Four Men in a Boat (each)

with apologies to Jerome K. Jerome

Expedition Members : Stephen Singleton, Kevin Singleton, Steve (Wilkie) Wilkinson and Terry Maddock

Friday July 26th 1996- Friday August 2nd 1996

Stephen has an Idea

Stephen, Kevin and Wilkie were discussing a proposed expedition around the calm and sheltered seas between Skye and the mainland of Scotland. Five days of camping in the wild was on offer, on almost deserted islands. I had long fancied sea canoeing. A quiet weeks holiday in idyllic surroundings idly paddling through calm, azure waters, lulled by the gentle rocking of the sea seemed to be my sort of sea canoeing. The only missing items would be coconuts and garlanded maidens dangling grapes into my mouth (and that could wait till the next trip with Bill’s Babes). They didn’t have to ask me twice.

Friends in Need

The preparations seemed complex and time consuming so I ignored them till the last minute, then ran round like a headless chicken. The others had their own boats and had done several three day expeditions before. They knew what to take and what to leave. I was borrowing a club sea boat (one of the plastic Skerries) and was advised to practise packing it at least a week before departure. I quickly discovered that my new sleeping bag took up too much room but Rick Curwen came to the rescue with the offer of his lightweight Karrimor bag. Thanks Rick ! Keeping things dry seemed a priority and Bob Smith offered me three dry sacks, Merrick lent me his and with one of my own, five should be plenty. Thanks Bob ! Thanks Merrick ! I decided to throw into the car everything I might possibly need, and leave the hard decisions till packing the canoe on the morning of departure from Base Camp.

Wilkie draws on his resources

Stephen and Kevin were leaving Preston on Friday afternoon but Wilkie and I set off earlier and arrived at tea time. Base Camp was just past the picturesque castle of Eilean Donan on Loch Duich. Having set up the tent and had a brew (the tap water being such that tea bags were unnecessary) we could practise loading the canoes. We could ; but we didn’t ! It was far more pleasant to bask in the evening sunshine, enjoy the views and consider the meaning of life, the Universe and all that. Wilkie did amazing things with a map, book, pencil and I think he had some beads somewhere. After an hour he had a map covered in tide times, flow directions and strengths, all crossed out and started again. I was very impressed.

The Highland’s answer to The Hand and Dagger

As the evening wore on and Wilkie’s pencil wore down, we both began to hear voices calling from the direction of the pub. Not wishing to anger the local spirits we took heed and headed for Dornie, a small village with two pubs, several boats and a strong smell of fish. It was a brisk walk and we got very thirsty and a bit hungry too. The venison was excellent and it took several pints to wash the fat down and you can’t leave a pub in Scotland without downing a whisky. Well I can’t anyway. We staggered back to the camp along the coast where a plethora of boulders had us falling about. I would have mentioned it at the time but I had the wrong teeth in.

Kevin drags us into The Eagle and Sporran

We arrived back to find we had missed Stephen and Kevin by a few minutes. Now where would they have gone looking for us ? We met them coming out of the nearest pub, puzzled at finding us not there. We went in to discuss the history and uses of the misplaced negative.

Packing it in

Saturday morning dawned and several hours later we crawled out into a bright cloudy day with a hint of a breeze, a suggestion of warm sunshine and a promise of retribution from Wilkie for the peculiar aroma now escaping from the tent flap. A cup of hot water and an invigorating swill in cold tea soon had us on the move. The tides were such that a start at about mid-day would be best. Now that’s what I call organisation. We began to pack the canoes at 9 O’clock and so by 11.30 were well on the way to repacking them for the fourth time.

I must go down to the sea again, and again and again and again

An empty sea canoe is easily carried by one person. Load it with a few necessities for a short expedition and it is easily transported by two elephants or a small traction engine. In the absence of such luxuries the four of us struggled over seaweed covered boulders at a fast crawl in an effort to overtake the receding tide. Four times the journey had to be completed with a return at the run in between each. After all this I was relieved to lower myself gasping into the canoe and a little surprised to find it still floated. Then we sallied forth into (for me) the unknown. The adventure had begun!

DAY ONE (Saturday)

A paddle up the Kyle’s

One drawback to the picturesque camp site was the six mile paddle along Loch Alsh to Kyle Akin and the Kyle of Loch Alsh. However the day though overcast was pleasant, the sea was calm and it was a good warm up. The navigators (everyone except me) had obviously got the tides right, as we passed below the new bridge between Skye and the mainland in the company of several yachts and two friendly seals. We stopped for lunch just beyond the Kyle’s on the shore of Skye. I discovered the sharpness of the common barnacle and had bleeding knuckles for several days to prove it. The others were in fibreglass boats and I was impressed by the sixth sense they seemed to possess concerning sharp rocks and other such unpleasantness. The club’s plastic Skerry was more forgiving in this department (just as well!).

Where did you get that hat, where did you get that hat……………

We paddled on between Skye and the small island of Pabay then across Broadford Bay to heave to (a nautical term) in the shelter of Guillamon Island, off the south east coast of Scalpay. This was re-christened Gilligan’s Isle by those unembarrassed by their age and silly hats. At this early stage in the expedition I had noticed that Wilkie, Steve and Kevin were all sporting the sort of head gear that, forty years ago, would have been forced on a protesting three year old at the sea side. Thank goodness I had brought mine. Peer pressure is very keen when you’re feeling insecure.

It’s a long way to tip of Scalpay, it’s a long way to go ; etc……..

We continued through the Caolas Scalpay between Scalpay and Skye. No-one else seemed to notice that we had paddled nearly twenty miles and should be thinking very seriously about stopping very soon. On we paddled along the south west coast of Scalpay, past Loch Ainort on the opposite shore of Skye. On we paddled till we began to turn north east around the top of Scalpay. The waves began to get bigger here - like a lake chop remarked Stephen, not for the first time. On we paddled round headlands without number (they don’t show up on the map). I remembered the May paddle across Scotland via the Great Glen and began to think I was still there. However the figures ahead of me were Stephen and Kevin instead of Rick and Maxine. Wilkie was behind somewhere, having stopped to catch the shipping forecast. At last we arrived at what had looked on the map like a good camp site (Camas na Geadaig). And it lived up to its promise. Mind you, I wouldn’t have complained at a bed of nettles up a tree by this time. Sea canoeing can be like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer. It’s great when you stop.

And will there still be jam for tea

Out of the boats, a few quick stretches and then it was all-hands-to (another nautical term) to carry the boats one between four up the rocky beach to the best camping spot. An old camp fire gave witness to previous occupations. “Don’t move any flat rocks !” instructed Stephen, immediately lifting a flat rock and finding another witness. I had thought he was worrying about snakes and such, but obviously not. The Doubletons had a hot meal ready in no time, and a couple of hours later Wilkie and I were tucking into a steaming one-pan meal. The sweet ecstasy of not paddling gradually seeped through every fibre of every body. The evening slowed almost to a standstill, nudged along only by gentle bouts of washing up in the nearby stream. And then it was time for hot chocolate and whisky. We had all managed to find room for that vital commodity (not the chocolate). And so to bed!

DAY TWO (Sunday)

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, bashing their clogs in sprightly dance

On Sunday morning the tides and local religious practices precluded an early start. We lay half waking in the luxury of not having to rush anywhere. The tents seemed bright and yet rain was drumming on the “canvas”. A lengthy discussion of this phenomenon bandied between the tents until, unable to bear any longer the peculiar aroma of our tent, I stuck my head out of the inner to find the cause of the drumming. Thousands of midges trapped inside the outer tent had organised a ceilidh and were amusing themselves clog dancing until released. My head retracted quickly. As the tent got warmer and the aroma less subtle I was driven out to brave the little blighters. A voice from the other tent suggested the foreshore may be clear. And so I beat a hasty retreat clutching Wilkie’s primus stove and my bacon. Breakfast was eaten on the rocks with a heated debate on the life and habits of the midge and how in particular to avoid them.

Stephen passes water

Camp was struck by four aliens with khaki heads and black netting faces and arms that waved about a lot. The same aliens sat on rocks in the stream and used Stephen’s hand-pump filter to refill water bottles. This was the first time it had been tried and although it took time and effort it was voted a success. Late morning saw four humans carrying boats down to launch on a calm sea under a blazing sun and a clear green Skye.

Duncan rules OK !

Heading north-east from Scalpay we paddled steadily across Caol More, and then north up the east coast of Raasay. We passed below Dun Caan, a distinctive, chisel shaped mountain which seemed to dominate the entire area like a benevolent god. You could see him from almost every part of our journey and I came to find Duncan a reassuring sight. The day was perfect ; cloudless blue skies, sun, a calm sea and cliffs all along this shore broken by waterfalls, perched rocks, crevasses and screes. One waterfall fell perhaps fifty feet into the sea. The local population was mainly buzzards, crows, ravens, rabbits and sheep grazing on small patches of grass suspended in the middle of cliff faces. If The Morgan had been with us he would have been all day rescuing them. His boat would have looked like a cloud with legs. Stephen regularly took readings on his satellite navigation system which was accurate to a pin point when it wasn’t locating us up mountains or in Sardinia. We paddled on until we beached for a late lunch near Brochel. The beach was steeply sloping shingle and was approached at a steady thrash through modest waves - “ Just like a lake chop ! “ said Stephen, not for the second time.

Round the Horn

Rounding the next headland we were startled to see coach parties of school children thronging the shore and beyond to where lay Brochel Castle. Putting them behind us we returned to the isolation of this wild and rugged coast. Small inlets and crevices appeared and passed behind us and I seem to remember a man made wall buttressing out into the sea near the top of Raasay. However tiredness was closing the world around me and my mind kept wandering and needing to be rounded up and brought back with great effort. At last the top of Raasay appeared with Caol Rona and on we paddled into some bigger, rolling waves coming in from the Atlantic round the top of Skye. I remarked on the swell and from somewhere close by there came, “ Just like a lake chop.” But perhaps that was just in my mind. Three people were fishing off the northern most point of Raasay and their friendly waves carried us round and through the gap between Raasay and Eilean Tigh.

Strictly for the birds (and seals)

Now we were paddling south west across Loch a’Sguirr and past Eilean Fladday, looking across to Skye. Kevin and Stephen had read that Griana-sgeir, a small island off Fladday was an idyllic camp site, with sheltered flat ground, grass and plenty of drift wood. As we approached it past low rocks hidden beneath seals, the bird noises, at first pleasant, built up to a raucous cacophony. Obviously the author of that book had never visited in the nesting season. Any attempt to beach on the island was met by dive bombers and angry screams (Kevin thought they were after his hat). So we put about (a nautical term) and headed back in to the shores of Eilean Fladday. A brief foray up the sheltered sound between this island and Raasay convinced the navigators that we had passed the best camp site on the south west shore of Fladday and we returned to set up camp in a position which improved on acquaintance. The only disadvantage was a lack of fresh water.

Terry has a note from his mum.

The boats were carried above the high water mark where an abundance of drift plastic and some drift wood promised ill for the environment once the matches were found. But first the tents were pitched and a brew started. Despite a bitter argument over who’s fault it was that the stew pan fell off the stove and vomited its contents (including carrots) onto the ground sheet, the Doubletons still sat down to tea an hour ahead of Wilkie and me. I was now nursing a sore wrist, diagnosed by Stephen as tenosynivitus. I hadn’t realised it was that bad ! The only cure was rest ! The next day’s trip could be a circuit of Rona, the island north of Raasay, returning to the same camp site. This meant I could rest up for a day whilst the others paddled 20 miles or so. Not paddling sounded like fun. I retired to bed in a very relaxed mood after the customary hot chocolate and whiskey.

DAY THREE (Monday)

Mussel bound

The morning dawned bright and midge free. After a hearty breakfast, Wilkie left me his fishing line with instructions on how to cook the fish over an open fire ready for their return. As the three paddled into the distance under a bright blue sky, any pang of regret I felt quickly disappeared as I stretched out on a rock under the blazing sun. Sun bathing alternated with skinny dips in the sea to cool off. After a couple of hours, I began to feel guilty at such inactivity and got dressed to go hunting mussels for bait. I set off to do a full circuit of the island carrying Stephen’s radio for the shipping forecast, his binoculars for the view and wearing the only clothes I had which would offer protection from midges - a full Mardale suit complete with furry lining. Progress up the west coast was rapid, racing over sloping rock strata and leaping crevasses shadowing down twenty feet or more to the slapping waves below. It crossed my mind more than once that an accident here on my own could be awkward. By the time I reached the north west corner of the island I had four mussels in my pocket and a cloud of flies in my wake. This may have had more to do with the blazing sun, the Mardale suit and me, rather than the mussels.

A warning of things to come

The shipping forecast came through loud and clear. It was film directors’ heaven: the juxtaposition of a hot sunny day, gentle breezes sparkling the playfully innocent waves below the headland and the practised monotones of “ Gale warning Malin, Hebrides ……south west force 5 and 6 turning westerly later force 8.” For several seconds a large weight was suspended from my stomach and I realised I had stopped breathing. Some thing are best forgotten. This was one ; so I did. Hey-ho ! One advantage of this place was being able to sing at the top of my voice and scare only the sheep ; so I did.

…..And there’s Mor

When I came to a stream which I guessed must come from Loch Mor in the centre of the Island, my feet insisted I turn and paddle its cool waters. And so I reached Loch Mor, deserted and still but for the sough of the breeze in the cotton grass, the whine of an occasional mosquito and the quiet echoing calls of divers across the flat peaty water. Time was somewhere else - not here. An arm carrying a sword rose slowly up from the water near the centre of the loch but I blinked and it was gone. I rose and turned to leave the loch picking my way through tussocks of bilberry interspersed with trenches of boggy peat. I had rested by the loch for hours but only ten minutes had passed.

Will there be a fishy in our little dishy, when the boats come in.

The sun and tide were high on my return to Base, and it was a relief to remove the mussels from my pocket, bait the fishing line and chuck it wildly into just the right spot. Another swim in the sea had me sweet again, but my Mardale reminds me to this day of the Fladday circuit. As the sun lowered and the tide fell, the line and bait remained untouched. Perhaps Wilkie’s fish recipe was not to be put to the test. When the boats returned, a roaring camp fire kept the company cheerful despite the lack of a change of diet and the threatening sky over Skye. As we retired to bed, the tents were starting to flap in the strengthening wind and my spirits were sinking.

DAY FOUR (Tuesday)

It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good (and this was an ill wind)

We awoke to the crack of the tents and a noisy wind and sea. Not much was said as we ate breakfast and packed gear. Partly the wind made talking more of an effort, but I think it was the uncertainty of my ability to handle this weather that was making the others think. It was making me positively morose. This was the only day I was ready to go before the others. Waiting was too tense. My stomach was churning and my fingers ached with adrenaline. As usual things weren’t so bad once we got paddling. My wrist wasn’t a problem and whilst heading south into the teeth of the wind slowed us down, I would have been much less happy paddling across the wind. I was broken in gradually as we were soon able to paddle across the relative shelter of Loch Arnish before emerging back into the wind as we rounded Manish Point.

Venison on the hoof (dream on)

We hugged the shoreline down the west coast of Raasay, gaining all the shelter we could from the rocky headlands. I would have preferred to hug the line half a mile inland from the shore but that isn’t sea canoeing (unfortunately). After seven miles or so, we stopped for lunch in a wide sandy bay sheltered by Eilean an Inbhire. On dragging the boats up the sandy beach we found tracks of what we took to be a mother deer and young. It reminded me of the venison we had eaten at Dornie. I yearned to repeat the experience and wondered if there was a bus from here. Wherever possible, stops were arranged close to streams to top up our drinking water supplies. Here was no exception and by now we were dab hands at using Stephen’s pump/filter to fill our water bottles. On we paddled again, south and still hugging that shoreline as the wind strengthened slightly. We passed over shallow rocks and sea weed between Holoman Island and Raasay, then down Holoman Bay and around Oskaig Point. We were now approaching the Narrows of Raasay where the navigators were concerned as to the run of the tidal currents. We paddled down the exposed coast off Clachan and round a very exposed headland into the shelter of Churchtown Bay.

East is east and west is west (I’m glad I’ve got my thermal vest).

It had been the navigators’ intention to camp at Clachan or Inverarish on Raasay, but now a discussion took place regarding the exposure of that coast to the expected force 8 westerly gale and the intense population of that area (more than three crofts per mile). It was eventually decided that we would ferry glide the wind and current of Raasay Narrows to cross to the more sheltered and isolated coast of Skye itself. This was at the end of what had been for me a nerve wracking day. Ha! If that was nerve wracking, just wait for tomorrow. We camped on the fairly sheltered south east facing shore at the top of Balmeanach Bay, having been followed in by an inquisitive seal.

DAY FIVE (Wednesday)

Wind crack away, wind crack away, wind crack away…

Yes, the wind was still with us and was now coming from the south. After (the condemned man ate) a hearty breakfast, we set off south east towards the southern tip of Raasay. The wind was strong and gusty as we passed Suisnish Point then Rubha na Cloiche after which we paddled in the comparative shelter of Scalpay until a brief Mars Bar break off the lighthouse at Eyre Point some four miles from the morning’s start.

Stephen 1 Wilkie 0

A discussion now took place between the navigators. Stephen was very keen to get straight across (due east) to the Crowlin Islands. He wanted to get there with the tide still high enough to paddle through the narrow north-south gap between Eilean Mor and Eilean Meadhonach. Wilkie was concerned (on my account) that we would be paddling seven miles across open water with a cross wind (force 5 was estimated) and a slightly annoyed sea. Kevin and I stayed out of it, and Stephen won the argument discussion.

Chipped or mashed

And so we set forth paddling out from the shelter of Scalpay and the wind strengthened and the waves got higher, the occasional white horse being whipped across the kayak. My nerves were in the lead whilst the others watched me from behind (or were they playing cards). Stephen told me to relax, stay loose and let the waves roll under me. I said “Yes”. He told me to be a sack of potatoes and I said “Yes”. It’s difficult to speak when your teeth are clamped together with a force matched only by your buttocks. But I was a sack of potatoes; nervous, quivering potatoes, but potatoes nevertheless.

Rocking rolling riding, out across the bay ; All bound for Crowlin Isles, many miles away…..

Seven miles , over two hours paddling , an eternity. I suddenly new why religion was much stronger in the past when people faced the elements every day of their lives. Safe houses, central heating, electricity, street lighting, television all help to remove us from the rigours of the elements. And having been removed from them, we don’t have to recognise their power or our lack of it. For two hours I prayed, sometimes silently, sometimes in song and sometimes shouting. And when, eventually, Crowlin seemed to be approaching, I gave thanks. And in the shelter of the small gap between Eilean Meadhonach and Eilean Beag the outer me was smiling and pleased to be in sheltered water, whilst the inner blubbering wreck was wondering how to keep all the just made vows (particularly that one about not breaking wind in Wilkie’s tent).

They came in search of paradise

Now we were back to the sea canoeing I like. Meandering in sheltered water between cliffs and rock flats, looking out for seals, otters and the like. Unfortunately we were too late to pass through the narrow harbour channel between the two big islands, so we paddled round the top of Eilean Mor and part way down the sheltered north eastern shore until a small sheltered bay with a stream beckoned us in. Despite a steady drizzle we managed to light a fire and gained a lot of spiritual comfort from it and just a little physical.

Touching the void

All too soon (in my opinion), we were setting off once more ; the plan was to paddle south east just over four miles to the mainland coast just above the Kyle of Lochalsh. Remember the Kyles ? That was virtually home and was music to my ears. We paddled steadily down and out from the island shore to be met by a lashing wind and white horses as we left the sheltered lee. I dug in, and just kept paddling but after a short while Wilkie called out to Stephen and Kevin that we hadn’t moved forward in over ten minutes. A shout came to me to turn left and head for the mainland. I did and once again the wind and sea was on my right - a situation with which I had recently gained several hours experience. I think that the sight of the distant waves crashing onto the mainland now made that route less of an option. A shout came to me to turn right and head back to the island. I appreciated the need to turn right rather than left but I couldn’t get the bow back up into the wind. After several miss-timed sweeps I heard Stephen shout he was going to run into the back of my boat to shove it round. I had some misgivings but two shunts later I was back up into the wind and easily able to complete the manoeuvre and head back. I was unnerved by the seas now coming from my left but thought it through and was happier by the time we were once more returned to the shelter of Eilean Mor.

Surfin’ along on the crest of a wave

It was clear that I would never be able to paddle against that sea to the Kyles, and the inhospitability of the mainland shore opposite the island left two options. One was to stay on the island till the wind dropped, and the other was to run north with the wind and sea straight up Loch Toscaig where we would surely find a sheltered camp. We had plenty of provisions for a further night and Toscaig won the day as we would then be on the mainland and therefore in a much better position should the storm not abate. As we paddled out again we were able to remain in the lee of the island much longer, and when we did have to move out into the bigger waves, we were creaming along. The main requirement was to keep the kayak straight by paddling and stern ruddering, and let the wind and waves carry us were we wanted to go. A small hiccup occurred as Kevin pointed out some rocks dead ahead, the waves breaking over them, but after ten or fifteen frantic sweeps I passed them by. I was glad to have had the chance to ride that sea to Toscaig rather than letting it keep us prisoner on the island.

Stephen has a swim

The quiet calm and peace of Loch Toscaig after the storm outside slowly washed over us all. The paddle ended at a large wooden pier at the head of the loch. As we got out, Stephen’s foot slipped and his bum hit the water - a technical swim. I made a mental note to inform Jean when we got back. The suggestion of even a technical swim to Stephen produced a reaction similar to that on Fladday when the stew had hit the ground sheet.

Nearly a disaster

On carrying the boats up behind the pier we encountered a phenomenon not seen before on this trip - a road ! Stephen went off up the phenomenon to speak with some divers in an old caravan regarding suitable camping positions. It’s just as well he did. They advised pitching our tents well back from the road and as close as possible to another old caravan (a works office for the pier head). As we cooked tea and brews, we watched the tide water rise to cover Wilkie’s favoured spot, cover the road and fill all the spaces we were likely to have pitched on. The water finally stopped about 20 yards away from the tents and probably no more than twelve inches below them.

A midge too far

The wet ground and the road offered us another opportunity to test the midge avoidance theory. The tents were in a very midgey area and alien headgear was necessary. However, fifteen yards away, the road was midge free. The theory is that midges fly only within a few feet (horizontally) of their birth place in the soft peat.

DAY SIX (Thursday)

Wash & Go

The last day of our expedition dawned calm and sunny and my fears evaporated with the morning mist. Having breakfasted (midge free) on the pier we packed tents and removed our wet gear from the fence where it had almost dried. We paddled steadily down Loch Toscaig towards the open sea. We passed a waterfall dropping straight into the loch where the divers told us one of their girls used to wash her hair by steering the dinghy underneath the fall.

The last crossing

Having rounded Rubha na h-Uamha (what country are we in ?) a brief rest and Mars Bar intake accompanied the decision not to paddle as far up as Plockton, the picturesque village where Hamish Macbeth is filmed. We headed south east across the mouth of Loch Carron and an hour and a half later made landfall at Port Cam near Duirinish. This part of the coast is all National Trust. It comprises small sheltered bays and inlets, with off shore islands connected to mainland at low tide - a haven for wild life and shredded canoeists. What a peaceful relaxed paddle that was down towards the Kyles where we had our last lunch stop and brew up of the expedition.

Homeward bound

Then it was back under the new Skye Bridge and the long but longed for paddle down Loch Alsh to base camp. And there there were showers, and toilets, and pubs, and I embraced them all.

Conclusion

The good bits were very good. The bad bits weren’t that bad and were certainly educational. All in all I enjoyed the experience very much. Perhaps a first sea canoeing expedition is not the ideal time to do a five day expedition with extremely able, experienced and fit canoeists such as Stephen, Kevin and Wilkie. I held them back on occasions and I thank them from the bottom of my heart for keeping me in mind during the lumpy bits and for making the right decisions.

Copyright © 1996 by Terry Maddock.

May not be reproduced or redistributed without author’s permission. Originally posted on North West Sea Kayakers’ web site. Republished here with permission.