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'.