Soon Serious Sailing

Despite venturing onto the water on other people’s boats (thanks to Owen, Jim and Celia) we are sorely missing life aboard our own. Having spent so many months living aboard Cirrus Cat in recent years we just feel comfortable there, at home and relaxed. We can close ourselves in and feel cosy there whatever the weather is doing outside or we can up anchor and move somewhere else. We are starting to get excited now because very soon we will be back on board, sailing our boat away from her Cornish winter home.

A big sky over the Isle of Arran

We hear tales of a heat-wave in the south of England and when we compare this with the weather these last few months have given us up here in the Highlands it is almost as if we are about to travel to some exotic far-away country. But no matter how pleasant this warmth may be we also know that we will miss the vast open views, the clarity of the air, the people, the sheer wild exuberance of our home…

…and the castles. This one is just along the road in Torrisdale, discreetly tucked away from view, believe it or not!

So once again we are making travel plans, packing our bags with essentials and with all the things we feel we might need over the month or so that we are planning to be away. It is now some ten months since we sailed on Cirrus. She was then ‘winterised’, her vulnerable bits wrapped up against the cold, and many of our belongings were unloaded (into a hired car) as part of those preparations. But after so many months, can we now remember what is on board and what is not? We will be returning only with what we are able to carry as luggage on the bus to the boatyard, a pretty limited amount, and when you consider that we will need an assortment of clothes, the computer stuff (to maintain the blog), and as many tools as we can carry to deal with all those boat-related repair and maintenance jobs, our suitcases are beginning to bulge. Somehow we have to prepare for this one-way trip based on what we can remember we left behind. Did I leave my shorts on board ready for the expected hot weather? What about the sun-block? Am I going to need a saw or a drill? Which shoes to take? Have we got the mobile phone chargers? Film for the camera? (No, I’m only kidding. This is some sort of a flashback.)

Finally we take our leave. We will know soon enough whether we have got it right or wrong.

Visitor action

A series of visitors during a period of less than perfect weather has left us feeling drained of our normal energy and joy at living here in Carradale. Many different strands of our lives seem to be shifting simultaneously so that there is much to think about and worry ourselves over. There is the leaking roof, for example, which is now finally being repaired by a local builder. Ever since we first moved in here, each time the rain really fell heavily we have had to place buckets on the floor of our guest bedroom to catch the water that seeped through the ceiling. At last our guests can be assured of a sound night’s sleep without the noise of constant dripping into a bucket beside them. Then there were telephone calls from our eldest son, Tony, who is reeling from the news of his best friend Ed who died recently. Tony had been close to Ed since they were at school together. We send our condolences to his family and friends. The sale of our London apartment takes place any day now, closing another chapter in our lives and providing us with some much needed capital. We may even soon be able to afford those roof repairs!

Meanwhile our next visitors, my mother and her nonagenarian companion, George, were splashing their way through the showers and the puddles on walks around our village, this despite my fervent praying for some sunshine and warmth for their visit. We did at last manage to take them over to the Isle of Gigha on the ferry so they could wander around the garden of the Achamore estate here. The Vikings, and later the Norse Kings, who made their home in the Western Isles, called this place ‘the good isle’ or maybe even ‘God’s isle’ depending upon how you translate it. The hundred-odd full time inhabitants would not argue with this as back in 2002 they all clubbed together as a community and bought the island from its then owner. Today you don’t have to chat for long with any local to become aware of how proud they feel of their home and of the strong sense of shared community that exists there.

It is a lovely place which exhibits humanity at its very best although I will admit that squelching around gardens on a damp day is not my favourite activity. I preferred the drive to the northern tip of the island from where you can sit and watch the whole of the Sound of Jura spread out before you like a map. This is all good sailing country standing ready for when we have our boat up here.

Our wild landscape produces some astonishing shapes and colours. On a plastic bucket cast up from the sea on the Atlantic-facing beach at Westport I found this collection of goose barnacles with their elephant-trunk appearance and brilliant yellow ‘lips’ around the shells. As soon as they sense water around them they send out feathery feelers which they wave about to catch their food. These ones may have picked the wrong floating object to latch on to as the incoming tide had pushed it just too far up the beach to be able to suck it back again when it receded. The weight of the bucket was too much for me to try to cast it back out and as a result these particular barnacles may well have been doomed.

Back to our visitors now and on one exceptionally rainy day it seemed sensible to take a tour of one of Campbeltown’s whisky distilleries.

Gone are the days when there were more than thirty of such establishments in the town to chose from. Today only three remain and Springbank offered us the temptation of a wee dram to dispel the chill of the damp day, so naturally we chose this. The sight of so many barrels of spirit resting untouched and quietly watching the years pass by is more than many men could bear. No wonder they keep their bonded warehouses under lock and key.

In better weather a few days earlier we drove our little car along one of the most exciting stretches of single track road that Scotland can offer, stopping above the lighthouse that guards the North Channel and winks its light at Ireland across twelve miles of sea.

This headland is the Mull of Kintyre and road traffic has to stop high up above the lighthouse from where a narrow track spirals downwards. Walking down this final mile is a bit like reverse mountaineering - going downhill before going up – but it has to be done. It is part of the magic of the place.

Sailing with Vela

Forecast checked, stores loaded, extra bedding brought on board for Kate and myself plus our Dutch guest Maartje, and after a discussion with Jim & Celia on where we would be heading to on the first night we cast off from the Campbeltown pontoon, raising the sails to the gentle southerly breeze. Far from being crowded with five on board, Vela proves to be a comfortable boat with plenty of space in the cockpit for us to flop around in the sun and watch the scenery drift slowly by.

Once the sails are set, the autohelm (which still needs to be christened as it is a valuable member of the crew) is set so we can relax and try to pick out the landmarks. “Isn’t that Carradale Bay over there?” “Yes, I can see our house nestling amongst the conifers”, replies Jim who is alarmed at the flowering rhododendrons which seem to be trying to take over his back garden. The view from the sea is not one he has seen before and this gives him and Celia a new perspective on their home.

Some hours later Lochranza came into view and Jim is soon engaging in the familiar (to us) task of trying to pass a rope through the ring on the top of a mooring buoy whilst lying prone on the foredeck. No matter how hard one may try to make this an elegant exercise, failure is inevitable. The bottom in the air posture just about guarantees this. Soon all is shipshape and all five of us pile into the inflatable for the short ride to shore. From this point onwards nothing on earth can prevent us heading for the hotel to slake our thirst.

Dave and Hilary, who set off from Campbeltown just before us, have landed from their pretty yacht, Foxcub, and seated round a large table in the bar we all pore over a large map of Arran as if we were planning a great campaign, David, to everyone’s amusement, producing the most authentic ‘major-general’ voice we have ever heard.

After we had eaten there was the compulsory visit to Lochranza Castle for a group Campbeltown Sailing Club photo in the late evening sunshine. The daisies were very pretty, I thought.

We all pile into dinghies again and head for Vela where we find Glenn has arrived on Jessica Lee so that there are eight of us crammed into the cabin for more socializing before turning in for the night.

The morning sky is streaked with cirrus while little puffs of white cumulus float aimlessly around. Foxcub is first away, heading north up the West Kyle to the proposed lunch-stop at Kames. The wind is light again, from behind us, so naturally I pose the question to Jim and Celia, ”Do we have a spinnaker on board?” They don’t know for sure but, “There is a spare sail in the forward cupboard. I don’t know what it is but it is a nice colour”. We dig around and pull the bag into the daylight. Yes, it is a spinnaker, so out come the sheets and up the mast it goes.

Soon its red, white and blue is billowing out ahead of us. (Surely this is not patriotically correct on a Scotsman’s boat!)

We leave Glenn behind at Kames as the weather changes, cloud taking over and a wind arriving which swirls unpredictably around making sailing an energetic affair. Celia takes the helm, tacking this way and that, leaving the rest of us grunts to do all the hard work of hauling ropes and winding winches. Fortunately, just before the crew rebel, there is a wind shift which gives us a clear run up the narrowest part of the passage and round the corner into the East Kyle. We squeeze past the Burnt Islands but the wind deserts us and the rain comes on with a vengeance. There is nothing for it but to motor on south into Rothesay for our second night away. We are all tired and somewhat damp as we plod about the town until we find a restaurant that can accommodate all of us. Curiously our wet clothing gradually dries out more quickly the more we wet our inner parts – a lesson to be learnt there, I think.

Rothesay is as charming as ever with its impressive harbourside and, of course, the spectacularly tiled Victorian toilets, but the forecast for our last day out was threatening some fresh easterlies and more rain later in the day. This meant an early start, well as early as we could manage, out of the marina, but nobody complained. David and Hillary chose to stay on in Rothesay, knowing better than to venture out, perhaps.

Arran sat brooding to the south under a heavy carpet of cloud but despite this no wind came our way. Our only choice was to start the engine and rumble on past the islands of Great and Little Cumbrae then on to Pladda which lies off the southern tip of Arran. All went well but for the engine needing an anastomosis in one of its various pipes (this being performed without anesthetic) before we could continue. Fortunately we were properly equipped for such an eventuality, as every good boat should be, and the day ended smoothly. As for the predicted wind and rain, this totally failed to come anywhere near Campbeltown until after we had safely berthed and unloaded. Such is the way of forecasts around here.

Our first outing with the Campbeltown Sailing Club took us past a scattering of the most spectacular islands in Scotland, even giving us glances of a distant Ireland on the return. We still have to nudge ourselves to believe that all this is on our doorstep.

Hot, wet and cold

For the benefit of those who do not live in the British Isles, the month of June can bring sun with an intensity that will burn exposed skin within minutes. Despite its northerly position Scotland is no exception to this rule; in fact due to the greater clarity of the air the threat may be greater still. Like so many others, of course, I should have known this, having lived in Britain all my life. So why is it that after a day on board Jim & Celia’s yacht my nose ended up a bright pink colour and my forehead glowing red like a stop light?

The explanation I like best is that we associate a strong sun with heat and the two do not, as one might suppose, necessarily go hand in hand. In fact there was such a chill in the air out at sea in the middle of Kilbrannan Sound that a jumper and a windproof jacket were needed to retain body warmth, despite the sunray lamp in the sky. The sun reflected off the sea and the deck of the boat as we drifted along in the light breeze but common sense precautions like wearing a hat or slapping on sun cream are soon forgotten when all about us is so peaceful and the only sound is that gurgling of the water past the hull and the occasional ‘burp’ from the autohelm as it applies a small correction.

Back on land, with temperatures rising into the mid twenties Celsius, we all thought that summer had at last arrived so naturally I dusted off my best shorts when we drove to Loch Lomond to meet up with our son Ben who had briefly joined the ‘Folk Trail’ on their trek from Land’s End to John O’ Groats. It took me only a moment outside in the breeze to realise that I had once again misjudged the weather, made a poor choice in the lower leg protection department. On went the trousers in a flash. My white legs are destined to last a little longer.

Our meeting with Clare, Cara the dog, and the other walkers took place on what must be the flattest part of the West Highland Way, the long distance footpath that begins somewhere north of Glasgow and wends its way north for ninety six miles to Fort William. We followed the leafy route of a disused railway line for five miles or so until we bumped into the group as they rounded a small hill, then we traipsed back with them to their campsite outside Drymen. Later the same day we joined them for a pub folk music session which went on enthusiastically until the very wee hours, by which time some serious rain was falling all across the area. With a timetable to keep to, a different place to visit every night, the walkers are committed to setting off each day whatever the weather is doing. That’s real dedication!

We could not travel further with them because we were expecting our first house-guest to arrive on the bus from Glasgow. Maartje has provided us with a list of things she would like to see and do on her visit – castles, horse riding, and owls being high on the agenda. The first two are pretty straightforward. The last is a bit more problematical but we tell her to keep quiet at night so she can hear them outside the house. (Maartje tells us that the Dutch word for owl is ‘uil’ but the way she says this is impossible to replicate.)

Carradale has produced some rain for the start of her visit, but we advise all visitors here to come equipped so all is well.

As ever here in Carradale, the weather being experienced at this moment will not be the same as the weather an hour or so later. We can expect the sun to burst through any time soon.