Day 10: Mallaig to Loch Hourn (Loch Hell)

Our final day in Mallaig began reasonably early, the final antifouling around the repair having been completed in the middle of the previous night under the influence of alcohol and staggering around in the muddy dark with a headlamp at low tide. About 50 yards opposite us, a large converted wooden fishing boat was being hauled up a slip in the traditional way, and round the side of the rickety old wooden boatyard buildings, a pair of sea-otters were having a barney. The Skipper and Seaman Finnigan watched intently, imagining what on earth these cuddly little monsters were arguing about ("I told you we should have moved to a quieter neighbourhood" or "You always leave the worst part of the fish for me"). As the tide floated us off, we followed a fishing boat out along with a large seal which had obviously cottoned onto the fact that fishing boats carry fish a long time ago. It swam alongside, looking hopefully up at the fishermen like an attentive, begging dog. For all it's industrial greyness, Mallaig was certainly not short of wildlife.

Seal begging for fish on the left of the boat

 After a quick stop at the pier to collect water and ready for sea, the prow of the Good Ship pointed out into the channel and we were off again. Crossing the mouth of Loch Nevis (Loch 'Heaven'), the wind was light and the sun just beginning to bask the shore of Skye opposite with a warm yellow glow. The folding bucket disappeared over the side mid-deck washing unfortunately, but otherwise all was calm and serene on the Good Ship.

Heading into the Sound of Sleat

We had decided to visit Loch Nevis' sister loch, Loch Hourn (Loch Hell), partly for the navigation challenge (the loch has 4 sets of narrows and a number of shoals and rocks to negotiate) and partly because there are no roads down the sides of the loch. Solitude was guaranteed. Coming round the Knoydart peninsula, the loch opened up before us, a sttep-sided fjord of lush green hillsides and barren rock. It was stunning, and it would only get better. Passing the hamlet of Arnisdale, we hitched over to Barrisdale Bay, before sweeping round under engine into the first set of narrows. Passing close by to the little islets was like finding paradise - not another boat nor soul to be seen, and further treasures awaiting us as the loch snaked further inland. The afternoon reverie was only temporarily broken by an RAF Tornado that came rocketing out from a glen at what seemed like little more than mast height, obviously using the terrain as a training ground for the canyons of Afghanistan.

Sailing up Loch Hourn

1st set of narrows. It only got better after this...

As we motored through the sunshine, seals appeared with the occasional dolphin, playing on the still, sparkling waters.  The shores were largely empty, apart from an occasional house surrounded by woods and the romantic air of isolation (and not a road in sight). The interlocking spits of the 2nd narrows soon passed, and around 2pm we were negotiating the 3rd, a slightly more tortuous passage with a long sandy beach shoaling on one side and a group of islets on the other. Coming round the spit, we noticed a commotion on the water as a shoal of fish jumped around. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, we dropped anchor under a sheer rock-face and put the lines out. It was a lazy afternoon, the whole place was bathed in bright sunshine, with nary a whisper to ripple the still waters.

3rd Narrows

 In spite of the wee fish biting, the bigger fish chasing them stayed away and so we abandoned the fishing after an hour or two and set off again for the final set of narrows. The pilot book describes these as 'extremely tortuous and shallow', with the channel being essentially a shallow river bed at low tide that snakes in a tight s-bend into the deeper pool beyond. We aimed to go through at mid-tide, when the Skipper had calculated that there should just be enough water for the Good Ship to float, and enough time for the tide to rise a bit should we run aground. From above water, the narrows is deceptive - it looks like a wide, calm expanse of water. But to follow the channel required hugging the shore for 200 yards after a shed on the shore, then turning through 90 degrees to the way you wanted to go (lining up a rocky bluff on the opposite shore), crossing the narrows and then turning through 45 degrees to line up a bed of flowers on the first shore again. In short, navigational ecstacy. With 2 lookouts peering over the bow (both of them in disbelief that we weren't aground, indeed Seaman Finnegan was ready to get out and push at times), we negotiated the passage cleanly and entered the deep pool at the head of the Loch, surrounded by steep hillsides and lush forests. A Drascombe Longboat, with it's centreboard raised, followed us through, indicating that what looked on the surface like deep water on either side of the channel was probably only a few inches deep, too shallow for even a dinghy like that.

Looking back at the 4th narrows

 On anchoring in the pool, the Skipper and Seamen Farago and Janus set off in the dinghy to explore ashore. The scenery in the pool was stunning, with the small hamlet of Kinloch Hourn at the head of a grassy river delta, and the imposing Kinlochhourn House over on the other side of the loch. Kinloch Hourn is the starting point for the walk over the Knoydart peninsula to Inverie, a completely isolated village on the shores of Loch Nevis which we would visit later in the cruise. The hamlet itself consisted of only a couple of farm buildings and a couple of houses, with one of the farm buildings being a B and B as well as a tearoom (which quite possibly goes for days without a customer). It was PERFECT, and the yard at the back of the tearoom even had a Highland equivalent to a yard dog, a tame Stag sitting calmly and watching the world go by...

Old Stone Jetty

Funny lookin' yard dog (with antlers)

Path to Inverie

Path to Inverie

 As the rain came down and the midgies started to bite in earnest, we returned to the boat for a solid meal prepared by Seaman Finnigan. As the light faded and was replaced by the moody gloom of the steep mountains around us, with the mist hanging eerily in the trees. The brass oil lamps were soon glowing cheerily in the cabin, and as darkness fell we could only wonder at the incredible day, and feel lucky to be among so few people to have visited this isolated and spectacular gem of Scottish scenery.

Day 5: Oban to Tobermory

Day 5 dawned a little grey and overcast, but with a building sea breeze to look forwards to. After a sterling breakfast cooked up by Seaman Wagstaff, a quick run ashore was made in the dinghy to collect some supplies. Motoring north out of Oban bay, past Dunollie Castle and Maiden Island, the stiffening breeze spoke of tougher conditions to come. As we set sail off the north end of Kerrera and across the Firth of Lorne, we began a long beat against the wind which was funneling down the Sound of Mull.

Duart Castle, South East corner of Mull

 On a long tack over to Duart Castle, the wind continued to build, and with the boat overpowered the Skipper made the call to drop the main (the reefing lines were incorrectly lead, a silly mistake that should have been checked before we set off..) and we carried on under reefed foresails up into the Sound. After a couple of hours of hard beating, we decided to stop for lunch in the shelter provided by Ardtornish Bay on the Morvern shore. This was a delightful spot, and as we sat in the calm waters, watching the white horses creaming past the point some distance away, the sun came out and summer seemed to return.

Ardtornish Bay

Following a quick slap-up lunch, and with the breeze moderating, the Good Ship pointed her prow back out into the Sound and full sail was set in sparkling sunshine. The remainder of the trip to Tobermory was made in champagne sailing conditions, a good breeze (though still on the nose) and long tacks up the Sound. The 'greenhorn' crew settled into their tasks admirably, learning both to handle the sheets in tacking and also getting a masterclass from the skipper in how to work the boat to windward efficiently. One of the tacks took us into Salen bay, a beautiful place where we had spent an eerie night the following season, but in the bright sunshine the mood was transformed. The shore of Morvern is steep-to for the most part, and many of our tacks took place mere yards from the wooded, rocky shoreline, with a variety of wildlife looking on. The sun was setting in a sea of reds and yellows as we approched Calve Island at the mouth of Tobermory Bay, and it was a serene sail to the pontoons where we were to tie up for the night, aside from some minor tense moments trying to reverse the Good Ship into her berth (long keel boats just don't steer in reverse...). The day finished with a trip to the legendary Mishnish, where the bar-folk spoke fondly of the visit a couple of weeks previously by the HitchHop duo of Brian Ferguson and Jim Campbell, esteemed adventurers and friends of the Good Ship.

Day 9: In and around Mallaig

The day in Mallaig began dull and overcast, not helped by the town's slightly drab demeanour. We had been told by the very friendly harbourmaster that we could 'dry out' against the harbour wall, and as the tide was already on the way out by 8.15am, we gently approached the harbour wall in the centre of town, picking a spot that would allow the boat to be dry in an hour or 2 but with enough window of tide to have options as to when to float off again when the tide returned. We laid the full anchor chain down the sidedeck to help heel the boat towards the wall, and set up a breasting line around the mast and a steel ring on the dockside, to help prevent the boat from falling the wrong way if she dried on an uneven surface. Before long, the boat was gently wallowing as she settled in the mud, before finally coming to rest, all 10 tons of her, against the harbour wall. The look on the tourists faces was priceless - surely those numpties on that blue boat didnt just accidentally run aground in the middle of town?!

The offending bobstay fitting...

Tide going...

Gone!

Crowds of tourists, eating fish suppers on the quay and discussing how they think we've messed up...

As the tide dropped below the level of the bobstay fitting, we undid the bolts and cleaned it off before the Skipper's dad took it over to the local boatyard to see if it could be welded back together again. One of the skilled metalworkers had it back together within the hour, and with the boat now high and dry, we set about bolting it back in place on a bed of polyurethane mastic (sticky black shit to the uninitiated). Rapid painting of the area followed, although this only got as far as the 2nd coat of undercoat before the tide returned, and so we settled down for a night against the wall, preceded by a nice dinner in the local seafood restaurant.

In between all this, there was enough time to  explore Mallaig and get some washing done at the Fisherman's Mission, a jolly sort of place with a cafe, second hand bookshop and showers for visiting boatsmen and the like. The cafe is run by a lady called Johnston, and while the Skipper was a the Mission the Skipper's brother was off getting petrol for the Seagull outboard from Johnston's Garage. A quick visit to Johnston's Chandlers to pick up a few maintenance items led os to believe that perhaps we were meant to be here all along...

Later in the day, Ma and Pa Johnston left for home and Seamen Finnigan and Janus rejoined the boat, and along with the Skipper and brother Neil we set about a mini pub crawl of Mallaig (easily achieved as all the pubs are within the ricochet of a tennis ball's distance of one another). The rain lashed down mercilessly over the grey town, but at least the cruise would now be able to carry on.

Day 8: Loch Ailort to Mallaig - Disaster strikes!

The wind had built overnight, and the next morning the Good Ship was bouncing around on her anchor chain like an unbridled horse. The Skipper took the dinghy ashore to collect seamen Farago, Kniveton and Graham for the trip up to Mallaig, but on the trip back from the beach it became apparnet that not all was right with the rigging. The forestay was slack, as were the runners on the opposite side of the mast. A quick inspection revealed that the bobstay fitting (that pulls down on the bowsprit to balance the rigging loads) had snapped on one side and was hanging on by a thread on the other. The trip to Mallaig would need to be made without the Yankee (the largest sail), although with a following wind this was not too much of a problem. More of an issue was whether or not we could get it fixed in Mallaig. The Skipper called his dad who would rendevous with us in Mallaig to see what could be done.

Heading down Loch Ailort, the wind continued to build, with the South Westerly Force 6-7 forecast building up a lumpy sea from the south and the sky a menacing grey all around. As we headed into the Sound of Sleat, the Good Ship surfed from wave to wave, the stereo blasting out the Beach Boys for effect. It was a sleigh ride, with huge waves and the wind screaming in the rigging. Big grins all round. As we approached Mallaig, we had to turn around into the wind to lower the main, and going from sailing with the wind to sailing against it, the battering we got at this point was pretty much as the Skipper had predicted it to be. Still, Seaman Farago heroically fought the mainsail into submission, and we picked up the leading lights for the entrance to Mallaig with little difficulty.

We picked up a mooring in the Harbour, whilst the rain lashed down unremittingly. Simon and Laura were heading back south, and the Skipper's brother was coming aboard, along with Ma and Pa who had driven up to help with repairs. The broken bobstay fitting weighed heavily on the Skipper's mind, it was below the waterline so any fix would require either lifting the boat out or finding somewhere to 'dry out' (deliberately run aground on a falling tide) in order to remove the fitting. One thing was certain, without a proper repair, the rest of the trip was in jeopardy...

Day 7: In and around Loch Ailort

Roshven bay

Saturday was spent on Loch Ailort, following a great slap-up breakfast at the caravan courtesy of Seaman Pammenter. It was another stunning day, with the waters of the bay crystal clear and the merest of whispers of wind on the still waters of the Loch. After some deliberating, we decided to head over to the Glenuig Inn where we would meet the rest of the crowd for an afternoon beer. On board were the Skipper, Seamen Finnigan, Kniveton and Graham (both greenhorns having never sailed before), Julia and her pal.

 We sailed to and fro across the loch, before attempting to nose the Good Ship into a secluded little cove, although the water was looking mighty thin behind the islet so we backed out again in case we ended up on the putty. Dodging the rocks at the entrance to Glenuig bay, the water was looking very shallow there too, but we sneaked in with less than a foot under the keel, eventually finding a spot to anchor amongst the moorings, safe in the knowledge that the tide was rising for the next 3 hours.

Glenuig Inn has a chequered history of late, to the point that the locals seem to have turned the village hall into a bar so that they don't have to drink there anymore (the reasons for this have something to do with the owner of the Inn coming up from London and obtaining the Crown Commission license for moorings, forcing the locals to pay mooring fees where they didn't before). The Inn itself has been refurbished, and is clean and well situated. They even have a badly painted in blue piano, on which the Skipper bashed out a few bars of Rachmaninov 2 before giving up in disgust. Still, the sun was shining, the beer was good and it's a lovely spot, being at the mouth of the pretty river Uig. After a beer or 2, the Skipper and Seaman Farago jumped into the dinghy to explore the myriad of little creeks and channels at the mouth of the river, sneaking up on sheep and poling the dinghy into the shallows as far as we could go.

Creek-crawling in the dinghy. Baaaa.

Leaving Glenuig bay on the high tide, all the previously visible (but unmarked) rocks were hidden, so it was a slow motor out, then on round the coast back to our anchorage from the previous night. Whilst anchoring, a local fisherman came over and handed us a bucket of fish, and the scene was set for the party on the beach that night.

Jules on the Guitarrrr

That evening we headed down to the beach and lit a fire in the gathering darkness, with Laura K gutting the fish and cooking them over the open fire. Jules got the guitar out and blasted out tune after tune, while much beer was consumed in the light of a roaring open fire. The midgies were out in force, but the singing made up for it, and as the last embers of the fire died down it was been a fitting end to a grand old day.

Day 6: Tobermory to Loch Ailort, round Ardnamurchan

Tobermory Harbour, Mull

The sun was shining and the sea was very, very blue the morning we set off for Ardnamurchan, the westernmost point of the British mainland and a major turning point for anyone leaving the relative comfort and safety of the southern islands. The Clyde Cruising Club pilot book describes the area north of Ardnamurchan thus: "Except for the Sound of Sleat and the Inner Sound and within most lochs, the waters north of Ardmanurchan are very exposed, with strong tides and overfalls off most headlands. Many of the Lochs are subject to severe squalls, and in the narrow passages between Skye and the mainland tidal streams run very strongly...As there is little commercial traffic there are relatively few (navigational) marks, and many dangers are completely unmarked". What it failed to mention was the stunning natural beauty of the area, or that the best way to experience such delights would be from the deck of a classic sailing yacht - but more of this anon.

A stroll through the town was followed by another excellent fried breakfast courtesy of Seaman Wagstaff, and with the Good Ship refuelled we motored out into the mirror-calm waters of the Sound of Mull in the company of a very small fibreglass cruiser.
 

Rubha nan Gall lighthouse

We were soon abeam of the Rubha nan Gall lighthouse, with a family of dolphins for sporadic company. As the wind filled in from the west, the Good Ship was able to lay off from the Mull shore and steer a comfortable course for Ardnamurchan peninsula. In a building breeze and sparkling sunshine, the boat came alive with a 'bone in her teeth' steaming back from the bow. It was one of those halcyon summer days, with the boat going like a train and the islands of the west shrouded in a lazy summer haze.

Ardamurchan Lighthouse, westernmost point of mainland Britain

The stunning but lonely sentinel that is Ardnamurchan lighthouse was soon abeam, and the unforgiving coastline made the Skipper glad that he was experiencing the headland in such benign conditions. The fearsome reputation of the Point is well-deserved, being exposed to the full force of swells making their way in from the Atlantic, and one can imagine the bleakness and austerity of a storm-ridden night for the lighthouse keepers of old tending the light. Passing the sandy expanse of Sanna Bay, the wind began to drop away and before long the sails were hanging limp, slatting back and forth in the leftover swell. The magnificent cliffs and caves in this part of the coast boomed eerily with each breaking swell, and we passed a couple of hamlets on the shore, nestled into whatever shelter the land could provide. Needing to meet a deadline at Loch Ailort, we motored into the Sound of Arisaig and into the mouth of Loch Ailort, the mountains of the west towering over the scene in serene majesty. Our destination was a small bay north of Glenuig, next to the caravan park where Seaman Wagstaff keeps a caravan. The scale of the chart meant that the Good Ship was shepherded gingerly into the bay with lookouts on the bow peering into the clear waters for any submerged rocks, and it was a relief to get safely anchored up in 10 metres of depth, not far from the shore.

At anchor, Loch Ailort

 The crew disembarked and made their way up to the caravan, and before long the 'crowd' who we were meeting arrived and dinner was served with more than a dram or two. The dreaded midge had his claymore out in vengeance as the Skipper rowed back out to the boat for the night (the anchorage was very eposed to the West and so the boat would need supervision in case the wind swung round from its current easterly direction). It had been a long but fruitful day.