Kerrera (CARE-erra) is a long hilly island just across a narrow sound from Oban, and serving to shelter Oban Bay from the western blows. We'd known as soon as we saw it that we had to get out there.

Saturday morning we went down and caught the little ferry across Kerrera Sound. The sky was clear and the sun bright today but the wind carried a touch of autumn bite.

Kerrera turned out to be far less settled and developed than Lismore, with no paved roads and apparently not much of a population.

Or not much of a human population, anyway. The sheep were there all right, staring at us with distinctly hostile expressions, like Indians appearing on the ridgeline in a John Wayne movie. It was quite clear they didn't approve of us. Maybe they didn't like Americans; maybe they read the Guardian.

The scenery was spectacular, with views of the sea and the other islands beyond, to say nothing of the beauty of the island itself. Somewhere across the firth the tour boats were disgorging new assault forces of tourists onto the Isle of Mull. I couldn't understand why almost nobody seemed to come here, to this wonderful island, but I was profoundly grateful they didn't.

The dirt road turned into a narrow rough track and then just a trail. I climbed part way up a steep hillside and looked back the way we'd come. Somewhere off in the distant hills a dog was barking. The only other sound was the wind across the brush-covered slopes.

I turned and looked in the other direction. Phyllis was a small figure in a big wild landscape, wandering off to check out some offshore islets, where there was supposed to be a seal colony. At least some operators back in Oban were running rubberneck boat rides out there for the tourists to see the seals.

I scrambled back down the slope, somehow contriving not to fall on my ass, and joined her. We walked down to the shore and I got out the binoculars, but if any seals lived on those rocks they'd gone away for the weekend. We walked along the rocky shoreline a little way, picking up a few shells and watching the ravens wheeling over the hillsides; and finally, with profound regret, we turned and began the long walk back over the ridge to the ferry landing.

Next day we took the bus back to Glasgow to fly home, wondering if we'd ever return. I hoped so; Scotland had gotten to me, and I wanted to see more of it, spend more time there.

In fact I think I could...but no, some dreams are better left undreamed.