A disclaimer on the bottom of the Caledonian MacBryne timetable for the mull-iona crossing explains that during high winds the ferry is liable to be cancelled at short notice. Horrors of trying to fit three men into Harry's little tent whilst fighting gale force Atlantic winds were enough to make Jeff and I scarper across to the island ASAP when we begun to see the ominous black clouds crawl in of the Atlantic.

The ferry's are usually full of elderly pilgrims who are eager to tick the island of their list after visits to such places as lourdes and the holy lands of the middle east. We bumped into an English teacher from New York, who himself was coming on a day trip, but more about him later!

I had tried to organise a taxi to meet us when we alighted at Iona, as no non-residential cars are allowed on to the island which is only 3x1 miles wide and has basically one road from top to bottom. Our accommodation, at the hostel, was however at the far end from the ferry port and unfortunately no taxi was awaiting us. So it left us with the unenviable task of taking our luggage, which is the kind of weight that Ryanair would charge hundreds of pounds for, the 2km to the hostel. Once there, the owner took pity on us and got his two workers (slaves possibly more accurate) to make us a cup of tea and see to our every need! It was at some point during our brew that they informed us that check-in was not for nearly another three hours! So we were ceremoniously kicked back into the now even stronger winds.

We took refuge in the islands little cafe/restaurant/bar thing which served nice millionaire shortbread and irn-bru and decided whilst we decided who would cross back to mull and find harry, who should have by now made his way to the ferry port. I lost the toss, so headed back into the roller-coaster of a ferry.

Amazingly Harry had arrived on-time, if not early, and I easily found him in the port cafe tucking into a scone! Back on the quayside there were a bunch of Swedes, an oddly one Norwegian lady who was proud to announce to me, 'Jeg er norsk'. The peculiarities had not ended there though, the same American chap that Jeff and I had met on the way over came of the boat and ran up and embraced harry,

'Harry my old mate!'

The look on Harry's face was a picture;

'O hi!'

Who was this man! Well it turned out that Jeff had brought him a pint in the pub I left him and begun witnessing to him, his final words though were to try and scare harry and myself on his way back, well it certainly worked!

Once the three of us were back together, we made our way to check-in to the hostel. As you will see in the picture, it is literally a small shaft stuck in the middle of some rock in the Atlantic, but just a few hundred yards away, down what appears to be a shear drop into the ocean is one of the most beautiful beaches I have seen in a long time, crystal clear waters and white sands, a great place to loose oneself in the pre-dusk ambience of fraternising wildlife and sweet aroma's.

The hostel itself was pretty full with young folk who were taking up much of the common room so we were restricted to our little dorm, which was boiling hot, very stuffy and very uncomfortable (the top bunk being about 2 foot from the ceiling!) So lights were out at half nine, and after Harry's giggles for best part of an hour or two we were all sound asleep, at least for an hour before the snaring begun!

Harry has throughout this holiday been known for his snaring, infact in Oban hostel last week he was woken in the middle of the night by a Russian man saying, 'please turn over'! Well, the snaring had climaxed now in a chain-saw come dog growling combination! And before long our neighbours gave a gentle tap to alert him! Jeff and I tried to keep him under control but to little affect, so Harry being the good hearted man he is went to sleep, we thought in the lounge. So, think of the surprise when a blurry eyed harry came back in some hours later tucked in his sleeping bag having spent the night in the shower room!!