Next morning found us aboard the little ferry bound for the Isle of Lismore. All I knew about Lismore was that it was a smallish island within reasonable range of Oban and that the big tour boats didn't go there.

This was definitely no sightseeing craft; we shared it with a trailer load of goats and sheep, who were not at all enthusiastic about this nautical adventure.

Pulling out of Oban Bay, we could see the shape of a ruined castle on the headland north of town. "Can we go there?" Phyllis wanted to know. "Sure," I told her. "Tomorrow, maybe."

After about an hour's ride up the windswept Firth of Lorn - everything around these parts seemed to have the most beautiful names - we pulled into the tiny island village of Achnacroish. By now it was looking seriously rainy; I wondered if this had been a good idea.

But we disembarked and stood watching the ferry pull out again before starting up the hill.

Uphill was the key concept for the next stretch. The handout at the information office had described Lismore as "flat" and I suppose it is by Scottish standards, but it was a long steep climb up from Achnacroish.

The island's backbone lay close to the skin, here. This was very ancient country; the Picts had been here, and before them mysterious Neolithic types. The map showed brochs and cairns and suchlike all over the place.

We didn't see anything of that sort, but then we weren't trying very hard to get anywhere in particular. We were happy just to walk up the hillside together, enjoying the quiet; and if we wanted to admire stone works, there were plenty along the road, more recent but still impressive.

There was much else to look at, too, such as the bright little flowers blooming in unexpected places; I don't know what they're called.

And then there were the sheep, just about anywhere you looked. Huge damned things, far bigger than the runty Navajo sheep we were familiar with, or even the fat-tailed Anatolian breed I remembered from Turkey. Sweaters on the hoof; they looked enviably warm.

By now it had begun to rain in earnest. We broke out the plastic ponchos from Wal-Mart and slogged on. But gradually the rain grew heavier; we paused under a large but disappointingly leaky tree, discussed the matter, and turned back.

Back in Achnacroish, we waited for the ferry and watched the rain lashing across the Firth of Lorn.