Sunlight is pouring through the thin layer of tent between me and the outdoors, and my head is thumping. Day two of our adventure and I’m already so hungover I can’t see straight.

We are on the Isle of Arran, camping on the shore a little way up from Brodick town. With me is my husband, Duncan, and a new friend, Tom, who was bemused to find he was going on holiday with a married couple. The plan was to cycle to Islay, drink a load of whisky, then cycle home, wild camping to keep costs low. A period of clement weather made the trip a reality. A few adventure buddies eagerly signed up, but we all know how these things go and the original group of six became a trio.

“Are you sure you want me along?” Tom asked. Dunc and I swore blind we were delighted he’d be joining us. Tom is a friend-of-a-friend and seemed to enjoy cycling in the same way we do: for fun, for travel, for the sheer joy of being on a bike.

To avoid travelling on traffic-filled roads and to get to the best bit of our holiday as quickly as possible, we took the train as far as Ardrossan, then a ferry to Brodick. We ran up and down Goatfell before sunset, then whipped into Crofters, the legendary bistro. It offers high-end pub food with a side-serving of folk music and is packed to the gunnels throughout the high season. Booking ahead is very much recommended.

After a dreamy Cullen Skink pizza, and once The Sensational Biff Simpson had sung her heart out for us, the boys tottered off to set up camp. I opted to stay on and catch up with old friends from my stint working there the year before.

And now it’s the next morning and I feel like a badger has taken a shit in my mouth. My eyes are gummy, my skin crackles with dried sweat. I run straight from the stifling air of the tent into the ice-cold sea, blasting the previous night away.

***

The 14 mile cycle from Brodick to the north port does not take long. We struggle uphill for half an hour, then freewheel into Lochranza, past the Arran distillery and a medieval castle, exhilarated.

Our route is Lochranza to Claonaig to Kennacraig, then the ferry to Port Askaig. Caledonian MacBrayne–otherwise known as CalMac—Scotland’s main ferry operator, has an Islay schedule that means it is possible to be delivered to Port Askaig, in the north-east, and return via Port Ellen, on the south coast of the island. We compete to name as many Scottish islands as we can, load up on CalMac’n’cheese, watch dolphins racing the boat. I love ferries almost as much as I love bikes.

There’s just enough time to get up to Caol Ila for the last tour—and our first whisky—of the day. One snifter before we get back on the bikes lets us taste what’s on offer without putting anyone in danger. A huffy fellow-tourist in the tasting room informs us it’s illegal to drink and cycle, and that, “They can take your license away if they catch you.” I note every person in her party finishes their dram before heading back to their rental car.

The guide is informative and friendly and explains just enough of the technical process as we weave between mash tuns and marvel at the gigantic stills, through which comes the largest quantity of whisky on the island.

The taproom is a rustic counter knocked together from spare wood in the corner of a warehouse. The malt is lighter than the Islay norm, with a low phenol content—the measure of that smoky, peaty taste—and we leave reinvigorated for our next leg.

Though it wasn’t on our original plan, we see a sign for Finlaggan and take a detour. A collection of three islands on Loch Finlaggan served as the seat of the Lord of the Isles in the late Middle Ages, and the ruins are carefully preserved in their landscape. We are struck by the idea that what’s remote for one person is central for another.

Too late for the visitor centre, we have the site to ourselves. Piles of stone and informational placards providing context. 13th-century carved graves under 21st-century perspex. The wind is picking up and we get a good taste of how hardy our ancestors must have been as the water on the loch ripples and sprays. There is no shelter and we are ravenous, so we shunt a few pounds into the honesty box and hop back on the bikes.

Cycling into the wind and rain, my legs are heavy. A pit-stop at Bridgend, the village at the centre-point of Islay, for noodles and hummus, a quick beer, then we crawl into our tents, surrounded by tall grass and the gentle murmuration of sheep.

***

The next day we plan to go south and east to Lagavulin, but while we are fuelling up in Bowmore the rain comes in hard. Ducking into the distillery to hide from the worst of it seems like the only thing we can do. A staff member casually mentions the bar. It is still morning, but we’re on holiday.

The tasting bar is gleaming, beautiful. The warm wood and huge windows make it feel like the cabin on a luxury yacht. We are cocooned, surrounded by deep leather and sepia photographs. The sea is whipped into a frenzy outside and peaty whisky mingles pleasantly with the salt on our lips.

The trip to Port Ellen takes just under an hour, then we feast on supermarket snacks on the seafront. The rain has stopped. We peel off our windbreakers to bask in the warmth of the day. I will not admit to having constructed the trip solely as a pilgrimage to the spiritual home of Ron Swanson, but his voice exclaims “bully!” in my head as the Lagavulin distillery comes into view.

““The sea is whipped into a frenzy outside and peaty whisky mingles pleasantly with the salt on our lips.””

We expected to be part of a large crowd of tourists making our way from dram to dram, but Islay isn’t like that, even in July. Our tour groups are intimate experiences that make us feel like a rag-tag family, at least three people at any one time clutching a battered copy of Iain Banks’s Raw Spirit. The book is a fond exploration of whisky production and history, drinking, and the landscape of Scotland, and is essential reading for any who are thinking of touring our distilleries.

Distillery tours are fairly interchangeable. For example, the stills at Lagavulin are taller and thinner than those of Caol Ila, which are more pear-shaped. Though the process is basically the same in the production of whisk(e)y worldwide, there are variations that aficionados may find fascinating.

The wind has dropped considerably, and Duncan, Tom and I need to plan where we’re going to stay tonight. From the shelter of Lagavulin we look out across the bay, straight at Dunyvaig Castle.

Like misbehaving children, we are full of glee. We set up camp in the land around the beautiful ruins, Duncan and I in one tiny tent, Tom, all six foot seven of him, in the other. The next morning he insists the tussocks have worked out the knots in his back; that it was the most comfortable night’s rest he’s had outdoors.

***

We forgo breakfast in favour of high-tailing it to the ferry at Port Ellen, wheeling straight onto the MV Finlaggan, recounting our whirl around its namesake two days ago. Our cheeks are sun-kissed and our eyes are bright.

In times of stress, it can be helpful to focus on positives: past, present and future included. It might not be appropriate to drop everything and head for the islands right now, but dreaming of trips to be taken with loved ones, feeling the sun and rain on our skin, is truly a balm. And Islay will always be there.

Dr Ray Lafferty of the Finlaggan Trust was clear about the role of visitors to the island: “We remain enthusiastic about those wishing to go ‘off the beaten track’ and immerse themselves in Islay's somewhat hidden history. And as people continue to come to Islay, the history and the landscape may awaken some interest that would hitherto have remained dormant.”

This is certainly the case for my trio. We have learnt so much: about whisky; our nation; ourselves. We have immersed ourselves, and we are better for it.

The cycle home is via Tarbert, Portavadie and Dunoon. Our longest day turns out to be the best, weather-wise. The sky is a cloudless dream. We’re on the home stretch of a trip dedicated to feeling good: all we’ve done is use our own two legs to potter about, soaking in the peat-stained wilds, laughing at one another, drinking delicious whisky.

And yet this last day feels like a reward. Picturesque villages with flowers in window boxes; a rough road climbing torturously until, right at the top, the vista opens up across the whole of Loch Ruel, tiny white sails on deep blue, a postcard made real.

Tom, with his legs that are twice the length of ours, outstrips us. He has somewhere to be tonight. He gives a cheerful wave and shoots off. We’ll meet him later in the week, sunburn peeling, and we’ll share a dram and reminisce about our island holiday. For now, my husband and I take our time, cycling towards Dunoon and the ferry that will take us to Gourock, the train to Glasgow, enjoying each other and the sunshine and the fresh air and the freedom.