Old Gaffers

I proudly present here a slideshow of pictures taken at the visit of the Scottish Old Gaffers to Campbeltown. For those in any doubt, Old Gaffers are sailing boats of a type rarely seen today, which is why the sight of them under full sail in a fresh breeze is so eye-catching.

Remarkable nature

There is just something about dramatic orange and red sunrises and sunsets that makes a huge impression on the human psyche.

Whether it be the sun reflected on clouds in the western skyline, setting them on fire with complex mixtures of colour or simply an unlikely monochrome which spreads over the whole sky, such sights never quite satisfy us.

There is no such thing as the ultimate sunset, the next one we see is always that little bit more dramatic.

Sky-gazing has had another reward just recently as the moon has been on a close pass-by and the merest hint of a clear sky no doubt encouraged many to dust off their cameras to capture the sight. So naturally on a recent visit to Oban when the moon winked at me for a short while I could not resist pressing the shutter. 

Had I waited a night or two the moon might have been even bigger, had I been able to see it through the clouds, of course.

Our run of dry weather seems to have come to an end, at least temporarily. The Highlands will welcome the rain as water drains away rapidly from our hills and they were beginning to look a little wilted. There is an ecology here which needs moisture to sustain itself. Before the end of the dry, clear weather, however, my mother and her companion, George, manage to squeeze in a luxury cruise around the Western Isles on the Hebridean Princess, an ex-ferry ship now converted for comfortable cruising. They take up residence on board for a week in the same suite occupied by our very own Queen Elizabeth when she took a holiday here recently. 

It was this fact that prompted me to take a photo of mother sitting on her rather grand-looking bed, a picture worth sharing with the world not because it shows where royalty slept but more because it shows there really is nothing special about the room that would not be found in a small hotel bedroom anywhere in the world. The rich and famous have, after all, normal needs just like the rest of us. They must sleep, eat and do all the everyday things that I do using the same basic set of equipment that we all use, something that had not occurred to me before.

Meanwhile, as they say, Kate and I take a holiday from our ever-busier Carradale lives by the simple task of jumping in an inflatable dinghy and rowing out to where Cirrus lies on her mooring in Campbeltown Loch. After a shaky start while we wait for the wind to leave its north-east corner, not the ideal direction for leaving port, our sails are raised and we fly off downwind towards Pladda, a lump of rock just off the southern tip of the Isle of Arran.

 From here it is but a short distance to Holy Island (yet another volcanic plug, by the way) and Lamlash Bay where we pick up a mooring for the night. The cold air we have been experiencing of late has left its mark on the mountain summits just to the north of us and the snow-whitened peaks make me think of the Swiss Alps I used to climb many years ago instead of Scotland. On board Cirrus we struggle to keep warm once the sun leaves us and when our diesel heater fails to function properly we begin to think that perhaps we have made a rash decision in going away at this time. It is still early in the season and unreasonably cool, both the sea and the air being cold, and without added warmth during the evening on board we are distinctly uncomfortable. Our heater has let us down before in strong winds. It is a primitive device which relies upon hot exhaust gases rising up a chimney which passes through the deck and extends above. But when there are fierce gusts outside these blow back downwards choking out the flame and puffing smoke into the cabin so that we are left breathing unpleasant fumes before the stove can give us any benefit. This is not quite the state of happy marital bliss that we envisaged. We survive one night then set off towards Bute where there is a marina. Marinas come equipped with electric power sockets and we have on board a long orange cable which, with various trip switches, enables us to connect the boat safely to the mains supply and to deploy our backup strategy, an electric fan heater. The cost of the electricity is included in the overnight berthing charge so we make full use of it with a clear conscience and our comfort is restored.

The marina is in Rothesay, a town we have visited before in indifferent weather. It is a good port in which to take shelter and is a place with a Victorian feel to it, the age when most of the buildings were constructed. On arrival we cower away from the 40+ knot gusts and the torrential rain which drives us inside. By morning though things are a little better - the rain is interspersed with sunshine now – so we visit the Victorian toilets, one of Rothesay’s timeless attractions, to warm ourselves under their hot water showers.

The urinals, hand-basins and the original tiling may bring in the tourists but for me there is something just slightly more intriguing to be found tucked away in Rothesay. Hidden in a quieter corner of the town lies one of several disused churches, this one having features that caught our attention when we happened to pass by.

The structure still has a solid, tall, Victorian look to it but despite its towering height, nature is re-claiming the building from the bottom and from the top. The south wall of the church, from the roof down, is completely encased in delicate purple flowers, trees are encroaching from below and even the bell tower is home to sprouting plant life. 

Through the broken windows pigeons fly easily in and out, making a clear statement of ownership as the whole structure gradually disappears beneath a green tide. It is as if the building, whilst standing tall above the ground, is being returned to natural humus by the local greenery. It may yet be many years before it succumbs (unless man decides to intervene and spoils the game) but in the end it is nature that will triumph. It always does. This natural marvel is not, however, in any tourist guide. If asked, Rothesay would probably say it was ashamed of the place when in fact it should take pride in the healthiness of the environment that enables all this verdant growth to happen.

Two volcanoes in one day

I believe I may have mentioned Davaar Island before in this blog, about it being the only remaining part of a volcanic vent, sometimes referred to as a ‘plug’, which lies in the mouth of Campbeltown Loch.

It turned out to be a convenient piece of rock on which to erect a lighthouse, which no doubt saved David and Thomas Stevenson a lot of hard construction work back in 1894. They knew what they were doing because just eighteen nautical miles away to the south-east is another similar ‘plug’ on which this pair of engineers had erected a lighthouse eight years earlier. This rocky lump is known as Ailsa Craig and it rises steeply out of the Firth of Clyde to a height of 338 metres (1,110 feet), has an area of only one third of a square mile and although the human population is zero, it is home to around 36,000 pairs of gannets. Puffins too are staging a comeback here after being wiped out some years ago by rats arriving on ships servicing the stone quarrying activity. The rats themselves were subsequently exterminated (in an effort to try to put things back as they were) and now we once again have puffins burrowing into the thin topsoil of the island.

All interesting facts about 500 million year-old extinct volcanoes, or what is left of them. But I learnt recently that someone has discovered some bits of Ailsa Craig scattered about the English countryside, a long way away. The distinctive ‘blue hone’ granite which is found on the island and shaped to make the splendid curling stones used in the Winter Olympic Games, has such a unique quality that when chunks of it were found in a field in the English Midlands this led some keen geologists to investigate whence they came. Their amazing conclusion is that they (the stones, not the geologists) were brought there by a glacier which must have picked some bits up and carried them away southwards. All this happened a few years ago, of course, but I find this snippet of information quite fascinating, not simply because of the distance the rock has travelled. My mind goes into a spin at the thought of someone examining these few grubby bits of stone, found just lying about, in an effort to work out where they came from. Has every piece of the land we live in been similarly examined in this detail I wonder? Is there someone being paid to do this work? And if so, where can I apply for the job? Where does it all end? Surely every speck of rock and soil across the land has not been examined so thoroughly as this would seem to suggest. I feel fairly certain that the stones I dug up in our front garden whilst bedding in some herb plants the other day have never been examined before. But who knows what riches would be discovered if we did look at everything in this sort of detail?

What really prompted me to find out all these fascinating details was that last Saturday morning we sailed Cirrus out of Campbeltown Loch past Davaar Island and set a course for Ailsa Craig. A fresh north-easterly wind was blowing, forcing us to dress up warmly against the cold, but despite this we hardened the sheets and set a direct course for the island. As usual when at sea we switched on our GPS chartplotter, a small piece of electronics which removes all the cleverness and mystery from small boat navigation and which when connected to the tiller even steers a good course for us, then we settled back to keeping watch and admiring the guillemots in the water around us. They always seem to wait until the last second before panicking and diving out of sight. Today, however, we are thwarted by ‘War Games’ (more properly called ‘Joint Naval Exercises’) going on in the Clyde. It seems the Admiralty, in its wisdom, has the power to turn off GPS radio signals in any particular area whenever they want and they do this to make life more exciting for the officers on their ships regardless of whoever else they inconvenience.

GPS signals are used most heavily by navigation systems fitted in cars and telephones these days so we know we are not alone as we curse those who wield such power so recklessly. Fortunately the target of Ailsa Craig is almost unmissable – it is the highest thing around for many miles – and the few grey-painted navy ships we did see kept well clear of us. We pass just one other yacht, on the way out, then pass it again on the return journey where with the wind free, Cirrus takes off across the sea like a scalded rabbit, a white streak of foam streaming out from her stern.

When Kate takes her favourite spot on the bow she does so it because it is dry, comfortable and a rather fun place to be. The wind may be cold but it is deflected upwards by the hull so with feet dangling just above the water and the sound of our twin bows splashing beneath us we both enjoy sitting here and watching the scenery pass by. Some added pleasure may come when we are joined by dolphins riding the bow waves – but sadly not on this occasion. Davaar Island is ahead now and as we glide back home to our mooring the wind falls light at last and all is quiet. Somewhere out at sea the navy is still simulating World War Three or the D-Day landings with as much realism as they can create but we spend the night on board rocked asleep by gentle movements as the remaining breeze drifts across the loch. We decide that two volcanoes is quite enough for one day.