The wind whipped clean tears from our eyes as we crossed the waves, hard facing against their corrupt lullaby into the Firth of Clyde. The sun cast a mighty glare towards Glasgow as if it meant to warn us from turning towards her, so we nosed at the anchor of Goatfell and began.
Coll lowered a unimpressed brow, before lodging himself on the bench for the rest of the journey. As travel companions, we all stayed relatively quiet and focused on the task until at last landing in the peat stained shadow of Arran to nothing more than a gentle whisper.
The salty dog soon rounded, his eyes now lit under her wide berth as we counted her fertile skirts, folded endless in timber and stone. Donning a wide smile and clear focus, he assumed a proud starboard position ahead.