Mike Balmforth Award – Anticyclonic gloom

Anticyclonic gloom –Arran Comrades

Arran Comrades Freedom ketch, long keel LOA 10.5 metres Crew Mike Johnston and Erratica, the autohelm Dates 27 August – 13 September 2021

Crinan to Islay

Glad to be still alive and to have had some sailing in both 2020 and this year. On Saturday morning, 28 August, I sallied forth from Crinan for the third time in 2021, having locked out the previous evening into an extensive sunny anticyclone and neaping tides.

The flood didn’t start until early afternoon, but we were able to take the Crinan-characteristic F3-2-1 morning easterly out along the Craignish shore with just a short engine push to Coiresa and then ghosting to Bagh Glean a Mhaoil to await the first of the flood through the Corry. Meanwhile others taking a more southerly course were inconclusively blasting into the tide just half a mile away.

We puttered round to Camus a Mhor-Fhior, southwest Lunga, a new corner to me. In this nice wee, swell-free bay, we cooked on the BBQ off the stern. Up early, we found gobbets of water surging out of the Grey Dogs and pushed through after they subsided. It seemed that some innocent fun might be had on the flood, given no swell, bouncing up to the race and being driven back again. It was a beat, pathetically in no wind, on the ebb until time was called to motor to Craighouse – outdoor pints were okay, but the hotel was fully booked for nosh.

Morning brought just enough waft to sail down to the Ardmore Islands and into Ardilistry Bay for lunch. Then we motored, very cautiously, by the northern of the ‘Antares’ gaps in towards Ardbeg, this channel being narrower than much of the Crinan Canal. I had seen a local seal-watching boat come through a few weeks before. Thence down to The Oa where the end of the flood set up a two-knot eddy westwards, inshore among the creel pots – the same that I had encountered years ago going the other way to my considerable discomfort. Rounded into Machrie Bay and spent the night wide open to the south-west in no wind.

Port Charlotte, Bowmore and Portnahaven

Port Charlotte Hotel provided beer but no lunch and it was much the same at Bowmore where a ‘carry-oot’ was the height of epicurean excellence ashore. It was of course flat calm and endlessly sunny. I did have a decent lunch in the Italian restaurant next day when there were three yachts in Loch Indall.

Wednesday was the neapiest of the neaps, so ideal for Portnahaven which was drop-dead gorgeous with a view of the crabs and big fish on the sand close below. 

Port Charlotte

Ashore I and some holidaymakers each enjoyed our own barbeques – we were within shouting distance. Two years ago, I had taken the bus from Port Ellen and seen the awesome tide sluicing through but today it was benign and dropping a second anchor was a wasted extravagance. I knew that the pub was shut – have you ever been there? – no chance of social distancing in something resembling tiny offices crammed into an old council building. Seriously, it’s a nice place.

Hung about for the flood and spoke to a local creelman. Knowing that Wallace Clark had been piloted out of the rock-inhabited west entrance, I enquired. He asked, ‘What’s your draft?’ This was enough of a warning not to try it – ever. He also confirmed that the bottom really is sand and not just a smattering over rock.

Lockdown at Crinan, the sheep take over

Over to Rathlin and then Machrihanish

So over to Rathlin on a millpond with the usual foul tide at the west end at the end of the flood. I keep banging on about the desirability of coming down from Port Ellen early on the ebb. Still in wall-to-wall sunshine for two nights on the pontoon. It would probably have been okay to anchor outside but I had phoned ahead to confirm freedom from restrictions, Covid or Brexit, and it might have raised eyebrows. As it was, I was able to conduct some TLC which was sorely needed. McCuaig’s Bar was operating al-fresco but no food, except for the chip van. The ferries were doing a roaring trade in day-trippers with nearly 100 people on the last boat home.

The high was slipping a bit, so Saturday had us fetching into a lumpy grey south-easterly to Machrihanish, where that day’s tidal range was all of 0.2 metres – six inches in old money. Ashore at beer time, I found some kids paddle-boarding in the open Atlantic under the supervision of a lady who recognised me from a 2018 festival in Letterkenny – she is one of the notorious Atomic Piseag ladies’ choir, mostly from Tarbert. The Old Clubhouse pub did serve a welcome meal, even to a non-golfer, probably the only one present – strange chattering around me. A quiet night.

Historically, my annual mileages have reliably been one third each of sailing, motor-sailing and engine until last year when through determination and unusual circumstances I brought the sailing up to fifty per cent. Going north in May, I had been refused passage of the Caledonian Canal at Corpach for being widowed, thus singlehanded, despite having made several lone passages in recent years. This blew the stats, with long spells under engine to catch the weather round Cape Wrath – twice and elsewhere. Obviously, the present wee cruise had so far done nothing to restore the balance until Sunday’s 59-miler to Tinker’s Hole with just enough wind under sullen skies – 11 hours with only a wee bung at the end.

Round Mull and back to Crinan

Overnight, after the forecast south-easterly began to make it uncomfortable, I had to wait until first light to slip round to Camus Tuadh before breakfast, motor-sailing against the tide. It was unpleasantly fresh and tending to rain for the slog into Loch Scridan. Camus Tuadh is a good anchorage that I much prefer to Bunessan. I put the fire on, a Dickenson diesel drip-feed with a chimney, and cheered up.

The sun came and went while I wasted a week round Mull waiting for a fair wind to Crinan. I anchored overnight near the head of Loch na Keal and also in Calgary Bay – so that saves doing them ever again. Rounded off with a fine dinner on the terrace of the Loch Melfort Hotel and messed about in the Dorus Mor to note yet another turn of the tide for my records.

Mike Johnston