Final Fling - weekend of 2nd/3rd October 2010

The final cruise for the Good Ship began late on the Friday evening in Edinburgh, with the Skipper joining Seamen Finnigan and Farago outside Drouthy Neebors pub on their way to collect Seaman Sewera from domestic bliss in his flat. Helping Seaman Sewera carry the provisions from his flat, the skipper wasted no time in banning him from taking his lobster pots and other fishing miscellanea on the trip...indeed having been glued to the most recent series of 'The Dealiest Catch', it seemed that he might try to stow a whole Alaskan crab fishing boat aboard given half a chance! After an uneventful drive to Kip Marina, we arrived to find the Good Ship tucked up safe in her usual berth, beneath a dark sky and sitting in water as black as oil. We soon had the brass cabin lamps glowing cheerily, and a warm dinner of filled pasta was served complete with sauce courtesy of Seaman Finnigan. A dram or 2 of whiskey and the crew settled in for an early night, keen to maximise the shorter hours of daylight the next day that sailing at the tail end of the season dictates.


Saturday 2nd October

The day dawned cold and quiet, and after a quick shower we were on our way out of the marina for the final time this year. Motoring into a stiffening breeze from the south-west, the engine felt very smooth compared to previously - this had been traced to loose engine mounts, indeed the engine had latterly been held by only 2 of the 4 mountings! Off Innellan, we hoisted a single reefed main, full jib and partly rolled yankee, fetching off at speed into the Kyles of Bute in a lumpy sea and driving rain. The sailing was fast, but for Seaman Finnigan it was bumpy enough to lead to a bout of 'mal-de-mer', his colour changing an a trice from pink to white to green, and his usual banterous mouth being silenced at once...

Mal-de-mer...

 Meanwhile, on entering the East Kyle the waves had subsided and the sun had come out, and with the wind easing and backing into the East we enjoyed a reach into the heart of the Argyle hills in the company of a larger, modern craft. Seaman Sewera took the opportunity at this point to crack open the first of a number of bottles of Jakey quality cider, and proceeded to finish it by the narrows at the Burnt Islands.

Seagoing Jakey

 Coming round into the West Kyle, we short-tacked our way through some gusts and lulls until abreast of Tighnabruach, at which point the wind came back into the South and rose to a steady Force 6. The Good Ship ploughed her way through the gray, white capped seas with no remorse all the way to Ardlamont Point, at which she just squeezed past the red buoy before we could ease sheets for the run up Loch Fyne.

Warp 9.5...

 The sun was shining again, and the boat sailing fast in the breeze with a rejuvenated Seaman Finnigan at the helm. The wind was soon abaft, and we gybed our way from the shore near Tarbert over to the fish farm North of Portavadie, and back again towards the end of the Otter Spit (which extends over half way across the Loch) and the small village of Port Anne, nestling behind a small island at the narrows. We considered heading into Otter Ferry for a look, but with the afternoon drawing to a close the Good Ship instead pointed her prow Northwards towards the entrance to tiny Loch Gair, our haven for the night.

Goosewinging up Loch Fyne

Entrance to Loch Gair, White Sentinel Tower

 The entrance to the loch is a narrow channel, perhaps only a cable and a half wide, with the loch itself being a horseshoe shape less than half a mile across. This makes it a very snug anchorage, and we were able to anchor clear of the moorings in 6 metres, with just empty shoreline and a stately but abandoned house just above the foreshore. Seamen Finnigan and Sewera wasted no time in purtting out all fishing gear, whilst the Skipper and Seaman Farago headed ashore, under the trusty power of the Seagull outboard, to sample the delights of the Loch Gair Hotel. Being out of season, the hotel was quiet, but a pint of one of the local Fyne Ales went down well and, after a short wait to avoid a passing shower, we headed back to the boat for dinner, the dark windows and stark profile of the abandoned Manor an eerie sight against a blackening sky.

Rain in Loch Gair

The fayre of the evening was once again filled pasta, and with darkness falling rapidly we retired to the cabin to eat under the light of the oil lamps. Outside, the wind was moaning in the rigging and the rain was drumming mercilessly down on the cabin roof, but we were snug and safe, and Robbie Shepherd was on Radio Scotland to add flavour to the ambience. Much drink was then consumed, and sea shanties sung, before we turned in for a well-deserved sleep whilst the storm raged outside.

FLAPS

Ahem...

Sunday 3rd October

It was a quiet start to the day, with the mist hanging limply in the trees and hills around us, the waters of Loch Gair a wavering mercury-like mirror after the speckled surface caused by the rain the night before. After raising anchor, and a quick circle or 2 to pick up a bucket which had gone overboard, we motored out into Loch Fyne, pointing South again towards Otter Spit. The hills on both sides had the last remains of the morning mist hanging about them as we motored through stunning scenery, eating breakfast under way as we went.

The Motley Crew, morning, Loch Gair

Leaving Loch Gair

Still nae fish...

Sun's out

Presently, the sun came out and a light breeze sprung up from ahead, and we slowly tacked our way back down the loch in glorious sunshine and warmth that could have been the middle of summer. Heading close by Skate Island, we bore off past Inchmarnock (one day we WILL stop to see everything that island has to offer!) down towards the south end of the island, the crew in high spirits (and filthy drunk) in the sunshine. Reaching along close into the shore, we had a great close-up of the unique geology along this part of the island's coast, rounding the rocky tip of the island around 4pm.

Tangfastics induced grimace...

The skipper inspects the rigging

Another rum, me hearty? Don't mind if I do!

The beginnings of a new sea shanty...

Easing off into the gap between Bute and the Cumbraes, we set a course between Greater and Little Cumbrae, reaching across towards Millport in the fading afternoon light. A large scale Naval operation was in progress as we entered the Tan, and we watched several Destroyers, Frigates and Minesweepers sail in formation down the Clyde behind us.

In the Naa-vyyy...

It was getting dark by the time we reached Largs Marina, and with the marina full for the night we were lucky to get any berth at all. The berth allocated was for a much smaller boat, and so it was with a good deal of careful manouvering astern that we backed into a berth that was just wide enough and nowhere near long enough, but safe enough for the night. A nice gentleman came down to welcome us in, saying that he had been admiring us as we had come into the marina. Conversation revealed him to be the first mate (and soon to be skipper) of S.Y. Eos, until recently the largest (and most expensive) privately owned yacht in the world at 300 feet...praise indeed for the Good Ship. This being the end of our voyage, the crew disembarked after tidying ship, whilst the skipper left for Skelmorlie, skin glowing from the sun and the wind and heart warm from a glorious weekend afloat. What better way to cap a wonderful season of sailing with friends...

(All photographs courtesy of Seaman T. Farago)

Day 13 - Leaving the Crinan Canal - the final stretch home - A Journey completed

It was another early start on the final day of our Western Odyssey, with the locks opening at 8.30am and our final destination being the Good Ship's mooring at Gourock, some miles away. We raced through the last of the canal, arriving at Ardrishaig around 1pm. With some boats coming up behind us also wanting lock out into Loch Gilp, we took the opportunity to pause for a bit at the canal office, chatting for a while with Emma (surely the most bodacious lock keeper in Britain... ) and her mother, who was down enjoying the sunshine as well. Emma, like many of the canal workers, is a student for the rest of the year, with summer holidays happily coinciding with peak season on the canal.

Ardrishaig had a lazy feel about it, and it was with some reluctance that we locked out of the sea lock and into Loch Gilp, motoring out through the channel into a building south-westerly breeze. Beating down Loch Fyne, although reasonably fast, was not going to get us home in time, and so off Tarbert we resorted to motorsailing under engine. The infamous shortcut inside Skate Island (infamous not for any difficulty of navigation, but for it's appearance in an episode of the Vital Spark, where Para Handy beats his arch-rival by taking the short-cut, running hard aground, getting the locals to off-load his cargo so he can float and then reload it the other side, all completed at a speed not unlike a Benny Hill sketch) gave us a handy saving in time, but on rounding Ardlamont Point the forecast South Easterly force 6-7, which would have had us steaming up the Clyde, failed to materialise. Indeed, as the evening drew near, the wind died away completely, and we were left motoring at full speed through the Kyles of Bute. It was almost dark when we reached Toward Point, the racing boats all heading back to their moorings in a stunning sunset, and the tall figure of Toward Light House standing as a lone sentinel amongst the wooded landscape. The lighthouse light came on as we passed, it's caring light sweeping across the sea majestically as we motored past on an oily calm Firth.

Passing Toward, we switched on the nav lights for the first time in the whole trip, and as darkness fell, the shores on either side of us lit up like christmas trees with street lights and domestic housing lights. It was a beautifully still evening, as the crew tidied ship on the way past the Cloch Lighthouse. On reaching Gourock, the moorings were dark but the clubhouse was in full swing after Thursday evening racing, although our late arrival meant that we would be disembarking on the dinghy, as the boatman had gone home at the turn of darkness. Seman Finnegan duly did 3 return trips on the dinghy with all our kit and stores, whilst the Skipper tidied up ship and made the mooring fast. It was 11.30pm by the time we were all back ashore, tired but relieved to be home after a long day. So it was that farewells were said, and the crew headed back to the City, leaving the Skipper to his lift from his brother. Back at home, the Skipper put his head to the pillow, and that was that...

Day 12 - Tinker's Hole (Erraid) to Crinan and the return canal trip

Our final day in the islands began early, the plan being to catch the tide along the Ross of Mull and hopefully hit either Corryvreckan at slack water or, if we were too late, at least hit the tidal gate at the top of the Sound of Luing at the turn of the tide. Sailing the West Coast demands this kind of tidal planning, where hopefully one carries the tide for just the right length of time, then hooks into the next (opposing) tide at the correct moment to facilitate the next stage of the journey. The crew seemed less than pleased at beginning so early, but once settled down into the reach across the Ross of Mull they cheered up somewhat, with Seaman Finnegan cave-spotting again and Seaman Farago just happy to be sailing.

It was a brisk sail at first, and with the open sea to leeward we could see the various weather systems spread out across the sky, with sunlight shining off the sea here, and a raining cloud there, with a variety of shades in between. For our part, we managed to stay totally dry, and though we had moments of grey, as we turned into the Sound of Luing, the sun came out and we enjoted a brisk sail back down towards the Dorus Mor, in the company of a little junk-rigged Vertue which fairly scooted along the shore of the island after jumping onto the tidal stream off Pladda lighthouse. We reached the Dorus shortly after 3pm, approaching slack water, and with the sun beating down mercilessly. The wind had died, and so it was under the faithful Yanmar that we motored through the swirls and eddies, threatening but far less tempestious and malevolent than during our previous transit of the Dorus.

On reaching Crinan, we locked through the sea-lock immediately, and proceeded to motor at great speed through the opening stages of the canal, hoping to reach Cairnbaan by closing time at 5pm. Alas, it was not to be however, and so we berthed at a secluded spot just down from lock 13, and prepared to spend the night.

After a short while, we were joined by the Vertue from earlier, and the Skipper got to look over some fascinating features of this clever little craft, not the least of which was a simple clip on home-made barbeque, the details of which were duly noted for further implementation on the Good Ship. Seaman Farago took the opportunity to take some eerie photos in the beautiful evening light, before we wandered along the tow-path to the Cairnbann hotel, about a mile from our berth for the night, for a quiet but well earned pint. It was dark by the time we returned to the boat, and after a long days sailing it wasn;t long before the crew turned in for a peaceful night's sleep on the canal.

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.