Twin beaches, north

Once upon a time when the world was young there was a Martian named Smith. Valentine Michael Smith was as real as taxes but he was a race of one.

It's a grey start. We eat pancakes and sausages and watch the weather clear up. Late morning we head off north on a walk and the weather improves. By the time we get back, those of us with jumpers and jackets are wishing we'd never brought them.

Gigha is about 7 miles long. From Ardminish it's about 4 miles to the north end, and we go there and back. The first landmark is Gigha golf course, 9 holes, bereft of golfers. It looks tidy enough and I'm sure Johnny and Greg will make good use of it later.

Then we meet a cow. It's wandering along the road, on the wrong side of the fence. After some hand waving and gate manipulation it rejoins its colleagues in the green expanse of island grass. The Wee Dairy produces the best commercial milk I've tasted. And ice cream.

Eventually we get to the north end. We're hungry, its hot and windy, and we've got the twin beaches to visit yet. Angus and Cameron pose on the concrete remnants of a pier. Claire joins them for photographic antics.

The twin beaches are either side of s narrow isthmus that joins the north of the island to a bulbous outcrop. The isthmus runs roughly east/west, so one beach faces north and the other south. Gorgeous sand and, like most of Gigha, seemingly deserted.

Back at the house, exhausted, we welcome the rest of the crew as they dribble in. Cheryl. Karen in her camper van. Julie and Fred. Tom, Lena and Nicky. Ali, Greg and their three plus one. And, of course, a couple of dogs.

We head for the village hall and the first of two nights of music. Up first is Tideland, a competent Scottish pop/rock foursome, somewhat reminiscent of Big Country. Not my thing.

Then it's Elephant Sessions, clearly inspired by Shooglenifty and, it turns out, the Peatbog Faeries. A really excellent mix of traditional sounds, psychedelic rock and funk. I'm so impressed I buy their CDs.

The concert is awash with young Campbelltown-ers. I imagine that the ceilidh is going to be quite wild, but I escape, leaving the dancers to dance. Instead I enjoy a civilised glass of wine with Henri, Helen and Jo Powell. As I leave the house, Claire and Karen are passing, wending their way home. It's after two in the morning; the weather is holding; dawn has not yet broken.