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We woke the next morning to the rather strange sensation and sound of the wind whining through the small tucked away spaces in our room. I say strange because we were staying in the newly refurbished and modernised Royal hotel which overlooks the harbour in Campbeltown. The Royal Hotel is very comfortable, it has towels that wrap easily around my body with fabric to spare, the carpets are thick and soft, the beds are high and luxurious and the decor has been tastefully sort out. Waking with wind  skittering between the picture frames, and door frames with such an unholy din, I must admit caused me a moment of confusion, until I remembered my husband's habit of sleeping with the window open. I was not on Shemaron after all but still in our lovely coddled room.

By this time we had decided to move on, Shemaron was going no where and the weather was not set to change. Having days that were now spare was a rare treat. We decided to travel a little further north to Easdale then look for a place to spend the night. It is a wonderful thing how a change in plan can revitalise the day. Since the arrival of Shemaron it has been as though the rest of Scotland existed only in it's watery edges and troubled tides, yet here we were happily tootling north by road.

We called  at Ardfern to update our photograph of the "unknown wreck" which had changed little as far as I could tell, then continued along the Oban road. As we travelled we reminisced talking of  earlier family holidays and pre Shemaron days. We watched as the scenery subtly changed from the rolling habit and gentle hills of Kintyre, by the time we reached Easdale there was a definite hint of the more dramatic about our surroundings.

I think we found the last available bed on the Isle of Seil and even then we had to race back to the post office looking for cash to secure our room. If the days during our trip were full of rain and wind the evenings were sublime, fresh and new with postcard vistas and happy company. Free from the dreaded midge we spent time after our meal sitting on the slate beach watching the sea and walking round the beautiful bay.

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Somewhere in the world of latitudes and longitudes fifty five degrees north and five degrees west, north but not so far north as Lapland and on the western fringes where the light defilement is minimal we find ourselves on the deck of our boat, it is night, it is dark, and there is a sharpening in the breeze.

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