I had never sailed before in the sheltered sounds to the north-east of Skye, nor read anything by those who had, but the more I looked at the charts the more convinced I was that it would be perfect for a dinghy cruise (see Chart 1).

Martin and I sketched out a course which would start from the lovely village of Plockton and move clockwise around Pabay, Scalpay, Raasay, Fladday and Rona, then across the Inner Sound to Loch Torridon, and finally back to Loch Carron via the Crowlin Islands, so taking in what is some of the best island and highland scenery in Scotland. Or so we hoped.

I could not leave on Monday 12th August before late afternoon, so the latter part of the journey was in darkness. Cheshire to the Kyle of Lochalsh took eleven hours, with fuel stops at Carlisle and Fort William. The journey was uneventful until we reached the forested country north of Fort William. Shortly after midnight, I turned a corner and caught a stag in my headlights as it was about to leap down and cross in front of us. Its forelegs were off the ground and it was above me on my side of the road, a great heraldic beast spotlit against the dark trees. My yell woke Martin just in time for him to see its hindquarters plunging away as he sat up and banged his head on the car roof. We calmed our nerves with jokes about how we might have had ‘Bambi-burgers’ for breakfast – or a wrecked car.

At 0230 I pulled into a lay-by above Lochalsh and we ‘slept’ in the car until first light. Dawn broke and we crawled out stiffly at 0430 to meet a grey, miserable, dripping morning, enlivened only by flurries of wind and rain down the Sound. Breakfast was fruit juice and a packet of peanuts, then we drove on to Plockton to arrive just after 0600.

There are two slips in the village, but the one we used is close to hand and impossible to miss, being on the first street corner by a tastefully-restored cottage proclaiming itself to be the HQ of Plockton Sailing Club. Nearby is a newly-extended car park and a public convenience, so we had no complaints. Plockton is an idyllic spot at the mouth of Loch Carron, a perfect centre for sheltered sailing, watched over by Duncraig castle on the opposite shore. The club dinghy park at the far side of the village has a slip with the most beautiful outlook of any I’ve seen. However, our sights were set elsewhere.

(In 1991 Plockton in August was quiet, almost deserted, being out of the main tourist stream for Skye; but it is likely to have a different character now, as the television series about a certain Macbeth – a policeman, not a murdering monarch – has been made there in more recent times!)

Martin and I are firm believers in preparing thoroughly, but there had been a lack of prior communication, so no less than three cookers and about a ton of food sprang out of cardboard boxes onto the hard. This was of more concern to me than to Footloose, as the Mirror 16 has plenty of stowage to begin with, and I had added a cavernous stern locker. The club noticeboard showed high water to be 0936, so we could pack the boat in our own good time, which made the ensuing mishap all the more stupid. While Martin was filling flasks with boiling water at the Haven Hotel at 10p a go, I decided to launch the boat on my own and have it ready to sail on his return. My only excuse for this mental aberration is lack of sleep and peanuts for breakfast. The slip was a little steeper than it looked – as all slips are – and the combined effect of this, plus tinned-food ballast and kelp underfoot, led to the boat running away from me and into the slip wall, which sheared off a mudguard and an inch or two of gunwhale. Sorting this out took me in over my wellies, and in fact my feet were never dry for the rest of the cruise. (Come to think of it, neither was the rest of me.) My audible comments woke up the French family in their camper by the No Overnight Parking sign.

We left shortly after 1000 under genoa alone, the wind rising as we sailed away from the shore. By the time we were inspecting the mouth of the loch it was a brisk SW 4-5 and kicking up a lively sea, made all the more enticing by intermittent sunshine. Seeing what was in store for us, I hoisted the new heavy-weather mainsail for its first airing: beautifully crafted by Jeckylls of Wroxham, and 85 square feet rather than 123. Not wishing to induce any more accidents through weariness, we took our time over this, as well as some last-minute stowage, drifting pleasantly with the genoa furled. Clearly we took too long over it, as a fishing-boat suddenly shot out of Plockton with a crew of three who offered to rescue us. I was most impressed by this display of zeal and public spirit so I thanked them profusely while declining their offer. They were slow to leave, unconvinced of our safety. This was the first of several doubts expressed during the week about the size and security of Footloose. Obviously it is time the DCA visited this area in force to get them used to the idea of cruising without a lid!

Only one other boat was leaving the loch, a 35-foot yacht whose crew also regarded us with keen interest. I watched their exit under power and judged the incoming swell to be substantial, so sailing out hard on the wind was to be avoided. There was no need for the genoa as we reached out, taking many tacks and maintaining boat speed through the rollers. It was a fast, wet ride, which finally woke us up.

Once past Plockton headland we could put in longer boards and, as the swell eased in more open water, we could come closer to the wind while still footing quickly. This was the start of the really exhilarating sailing with which we were to be blessed throughout much of the week – when we were able to get out. As we approached the Crowlins, the swell rose again close to the big headland of Rubha na h-Uamha; it was uncomfortably close under our lee, so more tacks were put in up Caolas Mor (the ‘Big Sound’) to clear the northern entrance to the Crowlin anchorage, where we had finally decided to overnight. We were too tired to search further afield, even though my first plan had been to reach Loch Ainort or Loch Sligachan by the end of the first day. There had been 038.8 on the log when we left Plockton, and it now read 047.8. Checking this against the chart suggested an extra mile had been spent tacking. We failed to catch the Shipping Forecast (otherwise known as ‘the old lies and threats’).

We lay to the small Bruce kedge in the inner pool and devoured a superb chicken pilau which Martin warmed up, having produced it as a surprise from two sealed containers in which it had lain cosseted from the moment his wife had prepared it. Never was good food better appreciated. As we ate and drank, the tide sank to low water and revealed masses of rubbery seaweed filaments. We had anchored on the western side of the pool in case we decided to explore Eilean Meadhonach before moving over to the Eilean Mor side. Now it was impossible to move through the weed. I stalled the willing little Seagull motor three times, rowing was impossible, and throwing out the kedge did not work because of two feet of glutinous mud on the bottom, through which it slid without gripping. Like some other inner pools I have known, such as the anchorage in the Macormaig Isles off Loch Sween, it is sheltered from winds and currents and has consequently built up on the bottom a marine biologist’s paradise of gloopy sludge. Finally the little Seagull saved the day and pushed us into clear water. I then spent ten minutes cleaning the prop and the water intake. When I moored for the night I took no chances and used the fisherman’s anchor as well as a line taken ashore. This was in the pronounced small bay on the eastern side of the pool where, in fact, the bottom is clay marl and it gripped the anchor tightly. This is also the easiest place to land, and on the hillside above there is a comfortable sward of heather and grass where Martin pitched his mountain tent. There is ample room for two under the full canvas boom cover on Footloose, but Martin’s argument is that my snoring has prevented his sleeping on a 32-foot yacht, so there is little point in trying to do better within the confines of a length half that size. Actually, he snores as much as I do, but I fall asleep first, which enrages him.

Everything was squared away, the tent was up, the bedding was shaken out and I was in it just before the showers started – how good that made me feel! What a strange pastime this one of ours is, when your feeling of well-being hits a peak as you draw around you a few ounces of Holofil and listen quietly to big raindrops hitting heavy canvas that you have recently treated with four litres of wax!

I thought I heard an engine muttering in the silence of the early hours, and sure enough a Contessa 32 entered the pool while we were preparing breakfast. We learned from the skipper that he had come in at dawn, anchored at the pool entrance, and had ‘taken the ground’ as the tide fell. He had scrambled to get her off, and now here he was again, resetting his ground tackle opposite us. Before the onset of the emergency he had been entertained by a pair of sea otters gambolling around Footloose. I was sorry to have slept through their display. He gave us the early forecast, which was less amusing: F 3-4 in the morning, then F 5-6 in the afternoon, increasing to Gale 8 for the night and the following day. The Crowlins are exceptional but limited in size, with little terrain to explore. The prospect of boredom was the deciding factor: we decided to eat up and clear out quickly before we were pinned down by the weather. We would sail into the Sound of Raasay through yet another ‘Caol Mor’ and make for Portree with some shelter from the SW. As I was preparing to motor out of the pool, I found that the ceramic top to the spark plug had disintegrated (no, it was not the original one which had come with the engine) and when I found the spare, given to me by some kind soul as ‘just the right one for your model’, I discovered the thread sizes to be different. No doubt I could buy one in Portree. There’s a moral in this, somewhere.

We sailed out at 1130 into a strong breeze. Trying a short-cut, I nosed into the gap between Eilean Beag (the one with a lighthouse) and Eilean Meadhonach. Although the charts show this as a no-go area of reefs, we were within an hour of HW. However, before we were halfway through, I spun the boat round and retraced our wake. The bottom had been getting very clear. We negotiated Eilean Mor eastabout, hard on the wind, and later the log showed a speed of only 1.5k for the two miles we took to clear the islands. Our next waypoint was Sgeir Thraid, with its prominent beacon showing the way into the sound. It is only four miles from the Crowlins, but it looked much further in the murk. With the wind now free, Footloose powered through the chop in a constant cloud of spray, mild-mannered and controllable with the pair of us perched sedately on the gunwhale. I was proud of her. Much later, when I checked times and distances on the chart, I was elated to discover that we had averaged 5.7k at this stage, up to Eyre Point on Raasay. Continual checks also revealed that the electronic log was reading consistently 5% too short on distance. I never adjusted it, as I thought it was an error on the right side. The Sconser-Raasay ferry crossed ahead of us as we entered Raasay Sound, looking like a brightly-coloured toy boat against the dour Skye hills, of which Glamaig was the most prominent, standing over Loch Sligachan.

As we came abreast of Raasay House and entered the Narrows, which were marked by only a slight popple on the surface, the wind dropped to a zephyr, the sun came out, and we were able to grab sandwiches, make instant soup and take photographs as we slipped through. We had a very quiet seven-mile sail from the ferry pier to the entrance to Portree, where we were actually becalmed off Tom Cave on an ebony sea. Soon afterwards, the outriders of the gale poured out of the gap in the hills and made us work hard over the last mile, tacking in past the inevitable fish farm.

When I made enquiries about garages and spark plugs at the GPO sorting office, I found that every Portree postie was a boat-owner and an expert on marine engines! But it was the Harbour Master who turned up trumps, actually finding the time to slip home to get the spare for his own Seagull for me while he was waiting for the arrival of a 1000–ton coaster. He also gave me weather details – a nasty double low coming in with SW8 expected at any moment and not abating for at least 24 hours. Martin did not like the look of any part of the shore within the bay for camping and Portree was simply too hectic to stay by the pier, so we had to consider which of two safe anchorages to run to. Both are featured in the Clyde Cruising Club’s pilot as safe havens, giving good shelter from gales. The closest was the inlet formed by Eilean Fladday where it is joined to Raasay at low water by a narrow umbilical of shingle. Four miles further north was the landlocked harbour of Acarseid Mhor (‘Big Anchorage’) on Rona. This offered more choice, but Fladday was the nearest, eight miles away, and the wind was already rising. I made the choice, but if I had my time over again ... We left Portree pier at 1850, fending questions from bystanders who were curious about the Trearddur Bay Sailing Club insignia on Footloose’s transom. (“From Anglesey...?”) On this side of Skye, Holm Island is a helpful marker, being Christmas pudding-shaped and easily recognisable. It is four miles north of Portree, from which direction it looks like a Christmas pudding cleft down the middle by a mad axe-man. Directly opposite this on the Raasay side was Fladday, our destination, which is difficult to pick out. I did not want to overshoot and have to tack back, so we constantly checked our position all the way across, and still we overshot, because of our speed and the hidden nature of the entrance. It was a classic sailing dilemma. Do you reef, slow down, and make a strange landfall in the dark, or do you continue in a strengthening wind under a press of canvas? The answer depends on how well you know your boat. We accelerated in great swooping runs over a quartering sea, but we never came near to broaching. Even after over-shooting and having to tack back against the wind, and then having to negotiate a rock-strewn entrance, we averaged better than five knots from Portree pier to Fladday beach.

We grounded the boat and dropped the sail. None of the Fladday cottages are visible from the shore, but a figure came down the hill from their direction and introduced himself as Piers, the owner of the UFO 34 anchored in the channel. When he heard about the gale, he decided to row out to his boat and try to get a line ashore. As there were two anchors down already, this struck me as overly cautious, but he assured us that this little inlet becomes a wind tunnel when there is any south in the gale. He advised us to get some sail up and run down to Acarseid Mhor, which was more protected. Alternatively, we could haul out above the high water mark, and if we opted for this we could depend on him and his friend for extra muscle when he returned from his boat. He rowed off, leaving us to discuss it.

There was not much to discuss. As far as I am concerned, not making strange landfalls in the dark is an article of faith. Also, both the Clyde Cruising Club and Brackenbury’s West Coast Pilot stated that Fladday offered perfect protection from gales, as opposed to the opinion of this unknown yachtsman. We did not know that Piers had owned a cottage on Fladday for twenty years, and had seen the effects of SW gales on yachts anchored there on many occasions. Later he told us about two of the more spectacular: once when ten cruisers came in for shelter one after the other, only to have their anchors blown out and be forced to run north, bumping over the causeway, to take their chances elsewhere. In another incident he found a family on the rocks with their hastily-packed holdalls, while their abandoned yacht had already barrelled through the swamped boulders of the causeway and was on its way to becoming a wind-blown derelict. Piers was ready to swim out to it with a line, but the skipper ordered him flatly not to. The salvage was finally effected by throwing a stone tied on the end of a light line and, after many attempts, snagging the rigging with it. There followed a lethal tug-of-war along the cliff top before they finally got a warp secured to her and belayed to the rocks.

Fladday’s ‘shingle beach’ is in fact a jumble of boulders, slate and shale, mixed in with detritus left by crofters of an earlier generation, including the scattered parts of an old tractor engine (which will surface again in this narrative). There is a boulder causeway connecting the islet with Raasay, covered by up to five feet of water for two or three hours either side of High Water. Low Water reveals a mass of other hazards stretching out into the anchorage, chief of which is an old ceridh (‘kerry’) or fish trap, rather like a rectangle of drystone walls, which occupies the Fladday side of the cove to seaward from just under the HW mark for about 100 metres. Just the thing to dry out on. In fact, I would risk anchoring only from about 150 metres out – far further than you would estimate if you came in at the top of the tide.

Even if I had been prepared to risk sleeping 150 metres off the beach in that wind, I would have been stuck there for its duration, as our toy inflatable ‘tender’ would never have survived the trip between Footloose and the shore. Piers and his friend Bob could not have been kinder. They helped us to haul out and offered us a roof over our heads if conditions became impossible – or a bottle of Scotch if we wished to become oblivious to it! As Bill Tilman once said, every mackerel should hang by its own tail, so we elected to stay put. I got the tent cover on her, found the torch and lay out my sleeping bag. Martin found minimal shelter for his tent in a sheep fank, only slightly more than I had on the high water mark. We found a sheltered nook behind a shepherd’s hut where there was just enough protection for the stoves. This was Delia Smith standard for Martin; the last time he had been coastal cruising had been around Cape Wrath, when he had carried a week’s victuals in his sea kayak.

The wind reached its full strength in the early hours, when the commotion was such that even I could not sleep. The heavy canvas crackled and banged like spinnaker nylon, and at high water this was joined by waves breaking against the transom and sending spray over the stern locker top, fortunately not far enough to reach my sleeping bag, which was moist enough already. Martin’s tent is a Vango Force Ten Hurricane Alpha, and it blew flat around his ears at about 0330. The tent stayed in one piece and did not leave the neighbourhood, fortunately, and it remained upright after he had beefed up the guying. In the morning we took our time over breakfast (no other speed than ‘leisurely’ was possible), then we wandered out into the gale to explore Fladday. Amazingly, it was blowing less strongly in the open sound than it was through our ‘haven’. I could not rest until I found the reason, which I believe to be as follows. A southerly blow enters this anchorage over the low-lying tail and skerries of Fladday, plenty of elbow room which no doubt provides a good volume of air. It is diverted north by the vertical Raasay side and squeezed into the bottleneck at the head of the inlet where the sides are steep-to and close together on either side of the shingle spit. North of the spit, the sides remain very high and steep for a short distance, then move apart quickly, forming a great expansion chamber which accelerates the wind through the bottleneck. I suppose the principle is the same as the megaphone exhaust pipes found on racing motorbikes many years ago! During the gale I looked down into the north cove to see the truth of this: the surface was chopped up ferociously for about 100 metres northwards, then it fell flat calm at the widest point, the increased area having dissipated the air drawn through the ‘neck of the bottle’.

(After this cruise I wrote to Clyde Cruising Club, suggesting that some reservations about using this haven when a SW gale was imminent might be included in their annual revisions, based on twenty years’ observations by another party as well as my own experience. I did not receive an acknowledgement, and I do not believe any cautionary addenda have ever been issued.) Understanding our situation did not make me feel any better about it, but exploring the island eventually did. It was a vivid emerald in the sunny intervals, with a jagged shoreline of pink rock. Fladday is practically all peat bog, and wellies are a must. Five crofts were able to survive here until twenty years ago, when the authorities refused to fund basic services because their provision would have been impossibly expensive. The families were moved elsewhere.

When the causeway uncovered later in the day we crossed over to Raasay. I struck out for the middle of the island, hoping for a view of the Inner Sound, and Martin went for a jog along the coastal path which leads to inhabited cottages by the side of Loch Arnish. I found all the elements of Scottish wilderness on a miniature scale: hidden burns, musical waterfalls, pink rocky bluffs rearing up out of the heather – heather of all sizes and colours – and the air heavy with the tannin smell of bracken. I turned back before I saw the eastern side, in case the tide covered the causeway before I could cross it. Martin had found the coastal track to be equally impressive.

While we were eating lunch (standing in our sheep pen) a group of trekkers appeared, on their second day out from Raasay House, which is now an outdoor activities centre. Their leader told us that a big sea had been running in the Inner Sound and that, judging by the forecast, we would be staying put for another day or so. I told him that we would be off at the first drop in windspeed. He advised us against it, saying that he had been out in a Devon Dayboat the day before in gusts that would have blown us flat – here he indicated ‘Footers’ on the beach. ‘No disrespect,’ he said, but it was obviously implied. I told him that we had sailed 26 miles on the day in question, but it did not seem to register. If we were bored, he said, we should put up a rag of sail and run for Acarseid Mhor. There was a bothy there – an old schoolhouse – with bunks and a fireplace and a jetty we could lie alongside. Better to accept being stormbound for at least another day and then sneak back down Raasay Sound inside each island before making a dash for Plockton. ‘We’ll be thinking of you,’ were his parting words. A cheerful soul.

Piers and Bob brought their teenaged children down to the cove for 1045 next day, to lift us in at High Water. There was a party atmosphere on the beach that morning. ‘No’ was not taken as an answer. We took out as much equipment as possible to lighten the load. (I have sheathed Footloose with glassfibre, so she is stronger and heavier than your average Mirror 16 in the first place, even before the addition of our generous provisioning.) Ten pairs of hands propelled her through the air and into the rising tide before you could warble ‘We Are Sailing’. Then I concentrated on securing the engine on its bracket, replacing the log transducer, bowsing down the anchor and stowing everything properly, while answering volleys of questions about the boat from those who were holding her, knee-deep in the water. At Low Water the night before, I had run out the kedge on its 120-foot warp. The only secure holding for it was in the stones of the ceridh; the central blade of the little Bruce was held against the vertical face of a large rock by tension at the bitter end. Once we were ready, I pulled the boat out head to wind on the warp, while we raised the No.2 main, praying all the time that the anchor would not slip and allow us to foul the inshore rocks or drift ignominiously up the beach; and also praying that we would not find it jammed at the business end: there were far too many keen observers! As soon as we had enough water to get the rudder and some centreboard down, Martin hauled in the warp hand over hand, and every yard away from that lee shore was a blessed relief. There was one final heart-stopping moment with the anchor warp vertical and the main filling, but it came free, the head paid off, I gybed her through the wind and we shot off north through the narrows to cheers and waves.

We cleared the north anchorage by 1120, the log read 67, and our speed steadied at a modest 3k. The plan was to head for the Sound of Rona and retrace our steps if the sea-state in the Inner Sound was bad. By 1155 we had reached the northernmost point of Raasay. The shoulder of land which seems to be North Raasay is in fact an island – Eilean Tigh; it is separated from the former by a narrow channel which is quite invisible until you are right on it. It is certainly navigable, and worth knowing about, as apparently it can offer an escape route if the Sound of Rona, the meeting-place of two tides, is rough in poor weather. The best way to find this gap is to steer straight towards the highest point on Tigh, unmistakeable at 111 metres. When the shore is uncomfortably close, look to starboard and only one point will be seen where the skyline drops to sea level. That is the entrance to the channel.

We could not leave Rona without entering Acaseid Mhor, about which we had heard so much! There are two entrances, and we explored both. The southern one is the plainer, easier route, made more so by a large white arrow painted on the rock on the south side of Eilean Garbh. ‘They’ll be erecting road signs and traffic lights next,’ muttered Martin. We decided that we were in the mood for picking our way through rocks, so we tried the north entrance as well, and found that a lumpy sea, overfalls and a big shoal jutting out from the Rona shore made it even more interesting. Once inside, we found that the anchorage lived up to its promise: large, land-locked and surrounded by a thick growth of trees and heather. I believe that landing at the jetty is impossible at Low Water, but it proved ideal for a long lunch break. A narrow, fjord-like inlet on the SE side, which probably dries out, looked tempting as a dinghy anchorage, but we were too close to High Water to judge the nature of the bottom.

We checked out the old schoolhouse and wondered how many children had arrived by boat as well as those who had come from the village a mile away to the NE. There was one large room downstairs with a clear floor where bedding could be spread without fear of the roof leaking on you, but on the whole it was not the lap of luxury we had been promised. It was, however, a much better place in which to be storm-bound than our previous billet.

Our intention now was to sail down the Inner Sound to Loch Carron and explore it until the weather settled and then we could once more travel further afield. Rona Sound was calm and beautiful, but we met a big sea when we sailed out and away from the protection of Raasay. Hard on the wind, we took a lot of water over the foredeck as Footloose’s stem sliced through the waves without slowing. It vanished down the centreboard slot as fast as it came in. Then the rain came down with a wild generosity found only off the Western Isles. We steered across the Sound towards Applecross, to keep a shoreline in view. Soaked to the skin, we chatted about boat design to deflect our attention from this uncomfortable reality. I pointed out to Martin that in the Mirror 16 there were quite a few advantages in having buoyancy tanks under a flat floor. He agreed that it was a good idea – no bailing – but why, then, was the water now coming up through the case and sloshing around our feet? I opened a cover and peered inside. The tank was almost full to the brim. I thought about it carefully.

‘It’s because we’re sinking,’ I explained.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘As long as we know.’

I inserted a piece of foam rubber through the 4” hole, withdrew it, and squeezed it out a few thousand times until my fingers turned into white sausages and I had removed about a dozen buckets of water from our vital buoyancy. Strangely, it had affected neither our performance nor our attitude in the water, and had only been discovered through the bottom boards being awash. Something on Fladday beach had holed us. Much later I found a small, depressed, three-cornered tear about 5” out from the keel. The culprit must have been sharp, as there are four layers of glassfibre over the marine ply bottom at that point. I guess that it was part of the abandoned tractor engine; something like a cylinder head bolt could have penetrated the hull, with all the weight we had bearing it down. This was the end of our plans for the week. I did not see much of Applecross, as I passed it with my backside in the air, bailing.

Shortly after this, the wind fell completely, and – supreme irony – we had to complete the last twelve miles to Plockton under engine. Even when the rain ceased, the air was so saturated that our wet hands and clothes would not dry. We boosted our morale by washing down sardines on digestive biscuits with bottle-capsful of Bell’s whisky. Shortly after, we felt the need to regale ourselves with the rousing choruses of sea shanties and folk songs, obviously brought on by a surfeit of sardines. I recall that The Wild Colonial Boy had the best effect on our spirits, and I would recommend it unreservedly to anyone caught in similar circumstances. When the Boat Comes In was a dead loss. With or without the whisky.

We had strayed far from our intended itinerary, and in particular Torridon lay unvisited to the north, shrouded in mist, with its multitude of bays overlooked by gigantic mountains with resounding names. As we left the next morning, the sky cleared, the sun shone, and the islands lay in the Sound, purple and red on a vibrant silver sea. Unfinished business, I thought, as we rolled towards home.

Sleat, East Skye, Raasay and Torridon : Cruising Notes

Although this is a superb cruising ground, it can only be recommended without reservation to experienced crews. On the one hand, there is little fetch for the wind if there is any south in it, and the tidal flow is slowed by geography – mainly the constriction between Skye and the mainland (which also means that the flood tide enters the Inner Sound from the north). Bad sea conditions tend to calm down quickly following a drop in windspeed. Furthermore, there are plenty of escape points on the perimeter of the area if you become weatherbound and have to journey back for car and trailer (but this does not apply to the islands, obviously).

On the other hand, this is mainly a wilderness area and you have to plan to be fully independent. There are many rockbound shores, and fast tide races run through the Kyles. Katabatic winds and turbulence can be expected in the proximity of high ground and along exposed coast such as that on Skye north of Portree. What makes this a classic cruising area? Its great beauty and the vast range of possible cruises. In addition to our choice, there are Loch Carron, Loch Alsh, Loch Long, Loch Duich, The Sound of Sleat, Loch Hourn, Loch Nevis – the possibilities are inexhaustible.

Tides, based on Dover

Sound of Sleat: N-going stream starts + 0130, S-going at –0430. Loch Hourn & Loch Nevis: HW –0520. Loch Duich: HW –0440. Kyle Rhea: HW –0507, N-going stream starts +0140, S-going starts –0420 (but variable). Kyle Akin: E-going stream starts –0420 (but 1/2 hour earlier on springs), W-going stream starts +0140. Very variable. Inner Sound: HW approx -0400. S-going stream (flood) starts +0100, N-going stream (ebb) starts –0500. Portree: HW –0445. Scalpay Sound: HW –0445 Raasay Narrows: N-going starts –0500, S-going starts +0200. Loch Sligachan: in-going starts +0415, out-going starts –0435. Sound of Rona: SE-going starts +0045, NW-going starts –0515. Loch Carron: in-going starts +0145, out-going starts –0415.

Charts

Imray Chart C66. Ordnance Survey 1:50 000 essential, for N & S Skye, Raasay, Applecross & Torridon. (Old Landrangers, Sheets 23, 24 & 32, or modern equivalent.) Clyde Cruising Club, Ardnamurchan to Cape Wrath, from page 40 to page 70. incl. Many Admiralty Charts, if you insist: 2209, 2210, 2540, 2541, 2548 – and there are another four covering the Raasay area!

Launch Sites

Plockton: two in the village, one by Plockton Sailing Club. Use near HW. Strome Ferry slip: No longer a ferry, but the concrete slipways survive on both shores. All states of the tide; car parking. Kyle of Lochalsh: old ferry slip. Use 3 hours either side HW. Parking, toilets. Shiel Bridge, Loch Duich: opposite Kintail Lodge hotel, head of loch. Use 2 hours either side HW. Parking. Kyle Akin, Isle of Skye: Old ferry slip. All states of tide, parking.