Poetry in the landscape of Arran.

We continued paddling up the north coast of Arran passing...

...the great landslip of Upper Old red Sandstone rocks at the imaginatively named Fallen Rocks.

What with virgin's breasts, fallen rocks (and we haven't even come to the Cock of Arran yet) our ancestors sure had a poetic way with words when they named bits of landscape.

Gradually the dusk...

 ...gathered round the great expanse of the Sound of Bute and we eventually came...

...to our camp site near Millstone Point. It was hard work labouring the kayaks up from the spring low water mark. Once we had the tents up, we soon got a fire going and cooked our meal under the Moon Jupiter, Saturn and a myriad of stars. One by one they followed the Sun as they dipped behind the high, unseen mountains in the darkness to the west.