulating, all the while lined with bluebells and other wild flowers.

The final section took us from Lamlash to Brodick, and the first bit of this was intensely boring. It gave us a closer view of Holy Isle, but the route followed a dry and largely featureless road. Even Beanie and Biggles couldn’t find anything worth sniffing on that surface, so we upped our pace in the hope of getting to somemthing more interesting. Before long I spotted a family taking lots phone selfies out by the water. I couldn’t figure out why they seemed so keen to keep taking shots, and then beyond them – just twenty metres from the shore – I saw a seal sunbathing on a rock. I had a long lens with me so headed out towards the seal, wondering how the pups would react to him. Predictably he returned to the water before I could take a shot, but I decided to hang around for a bit to see if he’d return. He teased us a few times – bobbing his head up out of the water – and when Beanie spotted him she began to growl, but it didn’t seem to put him off. We had plenty of time before the ferry sailed from Brodick, so we hung on a bit longer, and a bit longer still. Eventually, our patience paid off!

Beanie was just as enthralled by the seal as I was

Biggles wasn’t quite so impressed.

Satisfied with the little show the seal had put on for us, we got back on the trail to Brodick and arrived with ample time to pillage the local chippie before boarding the ferry. The ship was absolutely packed with holiday makers returning to the mainland and we counted ourselves lucky to get seats. Though breezy it was sunny, and we were all set for a relaxing journey back home when Beanie spotted a handful of crisps that a kid had dropped on the deck. Beanie was sitting on Susan’s lap at the time, and now she laid down, with her head angled directly towards the crisps. Any non-Beagle owner observing her would have thought she was well on the way to a snooze, but we knew better; she was ready to pounce instantly if she sensed the slightest lessening of the grip on her lead. All that was required was a lapse in concentration from Susan, and those crisps would be in the Beanster’s stomach. Then without any warning, her plans for those little dropped savories went straight down the toilet; a terrier trotted into view and hoovered up the lot of them. I’m willing to bet that no dog anywhere in the world at any time has suffered the torrent of verbal abuse that Beanie hurled at that poor little mutt. Beagles! Can’t take them anywhere. Especially if there are crisps on the floor.