Apologies for what is probably the longest gap between posts (except the winter of course). This is as a result of two factors: one, being home for over a week (combining a birthday – not mine – and a general election, what a treat) and the other, simply pottering around for a week in deserted landscapes where there aren’t any villages or even people to come across doesn’t really make for good copy, unless you want a travelogue, in which case you should have gathered by now that you’re reading the wrong blog.
The very idea of pottering this far north would have given me the heebie-jeebies a year ago: in its introduction to the far NorthWest the pilot book warns of only a handful of places where there is even a shop, and makes it very clear that you are on your own up here with no facilities for yachts. But it goes on to say that there are plenty of safe anchorages: what it doesn’t say is how close most of them are to absolutely spectacular mountains and wild scenery of all sorts. As long as you have a well-stocked fridge and can manage a week without speaking to anyone (other than on the phone of course – there is 4G coverage even in the wilderness) then you’re set for a splendid time. Your blog readers, however, are set for a slightly disappointing read devoid of entertaining human interaction, and there’s only so much I can tell you about seals, eagles and mountains and maintain your interest. But I’ll do my best, and try to add in the odd mishap for comedic effect.
Bizarrely, Ullapool turns out to be far easier and quicker to get to than anywhere further south until you get to the Clyde: rather than crawling for hours up the scenic West Highland Line (or bus) from Glasgow it’s 80 minutes from Inverness on the bus. The only drawback is that the bus doesn’t connect with the plane, entailing a three hour stop in Inverness. Lovely as Inverness is, after two such stops I think I’ve seen enough of it. It’s not exactly a big city but when everywhere else in the Highlands is is a village, it feels like Oxford Street and Brent Cross all in one. It has a Primark! Lakeland! Zizzi! It even has a pro-Palestinian march with all of a dozen people:
Further down the street was a small stall occupied by the Highland Friends of Israel. There were only two of them so I didn’t feel I could take their picture.
After all that metropolitan excitement it was time for the wilderness, so having stocked the fridge and made a few burnt offerings to the gods of mechanical breakdowns, I headed north, ready to reef at any moment. No need: a whole five days north of Skye and not a single 30-knot gust. In fact quite a lot of what’s termed in the trade champagne sailing: force 4-5, not on the nose all the time, even some sunshine every now and then. Extraordinary.
Day One took me to the oddly-named Loch Shark, odd because there are no reports of sharks at all, just a lot of noisy seals. It’s tiny, almost completely round, and surrounded by pine trees so totally sheltered from that force 4-5 and smelling every now and then of Greece or Turkey. I’d been promised wilderness and I was indeed the only occupant when I arrived, just as well as it’s really very small and anyone else would have been very noticeable. Imagine my disappointment then when, just as I finished tidying up and sat down to a cup of tea, a large-ish yacht arrived and anchored just next to me (to be fair he had to, there was nowhere else). I resigned myself to sharing my wilderness and blew up the dinghy to head ashore for total isolation – and it was: not a house, a road, even a telegraph pole in sight. But then they blew up their dinghy and followed me. Curses! I climbed back into mine and as we got closer a voice called “Hello Peter!”. It was Derek Lumb, President of the Cruising Association, who I had met at the excellent seminars he’d arranged in the winter. By an extraordinary piece of good fortune I had just put up my CA burgee because the shoddy Itchenor one had blown itself to bits (ISC flag officers take note), and had even put up an anchor ball in spite of being on my own, so I considered my Ps and Qs duly minded. Luckily Derek didn’t interpret my actions as trying to avoid him either as he invited me to join him and Jean for drinks later. This was in many ways a perfect end to the day, although it did reduce my not-talking-to-anyone-in-the-wilderness hours.
Social opportunities notwithstanding, Loch Shark won my beautiful solitude award for this month: in addition to the silence of the pine trees there was the most amazing view to the even-more-weirdly named mountain Quinag, which lit up in a range of different ways as the sun set.
Next day Derek and Jean headed off around the corner to Kylescu, I suspect to have dinner in the award-winning restaurant at the Kylescu Hotel which is oddly placed in the middle of nowhere, but on the NC500 so probably coining it these days. It was grey, drizzly and very windy so I stayed put and did various boat jobs before eventually upping the anchor and sailng all of five miles downwind with just the genoa out to the almost as well-named Loch Nedd. Even the internet doesn’t seem to know how either loch got its name, although there’s a theory about Nedd meaning a nest on account of how sheltered its loch is. This bit seemed totally plausible – although it was blowing hard outside, the loch was totally sheltered, so I went ashore and set off for a pointless hike – I say pointless, but the main point of anchoring somehwere nice is to go ashore and take a picture of your boat, which I did.
I also came across this oddly specific road sign:
I think that’s what the collective term ‘farm animals’ was invented for.
On the way back I met another touching man/dog relationship to rival my neighbours in Liverpool (She’s leaving home). A grumpy man (I wished him a good afternoon, he grumped in reply, nuff said) with an unfeasibly large German Shepherd appeared out of nowhere and followed me down to the stone pier where I’d left the dinghy. When they got there they both sat down and shared a packet of crips, taking turns scrupulously. “He’d love a go in your dinghy” the man suddenly said. “He likes anything that moves”. Luckily I had already cast off.
The following day promised less drizzle and even some sunshine, so I had earmarked it as a day to visit the ominous Loch Beag. I say ominous because all the pilot books seem to hate it, warning that there is nothing there, that the holding (non sailors – grippiness for anchoring) is terrible and that it’s subject to violent squalls. Even the saintly Bob Bradfield on his Antares chart says “there seems to be no good reason to visit other than perhaps to walk up to the bottom of the Eas a’ Chaul Aluinn waterfall.”
Well hang on a minute, Bob! What better reason to visit than to see Britain’s highest waterfall? Four times the height of Niagara if you will! I had this planned weeks in advance. The loch is indeed bleak but in a rugged wildernessy kind of way, and in the odd spell of sunshine I sat in the cockpit enjoying lunch having anchored perfectly securely. Then a simple dinghy ashore and an easy half hour walk up a totally deserted glen to see quite the most spectacular waterfall. Not as totally impressive as Niagara I admit, but I had it all to myself: the nearest car park is two hours’ tedious boggy slog away, apparently, whereas Niagara feels like a giant Disneyland. I say all to myself, but I’m not counting the actual proper Scottish stag who came trotting down the glen completely unaware of the only visiting yachtsman foolish enough to defy the pilot books.
Even the journey to and from Loch Beag was rather special as it involved sailing miles up one loch after another. First Loch a’ Chairn Bhain…
…then under this amazing curved bridge at Kylescu. I’m so cured of bridges I barely crossed a finger…
…past the Michelin starred hotel restaurant that looks like a shed (those houses are all there is of Kylescu: no shops, just the hotel)…
…and on up the length of totally wild and empty Loch Glencoul…
After a day of such excitements I needed even more peace and quiet, so I sailed past the bay by the hotel on the basis that there might be someone there who might speak to me, and headed back to Loch Shark because I liked it so much.
This time I had the whole place to myself. Except for the half a dozen noisy seals, and what might have been an otter. Just as well really as this is when I made a total arse of myself by reversing over the dinghy painter and chewing it up with the propellor rope-cutter. I suppose testing your rope-cutter once a year makes sense, as I did in Tobermory last year (A windy story in Balamory). This time there were only the seals to laugh as the dinghy, loose for once from its leash, headed off to play on the rocks on its own. I briefly considered swimming for it (not for the first time, but the first time was in Newtown Creek on the Isle of Wight which was probably three times the temperature) and then took the sensible decision to blow up the paddle board, paddle to the dinghy and then row them both back.
Thank goodness the President of the Cruising Association hadn’t been there to witness it. I would have been thrown out at the next committee meeting.
I’ve given up on those animated tracks, they just don’t work, but I did find a new app that tracks me much better:
Blue Moon's trip around the UK 
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