Day 11 - North Harbour (Gometra) to Iona and Erraid, via Staffa

The morning after our arrival in North Harbour, the Skipper and Seaman Farago set off in the dinghy to climb the nearest of the dramatically steep hills and cliffs which characterise the Atlantic side of Mull. Just getting ashore proved to be tricky, with no beach to speak of but only a shoreline of large boulders, most of which were covered in seaweed and so treacherously slippery. We finally scrambled ashore and made our way up through bog and heather, to the grassy slopes shorn by countless sheep. The top of the hill afforded excellent views over the anchorage and beyond to the Treshnish Isles, and also showed us why Gometra had proven a hostile environment in which to live, resulting in the relatively recent abandoning of the main house on the island. The bleak, raw beauty spoke of tremendous hardship for humans - this was Nature's home, in all her majesty, with few concessions to mankind. Indeed the only humans we saw were a fisherman and his family, who passed us in the morning, the expressions on their faces betraying wonder as to seeing other people there. The fisherman seemed to have a hut at the end of the bay, although this is most likely a temporary summer abode.

The only other evidence of human presence were a few old fishing nets abandoned on the beach, and the outlines in the gorse of the foundations of 2 small houses, typical of the highland region, with only 2 rooms in each. We slipped and slid our way back down the hill to the dinghy, and paddled out through thick seaweed back to the waiting Ship. Heading out of the entrance, the Skipper reflected what a wonderful place this was - our very own 'Ghost Island' for a night. With no ferries to many of the islands of the West, there are still thankfully many such remote places which one can, and probably will only ever be able to, reach by private boat.

The wind was a steady Force 3 from the Northwest as we reached down towards Staffa in bright sunshine and aquamarine-blue seas. It wasn't long before the basalt columns of the island were visible, along with two excursion boats moored at the landing place. Daytrips to Staffa start at around £25 per person so we felt smug arriving in luxurious style on the Good Ship. Although the seas were calm, there was a heavy swell running which would have made anchoring a dangerous proposition, and so it was with some reluctance that we decided not to land but rather motor round to Fingal's Cave for a look. Tackling the throngs of tourists scrambling along the rock didn't appeal to us either...next year, perhaps. The cave was an awesome sight - 'well up to quality cave standards', according to cave-anorak Finnigan...The basalt columns glinting in the sunlight, and occasionally showered in the spray of a breaking wave.

Our next stop was off the North end of Iona, the birthplace of Christianity in the British Isles. On entering the Sound of Iona, we anchored in crystal clear water off the almost deserted beach of Traigh Ban. Motoring ashore in the dinghy, surrounded by sunlight glinting off the water, we picked a spot to land and start a barbeque. Seaman Farago took care of lighting the beast while the Skipper and Seaman Finnigan set off to explore the rocky outcrops in between the swathes of perfect white sand. We made our way over the hill to North Beach, but with the wind direction as it was, the beach at Traigh Ban was far more sheltered, being almost windless compared to the stiff breeze being experienced by the north of the island.

As the bbq neared readiness, we returned and befriended a pair of Swiss girls called Manu and Barbara, both of whom joined us in food and drink on the beach. Manu had lived in Bunessan on Mull for a few months the previous year, and spoke with a soft western isles accent. The Skipper was, as usual, intensely proud when asked about the beautiful yacht in the anchorage (we had the place to ourselves), and happily invited the girls to come sailing next time they are over.

Following a hearty bbq, the Skipper left the crew to their own devices on the beach, deciding that a bit of sight seeing was in order (and knowing that booze-fueled carnage was undoubtedly on its way to the remains of the bbq). Accompanied by the girls, he set off to explore the Abbey, and the quaint village. Along the way, the large number of art and craft studios betrayed the island as a real haven for artists - not surprising given the incredible colours, light and landscape it provides. Compared with the barren, remote character of the majority of the islands on this side of Mull, Iona certainly seems unique - holy, indeed. Everything about the island speaks of wholesome goodness, from the Abbey and it's community work, through the artists and craftsmen, to the wildlife, the fact that all the hotels have their own organic gardens, and even the local wooden boats.

The Skipper spent some time exploring the Abbey, sensing a religious presence in the place, whether imagined or not. It was beautiful, indeed holy, and yet so many tragic events echoed eerily within the dark stone walls. So much history - a message of peace violated by bloodshed and violence, wonders of miracles tainted by the greed of mankind - it was difficult to take it all in. A lone swift darted in and out of the shrine to St. Columba, and the Skipper fancied that this cheery and friendly little character was perhaps a guardian over Columba, or even the spirit of the great man himself. Dragging himself away from the place, the (secular) Skipper vowed to return to this place again in the future, both to feel it's presence again and perhaps better understand it.

Back out on the road, the Skipper made his way down into the village, past numerous ruins juxtaposed with neatly painted and kept houses, often sporting equally neatly kept wooden boats in their driveways. Down by the harbour, he located what must surely be the most quaint Post Office in Britain - a small shack on the beach which handles a vast number of postcards every year from eager tourists. At 6.15pm, the last of the tourist ferries left the harbour and the island could rest again. Corncrakes, the subject of much controversy with the RSPB, could be heard calling in the distance as the Skipper made his way along the tiny lane between the village and the shore, and headed back towards Traigh Mor.

On arrival, he soon realised that the crew had indeed been enjoying shore-leave to the max, as they both rolled around in the sand in the last of the afternoon sun. But it was time to leave this perfect spot, as it was less than sheltered should the weather turn, as it was forecast to do. We bid farewell to our beach, and prepared ship for the short hop to our overnight anchorage.

The passage through the Sound of Iona to Tinker's Hole on Erraid was uneventful, save for the careful pilotage required to avoid numerous rocks and shoals in the Sound, many of which are unmarked. We got a grandstand view of the whole island as we passed, enjoying vistas which are only available from the decks of a good, stout seagoing craft. As we entered the narrow cleft in the rocks off Erraid which leads to Tinker's Hole, we dropped sail and motored carefully through an amazing, almost lunar landscape of gigantic boulders, illuminated pink in the dying sun. Tinker's Hole already had 3 occupants, but we were able to anchor securely and neatly at the head of the pack, and so ended what the crew would later describe as 'The most Perfect Day'.

Day 10 - Salen to North Harbour (Gometra) - Tobermory - Sharks AND whales!

We set off from Salen early the next morning, bound for Tobermory and it's brightly painted houses. It was a grey and dank sort of a day, but on arrival at Mull's capital we were able to have showers and do laundry at the excellent facility set up by the Crown Estate for yachtsmen. A foray into the town followed, the Skipper noting with pleasure that many of the establishments (including the redoubtable 'Mishnish' pub) were still there since his last visit during West Highland Yachting Week in 1999. The ship was re-provisioned, and petrol for the outboard bought at the local gas station. We also had a good 'swatch' at the only hardware shop in town, and came away dumbfounded as to how expensive it was. Everything, and I mean everything, was at least 2 times and often 3 or even 4 times the price it is on the mainland. Looking for some yacht varnish, the Skipper could only locate exterior (inferior!) varnish for £30 for a litre!!!! Gas cannisters were also £6 each...strangely enough, a litre of proper yacht varnish was found in the chandlers next door for £12, along with gas for £2 each...hmmm.

With the Good Ship re-watered and foodstocks replenished, we set off mid-afternoon into a light breeze, the plan being to aim for Bunessan for the night all the way down the other side of Mull. It was slow going at first, but the monotony was soon broken by cries from Seaman Finnegan - SHARK!!!

Surely enough, first one and then another basking shark hove into view, their dorsal fins glinting in the afternoon light. We watched them for a while, before turning our attention back to the sailing. The Skipper retired below for a nap when a few minutes later the next call rang out - WHALE!!!! A small whale was in the water off the port bow, although it kept its distance as we approached (no doubt it heard Seaman Finnigan's plans for it's participation in our evening meal), and before long was gone beneath the waves. Given the cost and considerable risk of disappointment associated with the whale watching boats on hire from Tobermory, we felt blessed to see such things from the deck of the Good Ship.

As we rounded the top of Mull, the sky and the sea grew grey, and the breeze freshened. Large swells from the Atlantic began to roll in, and we knew we had left the relative safety of the Inner Isles and were now exposed to the potential full force of the Atlantic Ocean. The boat heeled over and bashed her way to windward, sending spray flying and keeping the crew on their toes. With a southerly wind, the trip down the inhospitable West Coast of Mull was going to be a brutal beat, and as the rain came down the visibility worsened considerably. As we tacked between the ragged cliffs of Mull and the Treshnish Isles, the visibility reduced to the point that we could hear the breakers crashing on the dangerous lee shores well before we saw them looming out of the mist, making for eerie sailing indeed. The Skipper kept a close eye on the GPS, plotting courses whilst all the time aware that if the weather worsened, there were few places to run to.

As darkness began to fall, the Good Ship was barely a third of the way down the West Coast of Mull and the Skipper made the decision to find an alternative destination for the night, before the light went completely. The pilot book suggested North Harbour on Gometra as being a very snug and sheltered anchorage, being a natural bay almost completely protected by a large islet to the North. The only problem was that, in common with most places on this side of Mull, the entrance was very tricky, with a submarine ledge to negotiate and numerous submerged rocks. In the low twilight, we lined ourselves up for the entrance, keeping disoncertingly close to the rocky shore of boulders on the Port side, whilst watching big boulders loom out of the darkness beneath the boat in the shallow and narrow entrance. Once inside, we located the various rocks and reefs and pitched the anchor very carefully with only 3 times scope - any more and as the boat swung to her anchor in the night we would be in danger of hitting the reef, the boulders on the shore, or both. The light of the oil lamps in the cabin were a homely comfort as the wind whistled outside - for all we knew our bleak and barren haven could have been the end of the world, perhaps a final haven for lost souls before being carried across the Styx to Hades by Charon, the boatman...

Day 9 - Port Appin to Salen - our own deserted Arcadia - Lizzy runs the boat aground

The following morning was another mirror-calm sea under clear blue skies affair, and after another well-received breakfast served up by Seaman Farago we were once again on our way, bound for the top end of Lismore Island. The sun beat down mercilessly as we motored through crystal clear, turqoise waters on our way past the deserted settlement on Eilean nan Caorach (Sheep Isle). the old limekilns a shadow from the past, even on this sunny day. The Good Ship was soon round the top of Lismore and sliding down Loch Linnhe, our destination of Craignure on Mull a distant speck on the horizon. The day was lazy and hazy, and as we worked our way down the Lynn of Morvern, we chased fitful patches of breeze and watched seals laze on the islands.

At about 2pm, we were abreast of a particularly isolated part of Morvern, where in amongst the thickly wooded slopes which plunge down into the sea we caught sight of a perfect looking beach. There were no roads for miles around, and with the terrain being so steep, rocky and wooded, we saw this as our opportunity to steal a short trip ashore to our very own 'desert island'. Tying up to what we thought was perhaps a fishing boat temporary mooring, the crew despatched ashore, with Seaman Farago and Finnigan, and a delighted Ola all running off into the undergrowth to find a waterfall. The Skipper joined them as far as the pristine rock pools, then decided that the afternoon might be better spent on the beach sun-bathing with Lizzy.

An hour or two passed, and the Skipper drifted in and out of doziness, whilst the sun continued to beat down. He turned over, and opened one eye, expecting to see the Good Ship riding proudly to her mooring at the near end of the beach...but where was she???!!! He awoke with a start, and realized in horror that she was now off the opposite end of the beach, and dragging fast towards the rocks!!!

 With the other crew all away in the forest, the Skipper and Lizzy sprinted for the dinghy, frantically paddling after the Good Ship before she foundered. they reached the boat just in time, the engine firing at first try and pulling her away from certain disaster.
 
The crew had appeared on the beach by now, and it was apparent that the Skipper would need to leave Lizzy in charge of the vessel in order to go and pick them up. So it was, with instructions to continue to circle slowly just off the beach, that the Skipper handed over control of the ship to 'greenhorn' of but 18 hours experience of the boat...as he rowed back to the beach Lizzy certainly looked small against the backdrop of the Good Ship. On reaching shore, the others quickly hopped aboard the dinghy, and we started to make our way out to the boat. But wait...the boat was coming in towards us?!!! Lizzy had the helm hard over, but a sudden gust of wind was preventing the boat from turning at this slow speed, and she was heading straight fro the shore! The skipper frantically rowed towards the bow of the boat, and was just a few yards away when the Good Ship gracefully nodded her bow down, indicating a gentle grounding, and stooped dead, before slewing away from the wind. The skipper hopped aboard, and throwing the engine into hard reverse ("give 'er all she's got MacPhail!") she gently slid out backwards, the disaster having been averted. Later reflection suggested that the mooring was probably not a bone fide mooring but rather a lobster pot...the confusion had been caused by the presence of a mooring style pick-up buoy being attached. Damn fishermen!

The same breeze that had caught Lizzy unawares was now building, and we set full sail for Craignure, the boat creaming along in flat water, fully powered up and going like a steam train.

This was truly champagne sailing conditions, and it was not long before the Good Ship was poking her nose into the shallows of Craignure, whereupon we dropped anchor and set ashore in the dinghy to drop the girls off to get the ferry. Craignure was a strange sort of a place, with a few cafes and inns to catch the tourists coming off the ferry, but not much else. The sun was beginning to drop from the sky as we said our farewells to the girls, and headed back to the boat under the last of the petrol in the Seagull's tank.

Back aboard, we made our departure into a gentle evening breeze, motoring at first out into the Sound of Mull. The original plan was to make for Tobermory, some 16 miles away, but the fast fading light meant that we opted instead for the little bay north of Salen, tight in under the haunting ruin of Aros Castle. The castle certainly had an air of spookiness about it as we arrived in the calm of last of the twilight. The crew settled down for an early night, the Good Ship swaying gently to her anchor in solitude.

Day 8 - Bonawe to Port Appin - Lizzy and Ola join the ship

It was a slightly grey start to the day at the Bonawe narrows, with mist hanging limply over the hills and the waters of Loch Etive like a dark, gloopy mirror. Seaman Finnigan departed early to go and pick up his first mate Ola, who had managed to drive herself to the wrong side of the Loch. Seaman Farago set off under oars to deliver Finnigan to the other side of the narrows, whilst the skipper made breakfast. It was with some surprise, then, that Seaman Farago was gone for a great deal of time, and when he returned the Skipper was informed of his mis-adventures. You see, the tide flows strongly through the Bonawe narrows, and it seems that Seaman Farago's rowing skills had succumbed to the incoming flow. He recounted how, having rowed across the narrows, he could not make his way back down to the bay and had ended up being carried into the mouth of the river which appears on the other side of the narrows. A plea to some local fishermen to help him carry the dinghy across the peninsula and launch it at our bay had fallen on deaf ears, and so he had carried the dinghy, complete with seagull, back himself.

 
The skipper decided that such effort should be rewarded with a trip to the restored Bonawe Iron Works, once the mainstay of the village when the wooded surroundings of Loch Etive had provided copious quantities of coppicing to fuel the blast furnaces used to extract the iron from the ore.

Following the trip ashore, and awaiting news from Seaman Finnigan and Ola, we returned to the boat to continue fishing and tidying up. The little Seagull was ready for action, but it was with some surprise that Ross and Ola arrived from the wrong side of the Loch (again) in an ancient Avon inflatable dinghy powered by an equally ancient Seagull, all being handled by the bearded Bob. It turned out that Bob, who had chatted to Seaman Finnigan on the shore earlier in the morning after noticing we had a Seagull outboard motor, had found Ross and Ola on the beach on the other side of the narrows and had offered them a lift over. Bob joined us for a cup of tea, and told us how his little Seagull had served him for nearly 50 years, almost 5 times the life expectancy of many modern 4 stroke outboards. Seagull outboards are no longer made, as being 2 stroke motors they are deemed too 'environmentally unfriendly'. But, for the same reason that the greenest car of 2009 was the Morris Minor, outboard motors use far more energy and create far more emissions in their construction from raw materials to delivered finished product than they will ever produce during their lifetime of running. Hence the brilliant little bit of British engineering that is the Seagull outboard, with it's seemingly unlimited lifespan, will easily beat the 4 or 5 4-stroke motors lifetime emissions, even if the running emissions are higher. It's a brilliantly simpple bit of kit too, with very few parts to keep an eye on and little to go wrong. Take care of it and it will last a lifetime, as Bob was keen to point out.

Bob was soon on his way again, a cheery wave accompanying the putt-putt of his Seagull across the open Loch. We set off down the Loch under engine, and the skipper prepared the travel shower for a second use (it had already performed brilliantly in Oban bay). We reflected that it would have been nice to sail to the head of Loch Etive, but there is a power cable crossing the narrows at Bonawe with only 12 metres clearance under it in the middle, and we didn't have the chart for the upper Loch anyway. A local had told us that there would be plenty of clearance for us if we sailed close into the North shore where the cable was higher (it hangs in an arc), so this has been saved for next year. Save for a close encounter with some partly submerged rocks - a passing motor boat had tooted his horn to warn us - the trip down the loch was uneventful. We picked up a morring near the Falls of Lora and waited in the calm loch for the right moment to transit the channel. This time we went whooshing through with the tide under us, although it still looked like the water was calm!

 We then continued under engine to Dunstaffnage Marina to refuel and pick up Lizzy, who looked a little unsure at the whole boat thing but seemed to settle in quite quickly. At the marina, we met the owner of the Najad who had taken photos of us 2 days before, and also managed to source a bolt for the Seagull fuel tank which had dropped off the previous day. We noticed, with great hilarity, a boat called 'Clear Blue', and wondered why on earth someone would name a boat after a pregnancy test...

Following refueling and re-watering (and many complimentary comments about the boat), we set off into the Firth of Lorn, motoring against the tide on a flat calm sea.

 Passing Eriska island, Lizzy got a view of her work she had never seen before (she works as business manager for the IsleEriska Hotel which is a 5 star Island and Hotel resort), and before long we were round the point of Appin and taking a mooring at the Pier House Hotel, where it seemed we could get a jacuzzi as well as showers if we wanted. A good deal of drinking and banter with a nice couple ashore ended in a swamped dinghy whilst trying to do donuts in the water at 1am...and it was 3am before the Skipper and Lizzy finally doused the oil lamp in the cockpit and retired for the night. It had been a great day indeed.

Day 7 - Oban to Loch Etive - the treacherous Falls of Lora - at the Bonawe narrows

The seventh day of the voyage dawned bright and sunny, with the sea like a mirror under the pale blue, cloudless sky. A final trip ashore for some more beer and we were off, aiming to reach the Connel Bridge at 12.30pm to allow us through at slack water. We motored out of Oban bay and past Dunollie Castle on the headland, staying on the outside of Maiden Island so as to avoid some submerged rocks. The passage to Loch Etive was uneventful, save for the relentless chugging of the donkey over the flat calm waters of the Firth of Lorn. We soon passed Dunstaffnage Marina at the entrance to the Loch, and picked up a mooring off the Connel Hotel to assess the situation under the bridge.

Now, dear reader, it would bear explanation here that the waters under the Connel bridge, known as the 'Falls of Lora', are among the most dangerous and violent anywhere in the world. The bridge itself has a maximum clearance of 14m charted, and with our air draft of 13.8m we decided to wait the afternoon out for low tide. Hitting the bridge was not a risk the skipper was about to take. Having arrived at the mooring at slack water, we were astounded that a mere 30 minutes later the sea under the bridge was a mass of white water the likes of which one only sees in rivers, whilst the water all around boiled and eddied with whirpools and eerie patches of calm. Watching leaves floating past the boat at great speed showed just how vicious the tide was here (8 knots, or faster than the Good Ship can ever travel). The reason for this phenomenon is the combination of the constriction of water under the bridge and a ledge under water which holds the sea up on one side 1.4 metres higher than the other as the tide flows past, meaning that the water actually FALLS over the ledge in the only salt water waterfall in the world. They are as veritable cauldron of white water for the majority of the tide, and far too dangerous to taverse until slack water. The usual traveller crossing the bridge would probably never notice the wonder going on beneath him, transfixed as most are by the view beyond the end of the bridge. But make no mistake, the Falls of Lora are indeed spectacular, and mystical in their ways. We were later told that local canoeists like to canoe into the largest of the whirlpools by the bridge, get sucked down to the bottom of the sea, from where they get shot along the seabed by the 8 knot tides before emerging 50 yards past the other side of the bridge. A neat party trick, I'd say.

We waited in awe at the spectacle of the Falls until the water suddenly went flat, and the torrents were replaced by a mysterious swirling and eddying. At this, we dropped the mooring and headed towards the bridge, aiming to line ourselves up with the small sub-strut between the first and second diagonal main struts off the starboard end of the bridge. 10 yards to the left, you hit the ledge. 10 to the right, you are on the rocks. No margin for error. It was no wonder that we later leaned that they see very few yachts up Loch Etive nowadays.

As we approached the bridge, the swirling eddies tried to turn us this way and that, and at the crucial moment the boat suddenly lurched hard towards the first of the Bridge's piers. Full throttle had us inching forwards at 1 knot whilst 5 knots of current tried to sweep us onto the rocks. The crew noted that they thought the masthead was about to hit the bridge above, but the skipper was too preoccupied trying to avoid foundering. The Good Ship finally wrestled herself free, with the skipper thanking the donkey before lining up the next set of transits to avoid yet more rocks. But the splendour of Glen Etive was opning out before us, and it was rapidly becoming clear why the authors Neil Gunn and Mairi Hedderwick had both proclaimed Loch Etive to be the finest of all Scottish Sea Lochs.

The loch winds it's way 20 miles into Lorn, with the narrows at the midpoint flanked by the majesty of Ben Cruachan and the beauty of Glencoe opening out beyond the head of the loch. It is little more than a mile wide, and very sparsely populated, with only a few very pretty houses and the odd castle along it's shores. We had a glorious sail up the loch in a light evening breeze, past the ruin of Archattan Priory where Robert the Bruce is said to have held the last Paliament in which the Gaelic language was used. Every turn in the loch's winding path offered stunning new vistas, and very few signs of civilisation until we reached our destination for the night, the old Iron working village of Bonawe. We were able to pick up a mooring, which was just as well given the plunging depths of the loch at this point, and after a quick sojourn ashore (where we learned from a local couple that very few boats ever came up the loch nowadays) we settled down under the light of the oil lamps to a well deserved supper. What a perfect day.

Day 6 - Puilladobhrain to Oban - the Bridge over the Atlantic - Sunshine!

A thin grey veil of early morning mist hung over the water when the skipper awoke at 8am and started preparing breakfast for the crew. We then loaded the little Seagull outboard motor onto the back of the dinghy and motored round to Dannsa na Mara to pick up Frank and Tanya, before ferrying everyone to the shore where we left the dinghy above the high tide line. The plan was to walk over the hill to the bridge at Clachan (village) which connects the island of Seil to the Mainland over a narrow gut of water which originated in the Atlantic Ocean (hence the bridge's more common name 'The Bridge o'er the Atlantic'). The day was warm and the breeze light as we made our way from the beach, through the marram grass to the path, which is signposted. A short but pleasant walk later and we were at the bridge, looking up and down the picturesque sound of Seil.

The bridge itself is a magnificent humped back stone arch built in 1793. At high tide, small boats can pass under the arch, which clears 12 metres. We were able to buy milk from the hotel at Clachan, and also look around the photo and art shops which, curiously, are unmanned save for an honesty box should you wish to buy something. After a short pause for photos, we made our way back to the anchorage, where we bid our final farewells to Frank and Tanya, before taking the opportunity to explore the shallows around the islets in the dinghy. Clumps of seaweed meant a fouled prop from time to time, but we were able to see some of the nooks and crannies that big boats cannot enter, and it was with some reluctance that we finally headed back to the Good Ship to raise anchor and head out to sea.

Once through the myriad of islets surrounding the anchorage, we set sail with one reef in the main and partly furled Yankee. It was a fetch towards the sound of Kerrera, and a building breeze made for sparkling sailing in the sunshine as we bowled along, the ship sailing with 'a bone in her teeth'. One of our neighbours in Puilladobrain was a Najad 400 which was motoring at full speed towards Oban on our track, and it's skipper took photos of us which, on meeting us later at Dunstaffnage, he promised he would email on at a later date.

As we entered the Sound of Kerrera, the wind dropped away and we motored the final mile or so to the visitors moorings off the Oban Sailing Club. We moored right next to the pontoon, ideal for jumping ashore from the dinghy, which we did in order to collect ship's stores and view the capital of the Western Highlands.

Oban is a thriving town which caters for holiday makers, fishermen and yachtsmen with a large range of Hotels, a Distillery, McCaig's Tower (an unfinished folly) up on the hill, and a good range of shops. We were able to replenish all the ship's stores, and even managed a SubWay 12inch Sub each, before returning to the boat early in the evening. The Skipper managed a shower on deck using the camping shower,  no mean feat given the temperature of the water.

Seaman Finnegan proceeded to catch 7 mackerel using the line we had bought in Crinan Chandlery, and as night fell we barbecued them on the foredeck by the light of an oil lamp. The sky was filled with shooting stars as we ate like Kings, with the freshest fish possible. Oban had been kind to the fishermen on board the Good Ship.