17' Catapult inflatable catamaran

"You're telling me you've come over from the mainland" said the head stalker on the Isle of Rhum "in that . . . contraption?" "And where is it you're thinking of going next?" The irony in his West Highland voice was unmistakeable, for the small isles south of Skye are known for their strong winds and tides and are usually hosts to robust displacement cruisers. We were cruise-camping the Isles too in a 17' Catapult inflatable catamaran.

The River Morar, our start point on the mainland, is one of the loveliest inlets in Britain and virtually closed to anything with a keel. We'd driven up from the south overnight - no need for a trailer - and launched over the white sands. Food and gear for a week stowed in a waterproof bag strapped across the tramp' and we were off, over the bar and away into the West. Sunset on the Singing Sands of Laig, on the other side of Eigg. After the tide race round the top we were glad to settle into our dome-tent. I turfed out the rabbits from a clearing in the bracken and we were home and dry. Tea up! "Not exactly a dry boat" quipped Eli as she reached for the hip-flask. "So this is Eigg? Rather a Rhum piece, eh?. . . Ouch!"

Eigg is a very pretty spot in the sunlight, though yachties seldom see past the little haven in the east. The bright splash of summer flowers is everywhere, but winter winds must howl, for even the drystone walls are tied down. The Bay of Laig looks west into the Hebridean sunset and the mountains of Rhum across the sound. "That's where we're going, tomorrow". Boat safe, above the tide, surf sounds on the sand, gold into purple into black, then sleep.

Tralival, Barkeval, Dibidit - not Tolkein's Dark Mordor, but the Norse legacy to the peaks of Rhum. A stiff breeze from the north, grey sky and ranks of grey seas, tumbling now, for the stream had turned with us, toward Kinloch, our destination. A thin wind whining in the shrouds. The sky now a hard blue. Heaped-up seas all round, our cat. surging forward with the gusts. Crests bursting on the crossbar, spray streaming down our suits, wake foaming out behind. This is what we came for! "Speak for yourself" spluttered Eli emerging from a crest as we bulldozed through "I'd kill for a hot bath and a hairdryer!"

Kinloch was green, bright and warm. The Castle, built by an eccentric wool baron, is now run by the Nature Conservancy as a luxury hotel cum youth hostel. We hadn't booked, but were welcomed anyway and introduced to the members of the annual Stalker's Course - a motley crew of estate and forestry workers after the certificate which permits them to trail wealthy Continentals and Japanese up and down the hills, hunting the beasts. The whole island closes for a week, no-one allowed about, while they learn to shoot. Most had acquired a sort of Clint Eastwood look. Hope they're fast learners!

Next day was one to dream about. Warm sunlight streaming down, birds singing, waves dancing, colours bright and a steady breeze on the beam. You could see forever - Ardnamurchan, Lewis, the Cuillin of Skye. I'd climbed in these hills as a lad, and from the top of the Cuillin Ridge I'd promised to come back, through the isles, in my own boat. And here we were. It's about a dozen miles to Skye, through the gannets, guillemots, shags and shearwaters. Even a puffin or three. The Black Cuillin loomed up closer and darker, great crags of volcanic rock black under a showl of tattered cloud. Grey gusts whipped the crests as we slipped under the lee of Soay. You won't have heard of Soay, tucked away below Skye. But there's a village there, shy folk, with their curious stone age sheep. We stopped a while. Out with the coffee flask, where's the cake? Lunch is served, on a granite slab.

The Black Cuillin, Coruisk, Vast horseshoe of stark black rock round a darker loch. Remote, inaccessible, except on foot, or by boat. Plunging dark crags of bare stone hundreds of feet high, now clear, now shrouded in ragged loud tearing over the ridge. Far below, we ghost past the grey seals perched wary on rocks. We round the last bend to Coruisk, in the heart of the hills and there they all are, perched each on their own rocks. Here a green one, there some blues, climbers and hikers. Over there a little yellow one, a pair of reds by the water's edge. They watch the seals and the seals watch them. Stifling a giggle, we glide to a halt and step ashore. The silence is thick and slow. We want to whisper. "Ouch! . . the midges have found us. Vicious, flying piranha, torment, we lurch around in black 'clavas, bandanas and wetsuits like demented terrorists. It's 20 years since last I came here - I now remember why.

Slip away on the morning tide - g'bye Coruisk and seals. A wall of white ahead, a breeze, we vanish, swallowed up. The world shrinks in, cold, dank, and grey. Puffs and lulls and drizzle all the day. 135 magnetic - just do it. The Point of Sleat. Land, sea and sky slate-grey. Will the tide turn? Will we squeeze round? A lift, it's filling, we’re away. Wind and tide together, up the long sound to Isle Ornsay.

Cold-boned, stiff, rain-driven, we round the corner to the anchorage. The run turns to smoking reach in the squall, tearing through the moorings. Found eyes peer from within warm ketches. Hard on the wind now, two quick tacks.

"Over there - that little patch by the quay". As we come tearing in, the hotel bar in front empties. They can't believe their eyes. "What sort of fools - wouldn't put a dog out …. like drowned rats" We let fly and run straight up on the sand. Two heaves, then straight into the bar through the door ahead. "Have you anything hot? And two large malts as well, please". Puddles grow on the floor - amused smiles around. The Hotel Eilean Iarmain - hospitable, welcoming and warm.

"Camusfearna" the Bay of the Alders. You'd pass this place by, we nearly did. No road runs near, no railway - it seems almost hidden, and yet "let's go across and just have a look … only a few minutes then, just to look around". The croft white under the trees, the curve of the beach, the stream bubbling down. The half-tide pools and the green islets. Almost breathing, waiting, for someone to come. I’d like to stay. . we don't really have to do". A wide turf ledge, birch and rowan flanked, with mossy rocks around. "This will do fine - we'll pitch just here".

Views down the beach, down the long sound. The meadow behind and the quiet croft beyond. Ears pricked for an otter's mew. We read, explore the pools, gather driftwood for the smoky fire. The tide drops down while feeding seabirds call. Dry now, the boat sits safe and our islands grow and change. "Look at these mussels . . look at the size". A great grey heron stares from his rock in the creek. A pot bubbling on the fire, flames flicker in the glade. Shadows gather under early stars while a marsh bird pipes along the shore. The remains of supper, full tums and a plate of shells. A score of gritty pearls in a cup - "can we do this again someday?"

Here is a land best found from the sea. Light and shade and shadow. Bright days and sombre, birdsong and green meadows. Travellers find some of themselves here - Stevenson found tales to write, Mendelssohn new music, Johnson, and Boswell ... and so did we.