One of those days you never forget

Looking back on a cruise, there is usually one day which stands out. For us, it was today. Why does it stand out? First, there is the variety of sailing and conditions to deal with. Then there are the new experiences, both places sailed and things encountered. Finally, there are the people met and their impact on ourselves. Every cruise in a small boat has some of these elements, even a short day trip in home waters, but this day touched all of them and is special to us. Our plan was to round Ardnamurchan Point, most westerly piece of mainland Britain, pictured in our pilot with a yacht struggling in an horrendous swell. A day to be positive.

We rose early to an overcast, grey morning, cooking breakfast and filling flasks at our anchorage, whilst we continued to study the head of Loch Teacuis, determined to see our first otter. By the time we clattered about stowing the tent, none had appeared and we felt a little cheated, having been assured how good a vantage point this loch might be. Our gloom deepened slightly with the sky. It began to rain and then the wind disappeared. We rowed for about four miles, out through the narrows, past the seals making eerie calls across the still loch, up the East Kyle of Carna carefully avoiding The Bridge, a reef extending from the island into the channel. We rowed out into Loch Sunart and after two hours we were approaching the western end of the narrow north channel past the island of Risga. We grew concerned, having expected to be clear of Loch Sunart before the tide turned and began to flood against us. The forecast predicted a SW3-4, veering W or NW later. Here we were, rowing at 2 knots, with no wind, rapidly approaching low water. Alternatives began to run through our minds. The focussed, positive approach dwindled. Tobermory looked inviting.

The Atlantic came into view. Were we really heading out there? We felt a gentle gust on our necks and shipped the oars. In a few minutes, we had full sail and were close hauled in a SW force 3: perfect Wayfarer cruising conditions. As the Island of Coll appeared ahead, our spirits lifted and we could easily have set course for America. We beat into the Atlantic swell.

As we turned to head north around the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, we found ourselves amongst an abundance of auks. Rafts of guillemots and razorbills shrieked and gargled around us. More Manx shearwaters passed, flying low along the contours of the waves, taking the lift from each crest. More harbour porpoises swam alongside, but as Emma sliced through the waves we could not hear them as we had the day before. We waved to a couple of yachts sailing the other way, studying us through binoculars. Through our binoculars we studied three sea kayaks coming across from Coll. If we felt slightly intimidated by the Atlantic, how must they feel?

It took about three and a half hours to reach Ardnamurchan Point. Under an overcast sky we admired the lighthouse as we rolled on the swell. These conditions were thankfully much less intimidating than the pictures we had seen in the pilot. As we enjoyed the satisfaction of our achievement it began to drizzle. The wind picked up as we continued north. Leaving the extensive sands of Sauna Bay behind us, we began to feel slightly more vulnerable once again and quickly took in a reef for reassurance.

Where next? Ardnamurchan Point had been our single focus from waking this morning. Now we needed to turn our attention to the north. We began to identify the small isles: Muck, Eigg, Canna and Rum. We considered the time and the tidal streams around the islands, quickly eliminating Canna and Rum as suitable destinations for this evening. We were going well, and could easily make either of the other two. The outlook from the last two weather broadcasts had been predicting gales soon and we decided that Eigg sounded the more interesting, should we become storm-bound in the morning. Bearing away, we shook out the reef and Emma raced across the waves as the drizzle eased. This was intoxicating sailing : not a soul in sight, full sail, splashing ahead.

The Sound of Eigg was alive with gannets, kittiwakes, rafts of auks and many porpoises. As the island approached, we were struck by its distinctive appearance. It bears a long ridge of volcanic rock, a basalt dyke, that culminates at its highest point just above the harbour at Galmisdale Bay. This nose is known as the Sgurr of Eigg and just beckons visitors to climb it. In the cliffs below, caves are prominent. Massacre Cave is so called because on one fateful day in the 16th century, the whole population of the island was driven inside, trapped and left to drown in the incoming tide. We identified the small island protecting the harbour, Eilean Chathastail (Castle Island) and decided to approach from the south with wind and tide behind, rather than beat into the more difficult, narrow north entrance, so we planned to drop the main before running in under genoa to the anchorage.

Whilst contemplating our approach, Anne was busy studying a tourist boat, Etive Shearwater, which appeared to be sailing a little erratically near us. I was studying the porpoises, one of whom appeared to be at least four times the size of the rest.

“Look at this! I think it’s a whale. It’s huge!” I was desperate to share my discovery.

“It’s not a whale. It might be a dolphin. I don’t care anyway, what’s this boat doing?”

The tour boat appeared to have turned and to be heading right across our bows, with sixty or seventy people all hanging over the side apparently staring at us. We began to wonder what was going on when my whale surfaced right ahead. I suppose it was the size of a large grey car. It blew and its prominent dorsal fin rolled back down into the sea.

“It is a whale!” I pleaded. Silence. Then it surfaced again, this time off our starboard beam.

“You’re right! That boat’s following it.” Both whale and boat made a complete circuit of Emma, which rocked around in the wash, before both whale and boat disappeared.

We were tingling with excitement, and it was difficult to focus on the task of heading up, dropping main, getting the anchor ready and conning our way into the harbour. We managed untidily and pulled up against the stone slip behind Etive Shearwater which had come in ahead of us. The crew confirmed our suspicion that we had been watching a minke whale. There is a shop, shower, toilet and cafe on the slip at Eigg. A couple of years ago the island came up for sale, and the sixty or so islanders successfully bought it. These new facilities are a direct result and we were pleased to support their venture, buying the components of a mushroom omelette with salad for our first fresh meal for a few days. The shop also boasted a good selection of wines. In the cafe we spoke to some other sailors who were anchored in the bay, boring them with stories about our whale. OK, so they had seen them before, but this was our first!

The islanders were very helpful with advice on where to anchor. We came well into the bay, anchoring in about 3m. Being springs, we dried out for about a couple of hours at low water. The bay was beautiful, smooth sand, ensuring a comfortable resting place at low water.

With the tent up, we had the kettle on and, gazing up at the Sgurr, planned a trip ashore before cooking our meal. Gulls, geese and arctic terns called from the rocks in the bay. We hadn’t even begun to blow up the canoe when we noticed a man in an inflatable approaching. He came alongside and poked a head through the tent door.

“Have you begun to cook yet?” he enquired, “for we’ve way too much prepared. Will you join us aboard?” How could we refuse? Seol Na Mara is a Fastnet 34 based in Arisaig and we were made so welcome by the owners and their two friends, we were quite taken aback. They listened to our tales and we quizzed them about sailing in the area. We talked happily and then Ian, the skipper, produced his electronic pipes and proceeded to entertain us further. Soon he was joined by fiddle, guitar and bodran. We couldn’t contribute much to the music, but told a Suffolk tale in return. Several drams of whisky helped the evening slide past too soon, before Ian rowed us back to the beach in the dark and we walked to Emma, now resting on the sands.

It was one of our few clear nights, our only colourful sunset. We sat on the deck and picked out constellations above the shadow of the Sgurr of Eigg, until the gulls, geese and terns finally grew silent and we slid into our sleeping bags to dream of drizzle, lighthouses, whales, caves and bagpipes, but still no otter.