Few first-time visitors would be immediately drawn to Coll as they view Arinagour from the deck of an approaching boat. It does not instantly beguile; at least not through a veil of fine drizzle with eyes twitching from too little sleep. There are no 'Ooohs' and 'aaahs' of appreciation from the travel weary. It is not draped in Tobermory candyfloss.
But it's a deceitful place. Secretive. It pretends that that's all that's on offer, so take it or leave it. It shouldn't be trusted.
Perhaps it's like one's first adolescent taste of beer. A longing to try it since everyone seemed to find it so good but the first few tentative sips left you wondering why. Not until it was given more serious attention did its wonderous effects emerge.
We parked our camper van down the West End and at first found that the Coll air deprived us of any, even vestigial energy to continue. We were called part-time campers as we were only active in the afternoons and then only lethargically. But we took it on the chin and will be back for more; more Coll potatoes, more duck eggs.
Far too Yank to eulogise the bays, though we explored them and snapped the arch behaviour of the seals. Too Home Counties to romance the sunsets, but we revelled in them. Lancastrian enough, though, to appreciate 'gradely' people and the freedom to roam wherever, whenever - provided, of course, that we didn't disturb the corncrakes.