Cruising
O
ver the years, the small
Shrimper and Corribee
fl otilla of which I am a
member has stuck its
noses into just about
every loch and cranny
north of Kintyre. This year, someone said
we ought in fairness to have a look at the
Clyde. So there we were in hospitable Kip
Marina, Shrimpers on the slipway and my
Corribee (once known as ‘that eBay boat’
but now rechristened Surprise) alongside
the pontoon, ready for the off. The sun
was shining out of a clear Scottish sky.
Only a pessimist would have pointed to
the low line of blue-black cloud on the
horizon to the northwest.
The Firth of Clyde was cool and grey. We
broad-reached southwest, wakes roaring,
past the lighthouse on Toward Point and
rusting iron jetties left over from World
War II. We paused opposite Rothesay
for lunch, following a long-established
routine: put down an anchor on a short
scope, dive below and make the toast on
which the lunchtime sardines will repose,
eat lunch, up anchor and away. It all
went fi ne except the up anchor bit. Haul
tripping lines as we might, motor in circles
as we would, curse as we certainly did,
the hook refused to come back aboard.
Shortening up as far as possible, we got
out the bolt cutters and snipped ourselves
free, leaving the faithful Bruce to sleep
with the fi shes. Then we sailed away up
the East Kyle of Bute, installing the spare
anchor as we went. The chart, consulted
later, mentioned that the lunch spot was
littered with underwater obstructions,
having been used for the construction of
oil rigs in the 1970s. There was probably
a moral in there somewhere.
The Kyles of Bute, which separate
that island from the mainland, make a
charming waterway. They are fl anked
by green fi elds on which red cattle stand
artistically distributed and large houses
sitting in spacious grounds, giving them in
places the air of a northern Maidenhead.
PocketGrib, this year’s chosen weather
forecasting tool, showed the breeze going
into the northwest and freshening. Wemade our way through the Burnt Isles,
where a large quantity of tide was
writhing around the islands (rates are
said to reach 3 knots at Springs) and
into a sheltered bay. The anchors went
down, on to mud this time, and the
corks came out. A cuckoo burbled on
the shore, and among the islands fl eets
of eider ducks said ‘ooh’ in the manner
popularised by the late Frankie Howerd.
The sun dipped below the horizon. It
was all very peaceful.A deep depression
The next morning’s Grib download
indicated a change. A deep depression was
spinning towards the north of Scotland,
bringing rain and gales with some north
in them. The problem east of Kintyre
is that the waterways run north and
south, and there is a marked shortage
of hurricane holes. The fl eet therefore
proceeded down the West Kyle, hung a
right at the big red can buoy, and beat up
for Tarbert, which has the closest thing to
all-round shelter available in these parts.The bonnie
Clyde
Sam Llewellyn and fellow sailors in a small Shrimper and Corribee
fl otilla are ‘satisfi ed whate’er may betide’ on a River Clyde cruise