Blue Moon's trip around the UK

I realise whilst writing this that only those readers blessed with children roughly the same age as mine will have the foggiest idea what I’m talking about, and if you don’t, then count yourself lucky because I can’t say that Balamory was my favourite kid’s TV programme, not by a long chalk. It always really annoyed me that a programme so obviously set in a real place (Tobermory) pretended not to be, and all the more annoying that its main premise (that the characters lived in houses of different colours) is pretty much Tobermory’s defining feature, so why not come straight out with it? Also I seem to remember the interesting characters were English whilst the Scots were things like postmen and bus drivers, which seemed all wrong too (if possibly quite accurate in Tobermory’s case). I gather from yet more blog research that the cast were quite happy for it to end after only four series (thereby narrowing my audience even more): Miles Jupp in particular complained that parents brought their pre-schoolers to his stand-up shows and were appalled at the content. This I find hard to believe and assume it’s another of his ‘is it real?’ statements, and if by any chance you’re a fan of these you can find one of the funniest half hours ever recorded in the first episode of ‘Inside The Comedian’, the first podcast I ever listened to and perhaps the best. Thank you, Sarah.

Now back to the trip, the blog and to the real Tobermory. I had driven past it once in the rain (long story, years ago) and was quite keen to go back, although I had heard that it had become something of a tourist trap since then, and not just because of its TV fame: it is rather pretty, and after all the only place on Mull where you can buy handmade candles, ‘local soap’ (why make soap locally?) and Balamory souvenirs (yes, really). It’s also the obvious jumping off point for the Western Isles, which is where I was headed next, which makes it very popular with yachtsmen with children of all ages. So I was a little concerned to read that even though it now has a big-for-these-parts marina and loads of visitors’ moorings, it is strictly first come, first served, and can fill up fast – especially with, as there was this weekend, a forecast of strong winds, which is why I wanted to get there before the gales came, so that I could head West as soon as they’d gone.

Things went better than they usually do for me: my train from Euston wasn’t delayed enough to give me any money back so I made the Oban train with time to spare. Isn’t it odd how quickly you can become completely blasé about natural splendour: on the way down I had gawped slack-jawed for three hours at the extraordinary scenery of the West Highland Line (and this wasn’t even the Harry Potter bit yet); on the way back I was bored with all the mountains. I had done the Tesco shop and got out of the marina by 1030 which I thought was pretty good going, and with ruthless use of engine in the quiet bits was on course to be in Tobermory by 1530, plenty of time to bag a pontoon with good WiFi in time for a Zoom call at 1700 and the advertised arrival of rain at 1800 and gales at 2000. Imagine my horror when rounding the corner and the coloured houses and thoughts of pre-school coming into view to hear the Harbourmaster broadcasting that all the pontoons and moorings were now full, and the only option was to anchor in the south of the harbour. Nae bother, as they do actually say around here, as long as the signal’s good, the bay looked very pretty and probably better sheltered from the southerly gales. But when I got there I found six boats already anchored in the good spots, leaving me the choice of the very shallow bit at the top next to the famously beautiful but deafeningly loud waterfall or the bit further out that was 20 metres deep.

I chose the former, but it wasn’t a good choice. A friendly Scotsman indicated that he had set a tripping line because the bottom was rock (non-sailors – a tripping line is a bit of rope you tie to the top of the anchor with a small fender or buoy on top so that if the anchor jams you can pull it out by its ears, as it were). He also proudly said he’d put out 60 metres of chain which seemed excessive in six metres of water, and it meant he was taking up three boat-loads of room, but being a guest in his home waters I smiled and nodded and rigged a tripping line of my own. But it was hopeless: the anchor simply wouldn’t set at all, and time after time I went as shallow as I dared, lowered it and the line and the fender on the end, only for it to drag away. Very odd – but then it came up completely covered in kelp and I realised I was trying to anchor on smooth rocks covered in slippery seaweed. The early arrivals had bagged the nice soft mud. Then – miracle – it held, but I realised I was now too close to the shore, went to pull it up again and found it had indeed jammed under a rock. Hurrah for the tripping line. This had taken the best part of an hour, it was coming on to rain and nearly time for the Zoom call. More importantly I was really embarrassed – I’m no expert but I have never had such trouble anchoring, and the German on the next boat had joined the chorus of free advice. Stung into one last effort I dropped a load of chain right next to him, it seemed to work, and I went below to talk to some lovely people in Worcestershire who were sitting in a fixed place with the sun shining.

By the time we’d finished the rain was belting down and the wind was howling. The anchor was holding, and the German (in a huge heavy boat which would undoubtedly beat Blue Moon to a pulp given half a chance) was a bit close, but I was beyond caring and made some supper. I had literally just put the first morsel on my fork when then was a big gust and the German disappeared from view. Shit. The anchor was dragging again, and now it was raining and blowing very hard indeed. By the time I had my waterproofs on I was very close to the friendly Scotsman but I fired up the engine in time and went to retrieve the wretched anchor. This was no fun, and in the confusion I forgot about the tripping line. Oh yes, cruising yachtsmen will know what comes next: round the propellor. This could be disastrous, so really with nothing to lose I took a deep breath and flung the engine into gear – a crunch and the rope cutter did its thing, the anchor buoy bobbing away with bits of chewed rope hanging off it. I knew I’d never catch it with the boathook so left it to make its way to Tobermory to enjoy a new life with someone else, and concentrated instead on finding a better spot to anchor.

To my horror, friendly Scotsman was already in his dinghy, in the wind and rain, and whizzed off to retrieve a tired old fender worth all of £5 at a boat jumble. I had to thank him when he brought it back but really I just wanted to be transported somewhere else, especially when he went on to reassure me that he’d keep an eye out for me and gave his boat name in case I wanted to call on the VHF. It was so kind and well-meant that I felt even worse for feeling patronised, and ashamed at my own casualness which had got us both wet and cold. Out in 22 metres of safely muddy water I let go all 60 metres of chain and 40 of rope to boot, reversed it all in as hard as I could, set my anchor watch app and crashed out in the warm, dry cabin to finish supper.

The anchor held, and all next day too as the wind blew and the rain fell ever harder – it was the Friday you all had thunderstorms, we just got a steady downpour like a huge bucket being poured over your head for hours at a time. By the time it moderated to just regular cats and dogs a few lunatics were leaving, and cheery Scotsman donned his oilies, upped his anchor and came past waving while his wife and dog glared at him. I thanked him for last night; “nae bother” he replied, and “I reckon there’s some berths come free if you want one”. He disappeared into the rain and the maelstrom of moorings: I could see through my binoculars that the boats on moorings were being thrown around a lot more than us smug bastards in the sheltered bay, and decided to stay put now that I was actually anchored. I am fairly sure it was the right decision although I spent the rest of the day wondering if it was: there was a succession of radio calls to the Harbourmaster in which various yachts begged pontoons and were told they couldn’t be booked, and we were treated to the undignified spectacle of people on moorings racing into the marina when they saw a space, like a giant wet game of musical chairs. One boat missed out on the marina and when he got back to his mooring someone had nabbed it so he had to come and anchor with us.

Eventually the sun came out but the wind was forecast to stay too breezy for any trips out into the Sea of The Hebrides (what a great name, like something out of The Odyssey) so I enjoyed the scenery in what I now know is called Aros Bay.

Now I could see more than five yards I found that the anchorage was surrounded by waterfalls, one of which cascaded into the sea just yards from a boat on a visitor mooring. Snug it may have been, but quiet it wasn’t. I really wanted to take the dinghy ashore to explore, and needed now to get into Tobermory at some point because my 12v charger had blown a fuse and I couldn’t charge the laptop so that would have been the end of the blog, but I was sufficiently shaken by the previous night’s incompetence that I didn’t fancy leaving the boat and stayed put watching the merry-go-round instead.

Saturday was as windy as ever, but forecast to moderate in the afternoon, and many of the school holiday crowd had schedules and family-sized yachts so they began to head out into the Sound with lots of reefs and full oilies. This at least meant a fighting chance of a mooring with a shorter dinghy ride so I bit the bullet and went for it. Sure enough, I nabbed one just off the pontoons, and instantly knew I’d made the right choice the day before – the boat was lurching around violently and I had to put waterproofs on just to get into the dinghy, let alone go anywhere in it.

But it was all worth it: Tobermory is much nicer than Balamory in real life because instead of brightly coloured kids’ actors singing songs all the time there are showers and pubs and shops, some of which sell things like food, yacht fenders and fuses rather than candles and wooden puffins, and the tourists seemed less colourful than the TV cast and consequently less intrusive.

I even discovered a smoked fish shop a mile up a steep hill, but only once I’d gone back to the boat and been lured ashore again. This also was worth it, not just for the fish but for the wonderful piece of island snobbery I overheard between shop assistants. “I’ve never been to Skye, have you?” “Once, years ago. Not much there, and I wouldn’t go again, it’s been spoiled by all the tourists now”.

Smoked fish locker replenished, I had seen enough of Tobermory to know that a Saturday on a mooring would not be worth it, so I headed off to the famously remote and previously-aspired-to Loch Drumbuie, just an hour away across the Sound. No sooner had I walked onto the foredeck to undo the mooring than three yachts began circling me like hungry seagulls outside the Oban chip shop. The winner was a Frenchman in one of those Brittany-built superfast boats that I once wanted to do this trip in. He had black sails and almost certainly a plastic interior (see earlier post Spot the French) and had clearly been going very fast as there were salt stains streaking his face. I’m glad he won: he would have been wet and cold in Quiberon Bay let alone the Sound of Mull, and he looked every inch the bedraggled, frozen but very satisfied French yachtsman. He needed the hot showers, the moules frites and perhaps a handmade candle to warm him up. As I settled down into Blue Moon’s cosy cabin that evening with a glass of Chablis and a bowl of fresh langoustines from this very loch, and the rain came down again outside, I was very glad I hadn’t gone to Brittany for my boat.

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