Practical Boat Owner - July 2018

range’ with dark mountains to the east,
the Hebrides dimly visible to the west, I
slipped into beautiful Badachro south of
Lochinver in the evening, where I proudly
joined two ocean-going dreadnoughts.
Here I lost all communications with the
outside world, but for my £4.50 ‘tranny’
from Aldi, which brought me Two Lochs
Radio, hosted by a pair of delightful
women with a happy obsession for the
weather forecast. I had rhubarb pie and
custard with the inevitable rain that lulled
me to sleep.
A-Jay later fled into tiny Kinlochbervie,
tucked below the jaw bone of Cape Wrath,
and flopped like litter in a gale alongside a
tiny private berth, where we saw out the
next gale. For three days I was adopted
by the kind people of this lonely little
place, where I met the likes of ‘Big
Alastair’, who dispensed thousands of
litres of diesel to the very few ocean-going
trawlers that still visited this tiny port. He
was happy to deliver just 60 litres into my
jerry cans, though I didn’t have enough
cash and he clearly didn’t do or care
about maths. “Nae bother,” he said over
tea, accepting the piles of coins and few
notes that I had, with grace.
I left this spot in the same month that
Frank Dye had left 30 years before in his
Wayfarer, bound incredibly for Iceland.
That made me feel a little better about
approaching Cape Wrath, which
slumbered with its ghosts as we puttered
round, bound for the Orkneys where I had
a rendezvous planned with the ghost of
my late uncle. He had flown out of Hatston
to his death in 1940, aboard a lumbering
Blackburn Skua. The deeds of these brave
flyers are remembered to this day on a
memorial and road signs at the place from
where once he flew.
Arthritis stalked me most days in

partnership with my dodgy back, but I

found I was able to adapt my ways of

doing things to ensure the show went on. I

use a tried-and-tested numerical method:

Stop, 2, 3; think, 2, 3; tea, 2, 3; prioritise

and tackle each task slowly, taking

pleasure in a job completed.

On bad days I wrapped my inflamed

knuckles in gloves and learned to employ

my corporeal ballast, which older age had

considerately provided, to assist with

hauling a rope rather than just the muscle

and grunt of youth: this worked, along

with anti-inflammatories and much

chuntering to myself.

An old army chum joined me in

Stromness, though I later sensed that he

wished he hadn’t, as we ploughed down

Hoy Sound in a Force 7, mainsail reefed

and sheeted well down the track. The

wind eased later, though the seas

remained big and my old mate was

strangely quiet.

We entered North Haven on tiny Fair Isle

joining three meaty ocean-going types

en route to Lerwick in Shetland. We

ourselves reached Lerwick the next day

under blue skies and a final wonderful run

up the Sound.

I had achieved my aim – now for the

long run home.

True the forecast promised some

challenging conditions, but I felt we were

up to it as I pointed A-Jay’s bows south

out of Lerwick, bound for Scotland’s north

The passage from Holyhead to the

Isle of Man proffered a full day of

glorious sunshine

Plotting a course from Lerwick on Shetland

to Whitehills in the Moray Firth

On passage from Weymouth

to Salcombe

CRUISING