The good news, for those of us who have no sense of direction, is that there is only one road on Jura. It leads from the bottom of the island to the top. Or vice versa, if you are going in the opposite direction. Unless you leave the road, there is no excuse for getting lost. The bad news is that, two thirds of the way up, tarmac gives way to rocky track and this must somehow be navigated if one wishes to head north, which is what I need to do in order to visit a house called Barnhill, a site of considerable literary importance.
Fortunately, the Land Rover in which I am bumping slowly along is being driven by Mike Richardson, pre-eminent guide to the island and all its secrets. While keeping the vehicle on the straight and narrow, he somehow finds time to point out a pair of red deer half a mile distant, or a buzzard circling on the distant horizon. Finally, we turn a corner and below us lies Barnhill, wreathed in splendid isolation by an icy sea. This is the place to which George Orwell, in failing health and weary of his newly acquired fame, repaired in 1946 to complete work on his novel 1984. Orwell chose Jura because it would afford him the peace and quiet he required to work. He was also of the belief that its clean air would ease his ailing lungs. The journey from London was arduous and off-putting to all but the most determined visitors. He noted approvingly that it was ‘an extremely ungetatable place’. Times – and the speed of travel – may have changed but, unless you are in possession of a helicopter, it still takes the best part of a day from London.
I had arrived the day before on the car ferry from Islay – a voyage of approximately five minutes. However, there is now an option for those who don’t feel the need for a car. The recently introduced Isle of Jura passenger ferry operates between Tayvallich on the mainland and Jura’s capital – indeed its only significant gathering of buildings – Craighouse. On a good day, this speedy craft can make the crossing in less than an hour. Tayvallich is still a couple of hours drive from Glasgow and the boat is small, but a significant connection has been made with the outside world. Orwell may not be turning in his grave, yet one can assume his shade is restless.
I stayed at the Jura Hotel in Craighouse – the only establishment of its type to be found in these remote parts. This tiny port is also home to the only shop and is visited by a mobile bank once a week. My bedroom offered a view over the water and, at sunrise, as the sky was slowly set ablaze, I watched a solitary heron patiently fishing while a pair of white swans kept a serene vigil in the newly minted light.
After a leisurely breakfast of boiled eggs and soldiers, the only problem that presented itself was deciding which direction to take to explore the island. The dominating feature of this utterly untamed landscape is the three Paps – a trio of mountains composed of quartzite, which glitter beguilingly in the sun. They are there to be conquered by anyone with a stout pair of walking boots, a waterproof mac and a modicum of stamina. Each May, the island is invaded by a select band of lunatics who run up and down the Paps in the Jura Fell Race – although beginners are advised not to take part.
