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.

Day 5 - Crinan to Puilladobhrain - The treacherous seas around the Dorus Mor - anchoring woes - perfect evening

Wednesday began with an early start to catch the tide through the Dorus Mor, a tight channel between the island of Garbh Reisa and Craignish Point. The pilot book notes that it is known "...not only for the strength of its tidal streams, but also for their complex and fascinating nature. Small whirlpools, patches of deceptive calm, swirls and overfalls are all present". The Dorus is the first of many tidal 'gates'up the West coast which must be met at the correct state of the tide (usually slack water, as the tide turns). It's nearby neighbour Corryvreckan can be heard booming from many miles away on Mull, and correct timing is paramount. The skipper had calculated that by leaving Crinan at 11.30am we would pass through the Dorus at slack water and carry fair tide (up to 6 knots) all the way up the Sound of Luing. But first we had to negotiate the final sea-lock at Crinan.

Overnight, a gentle breeze had sprung up, and having left the boat facing back along the path of the canal, the skipper now found himsself at the mercy of the Good Ship's inability to manouver under power in tight spaces, with the windage of the furled sails up front preventing him from making a 3 point turn in the tight confines of the basin. A line was lead ashore on which to pivot the bow around, although this was released just a moment too soon and the bow was blown off again. A great deal of frantic forward and reverse turning ensued, and finally the bow came round to the right direction, the bowsprit sporting some heather picked up from the opposite bank. The next boat in the lock, a smart 27 footer, had the same problem, so it was a lock full of relieved sailors that finally locked out of the sea lock and into the waters of Loch Crinan under a greay and menacing sky. But our woes were far from over...

We motored out into Loch Crinan over a grey sea beneath a menacing sky. The locking debarcle had made us nearly 2 hours late, and with the trusty 34HP Yanmar thrumming steadily away we pounded into the building wind and seas, spray flying off the bows with every dip. Brian and Melanie (friends from the boatyard) waved a 'hello' as they passed us going in the opposite direction onboard 'Alope', huddled together in the cockpit after their transit of the channel. We could see up ahead that the Dorus was in no mood to give us an easy passage through, and as we hit the tidal race the boat bucked violently in the confused, turbulent seas. The periods of 'deceptive calm' usually had the Dorus spinning the Good Ship in whichever direction she felt fit, whilst the short chop of the tidal overfall threatened to board the ship and take her to the bottom of the sea. The 27 footer that had accompanied us through the final lock ran for cover behind the island of Luing, whilst the boat ahead was suddenly doing 6 knots sideways as she hit the conveyor belt of tide heading North through the Sound. A number of dangerous rocks also had to be negotiated, a difficult task when the Durus seemed determined to sweep us onto them. We finally scraped through unscathed, the Dorus cackling evilly behind us as she spat us out into the Sound of Luing. moments later, we were doing 10 knots over the gound on the GPS as we heard Corryvreckan booming mercilessly in the distance.

Forgoing the sheltered pleasures of Cullipool, a labyrinth of sheltered backwaters behind the slate clad islets around Luing, we headed North past Pladda lighthouse, a lonely sentinel among the dark rocks and the grey seas. Soon the islands of Seil and Easdale were abeam. Easdale was formerly a slate-quarrying island, with a small population of miners living in small but sturdy houses which still exist today, along with a museum. The island also hosts the world skipping stone championships every year, the small shards of slate providing perfect stones for skipping on the calm waters of the Cuan Sound.

Passing the grassy hump of Insh Island, we turned in towards the top end of Seil, negotiating the slightly tortuous channel through the rocks and islets at the North end of the island which lead to the secluded anchorage of Puilldobhrain (Otter Pool), a favourite amongs visiting yachts for it's shelter and beauty. The anchorage was, as is often the case mid-summer, pretty busy, and it took a number of attempts to set the hook before we felt sure that we would not foul another boat if the Good Ship were to swing in the night. Seaman Farago wasted no time in setting off for the shore to take some stunning photographs, whilst the skipper and Seaman Finnegan lit the oil lamps and prepared supper. The scene was a stunning sight as the sun dipped beneath the distant mountains of Mull, reds, purples and yellows dancing off the ripples on the water. A lone otter popped his head above the surface, sniffing the evening air expectantly, before turning tail and swimming off beneath the clear waters. Outside the breeze moaned and the seas crashed mercilessly on the slate-rocks on the other side of the island, but we were snug in the anchorage for the night and glad to be there.

Day 4 - Cairnbaan to Crinan

Tuesday 10th August dawned warm and sunny, and it wasn't long before the Good Ship was again chugging away down the canal in the wake of Frank and Dannsa na Mara. The descent throught the canal was a good deal smoother than the trip to the summit, mainly due to the fact that the water is leaving the lock on the way down whilst entering it on the way up. Shipmate Farago prepared a great fried breakfast again whilst on the move, and it was a happy ship that made her way towards Crinan. The canal is superbly beatiful along it's length, especially so on the final descent to the Crinan basin. We passed through woods and fields, nature snuggling up against the boat on all sides, the bright white lock-keepers houses and neatly kept gardens providing further interest to the visual feast. One particularly wooded section lead to some swamplike by-lanes with a couple of small wooden cabins built on little islands. The first of these was a techni-coloured delight which could have been dreamed up by Hans Christian Anderson himself, being utterly gingerbrad house-like in appearance save for the multitude of different colours on every different piece of timber and pane of glass. A little painted sign titled 'Rainbow Island' completed the picture. A jolly middle-aged man emerged from the front door and called over how beatiful the Good Ship looked, and we returned the compliment about his house.

On arrival in Crinan, we decided to raft up alongside Dannsa na Mara for the night, and after a bit of 'this boat doens't steer in reverse' jiggery pokery we tied up facing the opposite direction, a decision that the skipper was to rue the following day. Showers were obtained from the Crinan Boatyard, a thriving, go-ahead sort of a place with many wooden boats in various states of repair adorning a traditional shed and slipway. Indeed Crinan itself consists mainly of the boatyard and the hotel, with less than a dozen homes to speak of but a beautiful and historic canal basin in which the Skipper's cousin Mike lives on his boat whilst commuting to work in LochGilphead.

After dinner, the crew headed down to the Crinan Hotel to meet with Frank and Tanya, and cousin Mike. True to form, Mike regaled us with tales of the canal (it seems that 'Rainbow Island' man washes naked in the canal...!!!) and of the various people and boats that he and Pat, his brother, had raced on over the years. The stories about 'bionic' yacht racing legend Bill Mackay were particularly well received, old Bill being impervious to the harsh cold of ocean racing after a number of operations following a racing car crash had left him without any perception of temperature. Very useful it would seem, at times. It was shortly after midnight and the canal was as placid as ever when the crew stumbled back to the ship and turned the glowing lamps down for a good night of well earned rest.

Day 3 - Carradale to Crinan, or the skipper takes the soft option...

It was an early start for the crew, not least for the skipper who had spent part of the night on deck checking the anchor. The only pleasure in an otherwise cold and lumpy night had been the amount of phosphorescence which made its way aboard. The dinghy painter had glowed like a glowstick, and everywhere the boat had sparkled as if covered by a sort of luminous confetti. but the morning brought stiffening southerly winds, and an ebbing tide made the decision to forgo the tumult of the Mull in such conditions for the more sedate historical shortcut of the Crinan canal.

A brisk sail with the tide up to Ardrishaig on Loch Fyne saw the good ship arrive shortly after midday, as the torrential downpours which had accompanied us up the sound melted away to warm sunshine. We were greeted not by the anticipated hoary old seadog lockkeeper, but by a couple of very attractive and competent female student lockkeepers, much to the relief of the crew. Some paperwork and a map of the canal and we were on our way through the first of 14 locks and 4 opening bridges, traversing what many describe as the most beautiful short cut in the world. It had been built originally in the early 19th century to avoid the perils of rounding the Mull, and is now the favored choice of yachts and fishermen heading up West. We would be accompanied by Frank and his most bodacious niece Tanya on Dannsa na Mara, Frank and boat having recently returned from a circumnavigation lasting 12 years. Frank is a small and wiry man who was in the SAS before succumbing to the call of the sea. We would get to know him well over the following days,the first of many interesting characters we would encounter on our voyage.

 Frank. What a legend.

The journey to Cairnbaan at the summit where we would spent the night was relatively uneventful, save for the skipper receiving a dose of karma after having some banter with some very slow cyclists...moments after the first jibe a large branch suddenly appeared in the cockpit. Nowhere in the skippers canal guide did it say look up in case you hit an overhanging tree, but somehow both mast and dignity survived the ordeal. The canal itself was stunning, weaving its way through picturesque hamlets, wooded watery glades like those from Tolkien's Lorien, with the river banks home to many of the Water Rat's brethren from Wind in the Willows. The only disturbance came from the crews as they got to grips with the torrents of water created by open sluice gates and struggled to open and close the locks.

The top of the tree that the Skipper 'bonsai-ed' with the mast ...

At around 5pm, we reached the small pontoon at Cairnbaan, the hamlet and hotel being less than a mile from Dunadd, the ancient capital of Dalriada, the first kingdom of modern Scotland. A quick visit to the shower block and the crew retired to the hotel for a meal courtesy of seaman Farago. Frank and Tanya joined us for a drink afterwards, during which Frank related the details of his epic 12 year round the world voyage. His wife apparently left the boat half way through in Singapore, although happily it seems that it was only the trip and not Frank himself that she left... after the tales had been told, we retired to the lounge where the skipper discovered a decent grand piano, upon which musical carnage ensued. It was probably just as well that the entertainments moved back to the boat with the guitars under the cockpit tent, and so it was that our first day on the canal ended with the gentle sound of guitar strings floating over the still waters.

Day 2 - Colintraive to Carradale

Sunday began with an early start under clear skies motoring down the West Kyle, the skipper dropping the moorings while the crew slept off the minor excesses of the previous night. A fried breakfast was followed by a gentle sail over to Lochranza Iat the top of Arran, a picturesque highland style village complete with whiskey distillery and ruined 13th century castle keep which once housed Robert the Bruce. The castle occupies a commanding position on a spit which almost closes the inner basin off from the main bay. Having picked up a mooring, the crew sat drinking in blazing sunshine and mirror-like waters whilst the skipper did his level best to chase the local seagull population across the bay with the microgay, a boys toys version of her bigger sistership.

The dramatic and craggy peaks of the mountains of the north end of the island plunge mercilessly into the deep waters of Kilbrannan sound between Arran and Kintyre, and with Lochranza as the last safe haven on the West side of Arran, and the crew having satisfied the skipper that they could indeed perform a man overboard recovery procedure (self preservation being of primary importance to the captain...) we set off down the kilbrannan sound with a notion that we might aim at campbeltown, it being a good starting place for a potential rounding of the mull of Kintyre...

The Mull of Kintyre has a deserved fearsome reputation, where tides from the Atlantic ocean and Irish sea meet in a narrow stretch of water which has claimed the lives of many people and the boats on which they sailed. Indeed a car ferry was once torn apart by the ferocity of the waves created by wind against tide. The usual tactic for rounding the mull is to wait in either Campbeltown or Sanda island (the only island with a population of zero which boasts a pub, the Byron Darnton Tavern after a ship which sank there). But even as the good ship pounded her way through the steep waves of kilbrannan sound, the turning tide and the rapidly approaching twilight had us scurrying for Carradale as a safe haven for a dark and blustery night.

Carradale has a tiny harbour which is home to a rusting fishing fleet, and with a lack of space and night drawing in we decided to anchor outside the harbour. A friendly seal came over to help guide us in, swimming around the boat and peering up from the dark waters with puppy dog eyes. He stayed with us for a good 15 minutes, before snorting a farewell and disappearing off to some comfortable rock for the night. It was a comforting beginning to what would end up being a rather bleak night, in spite of the presence of the ever watchful stars.The danger of the Mull sat heavily on the skippers mind as he finally doused the oil lamp which had dimly illuminated the warnings written in the Clyde Cruising Club Sailing Directions and turned in for the night...

Saturday 7th August - the off - Kip Marina to Colintraive

The day dawned bright and early, and it wasn't long before seaman Finnigan had Bacon and eggs sizzling away on the stove. Kip Marina was surprisingly quiet for mid season, and we set about propping the ship for the voyage to come. Electrics were rewired, provisions stowed and the skipper spent most of the afternoon at the top of the mast getting heatstroke in the ferocity of the sun, all the while wrestling with a recalcitrant vhf aerial and cable. Following a quick diesel refueling, we left on our adventure at 6pm, beers already cracked open.


The sail down the Firth was a fast fetch in the light of the evening sun, and it wasn't long before we were headed up the East Kyle of the island of Bute, sailing into a magnificent sunset over the hills and forests of Argyll. By 10pm we were snugly tied up to one of the Colintraive Hotel moorings next to the Burnt Islands. A quick dinner of filled pasta and we were ashore at the hotel, supping a well earned pint and making enquiries with the barmaid as to whether or not she possessed a g string to replace the one missing from the guitar... The skipper, of course, scoffed at such dirty sailor banter from his crew, although after a day of hard work he decided that shore leave of a raucous nature was, on this occasion, fully justified. The evening ended with a gentle row back to the boat through the glassy still waters of the Kyle, phosphprescence (a kind of photochemical luminous sparkle created by movement in the water) dancing in the gurgling bow wave and each stroke of the oars. Back on deck, lying flat on our backs, the pitch darkness and clear skies afforded a panoramic view of the stars, laid out like an infinite carpet of light punctuated by the occasional streak of a shooting star...