The West Island Way

Less than two hours from Glasgow, the Isle of Bute is a peaceful haven of sweeping bays and dramatic views. A smitten Ben Lerwill enjoys quiet solitude along the West Island Way

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Over the stippled swell of the Firth of Clyde soars a gannet.

A pair of long, black-tipped wings catches the late-August light as the bird tilts on the breeze. It's on fish patrol - curving low then rising high, scanning the waves, only ever a heartbeat away from a missile-plunge for food but never catching the moment. Beyond, the island of Wee Cumbrae is humped and windswept in the distance.

I'm sat on a rock on a rough coastal track on the Isle of Bute. Looking seawards, I swig my water and stare over towards the folds of the mainland. It's a chilly Wednesday morning and the green hills look deserted. The sky seems huge and vaulted. Somehow, this view is mine. A tiny brown frog moves through the scrub below me: hop, hop, stop, hop, hop, stop.

Bute pulls off quite the trick. Just three hours ago I was stepping off the Caledonian Sleeper into a packed Glasgow Central Station, the concourse a hive of PA announcements and coffee queues. An hour-long rail journey along the River Clyde followed (highlight: a damp rainbow arcing over the Trossachs to the north), before a 35-minute ferry crossing from Wemyss Bay in a brisk wind.

And now? I'm half an hour into Bute's West Island Way with hiking boots on my feet, cliffs at my back and nothing for company but a frog. The air is salty and the footpath is empty. This swift journey from inner city to secluded headland would be enough to leave me dizzy were it not for the fact the island exudes a kind of lush, grounding calm. Bute is 15 miles long, five miles wide and has a scattered population of fewer than 6,500 people. As far back as the mid-16th century, Bishop John Leslie described the place as “an elegant and trimme Ile... induet with great fertilie.” He wasn't wrong.

THE 'NAPLES OF THE NORTH'