Sailing with Shrimpers part 1

Over forty years ago an enthusiastic yacht designer called Roger Dongray put pen to paper and came up with a classic. As a result in around 1979 the first boats were built, in wood. Then, being impressed by the clever design, someone decided to fabricate moulds so the boat could be manufactured in GRP, what we now know as fibreglass. Since then the same boat has been made over 1,100 times and the subsequent ones would be indistinguishable from the first. In yachting circles this is known as a 'One Design', often created to enable competitive racing or else, as with this particular boat, the Cornish Shrimper, because the designer got it right from the start, so why bother to change it. Once built each vessel was given a number which means that modern ones - and yes, they are still made, in Cornwall - carry four numbers on their mainsail.

The 181st one to roll off the production line is called Eun na Mara ('Bird of the Sea' in Gaelic) and she now has a berth in Tarbert Harbour where she sits patiently waiting for her owners to take her out onto the sea after which she is named. One recent outing was in what we humans might describe as indifferent weather, cool and overcast, but what is more important for a sailing boat is the wind, and this was fresh, gusty, tending towards strong at times. In short, exciting.

The body of water beside which Tarbert sits, Loch Fyne, is sandwiched between two areas of higher ground and this tends to steer the wind along the loch, northwards or southwards, or alternatively gives rise to meaty blasts of wind coming off the hills. None of this prevented Eun na Mara sailing at great speed towards a small island known as Sgat Mor (skate island), around this despite putting herself at great peril from all the rocks surrounding it, then around another island, Eilean Buidhe (gold island) before tracking back to the west side of the loch once again. This whole passage is recorded on a very clever piece of technology called a smartphone, so that it is captured forever as a line on a chart, a process which Roger Dongray would no doubt have been horrified to know about when he was drawing curved lines on paper back in the 1970s.

The next little outing for our grand vessel is a couple of weeks sailing from Largs, a port some 20 miles to the east, as part of a very important reunion with around 30 more of her kind. This is the International Shrimper Week, ISW for short, and it has been an annual event for Shrimper owners for many years. The location is different each year - in 2021 we trailered Eun na Mara all the way to Suffolk in order to participate - and this will not be the first time the ISW has been held in the Clyde. It is clearly a favourite sailing location amongst Shrimper skippers, probably in part because the sailing can be challenging and to many sailors this is more important than the unpredictable and variable weather that might go with it. Just prior to the start of the event the south of the UK was suffering something of a heatwave so those driving northwards towards Scotland will have experienced a noticeable chilling of the air and a freshening of the breeze even before crossing the border. But on they came, nevertheless. Shrimper sailors are drawn together by an unseen force, a kind of magnetism perhaps, until they reach some sort of critical mass that can be described as a 'flotilla', or possibly a 'grandiloquence'.

Our passage from Tarbert to join the other Shrimpers in Largs delivered a bit of everything, a little too much. Initially cold and rather too windy, plus added rain, then suddenly about half way through our little boat was left bouncing around in no wind at all, plus more rain. Then slowly, somewhere north of the Isle of Arran, the rain eased off and then a reluctant sun made an appearance. We had started the engine to continue our progress eastwards so then, of course, the wind returned from the precise direction we were trying to go. But there was a bonus, and bonuses are always good. 

This is a Fifer, one of several generations of sailing boats built on the Clyde by the William Fife family business since the 18th century and our passage has coincided with a race ending close to Largs. The break in the weather occurs just as they overtake us, clouds of rain replaced by clouds of sail, which brings smiles to our faces and somehow makes the day worthwhile.

Taynish

We live in a corner of the country where there are many trees. They come in two recipes; there are those planted as a crop, with the expectation that they will be harvested a few decades later and then, often right next to a man-made plantation, there are areas in which the trees have planted themselves, natives if you like, having grown from seed lucky enough to have fallen on fertile ground and to have avoided being eaten or trampled on whilst still a juicy young sapling. This contrast between the managed and the unmanaged is all around us. Stands of densely planted Sitka Spruce are dark places where beneath the trees only mosses can survive and when a tree is toppled by the wind its roots are wrenched out but it only leans against its fellows as it lacks the space to fall to the ground. The contrast with the areas of natural woodland, places where the light shines through the canopy and where trees that have fallen lie horizontal along the ground, their roots exposed as a vertical mass of soil and rock, is remarkable.

These are places where ferns and grasses grow alongside vigorously growing oak seedlings. Life is abundant here. Insects flit about - bright yellow butterflies, damsel flies, wasps and bees - seeds float through the air, drifting along on whatever breeze there is and the smells are of fresh living things or of damp wood being absorbed back into the land by the natural process of decomposition.

Taynish Nature Reserve occupies a peninsula on the western shore of Loch Sween, a long sea water loch which cuts into the land bringing the Atlantic Ocean into the west coast of Scotland. There is salt water on both sides, although there are fresh water lochs within the landscape too, and this is an area of native woodland that has existed for thousands of years, since the ice retreated from the land, being revered and respected today just as it has always been.

Parking Martin at the end of the narrow single track access road we set off on a circular walk (or as the Americans would say, a hike) which follows a waymarked route through the woodland to the base of a steep hill. Everywhere we look are trees, mostly oak, but these are not nice symmetrical upright specimens as you might see standing alone in a field with sheep grazing all around. Instead these trees are just as old but they are gnarled and twisted, branches going off in all directions, some of which are lifeless, hanging on or broken and drooping onto their fellows. Wild storms sometimes blow in here and these dictate the shape of these trees, ripping out the tallest, encouraging adaptation, evolution if you like, to occur with the result that native oak woodland has a look all of its own. Fallen timber lies on the ground, gradually being dissolved back into the landscape and in doing so providing food for beetles and a variety of multi-legged critters. Oaks have been described as hotels due to the fact that they provide homes for so many different species. But although oak is dominant here it is not unique and this variety provides subtle shades of different colours. The ferns popping up all over the place are startlingly varied too. Bracken, common and widespread all over Scotland, has some serious competition here and, unlike elsewhere, fails to prevent small tree saplings from getting to the light with the result that the forest here is regenerating, reinventing itself constantly.

We follow a well made path which begins to rise, rough stone steps guiding us up towards steeper ground and giving us a different view at each step. Through a gap in the tree cover we briefly see water glinting behind us although by this time we have lost our sense of direction and cannot work out which body of water we are looking at, the path having changed direction so often. Higher now we leave the tree cover behind and follow a faint track across an overgrown meadow, ever upwards towards a distant ridge summit. The plants have changed but the variety has not - small white daisy-like flowers, blue and pink blossoms - and I am made painfully aware of my ignorance when it comes to naming wild flowers.

Above the tree line we suddenly get the views. In every direction there is a body of water and working out what's what isn't as easy for us as we might have expected, given our familiarity with the area and having travelled around it both by land and by sea. 

We recognise the paps on the isle of Jura but it looks like there is another piece of land in front, in which case what is the water in front of that? And does that connect with another body of water to the north? And where is Corryvreckan, the narrow gap between Jura and Scarba through which those powerful tidal currents run? Eventually, as we rest our legs on a conveniently placed bench at the highest point, we gaze about us. The air is clear, no haze hiding the details but even so it takes us a while to work it all out, to put names to what we see. We get there in the end, naming each summit and stretch of water as we watch a distant yacht making its way along the Sound of Luing.

The descent from the high Taynish ridge is steep, dangerously so, made easier by the rock steps placed there but this is not a place to stumble. Rocks are hard things to fall onto. Soon we are back in the trees, our eyes boggling at the uncurling leaves of yet more ferns we have never before encountered. The sun has shone all day and this has clearly brought the tourists out onto the roads but on our walk we have met just one other person, a fellow admirer of the wild, who stops for a brief chat before moving on. Somehow this makes us feel special, privileged even, and delighted that just for today we have not had to share this special place.

Wildlife

It is always nice to find a warm spot where you can curl up a take a snooze. Take, for example, the top of a compost heap which is normally covered with an old piece of carpet to stop the weeds growing. There is heat from below, decaying vegetable matter, and then even on a cloudy day there might be enough heat from above too. You're probably feeling quite full after breakfasting on a couple of large slugs that happened to slide your way earlier in the day so why not chill out as you digest your food. Of course it is annoying when someone lifts the rug off just so they can take a photo (for which they didn't even ask permission) but you just blink once then wriggle sexily and ignore them. Thankfully they covered you up again.
This is the life of a slow worm, by the way, but I expect everyone knows that. We have several who live in our compost heap.

Earlier photo

More exciting still was the creature who porpoised next to our boat just as we were lowering the sails outside Tarbert harbour. Only ever offering a brief glimpse of the dorsal fin before curving their bodies below the water these creatures somehow manage to inhale enough air to sustain themselves for long enough so that no matter how hard you look you'll rarely see a second emergence.
'Did I really see that?' is the thought that comes to mind, or was it a trick of the light flashing off a wave? Even the seal who stuck his head up above the water for a good look at us could not shed any light on this.

The following morning it was a bit of a shock, just as we were emerging from inside Eun na Mara's cabin, to come face to face with Mr Swan, whose long neck brings his head up higher than our low freeboard so he can peer right into the cockpit. I suspect he was looking for a snack but there is clear guidance on feeding swans. Basically don't. If ever you are tempted to toss them a small crust of your sandwich then bear in mind this will not sustain them and too much of it will actually cause them harm. Also they are strict vegetarians, as indeed are we.

Mr Swan follows Mrs Swan around like he's on a piece of string, dutifully guarding their one remaining chick. Sadly the others have all succumbed to one or other of the predators that share Tarbert harbour, the gulls, the fish, perhaps even an otter. It happens every year - this couple never seem to raise a family successfully.

No sooner had we arrived home when the message comes via Facebook. [This does not imply swans are Facebook users.] The last chick has been taken by gulls! Tragic for them but at least this has stimulated a conversation on how better to protect future attempts at swan parenthood.

Wasps have been attracted to our car port as a nesting location ever since it was built some years ago. It is sheltered, dry and safe from most predators (do wasps have predators?). In order to build a nest they strip very thin pieces of wood in layers from anything close by (our garden shed being convenient, although I do try to discourage this with some preservative paint). The wood is made into a pulpy paper-like nest building material inside their bodies and then this is used to create an amazing structure, usually tucked away up high beneath the canopy. We don't have a problem with this - the wasps are themselves predators of other insects - until late in the year when there are less insects about so the wasps turn to anything sweet they can find to sustain themselves and eating an ice cream can suddenly become quite hazardous. Even in winter wasps can still get you as the queen will wait out the cold hidden away in the woodpile, waking up only long enough to stab you in the bare hand. And as I discovered last year, a wasp sting hurts, for several days, and can be worse if you are allergic to their venom.
So the long and the short of this is that we try to keep an eye out at this time of year so we know if we are hosting a wasp colony. A visual inspection into the corners will usually spot them. This time, however, it revealed another family - spiders. The tiny round balls are full of spiderlings who will all grow into menacing predators, unless the blue tits get to them first. So like the swans, we wish them well but leave them alone.

All of which neatly brings me to the subject of beavers. Phased out in Scotland some years ago (a pleasant way of saying killed off) these lovable creatures were reintroduced on a trial basis to an area close to where we live. They were given a considerable area of land in which to live and this includes Loch Coille-Bharr.

Uninhabited today, when you walk around the loch you soon see signs of buildings, walls and other structures, and realise that this area was once populated by humans, There are the remains of a whole village, Kilmory Oib, hidden amongst the trees and it is, of course, the trees that make this place so suitable for the beavers. 

Following the path around the loch one might expect to see them popping out everywhere but no, if you really want to see them you have to brave the midges and go out at dawn or dusk. This clearly disappoints some people but for us, just being there and seeing evidence of their presence is enough.

Strangely though, this unique 'trial' reintroduction is not the only place in Scotland that beavers can be found. Tayside on the east side of the country now has a substantial population, so many in fact that there is even talk of culling to reduce numbers, their natural predators, wolves and lynx, being absent. How did they arrive on Tayside? Nobody really knows for sure but arrive they did. Perhaps this was a surreptitious freelance release by someone who just fancied having them around. This country is very much their natural home after all.