Friday: Matchgirl, it must be recorded, contained all her belongings within one GTR pannier – a notable achievement. The ball gown and sparkly slippers were left behind reluctantly, the girl who likes to be prepared for everything still not totally convinced she wouldn’t need them. We departed, after leaving out enough food for Bess to survive a small famine, bathed in the aforementioned glorious sunshine.

Our route to Kennacraig, where the Islay ferry departs, took us through some of Scotland’s best coastal scenery, marred only by the excrescence that is Fort William: an ugly town that’s also the beginning of the wearisome road to Onich on which overtaking is either illegal or difficult and where The Slow Drivers’ Club has a permanent presence. The club’s life president was on duty last Friday, driving her little hatchback at 30-35mph on a road where 50-60mph is a safe speed, braking carefully on bends so she could round them at 25mph. Sadly, this is no exaggeration.

Castle Stalker

After crossing Ballachulish Bridge we continued to follow the Loch Linnhe shoreline, but a brief hail storm – the second – accompanied by heavy rain encouraged us to stop for tea and buns at the Castle Stalker View Café near Appin. This is a newish place with big windows, better to view the eponymous castle, and with a serious design flaw: stone-flagged floors and heavy wooden chairs combined with a vaulted wooden ceiling meant every sound and voice was amplified; the children being ignored by the lunching mums at Table 666 added to the general mayhem. Not a relaxing break.

But the rain had stopped, the sun was out, the road was quiet and the views were breathtaking. There’s not a part of Argyll that’s not worth seeing – strongly recommended.

The Bridge Over The Atlantic

South of Oban I made a small detour to show Matchgirl the Bridge Over The Atlantic – a spectacular packhorse bridge that connects Seil Island with the mainland, its apex scarred by long vehicles whose drivers didn’t realise its hump was so pronounced. The waterproofs came off there and stayed off for the rest of the day.

The road south continued: Kimelford, Kilmartin, Lochgilphead (where we joined the road that runs beside Loch Fyne), Ardrishaig, Tarbert. The Kintyre peninsula begins at Tarbert where the land is barely a mile wide at its narrowest point, as noted by some sneaky Norwegian Vikings in 1098. In that year the Scottish king, Edgar, ceded all the Western Isles to the Vikings in the hope they’d stop raiding the mainland. King Magnus Barelegs promptly had his boat pulled across the narrow neck of land, declared Kintyre an island and added it to his empire.

At the bottom of the peninsula is the Mull of Kintyre, made famous by Paul McCartney. Punk was at its high point in 1977 but the Wings dirge was the year’s best-selling single in the UK. Useless information – I know lots.

We reached Port Askaig on Islay after a two-hour voyage across gentle seas. Matchgirl, however, is not a salty old sea dog and was glad to get back on land. Twenty minutes after that we arrived at the White Hart Hotel in Port Ellen where she met members of the Kawasaki GT Club for the first time. All had arrived by the earlier ferry and several had spent time in the bar since then. A contented mood prevailed.

Saturday: Wild winds woke us in the morning; the White Hart creaked and groaned like a tea clipper under full sail in the Roaring Forties. At least there was no rain.

The day’s entertainment was a treasure hunt which took us to almost every extremity of the island in search of answers to questions posed by Ian, who’d organised the weekend. This involved lots of single-track roads with a central reservation of grass or gravel, which made the useable surface for motorcyclists approximately two feet wide. Potholes, dead wildlife, stubborn livestock, dung and more gravel meant a high state of alertness was useful.

We came together again near Port Charlotte. Lunchtime entertainment was laid on by Laurel and Hardy and their families who were attempting to erect a huge tent on the shore campsite at the same time that a howling gale was causing gulls to fly backwards. After an hour, when they appeared to have succeeded, they took down the struggling canvas, packed up and drove away, presumably in search of B&B or hotel accommodation. We split up again and continued the hunt.

Mission accomplished, Matchgirl and I returned to the White Hart to discover that Jim’s club jinx had struck again. Jim, and wife Lorraine, have attended three club events: on his way to the first his solenoid died so he missed the first day; during the second his exhaust blew so he was unable to join the run; now he’d picked up a nail in his rear tyre which no garage on the island could do anything about. They’d have to stay in the hotel during next day’s planned run to Jura.

Bruichladdich Distillery

But there was worse. An embarrassed Richard described how he’d clipped the rear of Geoff’s bike while both were enjoying a slow-speed gawp at Bruichladdich distillery. Geoff stayed upright but Richard fell, inflicting serious cosmetic damage on his beloved Triumph Speed Triple; the only injury he suffered was to his pride; the bike remained rideable.

Evening: more food, more drink, more gossip. The wind dropped, the skies cleared, the sun set in a blaze of gold. Gorgeous.

Sunday: The wind returned; the rain hammered down. Oh joy. Jim and Lorraine stayed smugly in bed while the rest of us pulled on waterproofs and rode the twenty miles to Port Askaig to catch the ferry to Jura. By the time we got there, three of us had discovered a severe lack of waterproofing and another had decided he didn’t want to see Jura anyway. Or maybe he didn’t fancy the tiny ferry that leapt at its berth and looked as seaworthy as a tea tray.

Two of the Paps of Jura

Matchgirl and I spent the day with books and newspapers broken by a stroll to the local cybercafé, that being the only place in the village which served meals on a Sunday. The Jura landing party returned later with tales of deer by the score, spectacular views from the tip of the island, and wonderful weather. Gloves that contained more water than a sponge suggested a slight exaggeration.

Evening: more food, more drink, more gossip. The wind dropped, the skies cleared, the sun set in a blaze of gold. Gorgeous. Very strange.

The evening also featured Jim’s epic four-hour telephone marathon with the AA. After six or seven calls they finally understood that he was on a small, remote island, surrounded by water, and that their call centre operative’s well-rehearsed boast “We are the AA – we’ll reach anywhere within two hours” could not be fulfilled. Top management was summoned by flummoxed underlings. A hire car was proposed and as quickly withdrawn. More to-ing and fro-ing ensued, at the end of which AA’s top brains agreed that a recovery vehicle would meet Jim off the ferry next morning, his bike having been pushed on to it by helpful club members. This was what Jim had proposed during his initial phone call.

Monday: No wind, no rain; warm and sunny. Surely some mistake? Another peaceful crossing. An AA vehicle was conspicuously absent from the dock at Kennacraig so I’ve yet to learn how that story ends.

Loch Awe with Kilchurn Castle

We returned home via the beautiful, quiet road that twists along the shore of Loch Awe. Argyll really is spectacular – take a trip if you've never been there.