Distractions

The hot weather continues, apparently. Just not here on the west side of Scotland. Over and over again we have to listen to the same thing, to hear the BBC weather man banging on about how hot it is going to get in the next few days. It is tiresome. It is sheer rudeness, deliberate perhaps, since as a UK weather man he must know full well that there are people out there who will not be experiencing the heatwave he is so confidently predicting. That's his job, after all.

Then finally it does get warmer but somehow at the same time there is a day of constant drizzle, a fine spray of water that wets everything yet the sun penetrates through this at the same time tempting us outside. Warm rain is an improvement on cold and wet, but only for a limited period; until it penetrates everything and drips off the end of your nose. We need a distraction, and the first one arrives in the form of two small children who we were allowed to take care of for a few days to help out their mum. And wow, it's a distraction! Outdoors is wet so we must find indoor distractions and the telly goes on (these are modern kids so it's endless Minecraft movies) then finally they are bored enough to venture out in the damp so it is football in the park (not really part of my skill set) so I am greatly relieved when two other football playing children appear and are happy to share the experience, for a while.

Fortunately, to follow this we have arranged another appointment, with horses. An opportunity has arisen for a trial ride on a horse, for Annalese, who is 11, and has never ridden before. We arrive at the field where three large beasts await us and they come over to meet us. They belong to Tabitha who has agreed to give tuition, which she proceeds to do, very gently and with immense patience.

It turns out Annalese is a natural and even Max, aged 6 is completely comfortable patting and stroking them, although he will not ride.

Annalese tries riding both with and without a saddle, the latter being a strange experience as the horse's muscular back moving beneath the bottom is an unnerving sensation. Such an opportunity as this coming without any strings attached or expectations is as valuable as it gets. We are so grateful to Tabs for this opportunity.

Our next distraction comes straight after the smallies are delivered back to their mum but it involves a long drive across country into a different world, one where the sun shines all day and the mercury has zoomed up inside the thermometer. The east side of Scotland always surprises us for it is so different from the west. There are less hills, just smooth rounded bumps divided into fields of sheep or growing corn. The roads tend to be straighter, although sudden changes of direction do jump out at you from time to time, and the unfamiliarity of the place names brings an unexpected level of entertainment.  Longformacus is one, Papple is another and we feel sorry for those living in Clappers or at Purves Hall.

Arriving in Berwick brings back fond memories of us sailing into the harbour in our first boat, Noggin the Nog, and hearing our two year old son Ben's voice as he repeated the depth sounder readings Kate was calling out to me as I steered across the shallow harbour bar. Some thirty five years later it is Ben who has prompted us back, this time to hear his band, Blackbeard's Tea Party play some loud music at a festival in nearby Horncliffe. Now there's a distraction!

The music is supremely danceable so once they begin to play the band are hidden behind a forest of gyrating bodies but we sit there entranced, proud parents who will leave late that night with ears ringing but no regrets. All this from a simple harbour entrance. Who'd have thought it.

Bobbing about

Eun na Mara is not a large sailing vessel. Ocean crossings in her would be difficult, not because the boat couldn't survive (she's a toughy with no qualms about going out in a good blast) but simply because the humans on board would need food and water and to carry enough of this would be difficult. Her little cupboards and lockers will only take so much and too much extra weight would make her low in the water and slow her down. So she takes us on short trips, and since she has a summer berth in Tarbert then this is the area where we sail, Loch Fyne and around the islands of the Clyde.

She will sail downwind happily, quite fast for one so small. Upwind she will go too but being so small, if this involves crashing into choppy seas then upwind sailing is hard work. The trick is to keep her moving quickly so her momentum pushes through the waves instead of bouncing off them but this is a mental challenge for the skipper who wants to gain ground to windward and tries to point the bow where he wants to go. Loch Fyne is particularly difficult because the wind tends to follow the loch, funnelled between the high ground on both sides. Exiting Tarbert harbour the choices are invariably upwind or downwind, no in between bits where the ideal sailing conditions lie. For a day sail I might choose upwind first to get the hard work out of the way early. If an overnight anchorage is planned, however, then the next day's forecast is equally important. A change in direction from one day to the next could be a real winner, played right.

On arrival at the marina I start with the plan I've had in my head for a day or so, sails up, turn right, head up the Kyles of Bute for one night, potter about, then return home. It's a scenery loaded couple of days, perfect. But as soon as we're clear of the harbour we are beating into a short choppy sea, spray flinging off the bow, strong gusts forcing me to clamber about putting a reef in the mainsail to prevent the boat leaning over too far. It is cool, the sun has barely made an appearance, and with this and the slowness of our progress upwind in mind after 30 minutes or so I review the plan. In between watching my belongings inside the cabin being tossed from one side to the other and hauling on the tiller to try to keep a good course I remember tomorrow's forecast. Today's south westerlies funnelling up the loch will become tomorrow's north westerlies, a crucial shift which, if I changed the plan, might just give me two consecutive days of downwind sailing, an unheard of event! Surely this can't happen.

I make a decision, pull the tiller towards me and ease the sheets, then we're off. Suddenly there is white foam beside me from the bow wave as we surf down the first of thousands of waves. I haven't time to check our speed but experience tells me it's over 6 knots, compared with a reluctant 3 going to windward. The boat stays dry and the gurgling noise from behind means we are flying. There are no other sailing boats in sight, just miles of sea then somewhere, up ahead of me a green concrete post marks the end of a spit of gravel and rocks. Behind this lies Otter Ferry, an anchorage where the lumpy seas can't go. All I have to do is keep steering downwind, eat the sandwiches I thoughtfully prepared earlier and keep my excitement in check till I can round up and drift into my safe haven for the night.

All goes well and once we are secured to the bottom, on a mooring, I can take stock and check the forecast again.

It's not perfect, rain is coming in overnight but it is quite warm and almost still. I erect our small homemade canopy over the cockpit, cook a meal then gaze around me. As I passed the end of the spit a trio of wetsuited swimmers was wading into the water and now I watch them arrive safely back at the shore having swum from where I had just gracefully sailed. Each to his own, I guess.

The rain arrived as predicted overnight, which was encouraging, and the morning came with a damp drizzle. Our little cockpit cover did its job well, keeping us dry. If the forecasters had got it right then around midday the sun would come out and the wind direction would change, a north westerly breeze being perfect for my return leg. The tide would also then begin to ebb, a happy coincidence (or else my perfect planning). All I had to do was wait, watch the gulls and drink tea.

Then suddenly it happened! The rays from our closest star found a gap in the clouds and flooded the world with light and warmth.  Welcome to a new world. Time check, yes the tide should now be on the turn and there are faint ripples on the water too, from a new direction. Mainsail up, cast off the mooring (thank you Otter Ferry), steer towards the end of the spit (which is now under water). Jib is unrolled and we're moving, slowly, barely a sound but there's a wake left behind us. The faint wind is flukey, turning slightly in our favour as we approach the concrete post again. One tack and we're drifting past it, bearing away and picking up speed. The hills are sheltering us no more and there's a fresh little breeze but this time the sea is flat and we accelerate smoothly away. Tarbert lies 10 miles away, still under a heavy cloud but we have blue sky above us, all is well in the world.

The passage home is quick, reaching along at 5 knots, admiring the hills, the absence of other sailing boats, and the warm breeze. 

The colour of the sea reflects the sky and reminds me why we live here. As I approach the harbour a large motor yacht emerges on a converging course which he holds for a while so I can pass ahead of him, then suddenly he veers to cross my bow, dangerously close. Priority to sail is obviously not in his vocabulary so he gets a raised finger before I'm tossed about by his massive wake. But it is just a minor event in an otherwise faultless day.

In no time the sails are lowered and we motor back to our berth, the first use of the engine since we left port the day before. I am still smiling from the two days of fast downwind sailing.

Sailing with Shrimpers part 2

'That's a pretty boat' is the most common comment we hear from anyone passing our boat. So what would they make of 30 of them, all at once?

Having arrived in Largs ahead of most of the fleet we get to welcome them as the skippers and crew arrive, tired after their long drive from their homes in England, and we can't help but notice their summer clothing, shorts and t-shirts, from starting their journey in the middle of the heatwave that has been affecting the south of England in recent days. Largs is at least 10 degrees cooler and the cool westerly wind saps away even more heat. Time for extra layers of clothing.

But when all are assembled and a fleet of 30 boats put to sea for an introductory sail around the Isle of Cumbrae the wind deserts us and these little boats can't even make ground against the weak tidal flow. Could this be a flavour of what is to come?

The real test comes a couple of days later as we move location to Tarbert, a passage of over twenty miles around the Kyles of Bute. We stop for lunch by the Buttock of Bute (seriously), eleven boats anchoring rafted up in An Caladh, a tiny sheltered harbour tucked away behind Eilean Dubh (Black Island), then we all continue beating to windward all down the West Kyle... but soon the fickle wind deserts us and it's engines on again. The Shrimper fleet slowly creeps into Tarbert, unaware that the event is secretly being captured on video - we are being filmed from above.

Click to watch the video

From this point on there is a planned itinerary of sailing and social entertainment for the days ahead, all predicated on ideal weather conditions - calm seas, sunshine and gentle winds. A glance at the forecast, however, reveals a different storyline and swift changes are made to the programme which involves tough decisions by individual boat skippers that evening before the barbecues are lit. Only a handful of boats decide to remain in Tarbert for a second day as planned so most of the fleet has to endure another tough day, sailing the twenty or so miles back to Largs the following day to avoiding the oncoming storm. Then after arriving they spend the next two days in land-based activities whilst the wind and rain blasts in, many making visits to local landmarks or National Trust properties. A lucky few catch a trip on the last surviving seagoing paddle steamer, the Waverley, and others take ferries across to Arran for the day. Not for the first time the Shrimper event has fallen foul of our unpredictable climate.

For us and Eun na Mara, Tarbert is our home port and having already made the passage to Largs and back once, the thought of repeating this in rather indifferent weather does not have much appeal. We decide to leave the boat for a while and move on board our campervan, Martin, and why not assist in shepherding a small handful of Shrimpers whose owners have decided to passage through the Crinan Canal, a relatively sheltered hiding place for small boats. Indeed without our presence a wayward inflatable dinghy would not have been prevented from making a passage through the canal on its own, propelled by the fresh wind.

The Shrimpers stop for the night at Cairnbaan, canal Lock #5, leaving us to retreat to Martin for a quiet night on our own. We head off for Knapdale and the beaver lake which lies to the south of the canal, a sheltered spot in the woods we have used before for overnight stays, but as soon as we stop we notice a plague of black flies settling all over the van - Ugh! Before even opening the doors we decide to drive away again to escape the horror. Perhaps these creatures have themselves eaten all the midges - we didn't stop to find out.

As it happens the forecast turns out to be pretty accurate. We awake to Martin being buffeted about by the wind and sit for a while watching the horizontal rain blasting sideways along the canal beside which we ended up being parked. Two days of this wind are forecast. Shrimper sailing is off the agenda but the socialising and holidaying continue for many. For us though, home is beckoning.

Despite wind being fearsome and the sea white with foam there's a bright sunny day waiting for us when we do finally arrive home, although even around our sheltered house the trees are bent over at alarming angles. We do regret having parted company with the Shrimper fleet - these sailors are good company both on the water and off - but local sightseeing on land we can do any time, should we care to do so and squeezing ourselves inside Eun na Mara whilst watching the rain come down has little appeal. We can see what is coming, thanks to good weather forecasting, enough to know that this particular spell of weather is going to be followed by another blast of wind and rain coming up from the south in the days to come. It is June and the sun, when it shines, brings heat with it. Without it, however, it is hard to imagine we are in summer at all. The wind whips away our remaining body heat and if there is rain as well we are not ashamed to become stay-indoors softies.

The urge to sail still exists, however, and several days later, whilst the Shrimper fleet are still living it up in Largs, Eun na Mara puts to sea again for a short passage to Otter Ferry, a sheltered anchorage on Loch Fyne. The return passage the following day will not be mentioned as the cold and rain returned in spades but the highlight of the trip does deserve mention, a beautiful sunset appearing just around bed time, a sight not to be forgotten for a long time.

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.

Land to sea

Longer days, real warmth from the sun when it shines, lighter breezes, all this brings on our sailing urges. Our elderly Cornish Shrimper sitting on her trailer under the carport down the garden talks to me whenever I go down that way saying 'When are you taking me sailing, putting me back in my natural element? I'm getting all dried out and wrinkly here.'

So who are we to ignore her.

But first, I have a big reel of rope, 60 metres of the stuff, which needs to be divided up to make three new halliards and a main sheet. [Non-boaty's bit: A halliard is the rope what pulls the sails up. A sheet is what pulls them into shape so they catch the wind. The various bits of cordage on a boat all have different names. Nothing, in fact, is actually called a 'rope'.] 

We're upgrading too. When we bought the boat a few years ago we're pretty sure that all the halliards were original, fitted when the boat was built back in 1985, and 8mm three strand rope was considered adequate. Indeed it has survived pretty well. But the rope is quite stiff, hard on the hands, and there are a few little nicks here and there, little frayed pieces, so we reckon the time has come to upgrade. The new rope is smooth, soft to touch, 10mm thick and is white with a green fleck running through it, matching the green of the hull. But threading all this correctly into place when the mast and the other spars are lying horizontally along the deck requires concentration and patience, without which you will end up with a tangle of twisted lines to sort out when the mast is raised.

Despite knowing this, it is time for the first mast raising of the season. We pull the boat out clear of the car port but no further. Since we live at the end of a quiet road this is a place where we can almost guarantee not to have an audience watching us, an important factor when you are about to try something as exciting as a mast raising. The process involves us both climbing up onto the deck (which is now high above the road as the boat sits on her trailer) so that I can lift the heavy wooden mast while Kate pulls on the jib halliard [again, this is a piece of rope]. We have done this before, many times, so we know what we're doing and surprisingly, there are very few tangles to sort out. The new halliards present a flashy look on an otherwise aged boat. Job done, everything is folded down again until launch day. It's all down to the weather now.

Ah yes, the weather. 'Today is the hottest day of the year so far!' It is blasted out all over the news so it must be hot...somewhere. So how is it that where we are the rain poured down from dawn to dusk, torrential at times, the wind blowing it horizontally and the sun never showed its face? The answer to this question lies in the fact that we live in a remote and forgotten place. Few people live here. General statements about the weather made on the national news are aimed at the majority, people who live in cities, and mostly those who live in the south east of England, which might as well be a different planet to the one we inhabit. We wish you all well as you swelter in your 27 degrees of heat, sitting out in your parched gardens praying for rain to water the grass.
But I digress.
Returning to the matter at hand, there is a combination of factors that must coincide in order that Eun na Mara can take to the water safely. The wind must be light and preferably from a westerly direction so that in Carradale Harbour we are sheltered. Anything from the east will pick up waves and push them sideways across the slipway making launching almost impossible. The rain must also cease (this is purely a preference - we don't relish getting wet) and then finally the tide must be coming in, at least half way up. This last factor is because if anything delays the launch you don't want the water to be disappearing downwards away from you. As it happens the lower part of the slipway down which the trailer must roll is covered in a green slimy weed which is like an ice rink to walk on.

At high water this weed is covered over and the operation can be carried out much more safely. So we wait, watching the weather forecast, letting the hottest day of the year slip by and hoping that when the moment does eventually arrive for this combination of factors to come together it won't clash with something else in our busy agendas.

Local assistance is on hand to ease our stress levels when we do decide to 'go for launch'. John is just the man we need, a practical sort who can anticipate things before they happen and doesn't mind getting his hands grubby. He has a boat of his own on a trailer in the garden of his house so there may be a trade off involved soon.

Now we just need the tide to give us a bit more water... so we wait, something which I admit I find very difficult to do. I need a project, a job to do, to while away the hours. Then the rain starts. Then it stops and the sun is out. What can possibly go wrong.

Time slips away and we drive to the harbour, Eun na Mara following dutifully behind us, and start the mast raising, for real this time then reverse down to the waiting wet stuff. A time lapse here. Getting the camera out is not the first thing you think about when you're hanging onto the piece of rope that is all that prevents the boat drifting away to sea without you on board. Between trailer and sea there are a hundred things to worry about but it all goes well, experience shows, and we even manage it in the dry.

It is late in the day when we motor out of Carradale Harbour. We have a passage of nearly 20 miles to the next safe harbour, so up go the sails and we steer northwards, a fresh little breeze carrying us away. It is cool and it gets cooler when the rain begins to fall but there's no going back now. We're sailing quickly with the wind behind us but the cold gradually seeps into our bodies until finally, hours later, the entrance to Tarbert harbour finally comes into view. Then it is engine on, motor in, tie up alongside the pontoon, kettle on, time for a late dinner. It is 8pm.

Once inside our tiny cabin the hatch is closed so the heat is retained, allowing the warming up process to proceed, and before long we are tucked up in bed. Job done. Eun na Mara will be berthed here for the summer, waiting quietly, ever ready for us to take on a new adventure.

Things not mentioned about small boats like ours include the way we navigate. Modern electronic navigation systems require electricity, invariably 12 volts, but we have no means of generating this. Instead we use our phones which use only 5 volts and we carry spare power in small battery packs that can be charged up from a small solar panel. The operative word is small but this doesn't mean less powerful technology. Evidence of this is shown below.

 Passage data: Distance 19.2 nautical miles; average speed 4.4 knots; maximum speed 7.4 knots!

Back to an old subject

The date is 10th September 2014 and, having just finished writing an entry for this very blog, the 'Publish' button is clicked and the words sail off across the Internet. Here's a link to what was written. The subject was vegetarianism, which for reasons I then explained was not a word I was comfortable using to describe our eating habits, hence the chosen title 'Neither meat nor fish'. So why should this topic be one to return to now? Perhaps it is because having spent many weeks on the road, passing through first England then Holland, Belgium and on into France, we are now in a position to reveal our revised and updated views on how each of these countries regards our long standing dietary preference.

Whatever your point of view, there is little denying that the last five years or so has been a period during which interest and concern about the impacts of meat eating as part of the human diet has heightened. Already, farming is the world’s greatest cause of habitat destruction and the global loss of wildlife. It is responsible for about 80% of the deforestation that’s happened this century, beef production being the leading cause of deforestation in tropical rainforests. Roughly half the calories farmers grow are now fed to livestock, and the demand for animal products is rising fast. Livestock farming has an impact on the environment and thus ultimately upon world's climate. In other words, climate change and the impact humans are having on this are now being directly linked to, amongst other things, our consumption of meat. Arable farming is more productive per acre than livestock farming, or to put this another way, we could feed the world using only a fraction of the space we do now, leaving more wild areas where nature can do its thing.

Here's another couple of interesting factoids:

 - Only 29% of the weight of birds on Earth consists of wild species: the rest is poultry.
 - Just 4% of the world’s mammals, by weight, are wild; humans account for 36%, and livestock for the remaining 60%. 

So has this knowledge given rise to any changes in people's eating habits, their diet, or their way of life?

Let us begin with the UK in general (there being no discernible difference between our home nations so far as we can tell) where even in the last year or so we have noticed some changes. In supermarkets now there is often a section entirely devoted to vegetarian foods, quorn based products, plant based sausages, mince, etc., plenty of choice and mostly marked with a little 'V' so that there's no need to scan the ingredients for hidden meatiness. Meat consumption in the UK fell by 17% in the decade up to 2019 and this is reflected in some of our own shopping experiences. Perhaps the only criticism might be that there is increasing confusion over the use of the word 'vegan' when referring to anything that is meat free. We eat both eggs and cheese as well as drinking milk and none of these items would figure in a vegan diet. 

So the UK is getting the message then, what about Holland? Here the picture seems similar - marked products in larger grocery stores - and we were taken to a vegetarian restaurant in Rotterdam, which means at least one exists. Some research seems to show that although meat consumption is increasing, after a lull over the last decade, the increase has been in other meats and less in beef.

Belgium is a strange country, in our experience, in that the culture depends upon whether you are in the Dutch or the French bit, so we can probably assume meat eating habits will follow cultural stereotyping. We had an interesting discussion with a young lady serving us in a small Belgian restaurant who explained that her country has a number of regional authorities (governments?) who barely talk to each other and probably don't even speak each other's language. She in turn was interested in the distinction between the UK and Great Britain, something we had to admit we could not explain, but clearly there are similarities in the way our respective countries are governed.

Moving on to France then, have eating habits changed here since we last visited, so far as we can tell? The simple answer is no, not at all. We encounter a strange look at a boulangerie sandwich counter when we ask for something vegetarian and finally when we were offered a salad filled wrap it seemed like the assistant was only too delighted to get rid of her last one, and after eating it we could understand why - it was ghastly! As to grocery stores, we tried many but struggled to find anything vegetarian, despite optimistically scanning the product ingredients, many times. This even applied to the offerings of so called 'international' stores like Lidl or Aldi. It seems then that, from a vegetarian perspective, the French are way behind us and somehow, sadly, we expected nothing more than what we found here. This contradicts, to an extent, the official figures which show that meat consumption in France is declining but if this is so then we cannot help but feel sorry for the vegetarians who live here and find it difficult to buy what they want. (The Spanish, incidentally, top both the meat and the fish eating league tables.)

There we have it then. Just our views, of course, and we fully accept we might be proved wrong but it seems, after all, that we might be living in the country best suited to our needs.