Hanky Panky 2 – Hell in the Hebrides

Hell in the Hebrides, misery in the Minches

Hanky Panky 2 Dehler 38 LOA 11.6 metres Crew Clive and Flora Reeves Dates 21 July 2 August 1998 –

Muck Harbour

Fair fortnight in 1998 was probably the wettest in the Club’s history. Here in a previously unpublished log of her cruise Flora Reeves recounts how damp, cold and windy the cruise was, in contrast to 2021’s light airs and generally good weather.

Transiting the canal, at Cairnbaan

Tobermory to Soay Harbour

The crew was packed off in the bus on a grey and dismal morning in Tobermory. I don’t think they were too unhappy to be leaving considering the poor weather forecast for the next few days and I almost felt like joining them.

We left shortly before 17:00 sailing off the mooring and into big seas at Ardnamurchan, the steady wind of F3 to 4 from the WSW doing little to dispel the depressing ‘smir’ swirling around the headland. I slept the whole way until I heard Clive start the engine off the reef at the entrance to Port Mor. I peeped out from the hatch and saw – nothing. It was a real pea-souper by then. He had chosen Port Mor, Muck, in preference to the anchorage at the west side, expecting it to be more sheltered and to see a few other boats with similar ideas. Only one motor boat slopped back and forth, the occupants having taken refuge in a B&B ashore and we were beginning to wonder if we had been quite so wise.

A grim night followed as the wind increased to F5 to 6 and veered to the south, causing a chop to hammer furiously at the hull in the stern, forcing Clive to change berths at 05:00. Too miserable to leave the relative warmth of the boat, we spent the morning sorting out gear and trying to eradicate the lingering smells of the last few days.

By midday, a brightening sky enticed us ashore to explore the lovely new tea room, pottering in the craft shop long enough to learn that the islanders are trying to raise money for wind power to generate their electricity. This will prove cheaper and more environmentally friendly that the current diesel generators and they have already received a grant from the National Lottery for this purpose. The sun was almost out by this time and we walked to the other side, where we were told, there had been five boats anchored the previous evening.

We left the anchorage at 15:00 sailing into a big quartering sea but now the wind was well down and it was dry and bright. We made a steady 5 to 6kts heading for Soay Harbour arriving at 18:30 to find another half dozen boats already at anchor. We rowed ashore to walk to the other side and followed the path for a further mile. Many of the houses are deserted, but some are being renovated and it seemed that wind power had already come to Soay as there were several windmills on top of the hill. The evening sunshine cast a warming glow over the hills, although black clouds hovered on the horizon – rain was never far away.

We were invited aboard Quaila for a few sundowners, along with other CCC friends and a pleasant evening was spent chatting and watching the magnificent sunset fade, leaving the boats darkly silhouetted against a red and gold backdrop.

Soay to Talisker

We left early under engine as there was little wind, and headed north for the Rubh’ an Dunain point at the southern tip of the entrance to Loch Brittle on the west side of Skye. There is a reef immediately to the south of the point, Sgeir Mhor, and if conditions permit there is a fascinating anchorage – well hidden, unless you venture inside the reef.

The break in the cliff here gives way to a narrow passage and anchoring is possible close inshore in plenty depth – about seven metres. The bottom is rocky and we did, in fact, drag a little into deeper water, but settled after that. The story goes that this narrow channel was hewn out by the Vikings, in order to hide their longships from prying eyes. It leads to an inland lochan and, unless one had local knowledge, an entire fleet could remain hidden till any danger from enemies was past. It was a weird 

Viking channel, the inland lochan

place with the mist sweeping and swirling down from the slopes above and we could well imagine a Viking fleet, watchful, silent, stealthily awaiting the ‘all clear’.

Clive climbed to the top of the cliff and discovered a fairly well preserved dun – an excellent place from which to give warning of any movement over the water for miles around. While we were busy exploring, I looked to check

Viking channel, the entrance

Viking channel at Rubh an Dunain, Skye

on the mast which could still be seen and had a heartstopping moment when I was sure she was slowly drifting away, but all was well.

We left after about half an hour, this time motor sailing as it was now blowing F5 from the north-west. The caves on the west side of Skye are striking – some huge clefts in the basalt, enormous caverns gouged by the sea, some of which we would have liked to explore, but the wind was whistling over the land making any investigation too dangerous.

We sailed into Loch Bracadale and, as we were still quite early for the party at Talisker, we roughly stowed the sails and motored over to the Wiay Island to explore the caves and natural archways. We crept in yards from the rock face, but it was still too deep to anchor and much too windy. The odd pinnacle of rock stood out from the depths, so I went forward to scan the waters for any hidden dangers.

After a while we headed for Loch Harport and the Talisker Distillery where boats were mustering for another Classic Malts Cruise. The anchorage was already busy and we had great difficulty finding a spot that was shallow enough. The echo sounder never works here and that wasn’t helping matters. However, after prowling the length of the shore several times, arguing incessantly, we finally chose a spot, dragged and then had to re-anchor. It’s always good sport for spectators.

While Clive went aboard Nick Wright’s yacht, Talisker, for drinks, I had a rest in anticipation of the evening’s activities and then went ashore to an excellent ceilidh with a fantastic band, highland dancing and best of all, free whiskies. Clive sampled all the malts and then went round them again ‘just to make sure’. What he was ‘making sure of’ I wasn’t entirely certain, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.

Believe it or not, I drank spring water all night – I like my brain to be connected to my feet for these complicated dances. By 00:30 we were heading back to the dinghy only to discover that the tide was at its lowest possible and, amidst much banter and wet feet, everyone dispersed for the night.

A nice morning for once and we were ashore by 10:00 signing on at the distillery for the Classic Malts Cruise where we collected sweatshirts, hats, flags, etc. We were absolutely delighted to see our boat featured on the front cover of their brochure in front of the distillery. We had our hospitality nip, the tour of Talisker and then set off in search of some provisions.

The sun was fully out by this time and it felt warm – a real stroke of luck considering the generally poor weather. People started gravitating towards the marquee for the barbecue which again was superb, washed down with copious quantities of wine. Occasionally one had to escape the camera crews who would suddenly be behind a group, listening in with the huge microphone suspended overhead, cameras rolling. Now which was my best side? I think we all became less camera shy as the wine was consumed.

Talisker to Bays Loch, Berneray

All too soon people began to make a move towards dinghies, the thought of different destinations pulling them away from the convivial scene on the shores by Talisker, very well pleased with the events of the evening before and the morning’s activities.

We were underway by 15:00, motoring back down Loch Harport, passing the islands in Loch Bracadale in a stiff north-westerly breeze. We hoisted the mainsail and then were rather perturbed to be confronted by a seething wall of white crests a couple of miles north of Macleod’s Maidens off the Dubh Sgeir reef. It must have been caused by overfalls, as the sea subsided once the reef was astern, although the wind maintained a steady NW F4 to 5. We continued to motor-sail across the Minch, heading for the entrance to the Sound of Harris in the hope that the tide would still be with us through the Cope Passage.

It remained dry but very cold and perhaps it was the effect of too much wine. Surely not? I lay down occasionally while Clive helmed. Normally the Cope Passage is reasonably sheltered but not so on this occasion as wind against tide drove standing waves across the deck, the hull slamming too often for comfort forcing us to throttle back considerably.

To make matters worse, the early evening had turned to a thick drizzle and poor visibility made navigation difficult as we strained our eyes to pick out the next buoy in the channel. We were actually against the tide at the poles and had a few heart-stopping moments as the engine strained at full throttle through the narrow entrance into Bays Loch.

By 21:30 we were tied up alongside one of the fishing boats in the harbour, had a quick dinner and rushed up to the showers on the pier to wash and dry hair in preparation for another ceilidh. We had a great night there too, knowing so many people who are always so welcoming, as if you’ve made their night special by just arriving. We stayed till 03:15, and had started walking back, but immediately someone offered us a lift. The Berneray folk never seem to go anywhere without their car which was maybe fortunate for us as we were shattered with two late, wild nights behind us. Berneray – meeting friends and trying to dry out.

The heavy showers that battered the deck did not encourage us to emerge from our sleeping bags till 11:30. By early afternoon, we decided, no matter what, we needed a brisk walk and arrived at Angus McAskill’s store for some provisions and a chat, then on to the Lobster Pot to see other friends and exchange news over a coffee.

One is never short of food for long in Berneray as the fishermen love to offer you some of their catches. On returning to the boat, Donald, who pilots one of the ferries, had left us a bag of crab legs, while some others threw a bag of filleted saithe into the cockpit. We would be developing gills before long. 

We had been invited along to Mary and Angus McKillop’s house for the evening and it was so lovely to see them again. Angus had been down in the Western Hospital last year for a heart by-pass operation and was now looking really well. We talked about the causeway and what it might mean to the island, being joined to South Uist.

Most people welcome the change and see the benefits but, no doubt, there will be drawbacks too – like no more driving having partaken of a little alcoholic refreshment. Apparently there had been virtually no visiting yachts that summer to the island, tourism was well down in general, partly due to the high pound, the ferry by-passing the island and perhaps even the abysmal weather had taken its toll. We were almost unbelieving as Mary told us there had been a drought in May, so much so in fact that the crops were threatened by lack of rain. Eh? Now they were rotting with too much.

We pondered this statement as the rain drummed against the window panes, the wind shrieked round the house, lifting the curtains as if they had a life of their own. By midnight we rose to bid our farewells. Outside there was an unusual quietness. The wind was down – the rain had stopped.

The next day, oh no, more of the same. Rain battering after a short let-up overnight. Inside the boat, dampness seeped into everything. Nothing would dry in this.

Then one of the fishermen told us to lie alongside the ferry which wasn’t moving that day and our electric cable would then stretch to a power point on the harbour. It was ingenious, wonderful – we would have heat and attempt to dry out soaking clothes and oilskins which lay in sorry heaps around the cabin. Clive then attached lines criss-crossing in intricate patterns on which to hang our steaming garments. The inside became like a sauna but gradually improved as the dry heat steadily won the battle. We had the rest of the crab legs for lunch, finished off a keg of beer, left by one of our crew, and passed out till 17:00. The 17:55 shipping forecast was southerly F3 to 4, occasional showers. They had to be joking. It had rained torrentially non-stop for 12 hours.

Just let me get my hands on one of those forecasters, and I’ll show him occasional. We didn’t leave the boat all day except to return her to the other side of the harbour, as we knew the ferry would leave at 07:00 next morning. At least we were warmer and dryer after a day’s hot air blasting through the cabin.

Berneray to Loch Skipport

We must have been dead to the world as the fishing boats moved us twice during the night to lift their creels of crabs and we never heard a thing. How’s that for gentle handling? The morning was actually dry and the wind well down blowing gently from the NW.

It looked like as good a time as any to be on our way with high tide imminent. With hurried goodbyes to Mary and Angus and regrets because we had been unable to visit our favourite haunts due to unrelenting rain, we followed the ferry’s passage through the reefs, which Donald had marked out for us on the chart – no GPS then. Clive felt that was much easier and quicker than by way of the Cope Passage and there was no need to worry about the tide.

Once clear of the Sound of Harris we cut the engine, hoisted sail and prepared for an enjoyable passage to East Loch Tarbert.

The sun was out, it was even warm, but with the wind from the north, what was the point of beating, when we could turn around, head south and have the breeze behind us. The world was our oyster – no deadlines to meet, just enjoy the rare respite in the weather. I was aware that one of the fishermen had given Clive a lobster before leaving and this was giving me some qualms at the thought of cooking it. Then I had a brainwave, why not return it to the deep, till Clive said its pincers had been removed and it would be unable to feed itself and die slowly.

Oh no, I couldn’t have that on my conscience. It would just have to be a quick death by boiling water. Trying to put the lobster’s fate out of mind, I busied myself bringing up cushions etc. that were still damp and airing everything on deck. No sooner was the entire deck covered than we spotted a thick fog bank off Loch Maddy, threatening to obliterate all vision. Cold, grey, tendrils of mist snaked over the land engulfing everything in a penetrating dampness and totally blocking out the sun.

Incredibly, to the north, Harris was bathed in sunshine, bounded by blue sea and sky. Perhaps beating north wouldn’t have been so bad. Instead we ran gently south making Loch Skipport our destination for that evening, a wary eye out for the many pots as we kept close to the shore in order to keep land in sight, tacking only when the depth sounder fell abruptly.

By 19:00 we motored into Skipport as the fog now eased, but a dank and drizzly mist swirling low over the hills. I downed a couple of brandies on deck while Clive shoved the lobster into the pot shouting up graphic details of its every movement. I let him eat it all by himself, while I foraged for something in a tin. Clive went out in the dinghy later and discovered CCC member Barcadale tucked into a small anchorage further up the loch and was invited aboard for a while. The mist had come down and it was dark by the time he returned. 33 miles behind us today, mostly under sail.

Loch Skipport to Barra

No improvement on last night as we woke to a dank, misty morning with little wind. We cheered ourselves up with home-made pancakes and maple syrup for breakfast and left at 11:30.

The cloud lifted a little and with a light wind now swung round to the south-west and under full sail made for Barra, by-passing Loch Eport, Loch Eynort, the island of Eriskay and finally picked up the buoy north of Muldoanich at the entrance to Castle Bay. Just when we most badly needed visibility the land was blotted out as if by a curtain and we could only strain into the murk to pick out the buoys marking the channel and Kisimul Castle. The visitors’ moorings lie in the west corner of the bay and we hoped there would be one free, this being normally one of the busiest anchorages in the Hebrides.

Only one other boat swung to the mooring – everyone else had sensibly long since gone home away from the murk. We picked up the farthest in, still under sail, and at 18:00 on what should have been a summer’s evening, we could barely see the shore, so dark and depressing it all appeared.

However, after dinner, we again poked our heads out and, goodness, the rain had actually stopped. We hopped quickly ashore, tied the dinghy up to the excellent slip where the ferry docks and had a marvellous walk along the eastern shore past a few sorry campers trying to coax a smoulder into a blaze with damp wood. They were possibly in an even worse condition than we were.

There were loads of old rotting hulks on the beach and tons of dinghies just lying about, half-hidden in long grass and obviously not used for a long time. It was becoming dark when we walked back to the Castle Bay Hotel lounge where it was at least warm and quiet to study the chart as we like to do over a pint. However, when Clive went to order another drink at 23:05, he was told the bar was closed, although they had not informed us earlier that they were closing at such an unbelievably early hour. I think they just wanted to make an early escape home.

Somewhat miffed, we clambered back into the dinghy and were just in time to avoid being locked in the harbour for some time while the ferry docked just minutes later. Perhaps it was an ill wind after all about the bar closing. We were just congratulating ourselves on our narrow escape and clambering aboard when the heavens opened yet again. Yes, it had definitely been an ill wind.

Barra to Tobermory with engine problems

How unusual! Another dreary morning with swirling mist clinging to everything, chilling one’s bones. There was a slight wind still from the south-west and, with engine running, we cast off the mooring at 10:45. Then silence – no engine and unable to re-start it. It had been giving us the odd spot of trouble and always chose its place, like now, drifting on to a lee shore.

Thank goodness for a roller headsail, as we whipped that out pretty smartly, hoisted the mainsail and then had to tack out of the bay. The rain started, the wind gusting F5 at times, making for a fast passage with rolling seas, back across the Minch, heading for Tobermory. Clive was worried about the amount of water we seemed to be shipping into the bilges and countless buckets were emptied back into the ocean. It was definitely worse when the engine had been running, so we sailed as far as the Cairns of Col, then tried the engine again which at least started, but was running a bit rough at times. We motored into Tobermory by 19:00 and managed to grab one of the last moorings.

Clive then proceeded to strip the engine and found that the outlet pipe from the engine water pump had a pretty large hole in it and had been the cause of so much water in the bilges for some time. The seacock was seized and he was unable to turn off the water, so he jammed a wooden bung into the inlet pipe to enable him to detach the other one for repair. By the time we had dinner and rested, it was too late to go ashore. The next worry was that we wouldn’t be able to find someone to repair the pipe tomorrow.

We woke to expect the usual lashing rain and were not disappointed. Clive dismantled the worn pipe and asked the chap at the garage if he could repair it. Unfortunately, the equipment needed would not be back till after 10:00 so we had breakfast and went ashore for fresh bread etc. and a shower and by lunchtime Clive returned with the repaired pipe and set to assembling it all again.

Tobermory to Lagavulin and the final ceilidh

By 13:30 we were ready to leave, the rain had ceased and, with the wind now blowing a fresh F4 to 5 from the north-east, it was a very fast sail down the Sound of Mull, at times touching 10 knots.

At Duart we were able to goose-wing for a while, then gybed for Loch Spelve. However, when we approached the entrance the wind was howling through and it would have been extremely difficult to anchor. Again we freed the sails and with the wind now increasing to 30 knots, screamed across to Puilladobhrain, arriving at 17:00. After motoring over a boat’s ‘angel’ and shouting and bawling about the problem in engaging the engine in gear, we picked a spot close to the entrance, in case the engine wouldn’t start and we had to sail out of the anchorage next morning.

It was difficult finding a bit of beach to land on here but Clive was determined to walk to the pub this time. I had scuppered his chances last time by pouring him some large whiskies which sent him comatose.

It was grey and cold and the north-westerly was still fresh and biting as we trundled through the long grass and boggy stretches, at times not too sure if we were heading in the right direction. After about 20 minutes of squelching along, we did come out at the pretty hamlet of Tigh na Truish and Telfer’s famous ‘Bridge over the Atlantic’. 

The pub was quiet save for a family from north east England who had been renting a house in that area for the last 14 years and loved the place.

The conversation was mostly about the awful summer, but it had in no way put them off coming to the West Coast. Clive had his couple of pints. I had coffee and was anxious to return to the boat before darkness fell and we became utterly lost in that bog. The wind was still strong and Clive had difficulty rowing back against the current.

The guy whose angel we had motored over was sitting on deck with his eyes glued to his anchor chain – perhaps he was expecting to drag at any moment or that we were going to fall back on him. He was still sitting there when we turned in for the night.

The engine started no problem the next day and we motored slowly out of the anchorage till clear of the entrance where we hoisted all sails in the lee of the land. It was still blowing a brisk F5 from the NW but with wind, tide and a little sunshine, we zoomed through the Dorus Mor, heading towards Scarba and Lunga. The passage between these two islands looks fascinating and intricate, the entrance remaining obscured until almost past. According to the chart, it looks navigable with care, but we were pressing on for another ceilidh that night at Lagavulin, the last of the Classic Malt Cruise musters.

It was interesting to sail so close to land down the east side of Jura, noting the small bays and lone houses which would otherwise pass unnoticed. Perhaps one of those houses was Barnhill where George Orwell had written his final classic masterpiece ‘1984’. I wonder if the oppressive weather influenced him to write such a pessimistic piece of literature.

We passed a lovely little bolt hole, Ardlussa Bay, sheltered from the north-west wind and decided to stop there for lunch and have a break. Tacking for the bay in the strong gusts resulted in the mainsheet snarling round the winches and the runners entangling on the end of the boom, followed by a general shouting melee, which ensured tempers were somewhat fraught by the time we had everything under control, sails stowed and engine engaged.

The bay was ‘u’ shaped, with a beautiful sandy beach at the north end and fringed with rocks on the other two sides. It was perfectly sheltered from any direction of wind south-west through to north-west, and we dropped anchor in 4m close to the rock face alongside one other boat.

The sun now blazed from a cloudless sky and I was looking forward to stretching out in the cockpit, relaxing in the unusual sunshine when Clive suddenly announced we would leave at 14:00. As it was now 12:50 I decided that his request for bacon and eggs was quite unreasonable as it would be too time-consuming and restricted him to a quick egg roll. He wisely did not object.

True to his word, we were underway again, full sail, heeling to the gusts and hitting 8 knots in the flat water, wind still from the north-west. As the breeze strengthened,

we were forced to drop the mainsail and under jib only maintained the same speed. It was a great sail, fast and exhilarating, as we made our way past the Small Isles off Craighouse, white caps roaring across Lowlandman’s Bay to meet us.

At the Sound of Islay, the wind whistled through the gap between Jura and Islay, and for a while we were tossed about in a big sea. We identified the rock, Iomallach, off Lagavulin and immediately, one cable past, turned for the distillery. There were already about a dozen boats at anchor, two larger ones outside the bay due to their draft. Lagavulin Bay is particularly shallow, the entrance between the poles is always a bit nail-biting and, yes, we did bang the reef as did a few others before us.

It took ages to find a spot deep enough for our 6ft 6ins draft and spaced out far enough to avoid collision. Then it was dinner, a brief rest and ashore for yet another ceilidh. What another fantastic night with great music and dancing and some superb local talent by way of some singers and musicians. The camera crews were busy again but by this time we were becoming quite blasé to it all.

We always enjoy engaging local people in conversation where possible and that night we met a lady from Islay Council who was concerned with the difficulties of attracting people to the island and about the plans for promoting tourism in that area. I think we made her night when we told her how much we enjoyed coming to Islay and that we felt the island had so much to offer from sailing to bird watching, archaeology and of course, the seven distilleries which play a large part in the promotion of tourism. The night had been an excellent example of that.

It was a beautiful evening to round off such a successful final muster. Overhead stars twinkled in the clear heavens, not a breath as we rowed back to the boat for a peaceful night.

Back home to Kip

We awoke to a glorious morning, the first of the holiday and were surprised to find that most people had already left. We had slept longer than intended after the exertions of the previous evening, but by 09:30 were ready to retrace the passage through the poles and, this time, I stood up forward to pilot her through the reefs. With exaggerated hand waving, there were no crunching sounds this time through the clear passage which is incredibly narrow.

The wind was light from the north and it was a leisurely sail across, warm in the sunshine so that the shorts which had been gathering mildew in the bag, were shaken out for a brief airing. In an empty sea we met one other boat. It was incredible how both of us were on a reciprocal course and both had to alter at the last minute. He was heading for Ireland and we were bound for Campbeltown, our last destination before returning home.

We sailed right up to the head of the loch still in glorious sunshine. The pontoon was busy that night and we anchored under sail at the other side of the bay close to the moorings. It was 17:00 and we had covered the entire 40 miles under sail, apart from the first few hundred yards to clear the poles at Lagavulin. It had been a memorable day and we celebrated with a few libations at our favourite hotel, the Ardshiel.

We left Campbeltown mid-morning. The wind was north F3 to 4 going variable F3. We sailed up the Kilbrannan Sound towards the Arran shore till the wind fell light, backing south-easterly and bringing another bank of grey, lowering skies. When the first drops of rain spattered down, it was time to stow the sails for the last time before becoming saturated and we continued under engine towards Kip for the last 30 miles. By 17:00 we were tied up in a berth, unloading heaps that had been secreted away in every nook and crannie below, half of which had never been used.

Charlie Simmie wandered up and offered to show us around his new boat, all 22 tons of it and with a cosy fire roaring. Lovely. That’s definitely the kind of luxury one needs out in the West of Scotland. I could have traded boats many times over during this holiday. We had covered almost 500 miles, not nearly as much as we had hoped, but three-quarters of that had been under sail.

Although everyone agreed that the weather had been miserable, not just in the Hebrides, which often receives more than its fair share of poor weather, we had actually had some cracking sails, fast, often reaching and in flat water, with strong enough winds to give us exhilaration without being overstretched.

The miserable aspect was the continual mist, bringing poor visibility and oppressive clamminess. However, on the positive side, the social scene had more than made up for the weather conditions. The Classic Malts Cruise had been most successful and we had made many new friends by taking part in this. Those were the bright spots we shall remember during the coming winter months.