Sea Trek. The Same Generation.

The Spring Bank Holiday 2001 Scottish Sea Paddling Camp at Arduaine, Argyll, Scotland.

Almost five years had passed since my epic sea adventure near Skye. Time heals all and I was on speaking terms again with the other members of that expeditionary force. And there lies the problem. Once again I let them lure me with such tales of sunny sea blue lagoon otter seal languid hand trailing desert isle came in search of coconuts malarkey as you would never believe. But I did. The trap was set.

The brainwashing continued over the internet as Stephen e-mailed me two maps of the area (attached), the tide tables and a Gaelic glossary. From the maps I could see the attraction of this beautiful part of the west coast of Scotland centred around Arduaine (pronounced Ardoony). The trap was sprung and I was snared.

Sea date 010525.

Bob and I set forth from Longridge on Friday afternoon with Wilkie and Stuart following. Bob put himself in charge of tying our boats on the roof and the resulting web of ropes had me convinced that spiders figured strongly in Bob’s ancestry. During the journey Bob made contact on his mobile with Ian & Anne in one car and the Doubletons in another - by chance we were all travelling fairly close together. Bob, myself, Ian and Anne met up at the Furnace Arms at Furnace on Loch Fyne for a rather good meal and drink. The week was starting well. Others called at the chippie at Inverary or possibly Lochgilphead. Arduaine can be reached via Oban then south, or as we did, by heading west at Tarbet then south west then north. It was of course raining and almost dark on our arrival at the camp site. Nick & Sam, and Phil were already ensconced and our tents were quickly erected including mine purchased that morning for £35 - I will only have the best. The others, in tents costing up to £400 were a little scathing but my only concern was the limited space and total lack of porch area. I was accused of being a Yorkshireman, (i.e. a Scotsman with all the generosity squeezed out). A brisk five minute walk saw us all in the Bistro/Cafe Bar of the Loch Melfort Hotel, an excellent establishment let down only by the high prices of their liquid refreshments. Plans were made for a gentle start to the paddling week with a trip round the island of Shuna clearly visible (even in the rain) just a short paddle out from the camp site.

A good nights sleep was disturbed only by light showers and the arrival of a diesel engine and some car doors to accompany the dawn chorus. Tony had arrived.

Sea date 010526

Saturday was fairly relaxed with a late morning start after a mid morning breakfast all under a patchy sky that could go either way. The paddle was to be only ten miles or so, with lunch on Shuna. Ian & Ann were paddling the club’s yellow K2 tourer, Phil, Stuart and I were in three of the club’s plastic Skerries, Stephen in his Nordkap, Wilkie in his Aleut, Bob and Kevin in their glass Skerries, Tony in my MI415 (the orange tank with the whoopee cushion seat) and last but not least Sam in her plywood sea boat made by Nick, and Nick in the beautiful timber strip sea boat he made himself. Paddling out from the camp site into a light breeze we skirted the northern end of Eilean Creagach and headed straight on to Shuna, an island of some five miles square and ten miles round.

The middle of Shuna has a fairly steep wooded coast line, flattening out in the south with a low rock shore. We paddled round Shuna Point (though there seemed little Point) and northward up the west shore, rounding the top in time for lunch. The sun was shining and an ideal picnic spot was located on the deck of a wreck in the lee of a Quay where we stopped for a wee by a sandy bay you could blandly say - stop- that’s enough of that. After an hour or more sun bathing someone noticed the boats were floating away and so we relaunched on an incoming tide and paddled gently back passing again Eilean Creagach and so to camp. I think it was that afternoon I went for a swim and then a run with Stephen, Kevin and someone else - Wilkie or Tony I think. Tea was followed by a visit to the Loch Melfort Hotel to see if the prices had come down -they hadn’t.

Sea date 010527

Sunday arrived with clouds, a gusty breeze and a distinct lack of warmth. The powers that be decided on a day trip from Loch Feochan getting in from the B844 just north of Kilninver. (This is all north of the attached maps so get a road atlas out or use your imagination). After a short delay whilst Nick navigated back from Oban (slightly overshot after we all hid round a corner) we all launched and paddled out past the King’s Rock, a low flat rock where in days of yore one of those rebellious Scots Kings had got in a boat to go somewhere. History may or may not be bunk (Henry Ford) but in my case it’s certainly vague. The trip was to be a circuit of the Island of Kerrera a total of some 14 miles - not over stretching anyone and it all sounded very nice. The crossing (a mile or so) from the mainland to the southern point of Kerrera was made with moderate sea and wind coming from front left. Having made the island, a brief rest was had below the ancient walls of Gylen Castle which was being renovated. Paddling along the southern shore of Kerrera, the waves were coming straight into shore and were moderate until I suddenly found myself up in the air looking down at everyone else looking up rather surprised. I leaned on my up-wave paddle as the breaking wave passed below me, reformed and carried on as a normal moderate wave again. “You sometimes get that occasionally” said someone more experienced than me, ” there must have been a rock ledge just there”. “Oh”, I thought, “so that’s all right then”.

We paddled up the north west shore of Kerrera and into more sheltered water with some islands near the top end where we stopped for lunch. If the water was sheltered, we were not - the wind was chill and brisk and some sheltered in the lee of small cliffs 50 m inland whilst the rest of us tested Stephen and Kevin’s basha. This is a lightweight rip-stop shelter guyed down and supported by walking poles or paddles. It worked and we had a cool but tolerable lunch stop.

Paddling on (no sunbathing to-day) past several fish farming enclosures (I bet they have a special name) we rounded the top of Kerrera just behind the Oban Ferry from Mull. I found the wash incredibly exciting - great swelling rollers you could surf down and struggle up - but speaking to everyone else later, no-one had noticed them much. Perhaps I have a low excitement threshold. Still it maybe makes life and the stories more interesting.

But I think that all on the trip will agree that after a short rest opposite Oban, the paddle south west down the Kerrera Sound into the teeth of a strengthening wind did get more interesting (if that’s the word). It must have been Force 5+ before we got the three and a half miles to the mouth of loch Feochan and, whilst some seemed to paddle the Sound without problems, others, including me, went through a time of soul searching, self appraisal, prayer and a coming to terms with life in the raw. All very character building - my character now resembles a brick outside toilet in more ways than one. There were times on that paddle when I decided that if I could just keep paddling as hard as I could for one more minute then I could do it for half an hour, and if paddling as hard as I could just maintained my position in the gusts then I must be creeping forward in the lulls. Somehow we, the stragglers, got to the relative shelter of one headland and then another before the last big push to get around the point and into Loch Feochan where we thought the wind may ease a little and anyway we would not be paddling into it. How wrong we were! No, it’s all right! We were wrong because as we turned into the Loch, the wind disappeared and we paddled back in total and absolute calm. We met up with the others as we rounded the point and they were anxiously waiting - not anxious enough, I noticed, to come back out into the Sound to see where we were.

As we paddled up the flat calm Loch with not a breath of wind and past a sheltering yacht, I was trying to keep down some subterranean chuckles that threatened to manifest themselves as hysterical demonic laughter. What a surprise we had on approaching our get-in point which was now several hundred yards across seaweed strewn rocks, the tide being well and truly out. Fortunately a detour past the get-in point and back down to it found a channel almost all the way, saving a long hard ankle-crunching portage.

It was with a great deal of relief and a promise to myself not to be lured into this mad pursuit again that I got back to camp.

Sea date 010528

After the rigours of the previous day, it seemed only sensible to have a rest for most of the following day (Monday). It was decided that we would set off on a three day expedition in the late afternoon. The weather forecast was good (a generous sense of humour is a prerequisite to working at the Met Office), and the aim was to paddle across the bottom of Shuna and Luing and up the Sound of Luing either directly to the small island of Belnahua or camp on Luing and make Belnahua in the morning. The return would be made around the top of Luing through the Cuan sound. That was the plan! To get the tidal currents in our favour we left Arduaine at 5.30pm and paddled steadily across to Shuna and then Luing. As we began to paddle north up the Sound of Luing the wind strengthened from what had been a Force 3 to a 4 or 5 in our backs. This was unexpected as the forecast had been rising 3 to 4 overnight. After only a mile and a half, I, for one, was getting very concerned and said as much to Bob. He suggested that if I was sufficiently uncomfortable, I should head into shore and the others would follow - I wasn’t so sure about that last bit. After about ten seconds consideration I shouted that I was going in, and there was relative shelter behind some rocks against the beach. All followed in, which made me feel slightly guilty, but Stephen and Kevin were quite happy to sit out a squall and be ready to paddle on when it passed in twenty minutes or so. Kevin passed me his wind strength meter and asked me to use it on a nearby grassy knoll. After checking for snipers I found the wind reading Force 6 to 7. Stephen agreed with this as he couldn’t make headway against the gusts. I felt better, especially when it was agreed that the wind was getting stronger and we started searching for the least exposed site to pitch camp. Stephen checked the wind again later supported by Kevin (to stop him being blown over) and read force 8 to 9 !!!! About this time, in the warm shelter of a pub just outside Glasgow, several weather men were onto their fourth pint creased with laughter at the tricks they pull to alleviate the boredom of a Monday afternoon.

All hands were turned to pitching the tents which was quite tricky in some cases - the lighter members tending to continue on their journey by air. I decided not to put my £35 pounds worth to the test, there being room in Wilkie’s tent for a sweet smelling, none-snoring sort of chap. Fortunately, like me he has a short memory. Supper was had in individual tents and the night spent sleeping and waking to hear the storm raging on.

Sea date 010529

However, calm arrived with the dawn chorus and tents were struck quickly and it was decided to push on before breakfast to achieve a better camp should the wind return. All the tents had survived although Phil’s had broken a rod. The top of the range Doubleton residence had stood with barely a tremor as the surrounding tents flapped and bellied. Putting on wet gear in the early morning and paddling off with no breakfast was almost too much fun. I found the waves creeping up from behind rather unnerving and they seemed rather large to me - a product of last night’s storm presumably. I was consequently more than happy when after an hour or so’s paddling we achieved the shelter of the islands two thirds of the way up the western shore of Luing. Here was flat calm under a weak sun with occasional peeks out to the open sea and waves crashing on Dubh Sgeir, Fladda and Belnahua. It was now that the stronger paddlers in the group yielded to the weaker and the planned visit to Belnahua was cancelled. We had all been looking forward to visiting that small island with the abandoned village and quarry lake as described in Thingummy Whatsit’s book ” Waterlog” - read it the first chance you get. However, the nervous amongst us remembered particularly the description of the rampant tide race around the island and the difficult access. We paddled on in pastoral relief although I am sure that some members of the group were very disappointed.

We paddled on northward emerging beyond the sheltered islands and once more into fairly heavy seas rolling in from behind. After another half hour or so I was floundering in the lead supported by Stephen. “Head towards those white houses” shouted Stephen “but keep outside those white breakers - there’ll be rocks there”. I adjusted reluctantly away from the shore and powered nervously on. I had hoped that the inlet to the right was the top of Luing, and those white houses looked a long way on. Suddenly Kevin was with us wondering where we were going as Cuan Sound was alongside us to the right. Oh joy ! I turned right and headed gratefully in. Had Stephen misread the shore line ? Or was he getting me back for missing out on Belnahua ? We’ll never know. He did say to Kevin, ” I saw that radio mast and thought, “That’s just like the one at Cuan”“. Good one Stephen - Have you ever thought of a career at the Met Office ?

Round Cuan point we paddled and on into a tidal eddy with a steep stony beach. The basha was set up on the grassy slopes beyond, and that long delayed breakfast was preceded by a huge mug of steaming hot tea. What bliss ! As bodies warmed and souls were re-inflated a general appreciation grew of the qualities of this area as a sheltered camp site. The sun came out quite strongly and wet gear was hung out on the small rock faces and spread over the warming stones of the beach. The best decisions are always made by individuals all coming slowly to the same brilliant conclusion; and so with very little discussion it was agreed that we would camp here tonight - and remember this was only about ten o’clock in the morning although everyone had done a good days paddle.

The rest of the day dreamed pleasantly on with sun bathing, strolls around the hinterland and observation of the ebb and flow of the tide race through Cuan Sound immediately below us. Occasional passing yachts, trawlers and canoeists maintained interest as well as the to-ing and fro-ing of the Cuan Ferry just visible around the corner. The day meandered into the evening and the night and undisturbed sleep.

Sea date 010530

Wednesday morning was a little overcast, but pleasant enough. The day’s itinerary included a paddle with the tide race north west from Cuan Sound to the island village of Easdale, then north east up the coast of Seil Island, through the archipelago forming the northern point of Seil Island, then down to Clachan and under “The bridge over the Atlantic”. Thence a paddle down Seil Sound and back to base camp at Ardouaine - a total of just over twenty miles.

The standing waves on the tide race out of Cuan Sound looked daunting, but I was assured that they would pose no problem and I can confirm that this was the case. The effect though was only just short of miraculous. We made the three miles to Easdale in double quick time, staying out in the race as long as possible before turning in to Easdale Sound. The Seil side of Easdale consisted of a few houses and what was rumoured to be the Souvenir Shop in the worst possible taste in the country - a title not lacking in applicants of a high standard, so, “Well done there!”  The bridge from Seil to the island part of Easdale had burnt down and the remaining charred piers lent an air of dereliction to the place. A ferry now operated across the Sound. We paddled the fifty metres or so across to the island and into the sheltered, landward facing harbour.

As we got out and carried boats up to the quay, a chap with a wheel barrow journeyed back and forth carrying plastic sacks of rubbish (mostly bottles by the sound of it) to the skips by the quayside - it was dustbin day and the rubbish boat was due in shortly. Further along the quay were wheelbarrows laid upside down all with their respective house numbers painted on the bottom. A tentative enquiry of the dour looking Scot produced a pleasant reply in a surprising accent. He was from Derby and had only been on the island twelve years. Last night had been an epic drinking bout for most of the island and if we wanted coffee in the Puffin Inn he would have to go and knock up Fiona. Concerned for Fiona’s welfare we thought maybe an ice cream would do, but that meant opening up the shop which was run by a Yorkshire man. Fiona would just have to suffer the consequences. The houses on the island were all of traditional construction except for the vacant architect designed monster house on the south facing cliffs with views right down the Sound of Luing. Frank Lloyd Wright and any other vacant architects, eat your hearts out. Bob was impressed and made a note of the estate agent. Perhaps he and Anne have had an argument. After a visit outside the closed museum, we repaired to the Puffin Inn where they make the bestest hot chocolate (with creamy swirl on top) I have ever tasted. Fiona was in fine fettle.

As we left the small harbour, a voice from the front called out “Keep in the side, the ferry’s coming”. I hugged the rocks at the side convinced that there would barely be room for the Caledonian McBride to pass. Round the harbour wall chugged a little motor boat carrying about four people including the crew. Everything’s to scale at Easdale.

We paddled up the north west shore of Seil Island with moderate rollers pushing us along, and for perhaps the first time I began to enjoy the waves from behind - it just takes me a day or two to relax and get used to the rhythm. We sauntered through the multitude of islets at the top of the Island but the lack of wildlife in such a promising habitat was disappointing. Shortly after turning round the top and heading south towards Clachan we pulled into a flat area on the Island to have lunch and allow the tide to fill the channel a bit more. The quiet peace of this idyllic place required only the attendance of hungry midges to complete the Scottish pastoral scene. It must be the Calvinistic Scots temperament that gave rise to their midges to avoid occasions of sin such as enjoying the countryside. Isn’t it the Calvinists who are against sex on the grounds that it can lead to dancing ?

The midges won and we set off down the narrow channel between the Island and the mainland - not much wider than the canal back home. Clachan Bridge crosses this narrow channel which is technically part of the Atlantic Ocean - hence its fame as “The Bridge over the Atlantic”. We were waved under the bridge by several tourists and continued the paddle south with the channel gradually opening up and out into Seil Sound. The paddle back to base camp was accompanied by some torrential showers and it was interesting to note the disturbance of the waters near the top of Torsa where the tide race from Cuan Sound (you remember) comes into Seil Sound. The last six miles down past Loch Melfort and on to Ardouaine was achieved at a steady lick and with an absence of mind which seems to come easily towards the end of a long day’s paddling. It was good to get back to luxuries like toilets, sinks and showers.

Sea date 010531

Thursday started overcast and drizzly. Some of us who had thoughts of a rest day were quickly disciplined and corrected. The plan was to drive the short distance south to Loch Craignish, putting in close to the head and paddling past Ardfern with its marina and off the attached map south west towards the sea, turning left into Loch Crinan and Crinan itself before returning.

The shore lines of both the mainland and islands down the north west coast kept our interest with the odd causeway and priory to watch out for. I found the sea a bit lumpy crossing due south to Crinan but a certain Stephen in our party had that far away look in his eye as he gazed across the Sound of Jura to where white water was visible at Corryvrechan. The harbour at Crinan was busy and difficult to access, so we got out at the adjacent boatyard slipway and lunched on the cold and windy rocks. To keep us amused, the chaps at the boatyard thoughtfully put on a display of boat launching with some fascinating hydraulic machinery operated from a seat fifteen foot ( 4.572m) up in the air and some thirty feet (9.120m) along the launching trailer. They managed very well with Bob’s help and before we left he had arranged a job there. Will he drive or paddle to work every morning from Easdale ?

We set off back across the lumpy water and I was glad to reach the shelter of Loch Craignish and its islands once more. We paddled back up the south east side of the loch, passing back and forth between islands were we could. One disturbing area was the luminous looking green sea around some fish farming enclosures. The muscles in this area were larger than we had seen before and looked good to eat, but warning signs suggested otherwise. In this case Green looked decidedly unfriendly environmentally.

Unfortunately the cafe at Ardfern was closing, and the pub was not doing meals so it was back to camp and a walk up to the Loch Melfort for tea.

Sea date 010601

On Friday the meek inherited the earth (I’ve always liked the meek) and a rest day was confirmed. We drove to Crinan to see what we’d missed in the harbour cafe, and there we made up for yesterday’s disappointment several times over. After watching several boats enter the harbour and pass through the locks into the Crinan Canal, some of us drove on down into Knapdale and took a wettish walk to Carsaig Bay (I think). After returning to the camp, Bob and I decided to wander around the famous Ardouaine Gardens. The rain didn’t detract from the beauty of the gardens which were sheltered from the wind. On the way out I saw a notice that the Handkerchief Tree was in bloom, so back we went to search it out - and it was well worth it. They’re pretty rare and only bloom for several days each year, although the “handkerchiefs” are not actually the flowers but adjacent leafs or something - I’m not a real botanist you know.

Bob and I repaired to the Loch Melfort which is at the entrance to the gardens and there we were joined gradually by all our party from the camp site. Food was eaten and drink was drunk and so was I (eventually). A live ceilidh band was on later and that helped the mood swing along. After a lively dance with a beautifully drunken glaswegian lady in which we both from time to time fell over, I headed for my tent and surprisingly, got there. What an end to a fabulous week - and no hang over in the morning. You see the beer may be expensive at the Loch Melfort, but it’s good.

So that’s about it really. We went home and returned to normal life. It all seems like a dream now. Or was it a nightmare! I think not. Many thanks to the organisers for all their … organisation, and I will go again when time has once again worked its healing wonders.

From Friday, 25th May, 2001 to Saturday, 2nd June, 2001.

Organisers :

- Stephen Singleton
- Steve (Wilkie) Wilkinson
- Bob Smith

Other Participants:
- Nick Pope
- Sam(antha) Turner
- Phil Haworth
- Ian & Ann McCrerie
- Tony Morgan
- Stuart Withnell
- Terry Maddock (Narrator)