East goes north

This weekend, Full Circle and I headed north...... way way north, to assist Silkie of these parts with his kite flying technique...Its was a loooooooong drive... 420 miles to be precise, leaving the East Midlands at 15H00.... we left Oban to port at 22h40ish, and FC looking visibly distressed at the close proximity of closing time, got his foot down.... it was a small, narrow windy road, with unpredictable corners and bumps, but once i'd convinced him to slow down to 70mph, it felt a little safer. He even was sensible enough to reduce his speed to 60mph on the single track road approaching Balvicar. We saw the lights of the 'bridge over the Atlantic' ahead, and after a handbrake turn around the unexpected right angle corner and cottage hit the bridge at sufficient speed that we just about landed in the car park for the Tigh an Truish. It was 22h59. The car was abandoned outside the pub front door with the lights on, doors open, and engine running, and two strange english blokes crashed through the front door with outstretched arms holding sufficient coinage for a pint to find a scene of utter tranquility.... Silkie sitting at the bar, where he'd been waiting for us since 20h00, looking a little glazed, and a landlord who was somewhat amused at the idea of a closing time....Ah.......A couple of pints later (see, there was no rush after all), and we moved the cars the 2miles to the boatyard, where we nervously lifted Silkie's half inflated tender down to water, laughed at him as he was the only one with wellies on (guess who had to push the boat off), and set off with Silkie rowing for all his heart, while we sat buried under a small bags of clothes each, and an enormous bag of food and drink (well, a little food was in there). Silkie immediately demonstrated his Scottish guile, and inbuilt Scottish ability for subtle revenge by taking a good hard pull on the oars and soaking the posterior of one Mr Full Circle. We gathered aboard the good ship Silkie, and did the decent thing. We opened a bottle of whisky. It was a bit later by the time we poured ourselves into bed.Arising the following morning, we discovered a rather classic west coast of Scotland day. It was raining.Being hardy souls, and seeing the look of dissapointment at the potential for not getting his kite flying on Dave's face, we decided to set off anyway. His dissapointment was well disguised, as he spent a good few minutes staring at the whisky bottle and muttering things like "Dinna ye want ti wait for ra rain te stop?". When we cheerfully replied "no thanks", he even managed to look sad.So we cast free of his bouy, and set off. Dave immediately decided that crew was a good thing. He sat down, handed us the tiller and started relaxing. He even only managed 'slightly nervous' as we cleared Clete Rock and Cuan, and pirouetted our way down into more open water.We'd been out for as long as 45mins, and were thoroughly soaked. Undeterred by this minor set back, FC started to rig bits of rope, pulleys and god knows what else in strange and exotic positions. Extensive use of jubillee clips and screwdrivers added a certain degree of 'the unusal' to the experience of flying a spinnaker. But he seemed happy, so we let him get on with it.Before long, there we were, with a kite rigged, ready to go. Everyone was having a ball.

And just a few minutes later, there was a rustling noise, I looked round to see Dave with his eyes closed, fiddling with the main sheets in a way remarkably reminicent of rosary beads, and gosh. The kite was up.

We had a splendid sail down to Dunstaffnage, where the volume of water now inside rather than outside of our oilies suggested it was time to stop. That and the appeal of a shore power cable and warm dry pub.So we tied up, with FC and I laughing hysterically at the aisle widths.... room to maneouvre?.... you could anchor between the blummin aisles....A fine performance by the Northern hemsiphere teams in the rugby suggested a drink or two, and we tried our best to meet the challenge.... but being sensible people, we even maintained a degree of moderation by moving on to halfs after the first two or three pints. I believe Dave managed about 8 halves.A wander/stagger back to the boat was made even more entertaining by the lack of basics. Like bolts joining the finger pontton to the main aisle pontton, but a headfirst dive over the guard wires saw us OK. Naturally, more whisky was appropriate. In fact FC provided a rather interesting bottle. The colour of licquorice. Both in and out.By 01h30, there was only one thing left to do. Eat Lorne sausage. So taking care to not burn his fingers too badly lighting the stove, Dave soon completed a sterling effort, aided by regular visits to his glass, and we sat happily eating Lorne sausage rolls while the world slept outside.Of course, we knew that we wouldn't be believed. So we documented it.

There was a distinct lack of grissle. I feel undersold.So you can imagine our surprise to arise the next morning to see a misty start, but with the real threat of a bit of sun. Even Dave looked surprised. No. In fact, he looked shocked. And maybe a bit hungover.So, after a hearty breakfast, with a bit more Lorne sausage thrown in, we cast off, and headed back towards Balvicar.Something wierd happened. The sun came out. In fact, it shone its little heart out.

it got so warm that we ended up in T-shirts.Dave claimed that this last happened in 1983.After motoring for a while in the complete lack of wind, sighting an entire pod of Porpoise swimming along, and unusually even getting quite ambitious with their jumps, we decided to pop the kite again.It was flown for 2 hours. We even got Dave to Gybe it. Grin. He was like a Cheshire cat.Apart from one or two minor events, like nearly hitting an enormous island, we had a non eventful run back. Dave said it wasn't that unusual for the depth to reduce to 2.2m. What would we know. We sail on the east coast. Its unusual for the depth to go above 2.2m where I come from.Being a bit (like 2 hours) ahead of the tidal gate back through Cuan, we decided to grab a buoy at Easdale. Dave said it was well marked. He was of course talking relative. The marks are a slightly wonky green pole, and a stub of a pole that is 12 inches above the water line. Oh, and another pole with a green beer barrel on top of it. Class.As an anchorage, it didn't have a lot going for it. All it could offer was stunning scenery, complete shelter. And a microbrewery. Harumph.

So as the tide conditions resumed there normal status, we cast off, and headed back through the Cuan area again, demonstrating our ability to steer completely randomly while the tide actually decided where we would go, and slipped back to the mooring, which yet again, wasn't really worth going to. Miserable views.

Thanks Dave. It was a ball. Your sailing area is absolutely stunning. The welcome was warm, and both Jim and I had a really really marvellous weekend. Was it worth a round trip of 900 miles for?.... darned right it was!