It was a cloudy damp afternoon when we got off the bus in Oban. Nothing was falling but we knew from experience how fast that could change.
Not much was happening in the harbor; the boats were tied up and deserted.
The low-tide flats stretched dull and dark under a sky the color of old bullets. Only the swans seemed to have anything going on.
It was all quite gray and bleak and wonderful. It felt good to be back.
In the morning the weather had closed down even more; a dense fog filled the harbor and masked the sea.
Nothing was moving, not even the big tour boats. The island ferries might or might not have been running; we didn't bother to investigate. Clearly it was no day for a sea cruise.
Instead we decided to check out something a Scotsman on the train had told us: there was, it seemed, an island to the south that you could get to by bus. That was such a strange notion we had to go see it. Anyway, we never can resist an island.
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