Adrian Morgan
CRAFTSMANSHIP
CLASSIC BOAT APRIL 2016 33I
went to see Sally in mid-January, on her winter
mooring over at Loggie Bay, a little cove, across the
loch, sheltered from all winds apart from northeast,
a direction we seldom get for longer than a day or two
and the fetch is not great.
It is a 10 mile drive down the east side of the loch to
the bridge over the River Broom at its head. This is estate
land, as a fine avenue of beeches attests, bare of leaves
now in the low winter sun. The fences are new, and well
kept. A right turn, sheep grazing on the flats either side.
The clatter of a cattle grid, past austere Clachan Church,
plaster peeling from walls and a five-mile drive down the
west side, what the locals call Lochside, but which we on
the other side jokingly call the Dark side, because they
lose the sun for a few weeks every year.
Croft houses above and below the narrow road, and
sheep everywhere, with passing places. Highland
etiquette demands a wave or at least a raised finger from
the right steering wheel hand; more likely a window
wound down and a word, for it is unusual to reach
Sally’s place of mooring without meeting someone you
know, and that means a two-, five- or quite often, engine
off, a ten-minute gossip. Until it’s time to clear the road,
the far end of which comes to a muddy end where a
track leads to a cottage and another through fields down
towards the loch where, if the tide is high enough, I cansee the tip of Sally’s mast poking
above the field line 500 yards or so
below me.
Today the air is crisp, and the
ground slippery with iced snow
crunching under feet. Land Rover
abandoned, it is a short walk down
through the fields towards the bay;
two gates, another over a burn and
the final, steep cobbled track to the
little shingly beach where Sally’s
dinghy is laid up, tied to a post. This
place has been a small boat haven
for centuries. A boat-shaped outline
of rough stones suggests an ancient
noost for a double ended fishing
boat. The remains of a stone jetty
provide a little protection from the
southeast.
Since killing the engine, I had
been conscious of a silence. Only
birds, wind song and sheep.
Lochside is only a few miles as the
gull flies but 25 years away from
Ullapool, whose white cottages I can
see in the distance.
And caught like a ballerina in a
spotlight, there she is, best side
facing, the starboard side where I
have the waterline perfect (the port
side, despite years of tweaking, still
needs to come down a fraction at the bow).
The avenue of trees, the church, the chance meetings
on the road, the reassuring glimpse of mast, the short,
steep walk down to the loch, the silence and the shingly
beach, and Sally lying at her buoy; her natural state.
A short row, and the hatch slides back. From below
the rich smells of an old wooden boat. The bilge has an
inch or two of water. The engine fires, and is left to
warm. Check the mooring ropes, twisted as usual. Then,
engine in reverse, down below, dark with pools of
dancing light on the mahogany. Everything is much as it
was a month back. The wagtail we had last spring has
not returned or there would be evidence on the blue
cushions. The wrappers on chocolate bars bought for
that last Summer Isles cruise are a little damper; the tins
beginning to show signs of rust. The half bottle of
whisky and bottle of red wine remind me of the day five
of us rafted up together in September in this very spot.
There’s a touch of black mould on the deckhead to be
cleaned off. I’ll take a chance with the wagtail and leave
the portlights open. Batteries charged, mooring checked
and it is time to close her up and row back to the beach.
At the top of the cobbled track I look back. Sally has
swung to the changing tide and is now showing her port
side. This season will be the one I get that waterline
perfect, something I have been saying for 15 years.Checking up on her
A mid-winter visit, to see she’s alright, wanting for nothing
“From
below
come the
rich smells
of an old
wooden
boat”CHARLOTTE WATTERS