SUNDAY, 13 JULY 1986 - IONA to FINGAL's CAVE and GOMETRA Woke at 6.05, to find we'd missed the shipping forecast. A grey, misty morning. Set sail at 07.55 with following wind, SSE2 visibility 2 ½ miles. Low hills in cloud. At 8.30 am we cleared Eilean Annraidh, a small islet off the NE tip of Iona and laid a course for Staffa. Ten minutes later Staffa appeared fine on the port bow. At 9.00 am Staffa again disappeared into the mist.

John, helming with his eye on the compass, had said, "Tell me when you next sight Staffa". At 9.30 am Staffa loomed out of the mist, fine on the port bow and very close. I informed him it was in sight, but unknown to me, he didn't look up. We continued on the same course for another five minutes until ...

"John - I can see breakers ahead - I think there are rocks!" … “Good grief Liz - you didn't tell me we were that close!"

Well - how was I to know he hadn't looked for himself!

At 9.45 we arrived, bang on our ETA, and hove-to off the cave entrance to eat a bannock for breakfast. Staffa looked dark and awesome in the mist, like a huge and slightly lop-sided organ. Our early arrival had been calculated to give us time to see the island and the cave before the tourist boats arrived. We assumed the mist would clear later; unfortunately it didn't.

John was keen to take "Black Swan" into the cave. I thought it too rough. The wind had increased to F4 and quite a swell was running. We investigated a landing by Clam Shell cave, but there was real danger of "Black Swan" being pounded against the rocks. Then we lowered sail and rowed about, getting the feel of rowing in the swell, and investigated a couple of other possible landing places, but they were all too risky. Eventually John convinced me he could safely row into the cave. The ceiling is very high so there were no fears for the mast, but the channel is too narrow for turning. We entered stern first, John skillfully negotiating the rocks at the entrance. Apparently when it is calm one can land on a beach at the head of the cave, but today we didn't dare go in so far. John kept "Black Swan" as steady as possible as we surged back and forth about 10 ft. in the swell, while I stood by the mast taking photos. Unfortunately my camera had no flash so the results were somewhat dark. When we emerged, John rowing, myself standing by the mast shouting directions, there was the first tourist boat hove-to outside, its passengers lining the rail, cameras at the ready! We waved and they all cheered. They were clearly astonished at our sudden appearance.

We did eventually land in a more sheltered bay to the west of the cave, on a large slab of rock rather like a stone jetty. I dropped an anchor in the middle of the bay and let "Black Swan" fall back till we were not quite touching the rock, hung one of my inflated boat rollers over the transom, and scrambled ashore with a line. John weighted the anchor warp with the spare anchor to hold the boat off the "Quay". Then we set off to explore on foot. I found the walking route into the cave far more frightening than going in by boat. By now the weather was most unpleasant, with a heavy drizzle falling which made the rocks very slippery for walking on in wellies. On one of the wider stretches of hexagonal pavement I fell flat on my back. The path into the cave is very narrow and definitely not for high healed shoes or the faint hearted. There is a rope grab rail, but the posts supporting it were cemented into concrete which in some places had broken away from the rock. I felt safer holding the rock itself.

Apparently there is a button to press which will play Mendelssohn's "Fingal's Cave" Overture, but we didn't know that, although John admitted later he thought he'd heard music (some of the tourists had got there before us). But when I'd penetrated as far as I dared, and John was back at the entrance, I decided to try the acoustics so sang a couple of verses of "Eternal Father, Strong to Save" - it seemed appropriate somehow! My voice sounded squeaky and inadequate in that vast chasm.

"How was that?" I asked John later, expecting his usual ribald comment about my singing. "Terrific - it sounded like a whole choir in there!"

We hurried back to "Black Swan" because the tide was ebbing and we didn't want her drying out on a bed of rocks; also, we were anxious to catch the 13.55 Shipping Forecast. We rowed into deeper water, had lunch and discussed what to do next. Staffa is no place to spend the night in a small boat. Our plan had been the Treshnish Isles, but although the forecast was only S-SW 3-4, the weather seemed to be deteriorating; it was now raining steadily and was still very misty; if we missed Lunga, we'd be amongst rocks. Also we were uncertain what sort of landing we'd find. We finally decided on a land-locked bay on the NW coast of Gometra, which is a small island off the Western end of Ulva, the two islands together forming the southern shores of Loch Tuath.

At 2.30 pm we left Staffa on a bearing of 020°M, sailing at about 2 knots with a following wind. The rain had stopped but visibility was still very poor. At 3.45 pm we sighted Little Colonsay about a mile to starboard. At 5 pm we entered the harbour on the Western shore of Gometra. It is protected by the small island of Eilean Dioghlum and the entrance is to the north of it. There are rocks all along the edges of the channel, and a few large ones on the West side of the entrance. The CCC Sailing Directions state, "Going in, the port hand must be kept". The bottom is largely sandy with long strands of weed in the shallower parts. There was one yacht anchored inside, and a couple more came in later. During our stay a number of yachts came and went, but I noticed that none of the crew of any of them went ashore.

I was dismayed to see a couple of ugly modern motor yachts with Hamble registrations anchored in one corner, but felt better later when we met a Scotsman employed by the English owner of the island to mind the animals being bred there. He told us those boats were badly designed for the local conditions; both had broken down and were awaiting spare parts, and had inadequate stowage for ferrying the sort of equipment one needs on a remote island. For shopping he preferred his little sailing dinghy.

At low tide the weed on the bottom was breaking the surface and I found it hard to dismiss the illusion that I was anchored in a large duck pond!

In the middle of the night I woke, apparently sweating profusely. Feeling damp and uncomfortable I sat up to discover that my sleeping bag was soaking wet. At the time it wasn't even raining, so we could only deduce that the mist condensing on the mast was running down onto the deck and thence dripping onto my sleeping bag.

Next morning, Monday, 14th July 1986, dawned wet and windy so we stayed on board under the tent all day. Around noon we realised the anchor was dragging, so it was down tent, out oars, row back and re-anchor rather more carefully. At this moment the burgee halyard chose to break and burgee came whistling past my ears. It was cold, wet and unpleasant outside, so tent was hastily re-erected and the mopping up process begun again. We amused ourselves watching the deer on shore swimming round the end of a very high fence presumably built to keep them out. One tiny fawn was too frightened to enter the water, and much agitated bleating went on till mother returned to his side of the fence.

Tuesday at first seemed no better than Monday, and the first hints of a gale warning were heard on the radio, which did nothing to improve morale. As the morning wore on, however, the sky cleared and it turned into a beautiful day. But for the forecast, it seemed a perfect day to go to Lunga, but it's not sensible to set off for an unknown and exposed anchorage with bad weather threatening. John had got out of his bunk on the wrong side and was not good company today, so I inflated my toy dinghy and rowed ashore alone to explore Gometra. I landed at a little stone jetty in a sheltered corner of the harbour. A pretty little clinker dinghy was bobbing on a mooring nearby; her spars laid out on the quay. In addition to the deer, I discovered cattle and goats grazing on the hills. There was a patch of level, soft grass near the water's edge ideal for pitching a tent, and a stream for fresh water. It was a lovely place.

Later I returned with John. We rowed "Black Swan" ashore and rigged her with a pulley arrangement to the anchor so we could moor her off the quay, but get aboard when necessary. While engaged on this exercise we met for the first time the warden of the island, who was also the owner of the little dinghy I'd noticed, and a keen naturalist. He showed us a rare plant he'd discovered, "Moonwort", and I was thankful I hadn't pitched my tent on the patch of grass where that was growing! The 17.10 shipping forecast was SW Gale 8-9! Well, we had a good hurricane hole here, but so far the sun was shining brightly and the sea was like a millpond. We decided that if the gale had not arrived by morning we would sail. However, the first gusts rattled the tent while supper was cooking over an open fire.

On Wednesday morning the gale had arrived. There was no question of sailing anywhere. Instead we climbed Gometra's highest hill, 511 ft. We had sunshine interspersed with torrential showers, but found we could keep dry by crouching in the lee of big boulders and rocks; as the rain was horizontal, it missed us completely. At the top we had splendid views of all the surrounding islands, and could see the whole of Gometra spread beneath us. I wanted to walk right across to the Sound of Ulva, but was worried about "Black Swan" and also my tent in the increasing wind, now so strong we could lean on it.

When we returned we found "Black Swan" safe enough, but my tent was taking a buffeting and would have to be moved; before I could do so it blew down. I knew then the Force 9 had arrived. My tent has stood up well to many Force 8's over the years, but Force 9 was just more than it could take. We re-pitched inside a little roofless building and I felt so secure that night that, on waking, I thought I was in bed at home.

THURSDAY, 17th JULY 1986 - GOMETRA TO ARDTORNISH BAY, SOUND OF MULL The gale had moderated to about F6. Forecast was still talking about F8-9, but we knew the worst had passed. John was anxious to sail, knowing that we needed to be back at Connell by Friday night if possible. I was not at all keen and wanted to let the sea moderate first.

I walked to the shore to inspect the sea state and had to admit it didn't look too bad, but felt sure it would seem worse from the cockpit of a small dinghy. Of course as usual the tide was right for an early morning start; by waiting till later we would miss the tide. John was chivvying me to pack up and make ready to leave. I'm afraid I deliberately took my time and consequently when we did leave at 1.30 pm the tide was against us. All we had to do was beat across Loch Tuath and round Treshnish Point, then we would have a fair wind...but the chart shows overfalls off Treshnish; what would they be like in this weather ...?

We started with reefed main only, but finding that insufficient, quickly released the jib. Outside in the Loch the waves were big, but not breaking. All went well at first, then, out in the middle of the loch an extra large wave passed under us - "Black Swan" heeled alarmingly and we scrambled up onto the weather gunwale; for a few split seconds I thought, "I don't like this - I want to go back!" - then - as we regained equilibrium there was an unpleasant sound of splintering wood ...

"What was that?" "I don't know ... back the b----- jib!"

From then on we had to back the jib every time we tacked. I watched the bilge water carefully for a while, but we didn't seem to be leaking. There were occasional mysterious bumping noises for a while, then another splintering sound, and that was the last time we heard it. From then on the concentration required for sailing the boat pushed it from our minds.

"The window has blown out of the jib!" …. "Get it in then!" "It's OK, it's only the Polythene, it won't tear any further!"

I realised John was having problems tacking, and without the jib to back it might prove even more difficult. And so, with our strangely reefed jib we carried on ... and on ... and on ... making about a foot over the ground on each tack, but at least we weren’t going backwards. We listened to the 13.55 shipping forecast, "Gale 8-9 at first, then moderating 5-6"; but the report from Tiree, which island we could clearly see, was only F6. It was obvious the weather was improving. Four hours later we heard the 17.50 forecast, NW 5-6, backing S4. Report from Tiree was NW4. We were still struggling to round Treshnish Point!

At 7 pm I could look back up the Loch - we had made it! - I suddenly experienced a feeling of pure joy - the sky had cleared and here I was in my own little boat on a tumbling sea, white crests glistening, gazing up a beautiful loch, the mountains of Mull blue in the distance and the sun shining overhead. At last we could free off onto a reach and then a run as we rounded the NW corner of Mull. If there were any overfalls off Treshnish Point we scarcely noticed them compared to what we'd been experiencing all day.

"Better get the plate up", said John, "that is, if there's any left. I've a feeling it's dropped off!"

It had! All that was left in the slot was a jagged edge. There had been none of it under the boat at all. It was a wonder we'd been able to hold our ground, let alone make progress! We both admitted then that we'd privately feared the worst, but had refused to admit defeat. John said he'd worried I'd decide to go back, but once I'd realised we were coping, I was as keen to carry on as he was. In retrospect though, I think if we'd waited till about 5 pm before setting out, we'd probably have still reached Treshnish Point by 6 pm, with a fair tide, calmer seas and a complete centreboard.

We had earlier discussed the possibility of sailing all night to increase our chances of returning to Connell on schedule. Now, with a fair wind, a fair tide until 4 am, but no centreboard, it really was imperative. Now we knew we had no centreboard, we were very nervous that the wind might head us again. In Scotland in July it is light until 11 pm, and would only be dark for about five hours.

And so we sailed on round the NW corner of Mull into Loch Sunart, with Ardnamurchan light flashing to the northwards as we passed. About 11 pm we entered the Sound of Mull. Clouds were gathering over the mountains and I wondered whether we were approaching some dirty weather, but no - they were only showers. It was disappointing to have to sail down the Sound of Mull in the dark and so miss the scenery. I had been there once before on a MacBrayne ferry and had been looking forward to reliving the experience from "Black Swan".

About 1 am, I asked John to take the helm as I was nodding off. I slept soundly for a full ten minutes, but then John woke me to identify a blind buoy which transpired to be Fiunary Rocks. At the same time we shook out the reef as the wind had dropped right away. And that was all the sleep I got until back at Connell 24 hours later. At 4 am we passed the entrance to Lochaline, another loch I had hoped to explore but which will have to wait for another time. Then, just as the sky was lightening, we anchored in Ardtornish Bay, on the Morvern shore, for a few hours' sleep while the contrary tide ran its course.

Only those who have sailed an open boat all night will appreciate how cold can be those early hours of dawn. One must wear oilies even if it's fine because the boat gets soaked with dew, and oilies themselves condense inside and feel cold and clammy, which feeling is accentuated every time you move ... and the dew on the sails drips coldly down your neck! Even if it's clear, the rising sun takes a painfully long time to produce any appreciable warmth. That was how I felt when we dropped our hook in Ardtornish Bay. We raised the tent, but dossed down in oilies to save time. John slept well. I didn't.

FRIDAY, 18th JULY 1986 - ARDTORNISH BAY TO CONNELL Woken from a fitful doze by my own teeth chattering, I moved over to the tent opening and watched rain squalls chasing each other across Mull. Does it never stop raining on Mull? We had spent ten days walking there with a tent the previous year, and apart from one afternoon, had been in torrential rain the whole time! But here in Ardtornish Bay it was sunny.

The bay was edged by cliffs down which tumbled several beautiful waterfalls. On the point round which we had sailed on our way in stood a ruined castle (I'm told this was the home of Douglas MacLean, the first Lord of the isles), silhouetted against majestic black clouds, and one of those pretty little miniature lighthouses which abound in Scotland. Ashore I could see what might have been a sailing school; a large house in pleasant grounds, fronted by a line of dinghies. I passed the time writing up the log.

At 8 am we lowered the tent in order to gain full benefit from this sunny morning, and ate the last of our bread for breakfast.

At 11.30 am we weighed anchor and set sail on the final leg of our circumnavigation. Fortunately the wind was NW2 and therefore behind us. John got out his mackerel line and wanted to beat to windward for a leg or two while he fished, but without the centreboard "Black Swan" would not tack at all. It must have been the sheer force of the wind which enabled us to do so yesterday. John got out his big sheath knife and planed down my spare paddle until it would go down the centreboard slot as a dagger board. I suppose it had some effect, but there was no noticeable improvement. Concerned that the wind might head us later, we pressed on.

With no wind at all, we rowed cautiously between the Lighthouse island and the tip of Lismore; even at HW we only had about six inches beneath our keel, but it was a worthwhile short cut. Alternately sailing and rowing, we ghosted along the Lismore shore looking for a secluded stream in which to wash before returning to civilisation. One was shown on the chart, but we had difficulty locating it; however we got our baths eventually. Here we made a classic mistake - pulled "Black Swan" well up onto the beach and dug in the anchor - she would float off as the tide rose. When we returned she was rapidly drying out - the tide was EBBING! Fortunately the beach was steeply shelving and we re-launched without difficulty.

At 6.30 pm we left Lismore bound for Connell, our circumnavigation complete. We could see Connell Bridge. It was very clear and the scenery was breathtaking. There were several yachts about; more than when we'd set out, but still sparse compared with those we encounter on the South Coast. This final leg took us three hours of slow sailing. As we approached Dunstaffnage Bay at the entrance to Loch Etive at about 8 pm the wind died right away, so we lowered the sails and decided to row the last two miles; then it increased again to F4 making rowing so difficult we had to reset the sails, and "Black Swan" romped the last mile in fine style and with a bone in her teeth. We beached at 9.30 pm.

On Saturday as we packed up it was bitterly cold and raining heavily, but what did I care - I had just fulfilled an ambition and enjoyed one of the best holidays of my life, with a splendid crew and a plucky little boat. Thank you John and "Black Swan" for helping to make it all possible.