Dear Joan,

I thought I would bring my article on Loch Spelve up to date (autumn ’89 issue). At the time of writing it I had not been there since ’87. This summer I overnighted there on July 27th to shelter from a SW blow on my way back from South Uist, Outer Hebrides. (There wasn’t quite enough of the day left to make Oban).

In what daylight remained, I was able to course around the loch and discover two recent fish farm developments, one opposite the Balure farm, at Dalnaha, and one north of Eilean Amalaig in the NE corner of the loch. In fact, I made a bad mistake in wasting time in sightseeing. Eventually, I anchored off the S shore of the end of the SW arm, out of the wind which was making a lee shore of my favourite anchorage on the opposite bank. The bottom was bouldery and riddled with kelp, but I seemed to get a grip on it. My second mistake was to take this for granted, succumbing to the pressures of hunger and pelting rain. Halfway through my post-curry cup of tea, I stuck my head out into a wet and windy twilight to find that we were well across the loch and moving smartly towards the shore just south of Balure.

It became dark during my three attempts at relocating the pick, all unsuccessful. The shoreline was distinctly stony and unfriendly, and it was clear that we were in for an all-night blow — it always amazes me how quickly these situations become really interesting when sailing. Meanwhile, the tea had gone cold.

I ran down the loch before the wind. The best shelter, I reasoned, would be behind Ardura at about the furthest point away from us, Murphy’s Law pertaining as usual. To my relief, I found that the Dalnaha farm was marked by a flashing lightbuoy — yellow, I think — in the same fashion as Belure. (The low profile staging and mooring lines of these installations make them as scary as reefs when the wind is blowing on to them, in my opinion).

Only two house lights were noted on shore, as the time was about 2330. Streaming rain made recognition of the shore impossible. At one point it seemed to lighten on the starboard bow and I steered for it; a glance at the lit compass told me I must be heading for the loch entrance and the Firth, so commonsense prevailed and I quickly returned to the correct heading. Eventually I became aware of, rather than actually seeing, the bulk of Cruach Ardura to port, with its black treeline running down to the water. There are the remains of a small fish farming raft on the NE corner of this shoreline. To the east lies Eilean Amalaig, with the extensive new fish cages to the north of it, unlit — criminal, this. There was, of course, plenty of room to get through, but in the dark...

I noticed that it was exactly midnight when the anchor went down again off Ardura. There were four other boats around us, and with the aid of a small torch we were able to tuck in very close to a low, tree-fringed cliff, where we were absolutely out of the wind. The holding was superb, the only drawback being black, glutinous mud on the ground tackle to clear in the morning!

Forty-eight hours later in the Oban Inn I met up with Ian, who is the first mate on Sea Spirit, a 50’ steel ketch which belongs to Gordonstoun School and which plies the west coast throughout the summer with international crews of youngsters. He told me that Sea Spirit once anchored in the same place in an easterly gale and never dragged once — so I have no hesitation in recommending this spot to members!

Food for thought: intermittent use of the compass light was the only illumination acceptable in these circumstances; any kind of navigation light would have made me completely blind to my surroundings.

This incident was a sharp reminder of how much we rely on seeing some light from the shore at night.

On the subject of fish farming, I noticed developments everywhere I went on the west coast this summer. I was reminded irresistibly of the wholesale planting of pines as a forestry policy in recent history. Readers are probably aware of how the rich can invest in tree plantation for the sake of tax avoidance and hefty Government subsidies: the Ramblers Association produces a revealing pamphlet which roundly condemns this, called, I think, ‘The Theft Of The Land’. Unsuitable trees are planted which later scar the landscape without providing quality timber, because it is the financial benefit which accrues early on which tempts investors, not the harvest thirty years later. The sudden increase in fish farming is the outcome of similar inducements. If we are not careful, this industry will clog up some of the finest navigable water in Britain, tucked away from the eye of the general public. The bottoms of the lochs become locally polluted with fish droppings, seals are shot as pests, the remains of obsolete staging are left derelict, and any locally-manned venture which looks promising is immediately bought up by the big operators. These big operators were crying with financial pain this summer because Norway’s producers dumped shoals of salmon below cost on the European market. It is easy to see why Norway holds all the aces in this industry, with her miles of coastline and fewer people around who need it for recreation. They are aiming for massive increases in production as from next year. Meanwhile, back in Scotland, the Highlands and Islands Development Board have granted or loaned £2.5 million to some sixty-eight fish farming projects. The thousand or so jobs which justify this infestation are surely never going to be secure while Scottish ventures are up against the Norwegian industry, which has all the natural advantages and is largely in debt to the country’s big national banks. This subject has its amusing aspects. Earlier this year, some large salmon cages in this area suffered damage, allowing the mature occupants to escape. Every trawler within range raced to the spot in a kind of marine gold rush! After all, who can prove ownership of an escaped fish?

Here endeth the lesson.

Back to the cruise. The Outer Hebrides were all I expected them to be. On the way out, I achieved one ambition and climbed the Sgurr of Eigg, which was breathtaking in two ways; magnificent! The most bizarre experience was sailing in a thin layer of mist, westwards from Canna, which could have been only fifty feet thick, so I was able to sunbathe — then it started to rain as well. My biggest regret was getting no nearer Barra than Lochboisdale (twenty miles north). Perhaps next year...

The saddest thing was the tremendous reduction in the number of seals spotted compared with the last time I was off the west coast some two years ago. Has anyone else noticed this? Please tell me I’m wrong.

Is it lucky to have a cow killer whale cross your path? Are they like black cats in this respect? (White cheek patches and a recurved dorsal fin confirmed its identity). It almost made up for the seals.

Clyde CC issued an amendment sheet this summer with six Loch Spelve anchorages listed — ironically I received mine a week after sending off the article. I am not going to list them now, because one happens to be where I dragged anchor! (They are in all the logical places when you study the map anyway).

Watch out for those fish farms! Keith Muscott