“If you want to lie quietly on your own overnight, I recommend that creek over there.” Mr Wallace pointed across Loch Lomond to its eastern shore, where the entrance to a muddy inlet could just be discerned. We set the mizzen, drifted gently astern until we were clear of the other boats, and then unfurled the jib, turned and sailed gently over to the creek in the light of the late afternoon sun.

For two years it had become increasingly obvious that I was not to be permitted enough spare time for regular sailing, and in the spring of 1977 I regretfully disposed of Popatop, the Wayfarer dinghy which had given me so much freedom and pleasure. I had seen Mr Wallace’s advertisement offering to hire a Drascombe Lugger complete with boat tent. Now I had, for some time, had the idea that a Drascombe Lugger might offer certain advantages over a Wayfarer for the leisurely style of cruising which I do. As a result, we found ourselves slipping gently into the creek very soon after leaving the boat jetty. With some difficulty we erected the tent which, though roomy, was a complicated piece of apparatus.

By 1015 on the Sunday morning we had set the main and once again sailed gently across the loch to the boatyard in order to pick up the sailing directions, which I had left in the car on the previous evening. Once again we made a very satisfactory departure in a northerly force 4 breeze. The morning was warm and sunny, but there were sufficient clouds to make photography interesting. And so the day gradually faded as I successfully resisted Donald’s invitation to “climb a mountain”, and a solitary canoeist headed south down the loch into the sunlit haze.

We settled into our sleeping bags but, almost on the stroke of midnight, found ourselves obliged to turn out and do something about the lugger, which had started to rise and fall on the shingle as waves rolled in across the loch. We dragged her higher up the beach, using the assistance afforded by the waves, and retired once more, thankful that we could have no problems with anchors dragging if the wind rose.

We might be on a lee shore, but we only needed to keep pulling her up the beach until she rested quietly. And so I dropped off to sleep again, and slept undisturbed as the waves subsided almost immediately into a flat calm. Professor Sodde and his law had had a field day.

Monday morning dawned late for us, a low cloud layer cutting down the light dramatically. There was scarcely a breath of wind, but in compensation we were given the undivided attention of millions of flies. As soon as we opened up the tent they swarmed in and, as it was clear that breakfast on the shore would be very uncomfortable, we launched and then rowed out towards the centre of the loch. And it was there we cooked our breakfast in peace and quiet.

By 1225 we were on the beach at Luss, reputedly the prettiest village in Scotland. We looked at it with somewhat jaundiced eyes because it was full of tourists, and the only two shops we could see were full of souvenirs, for which we had no room in the boat. Donald topped up our water supply here, and we sailed again at 1415, having learned that Maid of the Loch no longer called at Luss because the pier was in disrepair and unsafe.

We sailed between Inchtavannach and Inchconnachan, pausing for a while in an inlet which was full of lilies. It was a pretty spot, but too shallow to get close enough to the bank, so we sailed on round Inchconnachan, finally arriving at a pleasant sandy bay on the west side of the island at 1615. Here we beached the lugger and prepared to stay the night.

This, our first island of the holiday, was superb. We decided to walk across it and find the lily inlet and, whilst we did this, were impressed with the solitude. Memories of Treasure Island flooded back, and we decided that ‘Lily Inlet’ was an excellent name for that part of the island. With a singular lack of originality, I led Donald up ‘Spyglass Hill’, and halfway up it we found a hole which had obviously contained the silver treasure. By now we were hot on the track of the gold, and expecting to meet Long John Silver at any moment. I am convinced that we would have found it had not pangs of hunger of gigantic proportions forced us to return to the lugger. After dinner, as twilight deepened, we constructed a fire of some of the old branches which lie everywhere in profusion, and even later sat in the flickering darkness eating potatoes baked in the hot embers. It had been a truly memorable day.

We sailed across to Millarrochy Bay, on the eastern shore of the loch, but the wind had risen and the waves were breaking on the shingle, so we decided to go elsewhere. The rain had now started to fall in dead earnest, and we headed for Inchcailloch, just opposite Balmaha, where we hoped to re-stock with food. Having secured the lugger on the sheltered side of this island, we wanted to explore, but we were too near to civilisation and six teenagers, apparently on holiday from Yorkshire, appeared. They were obviously bored and commenced throwing stones at bits of wood on the water. I was acutely aware that in our absence the lugger would not only be an excellent target. It had plainly already excited their interest, and I had no desire to end up marooned whilst they sailed away in our boat. So we stayed with the boat in the hope that they would go away.

After about 15 minutes Donald and I were getting wetter and the youths were still throwing stones, so we moved into Balmaha using the outboard, whose idiosyncrasies we seemed by this time to have mastered. Balmaha had a very convenient quay with just enough water for us to come alongside. Several cars were parked here, the occupants looking disconsolately out through misted-up windows at the many dejected-looking boats on moorings. I like to think that Donald and I brought a little interest into their drab day.

We stocked up with food and had some fish and chips. From inside the warm, dry fish and chip shop, the weather seemed even worse, and so we decided to move out and seek a congenial place to stay the night, well away from tourist-thronged Balmaha. We motored out, went south of Inchcailloch, and then carried on looking for a quiet beach. After a while the wind picked up, and we sailed through the channel between Inchfad and Inchcruin, following the shore of the latter until we came to a delightful inlet facing north. There was a beautiful clean, deserted beach facing us, and by 1530 we were drawn up on it and erecting the tent.

The final entry in the log is at 1700, and refers to continuous heavy rain outside, hot soup inside, and adds the information that we had changed into dry clothes and were once more warm and comfortable.

Neither Donald nor I slept well that night. After midnight the temperature in the boat plummeted, and we both tossed and turned, frequently considering finding more clothes, but each time deciding that the need did not justify the effort and returning to our troubled sleep.

By 1000 the sun was up and we were warm again despite a chill in the wind, and we were once more sailing, this time towards the western shore. We picked our way between the islands, through some of the most sheltered and popular anchorages, and then opened up a view of Ross Dhu House. From the land, this is only a name on a gate, but from the loch the picture is magnificent. We were reluctant to spoil our impression of it by mingling with the hordes of tourists, and besides, the wind was strengthening, and astern the summit of Ben Lomond could be seen for the first time this holiday. We sailed on to the south.

By 1310 we had circumnavigated Inchmurrin and were heading back to Galbraith Island, on which can be seen the ruins of Galbraith Castle. The sail round Inchmurrin had been most enjoyable, but we were acutely conscious of our wet gear, and decided to return to the little bay on Inchcruin where we had spent the previous night and to dry out in the afternoon sun.

In the evening, Donald and I explored the island and found that, apart from a couple of fishermen camping on the other side, we had it to ourselves. Certainly, although without the overtones of Treasure Island, Inchcruin with its north-facing bay interested us most, and was, we thought, as near to paradise as we wanted to be just yet. Whilst sitting on the boat we could watch Ben Lomond in all its different moods, and the sandy bay was shallow enough to allow non-swimmers such as us to frolic in the water in complete safety.

That evening the weather forecaster said with glee that temperatures would be so low that there was a good chance of the first snow of the season on the hills. We put more clothes on to go to bed.

As it had taken us two days to sail down the loch, it had seemed advisable to reserve the last two days for our return trip in case of a shortage of wind. The 0800 forecast, however, spoke of rain and moderate to fresh southerly winds. To travel north would be easy under these conditions, but precisely where to stop for the night was a problem, the best places all being on the eastern shore and less than 30 metres from the busy road. Only in the direst emergency would we go to that side, and so an insidious little inner voice kept telling me that if 40 miles in a day was comfortable at sea, 12 miles on a loch should be child’s play, even allowing for the fact that this boat was demonstrably slower than a Wayfarer in light winds. Despite the temptation, we rowed out of our sheltered bay and landed on Bucinch 20 minutes later. We found that it had been temporarily taken over by campers and, as the lugger was grinding uneasily on the stony foreshore, we deemed it best to leave. We sailed round to the north side of Bucinch where we were again completely sheltered and, with the rain now coming down steadily, reason was no match for that insidious voice. ‘Our’ island was just half a mile to weather, and we knew we would lie comfortably in our old bay. The southerly wind was already up to force four and, if that held, we would be at the head of the loch in 3 hours, an easy Friday morning sail. The charm of the islands had won! We started to beat back to Inchcruin.

Forty minutes later, with the rain dripping down our necks, we agreed that I should row the lugger the last 200 yards into the bay we had left only 1½ hours earlier.

After the evening meal, cooked superbly us usual by Donald, we walked along the exposed southern shore of Inchcruin. The loch looked inhospitable, and we marvelled that a landlocked piece of water could so easily turn into a seething mass of white horses. It was certainly no place for people who were wishing to enjoy themselves, unless they had strange masochistic tendencies. We walked back across the island to the peace of the lugger, and were lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves breaking on the south shore, so close and yet so different from our north-facing inlet. During the night the loch rose 3 inches and, although we were safely aground when we went to bed, we were afloat and riding to the anchor by morning.

It seemed as if we had done the right thing to stay another day. As we sailed from Inchcruin, the sky was only lightly dotted with clouds, and there was an abundance, albeit somewhat gusty, of wind. The trouble was that it was now coming from the north, and we were in for a hard slog. By 11.30, having sailed to the east of Inchlonaig, we were turning north when the wind almost died away completely. It was about here that Maid of the Loch passed us, her paddles beating the water in a regular rhythm, and leaving behind her the scent of the real old-fashioned coal-burner. Motor boats I abhor, but a real paddle steamer has a charm all of its own. The company running this relic of the past complains that it loses money on the venture, and so we may not see Maid of the Loch much longer, but the loch will be the poorer for her demise.

Finally the wind piped up again, wandered round the compass, and then settled down to give us a glorious close-hauled sail to Inverbeg, which we had abeam at 1230. From then on the wind became more and more fluky, blowing at times with great force and then dropping right back to a flat calm. Its direction varied by as much as 90 degrees, giving some excellent exercise in tacking.

By 1415 we were off Tarbet, beating back and forth across the loch and making very little progress. A searing gust of wind ripped down the side of the mountain, backwinded us and laid the lugger over. With extreme alacrity Donald joined me on the windward side and, somewhat belatedly, freed the jib sheet, at which she came upright once more. Undoubtedly the low sail plan contributed in no small measure to our surviving this knock-down without a capsize, and my opinion of the lugger rose even higher.

A very shaken Donald suggested using the outboard and, sick of tacking up the loch against a dead noser, I agreed with him. So we downed sails and started the motor. Progress now was comparatively swift, and we had Sloy hydro-electric power station abeam when the noisy monster clamped to the stern started to make even more noise, and then stopped. The process of refuelling deposited an oily layer over a few square yards of the loch and lugger, and then I re-started the motor. Plenty of noise but no forward thrust! I looked over the stern to see if the propeller had fallen off and was relieved to find it still there. In fact it was absolutely still, despite the best efforts of the motor, which was making a deafening din when heard in such close proximity. With mixed feelings I turned it off. In the ensuing silence we could have heard the proverbial pin drop. What we did hear was the sound of bagpipes drifting across the water. Unbelievably, the piper was giving us a rendering of Amazing Grace, which he followed with Scotland the Brave. Although this would normally have been an example of one of the worst aspects of mass tourism, coming over the water as it did, and in such a delightful setting, it was transmuted from the base metal of tourism into the pure gold of romanticism. How I blessed our good fortune in having a motor which chose that moment to break down.

We set the sails to take us the last four miles to Ardlui, and resumed beating backwards and forwards across the loch, several times ending up a difficult beat within feet of our starting point owing to the continuing fluctuations in wind intensity and direction. Despite this, we gradually drew nearer to our goal, and found time to enjoy the views of the sun drenched banks of the loch.

At 1750, on the last breaths of the wind which had been dying away for some time, we slid into the creek opposite Ardlui from which we had started six days previously. It had been an interesting holiday and, although patently not sea sailing, had nevertheless proved to be very enjoyable and different, with the facility to avoid tourists in this very busy holiday area.

The next morning we simply rowed back to the boatyard, and, mindful of the possibility of others wishing to try this sort of holiday in their own boat, I asked the proprietor, Mr Wallace, if he would permit DCA members to launch at his site, which includes a camp-site in addition to the boating side. He said that he would be happy to help in this way.

His address is:-

E Wallace The Flat-a-Float ARDLUI Arrochar Dunbartonshire Tel: 03552-22179

As for Donald and I — well, we decided very quickly that an existence without our own boat was quite impossible, and our new Drascombe Lugger will be ready for us in November.