A carriage, coated in the purple hues of Kilnave House, awaits at the end of the Harbour entrance. The Footman loads all our belongings, except for the wicker basket, which I retrieve and peak inside, finding three bundles of fur sleeping soundly.
“We’ll need to keep quiet.”, I whispered to Iain Falcon.
The rolling fields of Islay are spectacular in late August with the harvest in full swing, and I point out Islay House to Iain on our way through the village of Bridgend.
“The Campbells of Shawfield live there, ruling the island for over a century and building the villages of Bowmore and Port Ellen. They introduced an annual agricultural competition to gather Islay’s farmers and encourage their development.”
A thought suddenly flashes across my mind. I recite the sentence, “An annual competition to encourage continual improvement.”
“Another idea?” asked Iain.
“Yes. Inspiration is found everywhere on this island.”
I sit back and contemplate the long days and nights without my family, and my heart begins to beat a little faster, with excitement pulsing through my veins. We finally pass through the gates of Kilnave House, and the coach stops, and the Footman jumps down, finding the door open.
I am already hurtling up the steps and throwing myself into the waiting arms of Emelia and the children.