A long gap between posts for two good reasons: first, I went home for a few days and that’s not what the blog is about, and second, I had my third guest of the year in the form of Peter (Watts, not me, although it always seems to tickle strangers to meet two people called Peter), and I still maintain it is bad form to blog with guests aboard. Peter presented a challenge to the planning: the poor sod had trekked to Ardrossan and from Oban last year and mustered a total of about three hours sailing in four days. I was keen to improve on those stats, especially given that his trek this year was even longer, and also to show him something more interesting than the inside of a canal. I was also keen to tick some new boxes myself, but in that I largely failed, although I did tick a different box instead. Intrigued? Bored? On with the blog then.
Back to Oban, or more precisely Kerrera where I had left the boat. I had had the clever wheeze of catching a plane to Glasgow and then a bus from the airport which cost exactly the same as the train but got me to Oban five hours earlier, even having sat in a traffic jam for a full hour outside Dumbarton. So the boat was fuelled, watered, provisioned and raring to go the next day when Peter arrived, but then had to wait patiently for an hour while I finished a meeting. Even though this meant it was 5pm I was so keen to get some sailing in that we forewent the gastronomic opportunities of Oban and set off immediately to sail an hour and a half over to Loch Don on the Isle of Mull.
Loch Don had been on my list for some time as it was described by the pilot book as most unusual for these parts, being “rather like a river from the East Coast of England set down among mountains.” Well, Peter and I both grew up sailing on the East Coast and I have personally visited every river between Ramsgate and Lowestoft by boat, several of them many times, and all I can say is that Edward Mason and the Clyde Cruising Club pilot guide editors need to book a sailing holiday in Suffolk immediately, because every single Suffolk river is considerably nicer than Loch Don, and so too are all the rivers in Kent and Essex, even the Roach and the Swale, and that’s saying something. Both of the latter have good shelter and better pubs, whereas Loch Don has one half-sheltered spot and there was already a large, very elegant 1970s cruiser-racer (a rare Contessa 38 for the cognoscenti) occupying it. We anchored in a bit of a wasteland near some nasty-looking rocks ominously marked as boulders on the chart. Peter looked worried while I tried to convince him that I had learned how to anchor near rocks, but I can’t say I wasn’t feeling a bit rusty after a winter off.
Things weren’t helped by the temperature being all of four degrees, something unheard of in Kent. Or indeed in Scotland if you believe the locals, who have clearly all been paid by the tourist board to persuade visitors that snow at this time of year is unusual.
Over a hot dinner wearing fleeces with the heater on full blast I outlined the max sailing plan: since the wind would go round to the south overnight we would sail up the Sound of Mull to Tobermory (not new I know, but it was to Peter and snug in a Southerly) then when the wind went back to the north next day we would sail on to the two Small Isles I hadn’t visited yet, Muck and Eigg, and possibly tick off the previously missed Loch Moidart too before sailing up to Mallaig for the train home.
It sounded good, and it still does, but it didn’t even survive the night. We woke up to a southerly but it was about five knots, so about as much use as the Clyde Cruising Club’s guide to East Coast rivers. Engine on yet again, motoring up the Sound of Mull. Worse still, and to the surprise of no readers of this blog, the forecast had completely changed its mind, and it was now going to blow very hard from the south until it was time for Peter to go home, when it would blow quite hard from the north again. The harbours on Muck and Eigg are completely exposed to the south, so that was plan A out of the window, but we hoped we might scoot round in the lee of Ardnamurchan Point to visit Loch Moidart at least. I had cunningly prepared a Plan B too, which was to visit Canna again, as it was firmly top of that list of best places visited in 2023 that I promised to write and never did, and I liked it so much I wanted to go back for one more Café Canna seafood platter before I die, and it would be more fun with someone. Its harbour is fabulously sheltered from the south, so a quick phone call and it was booked, and a different box was to be ticked.
However, Plan B looked to be in jeopardy too as the forecast steadily worsened, and started muttering about Force 7. For once we had played the Tobermory-in-a-blow card correctly: we had bagged a pontoon by lunchtime and donned our walking boots to head up for an excellent walk around an inland loch and the various waterfalls I had tried to anchor under a year ago; I couldn’t supress the schadenfreude when we returned to see the pontoons and moorings full and late-comers fighting for anchoring space in the bay.
The Force 7 looked very real the following morning, and with it the promise of torrential downpours all afternoon and evening. A quick conversation over porridge (At last! A porridge-loving guest!) agreed that heading to a deserted loch in a near gale, only to play cards down below while the rain obscured the view, was Plan Z, so we stayed put. Out came the boots again and a decent hike out to the point confirmed that we had made the right decision: even the sheltered sound of Mull was full of white horses while beyond Ardnamurchan looked as evil as it’s supposed to when pilot books are trying to frighten English sailors.
We were even rewarded for our prudence by seeing the local sea eagles, eating Tobermory ice cream and getting back in time to escape the rain by going on another distillery tour, although this plan was less cunning than it looked since the distillery is so small that most of the tour was spent outside looking at it.
We had now exhausted all that Tobermory has to offer, so were disappointed to see that the Met Office forecast was still banging on about Force 7 the next day, although every other app and model had a much more reasonable 5-6. This worried me on several levels: first, that they might be right, and that having a dinner reservation wasn’t the best explanation to give the lifeboat when it all went wrong; second, that even if they were half-right it could be a beastly sail in a rough sea followed by more bad weather, thereby spoiling my idyllic memories of Canna forever,; and third, that if they were wrong and everyone else thought they were wrong too, the harbour would be so full we’d have to anchor up the shallow end and walk ashore through rock pools which would be no fun in the current temperatures. However, Canna vs Tobermory is no contest so, having agreed a very seamanlike range of bail-out options if things went the Met Office’s way, we put in a reef and headed out.
We survived. Bailing out was not required. Yes, it was really rather lumpy after the previous day’s blow; yes it was grey and wet and gloomy to start with; yes it was quite windy and eventually did get up to Force 6 for a bit at the end, but by then we had sailed all the way into Canna Harbour like the happy show-offs we were, dropped the sails as if we knew what we were doing and picked up one of the last and snuggest moorings. We had spotted several yachts heading our way so I had sensibly given Peter the helm and his legendary racing skills came flooding back as we cunningly squeaked goose-winged around the corner of Rum as if it was a mark at Bough Beech (non sailors, look it up) with the result that we could watch them all grumbling about having to anchor in the sub-optimal spots while we smugly ate a good lunch in the cockpit.
Best of all, Canna was as magical as I had remembered it. The sun came out as soon we arrived and stayed out well after we left; we hiked up to Compass Hill in T shirts without getting lost and looked at the rain on Rum and Skye and the mainland; we admired Celtic crosses and Highland cattle; and then we sat down to Canna Pale Ale looking at the boat and then to the seafood platter looking at the locals looking at the football (not so magical for them). I even beat Peter at cards through a lobster and whisky-induced haze.
Next day the wind had dropped and gone north again as promised. The sun shone. We had a gentle sail to Mallaig admiring the views of Skye, and even stopped for lunch in a sandy bay which last year I had imagined as being for locals only, being so small and full of rocks. I almost felt like one as we reversed into our berth at Mallaig knowing that we’d be more comfortable that way when it blew in the night, only to find the Contessa from Loch Don moored next door. Her owner caught us admiring her and said hello, then looked at our transom and said “I learned to sail on the Medway, and I keep this boat in Bosham Creek.” It turned out that we both knew his twin brothers from Kent, Peter quite well, and I didn’t feel so local after all.
As I waved Peter off on the train the next morning (metaphorically, please, we’re chaps) I decided that that should be my last trip to Canna this lifetime: no matter how idyllic the place is, surely a fourth visit would just be courting disappointment. However, I have a feeling that there will be a little corner of Heaven where you can sail there in your own boat in a Force 4 with the sun out, walk the cliffs and eat the seafood platter.
Blue Moon's trip around the UK 
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