A mile or so north of Oban town, Dunollie Castle sits ruinously overlooking the firth. (I like using words like "firth"; it makes me feel so Scottish even though I'm not.) Built in the 12th century (though the tower was added a couple of centuries later), it was originally the seat of power of the MacDougalls, who for a time bossed a third of Scotland. Naturally we had to go see it.

This proved to be less easily done than said. Finally we found a skimpy, near-vertical dirt trail and made our way to the top, rather impressing ourselves with our geriatric agility.

Unlike so many such sites, Dunollie isn't fixed up for ease of access; in fact it isn't fixed up at all, it's just there. No fence or gate, no guards or guides, no information center or gift shop, not even an admission charge. No interpretive signs, either; the only sign is one posted by the MacDougall family, who still own the property, pointing out that you enter at your own risk so don't sue them if a rock falls on your head. Or words to that effect.

Easy to see why the builders chose this location: difficult to get at - you could make life extremely interesting, not to mention short and painful, for anyone trying to climb that hill - and with a commanding view of the sea approaches.

The war times are far in the past, now, and what remains is a peaceful, rather restful place that the green world is slowly reclaiming.

One thing that impressed me mightily was how clean it was. Not a single graffito, not a trace of vandalism, and the only litter I saw was a lone beer can. This in a totally unguarded, unfenced site, wide open day or night...I don't even want to think what something like this would look like back in the States. Or in most other parts of Europe. My respect for the people of Oban, which was already high, went up even farther.

The access shaft to the upper part was still open. Phyllis wanted to go up. I told her over my dead body. So she killed me and we went anyway. It was a narrow little place, with a tightly coiled stairway of big stones, some of them broken or loose underfoot; the only light came from a kind of porthole (for archers?) halfway up.

Once at the top, though, I had to admit the view was worth the climb.

Going back to town, we walked for a little way along the beach; strand, rather, there was no real beach, just a bit of gravel and a lot of rocks where seagulls perched in squawking ungainly squadrons. Little birds with red feet - some kind of sandpipers, maybe? - scuttled along among the rocks, pecking at this and that. As we looked out to sea, a big fat seal broke surface a little way out, stared at us for a moment, and then submerged again.

"I love this place," Phyllis said.

We spent the afternoon and evening wandering around Oban, looking at this and that, pausing for tea with scones and clotted cream at a wonderful little bakery, watching the seagulls panhandle the tourists down on the wharf. A lone piper, the only one we saw the whole trip, appeared on the seaside walk and began playing for donations. He wasn't very good; he seemed to know only a few tunes and he played them badly, frequently fluffing the grace notes. I went over and asked him if he knew "McPherson's Lament." He didn't; he wasn't even aware of the existence of such a tune, and when I sang a few bars he looked as blank as if I'd burst into a Kiowa horse-stealing song.

"He's no local," a lovely old lady in a shop told us. "No Oban piper would be sae ignorrant." The Oban pipe band, she explained, had won some sort of competition the week before, so all the best local pipers were now on tour.

The incompetent young piper was, however, one of the few men we saw in kilts, somewhat to Phyllis's disappointment. I wasn't surprised; after all, I don't walk around Tahlequah wearing a ribbon shirt and moccasins. The ones we did see were all obviously on their way to some sort of appearance or special function, with one exception: a middle-aged man, sitting in a fish and chips shop, who wore a rather old-looking green one, longer than the others we'd seen. He had that comfortable look of a man wearing what he's used to, like a cowboy in well-broken-in jeans.

I didn't, despite pre-trip urgings from friends, try on a kilt; I did get as far as holding one up before me in a mirror and saying decisively, "This is so not me." After all, I've got only the minutest trace of Scottish blood - a maternal ancestress named Bell, back before the Civil War - and certainly not enough to justify making that big an ass of myself.

(I did, however, try the haggis. It took me several days to work up to it, but I ate it and I'll be damned if it wasn't utterly delicious. With turnips, too, and I usually hate turnips. I had already tried cockaleekie soup, and, despite its scatological-sounding name liked it too. I think one reason the UK has such a reputation for bad food is that so many of the dishes sound as if they'd be ghastly even though actually they're quite good.)

Time was running out, though; and we had another island to see.