An abridged version of the following account was published in Watercraft No 74 (March/April 2009)
I had long been inspired to make an expedition by sailing canoe among the Western Isles off the Scottish coast. I had read “Quest by Canoe” by A.M Dunnett and followed the fortunes of its two idealistic young Scottish nationalists, Alastair and Seamus as they made their way from the Clyde to the Isle of Skye, sometime in the 1940s, in search of the true spirit of Scotland. I had also read an account of an outing by the Clyde Canoe Club in 1874, following a similar route, up through Seil Sound, under the Atlantic bridge and the Sound of Mullbefore running down to Iona.
Despite the constraints of work and childcare, an opportunity finally presented itself. Greg, a free spirit who had given up his job to go cruising, and with whom I shared the ownership of a small yacht called Diana, would be at Craobh Haven. William, a tall Scotsman with a huge head of black hair and looking somewhat like a Scottish version of Jeremy Clarkson, said he was keen to come on a canoe adventure.
It was pitch black when the alarmclock went off. I can’t say I was much looking forward to it at that moment, but the tide would not wait. The morning was surprisingly cold for June, with a light North Easterly land breeze. We tacked up towards Seil Sound in the canoe, with the last of the flood tide in the dying wind. In the dark it was hard to make out exactly how much progress we were making or if I had the best tacking angle. William concentrated on keeping the canoe upright, warmer than me in his thick balaclava.
When Alastair & Seamus had come this way, they had got separated, running hard before “roaring gusts” of wind on the edge of being able to cope. Alastair had dropped his sail but lost sight of the other canoe. He feared the worst might have happened to his friend. In the dark, I couldn’t make out the small bay into which his friend had been driven.
The Atlantic Bridge in sight at lastWe were falling behind time. The tide was already slack. Down sail and out paddles. “sail when you can and paddle when you must” was Warrington Baden Powell’s advice to sailing canoeists, back in the golden age of the sport between 1860 and 1900. After interminable effort the hump backed arch of the Atlantic bridge finally came into view.
Where the piers of the bridge constricted the flow, it was all we could do to hold our own. A superhuman effort got us to the quieter water and a grassy bank just beyond the bridge. We felt we had passed the crux.
The tide gathered pace against us. In the first light of dawn William nobly shouldered the bow warp to act as a tow horse which was the only feasible means of making progress to Puilldobhran. Out in the Firth Of Lorn, the sun rose and with it the wind. We reached across towards Mull and made our rendezvous with Greg who had sailed and motored round through Cuan Sound in Diana. William and I were both very glad to burrow down into the warm cabin and have some hot tea.
Tobermory is a fine little town, with multicoloured houses spread along all the waterfront of its sheltered harbour, which is hidden behind the small low lying breakwater of Calve Island. By the end of October Alistair & Seamus had been stuck here for quite a few weeks. The weather was bad, and they had struck up a friendship with two girls from the MacDonald family farm on the small island. They had finally found the community spirit which was the avowed purpose of their quest, and perhaps found out something about themselves as well. We were fortunate in that William’s uncle owned a fish farm in the bay and had agreed to provide us with a mooring buoy for Diana to use during the coming summer. He had engaged a diver to connect a warp to the anchor of one of his fish cages. Our plan was to go to the town first and meet up with friends and relations and hopefully enjoy ourselves for a day or so. With the anchor down near the small boat moorings, we rowed straight ashore. While we caught up with all William’s family gossip at the fishmongers, and I made a visit to the chandlers for a warmer jacket, undertook provisioning, bought steak from the butchers and enjoyed the hustle and bustle of civilization, unnoticed, Diana took the ground. Ignominiously, we were stuck in full view of the town for the rest of the day.
We further disgraced ourselves that evening. We all had a good meal onshore, with perhaps a little too much to drink. I motored Diana over to the far corner of the bay with the canoe in tow, to pick up the new mooring. We wanted a quiet night, away from the prying eyes on the town quay. Having tied on, I reversed back as I would when anchoring, in order to be fully satisfied that the boat was securely attached to the seabed. Greg said “you must remember to stow that autohelm ram right against the back of the cockpit coaming or it will catch on the tiller”. I responded that I had, but that it must have shifted when I motored back on the mooring. A minor argument ensued. To prove my point, I went ahead and then motored back again, more sharply, using most of the available throttle. The bow lunged down into the water then popped back up like a cork. The mooring had parted at the seabed. We never did notice if the ram had moved.
From Tobermory we were bound for Loch Sunart. More fine weather. Greg got off to a flying start in Diana. William and I were somewhat slower to leave, but we both reached out across the Sound Of Mull with a fine quartering breeze. Halfway across, I was rather desperate to relieve myself. This is something which is tricky to do while sailing boisterously in a sailing canoe. Right in the middle of the Sound, there is a small bald rock called Little Stirk, rising just above the water. On a rough day , larger ships would be well advised to give this a wide berth, but for us, it presented the ideal toilet stop. Having said that, it was rather hard to gain a purchase on the smooth surface and prevent the canoe being swept past.
After this we settled down to a fast reach to overhaul Diana. In the right conditions, the canoe can be surprisingly nimble. The sense of speed is enhanced by one’s eye being so close to the surface. It feels as if you are skating over the water. Although it feels alarmingly unstable when you first get in, once wind is in the sails, balancing the boat becomes second nature. The beam is so narrow, that only small movements are necessary. Man and canoe become one, like riding a bicycle.
That evening we made a fire and barbecued the steak.
In 1874, the three intrepid adventurers of the Clyde Canoe club had been undecided as to whether to continue North round Ardnamurchan to Skye or back towards the South around the top of Mull and down it’s West coast. As the weather was good, they pressed on and left Tobermory in the evening. “The whole population seemed to have turned out to see us start”. A long night of paddling and confused navigation by the light of waxed matches, brought them into Loch Cuan. The next day “ A stiff breeze from the North had sprung up”. This settled their direction Southwards towards Staffa. When they got there they had the courage to canoe right into Fingal’s Cave.
“To get to the head of it without being smashed by the billows as they came thundering in required some sharp practice, but it was managed. The noise was tremendous and a ducking was enjoyed while backing out again through the waves as they came fair over the stern”.
Rather them than me! We decided to head round the North end of Mull ourselves, but for a more sheltered anchorage.
Coming into Ulva Ferry from the Northern end, with a following wind and the sea heaping up behind you was unnerving. The clouds were low and held a sense of foreboding. All the channels between the islets looked indistinguishable and too narrow, between the tall rocks at low tide. All looked as if they had a blind end. Running dead before the wind is the hardest point of sailing in the canoe. Although there is no great force tipping you over, neither is there anything predictable to lean out against in order to balance the vessel. It seems best to sit low down in the bottom of the boat, but one must be ready to spring up onto either sidedeck at short notice if required. Fortunately the channel we chose was not a cul-de-sac. After a sharp turn and avoiding a rock, the water became smoother. By the time the ferry itself was reached, the water was like glass. You felt you could touch the multicoloured seaweed on the bottom. Diana was at anchor somewhat beyond this, just off a steep gulley, down which mangled and rusting cars had been tipped. I find it strange that people are prepared to ruin such a pristine, natural, location with their rubbish. William, however, must have liked the place. Unbeknownst to us then, he would, in future years, buy an abandoned stone barn near here and rebuild it as a fine house, with a view out towards the outer Hebrides.
The next day William and I felt like a break from sailing. We put on our climbing boots instead and made a traverse of Ben More, Mull’s highest mountain.
Greg, who is always happiest pottering on the boat, towed the canoe behind Diana, round Ardmeanach and met us on the Loch Scridain side. As we strode down in the afternoon sun, we could see him working his way up the loch far below. Out in the distance, we could also see Iona, our ultimate destination.
Iona has a magical quality. One could imagine that this was the last resting place. Nothing might exist beyond Iona, as far as the eye can see, to the Western horizon. In the strong yellow light of the slowly setting sun, the rocks off Fionnport take on a pinkish hue. Although we had arrived, I wanted to keep sailing on and on, exploring the rocks and islets until the moment when the sun finally set. Of course, when it does, you wish you were already cosily arranged for the night.
The provisions had now run very low, particularly the bread. The most plentiful ingredient for a meal was smoked trout. We still had two packets of this, a free gift from William’s uncle in Tobermory. Hence the meal was to be cold smoked trout, made into sandwiches thus: two pieces of trout on the outside smothering a small slice of lemon in the middle.
From here, Rambler, Monsoon and Lark the three canoes from the Clyde club had returned on board the ferry Dunvegan Castle, with their canoes stowed inside the ship’s lifeboats. For us it was back to Oban and put the canoe on the car, leaving Greg in Diana to explore Skye and the outer Hebrides on his own for the rest of the summer.
