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Blue Chief: Man of the black cap what do you say
As your proud ship cleaves the brine?
Skipper: My speedy ship takes the shortest way
And I’ll follow you line by line
Blue Chief: My men are eager, my men are ready
To drag you below the waves
Skipper: My ship is speedy, my ship is steady
If it sank, it would wreck your caves.

Legend of the Blue Men of the Minch

I took a while to go over, my mind full of past memories and future plans. We had discussed plans for when we finally retire, some involved travels  on water of course and some involving our recent purchase of a truck top tent. It was fun to think what the possibilities were. I also woke early, a commotion at the bow, most likely an otter or seal grabbing a catch and using the mooring buoy to dispatch its kill, not my usual morning wake up call of woodland birds at the feeder outside the bedroom window!

We had an early breakfast of sourdough toast with smashed avocado and egg, no short measures on this trip! There was no wind and the cloud hung low over the distant hills. The skipper had computer work to do so I took the long watch. It was a monochrome sea, smooth surface but no wildlife to see. The occasional pair of guillemots, fathers with their chicks, he takes over chick rearing once they have fledged so that the mother can return to sea to feed and regain her strength after egg laying and brooding. If it was a pair it was nearly always guillemot, a small raft of black and white birds were usually puffins, just hanging about, being puffins.

We passed Reiff and the cliffs were almost discernible, I remembered visiting there many years ago after another memorable adventure. We had made a canoe trip along with our middle son, his pal and then girlfriend to paddle the five lochs including Fionn Loch, Loch Sionasgaig  and Loch Veyatie. This involved leaving a car at each end and a shuttle, paddling the lochs then portaging (dragging) the canoes and gear across the moor to get to the next one. It was late autumn and a particularly cold spell but we were undeterred. I think our son wanted to impress this lass who was not really outdoorsy but was game to have a go. She was a very slender girl and no matter how many layers we put on her, she was freezing. Paddling and hiking were the only way to keep warm so we kept going as much as we could. At the start we had a rare feast of fresh prawns that we got from a local fisherman in Ullapool on the way through, he refused to take any payment and simply said to buy him a pint if we were ever in the pub. We  cooked them on a camping stove and sat by the loch peeling and stuffing our faces with them. The canoe trip was good and at the end we had visited Reiff to see the sea cliffs, famous for climbing. The skipper and boys did a bit of scrambling about while we women folk looked on encouragingly. The relationship with the girl did not last, they had different paths to follow but the friendship with his pal still lasts and it is a pleasure to see them both now, married and fathers to two children each.

A solitary seal bobbed up to add some excitement and a distant splash and fins of a couple of dolphins but too far away to warrant letting the skipper know. I watched the MV Seaforth head out of Loch Broom on its way to Stornoway and a few fishing vessels motored by slowly.

The compass was firmly pointing north and it was a bit monotonous motoring along for hours but it was getting us where we wanted to go. We finally rounded the headland and into Loch Inver and took a space on the visitor pontoons. We settled and changed clothing to go for a wander in the community woodlands. I noticed a boat landing crates of something on the pier so we popped along with a bag and cash and got two large cock crabs for tea. The skipper took them back to the boat, holding them by their two rear legs to avoid being nipped. He returned proudly stating  he had cut their front claw tendons and put them in the sink for cooking later. I was not that confident they would still be there after having seen them climbing out the crates. I had visions of them scuttling around the boat and finding one at the bottom of my bunk!


The woodlands were lovely, mossy, green and carpeted in sorrel. There were many tree species including oak, birch, beech, hazel, sycamore and straggly ash trees, badly savaged by ash die back disease though the ivys were quick to take advantage of their weakened state and climbed up their trunks. The smell of damp mosses and woodland plants was lovely though the drizzle that had started was now strengthening to rain so we cut it short a bit and made back for the boat. We passed a beautiful loch covered in water lillies and then the cutest little primary school built on a promintary in the loch, what a place to be educated!

By the time we got to the harbour it was  pouring and we were soaked. I gingerly came aboard ready to strip my sodden clothes off but was curious to see where these crabs were – they were safely still in the sink thankfully. We searched about to find a pot big enough to cook them and dispatched them quickly, cooked them and settled down to enjoy this fresh sea harvest though in a damp fuggy salon, not quite out in the cockpit, sun streaming down and chilled glass of vino!

Give me a rod of the split bamboo

A rainy day and a fly or two

A mountain stream where the eddies play

And mists hang low o’er the winding way

Eunice Lamberton

It had been a wet night, the weather really had not been great especially as it was late June but then down south they were experiencing terrible heat waves, closing schools and transport affected. The climate was changing, no doubt about that. We had slept late which was a luxury, we had a day to spend onshore so were not really in a hurry. The rain drizzled on, not a breath of wind as we breakfasted and used the time to make plans for later in the summer. Our middle son, his wife and two daughters were coming over, as they say, for their annual pilgrimage to the home land and that was what we had to get back in time for. I was then returning to Catalonia to help look after the wee girls during the summer holidays. I had spent five glorious summers spending time with our elder grand daughter and was so looking forward to replicating this special time with her adorable wee sister. She was as cute as a button, strong willed and comical, not talking yet but certainly made herself understood! Her elder sister adored her and was so patient when her newly created craft work was accidently toppled over and lay on the floor in pieces. The 5 yr old’s passions had turned slightly from unicorns and mermaids to KPop Demon Hunters and karaoke which was fun to see and I loved watching her grow and be part of her wee life.

We booked flights and sorted logistics which always seem so complicated in our lives, then dinghied ashore to check our bikes had not been “borrowed” by the Bad Boys of Badachro. All good, they were still nestled in the undergrowth at the top of the pier.  I pushed mine to the top of the wee road that leads down to the harbour before mounting and setting off. No wobbles so far! It had been six weeks to the day all this nervous system chaos had erupted and it felt so good to be nearly normal again. Usually I cycle at least twice a week, to and from my Pilates and yoga classes and had missed it so much. I knew my fitness level had dropped but was just glad to be active again. These periods of ill health/incapacity really bring home how things can change in an instant. I thought of friends who were going through serious health issues and impairments to their lives and resolved to make the most of what I have while I can. Sometimes though that decision is taken from you and I really felt for my friends and family who were affected.

It was delightful cycling along the twisty single track road past waterlily strewn lochans, deep dark brown rivers swollen with recent heavy rain, lush green sweet smelling woodlands and banks of bog myrtle and dwarf willows. The verges were stuffed full of meadowsweet, dog roses, rush and buttercups and I inhaled deeply, their scent so intoxicating. I felt a rush of endorphins and smiled up at the sky with gratitude to just being here. We passed Sheildaig Lodge where I had visited a few years back when I had a student  on his work placement there, then into Gairloch harbour to check out the visitor pontoons. Climbing up the steep hills, I really felt my lack of fitness and tender backside! It rained fairly constantly but it was a warm drizzle and made the decision of water proof jacket on or off a constant dilemma. We turned into the newly built museum and café building that also housed a learning centre part of my organisation NWH UHI. I knew the centre manager there so felt it only polite to call in to say hello. She had left for the day unfortunately but we decided to enjoy the café on the upper floor . It was bustling with damp warm tourists all sampling the homemade cakes and soup. We chose our cakes, Victoria Sponge for the captain and Pistachio and White Chocolate for me and used the WIFI to finish our arrangements. We made a draft passage plan to make sure we did not venture too far north so allowing plenty time for the return. It had only been five days and we had come far but it was also sobering to know that at the end of the week we really should turn south again to allow for explorations and holing up in case of bad weather.

We cycled back still in drizzle, bellies full of cake and a tuft of bog myrtle sticking out the captain’s back pack. This humble shrub holds so much emotion for us. It was in my parent’s wedding bouquet and also ours. A pressed dried piece sits above our bed at home and when crushed the small evokes such strong memories of time spent in the highlands. Smell is a strong sense for me, it transports me to the place or person it reminds me of, sometimes good, sometimes bad!


Rounding a corner the lochan came in to view again, a small island near the shore with a tall Scots pine and rowan decorating it, protected to a point from the grazing deer and sheep. Reeds swayed in the shallows in the little bays and a small wooden jetty protruded out to the waters, a little rowing boat tied to it. It was as if I could see him there, standing on a distant bank, kilt, woollen shirt, bonnet and plume of pipe smoke rising gently into the still air. A flick of the rod and a gentle lay on the surface, the fly just laid down right where he intended and that familiar draw of the line through his fingers. My father. Gone almost 30 years ago but so present in these beautiful special places. This landscape was compromised without his boots treading the stony, peaty paths that lead to hidden glens, peaks of stone, rivers of soft waters, lochs of rising trout and moors of purple heather.

I gathered myself and cycled on, captain watching me with care and I think he knew the poignant thoughts I was having.

We returned to the pretty wee harbour and dismantled the bikes and packed them into the bike bags then into the dingy and petered over to Stravaigin waiting for us, swaying gently in the tidal eddy.

Glaciers, grinding West, gouged out
these valleys, rasping the brown sandstone,
and left, on the hard rock below –
the ruffled foreland –
this frieze of mountains, filed
on the blue air –
Stac Polly,
Cul Beag, Cul Mor, Suilven,
Canisp –
a frieze and
a litany.

Who owns this landscape?
Has owning anything to do with love?
For it and I have a love-affair, so nearly human..

Norman MacCaig

A Man in Assynt (excerpt)

Day 4
Today was the first morning I woke up and managed to turn over without invoking dizziness in nearly 6 weeks so I took that as a good sign.
We motored out the bay and pointed the bow towards the Skye Bridge. As we passed the ruins of a castle on a promintary at Kyleakin, I recalled visiting there three years ago with the Catalans and our dear wee grand daughter.
We’d mused about princesses and unicorns and the captain helped her climb up the walls to peep out the window. Time had flown so fast and now she was a big sister to another joy for us.
We carried on under the bridge, always a moment of breath holding as you slide through and safely out the other side, although there is plenty room and we turned to starboard and along the shoreline past Badicaul and the entrance to Loch Carron. It was windy though the low cloud hung over the Misty Isle and seemed settled there for a while. We chatted as we continued past Raasay then Rona and the visibility cleared enough to see over to Trotternish then Staffin. I contacted our youngest to see if he was guiding on Skye just to know if he were clambering along the dark brooding ridgeline of the Black Cuillin we could see way in the distance, but he was working further south on the Ben.

An interesting conversation was taking place over the VHF between a naval training base and other craft in the area. They were requesting a wide berth from their training ground. The captain had noticed earlier the depth suddenly shot up  and deduced we might have sailed over a submarine!

The wind direction and strength made our decision to keep going north while we could, so we sailed past Applecross, Sheildaig and made for Badachro. I recognised little settlements as we passed, Opinan, Port Henderson then Big Sands, places from childhood and fond memories of family holidays in these enchanting places. Gairloch came into view, a place known from teenage past when I stayed with a family as an au pair to two delightful little kids while their parents did their best to renovate the old house a family member had left them. I remembered loading up the wee ones in the pram and stuffing as many bags as possible of nappies, food, toys, blankets and towels then heading to the beach to make camp for the day, only returning when I thought the DIY work was done for the day. More recent times  involved the learning centre our college has there and collaboration with colleagues.

We turned deeper into the bay just as a “tender” to an enormous super yacht made it’s way past us, a deck on the back that slides further back to allow their helicopter to land then be lowered into the “garage” then roof slid back over!
Well I was content with my super yacht and felt more virtuous with our wind power driving us and solar and wind heating our water and cooking our dinners.
Stravaigin gently nosed her way into the pretty little bay that lay almost in a circular cove, houses and inns looking down on the boats all shapes and sizes swaying about on the rising tide.
I picked up a visitor mooring and we went through the usual end of passage routine of declothing, snacks, drinks and lying back admiring where we were.
I was pleasantly surprised at how far we’d come already in 4 days, it didn’t seem quite real.
We decided to load the bike bits into the dinghy and go ashore to rebuild them and suss the place out for an exploration tomorrow.
I wasn’t sure how the riding would go but will see.

A cool drink on the deck of the Badachro Inn and another horse box trailer selling woodside pizzas! We weren’t tempted though having the ultimate pizzas on demand from our youngest’s fiancé and could not be surpassed!

Back onboard we decided on venison burgers for tea and make a plan for a day onshore tomorrow as there was no wind forecast and a day exploring would be fun.

The Legend of Saucy Mary

Legend claims that ‘Saucy’ Mary, a Norwegian Princess who married the Chief of Clan Mackinnon, collected this toll herself. A large portion of the clans’ income came through imposing a toll on passing ships. To avoid paying it would mean sailing around the far more treacherous Minch, known for its ferocious storms. The Clan Chief and his wife are said to have hung a chain across the straits from their home, Caisteal Maol in Kyleakin, to the mainland and demanded a hefty toll to be allowed through. Mary took it upon herself to collect the toll.  She would show gratitude for those who paid by flashing her bare chest as they sailed past, so the name ‘Saucy’ Mary came to be.

Day 3
A quick breakfast of homemade yogurt, berries and lovely sourdough toast that I’d picked up the weekend before from a fabulous honesty box on Mull, then outer clothing and boots on to lift the hook and head back out the bay to continue our northerly odyssey.
The wind was still in our favour so we decided to keep going up the coast and should make it up to the Kyles in good time to flow through with the tides.

We sailed past beautiful bays and inlets recalling times spent in each over the years. Passing Mallaig and Loch Nevis we  laughed as we remembered a canoe trip we’d made as teenagers in our aluminium canoe. We’d paddle Loch Morar and set out to portage over to Loch Nevis. This involved a very steep climb up and over a bealach carrying the canoe and all our camping kit plus our family collie trailing along too! I recall it being a real slog and probably a crazy idea but we were determined and made it, still talking to each other! We paddled up the loch to Camusrory to stay at Sourlies Bothy. The next day we had to do the same return journey but this time the wind was against us but as luck would have it, the local supply boat Spanish John was heading that way and offered us a lift. We gladly accepted and got a tow back up to Tarbet to make the same carrying back up and over. Well our adventures started young and we never really learned but I think these mad cap trips helped forge our relationship and instilled a real love of these wild places.

Knoydart passed by our starboard, the large humps of Ladhar Bheinn, Luinne Bheinn and sharper peak of Sgurr na Ciche recognisable on the skyline. I had such a fondness for this wild place, I’d climbed through its rough bounds with my late father, we’d made up stories about Loony Benny a character I’d created who lived on Luinne Bheinn. The captain had requested my hand in marriage from my father on a trip there and I’d stayed a whole summer there as a student, writing my dissertation on the concept of wilderness. That was a fabulous summer, I was adopted by the community and stayed firstly in the postman’s shed as he would not hear of me camping, then I was passed to a local family as their daughter was at the high school hostel in Mallaig so they had a spare room. He was a prawn fisherman and a delightful character, every night was a ceilidh and I helped care for their rosy cheeked baby when I wasn’t writing or tramping the hills. It was also then I fell in love with large hounds, they had a deer hound who was the most beautiful dog I’d ever seen, her name was Jade due to her green eyes, gentle and graceful but on the hill she could run like the wind!

Memories are precious and I loved bringing them back to mind as I sat in the cockpit, it felt a privilege to have the time to recollect and reminisce.

We reached Glenelg in good time and raced along, the wind behind us and tide with us. It narrows here and the tide brings up the nutrients and sealife as it pours through, we watched a huge flock of gulls feeding and seals darting about hunting for prey. Rounding the point and into Loch Alsh the tide released us and we could see the Skye Bridge ahead. We decided we’d had enough for one day and would anchor south of the bridge for the night in Loch na Beiste.

We sailed confidently into the bay, narrowing as it ended at a green wooded shore, a sheer waterfall emptying into the sea on our starboard.
I felt tired again after the disturbed night but revived after a cup of tea and ginger biscuit. It felt good to be north of the Argyll coastline, we were just round the corner from the Skye Bridge which acts as the gateway to the north coast and true western isles.
I sat, feet up in the cockpit reading and  writing until a figure caught my eye standing on the shore.  It seemed such a remote place to get to and I couldn’t see any tracks marked on the map but guessed he might be a local and knew the paths down to this wee bay, maybe like me, he feels the need to wander down from his house and just be there. He stayed a while just looking and wandering along the shore then slowly retreated back into the woods.
The air grew chillier and I went down below to put dinner together. The skipper had pre-prepared most of our meals so dinner was easy, reheat and pimp up.  We found some TV to watch before bedtime and although it was wet outside, it was a gentle rain so quieter and I hoped I was in for a more peaceful night.

Where the rocks of Ardnamurchan meet the rolling Gaelic Sea,

Where the reef-jawed whirlpools gnash their teeth and roar,

There’s a lass whose gaze is seaward, standing in the menhir’s lee

On fair Alba’s ever-westward-facing shore.

Marie Marshall

Day 2
We had invited our friends who live in Lochaline to join us for breakfast so while I took advantage of the little harbour’s large showers and hair dryers, the skipper volunteered to cook up bacon rolls and pots of good coffee.
A lovely catch up with our friends sharing stories of our growing families,  graduations, house disasters, travels, and future plans then we bid farewell and headed out from the sheltered loch to vere north again and up the sound, navigating other sailing boats and ferries.
I mused as we passed Tobermory then Glengorm, how different this aspect was from the previous weekend when I’d spent an enjoyable weekend on Mull with a friend. We had stood on the raised shoreline looking over the Sound and north toward the Small Isles, watching the tiny white oragami like sail boats flitting around and she had said “That’ll be you next week!”
Indeed it was and I felt very lucky indeed.

The Sound ends and opens out like the estuary of a large river, options for vessels to flow out in any direction. We were heading north and pointed the bow towards Ardnamurchan Point.
We had the winds behind us, which is a fairly rare occurrence so enjoyed a strong sail all the way on our route and into Loch Ceann Traigh and our first anchorage off Singing Sands. Once the hook was dropped, waterproofs discarded and boat shoes on, we sat back enjoying the view and enjoying some snacks and drinks.  It lasted a while before the showers came in. It was wet, very wet, so we hunkered down below and made dinner. The wind was blowing strong and steady and once in bed it was not such a peaceful night. The anchor alarm went off in the middle of the night, which is what its meant to do but getting back to sleep was problematic with the captain deep in snoring slumber beside me and the wind howling overhead. I retreated to the makeshift bunk in the saloon but the wind generator whirled constantly and Stornoway coastguard piped up frequently then the throaty engines of another vessel chugged nearby  so it was a challenge! However I woke early the next morning so realised I had fallen asleep and made bed tea for us, allowing us to come to gently.

“She set out across the sea,

When her ancestors whispered “come home.”

She thought “something’s waiting for me,”

And could feel it in her bones.”

Lily: ‘Find her in the Highlands’

I had a yearning to go north. Just head north with no real destination or timescale. A true stravaig. I loved the islands, I knew them like friends, we’d shared happy and sad times, I knew their secrets, their soft spots and charms. But the north, the far north felt like an old friend, childhood memories, places whose names read like poetry and each mention of them had allure and a beguiling call. I felt it was time I made my acquaintance again.

We were lucky to have an extended period of time off together, I had a long academic break and the captain had taken the boat off charter so we could spend some summer time together, a rare occurrence since starting the business. We discussed what we might do and using the boat ourselves was an option but I questioned was that not like a bus man’s holiday or indeed a captain’s holiday? He refuted this immediately and explained how much he’d love sharing his sea life with me, showing me the delights of our coastal home waters and even cook for me. It was a deal!

We calculated over two weeks to spend away, allowing time to get back and prepare for the little Catalan stravaigers to arrive for their annual journey back to their Celtic homeland, so we packed, planned and prepared.

The morning of departure I ferried the numerous bags down the slipway ready to load on to the boat once she was brought alongside. The food bags were many and heavy and I did wonder if we ate all this would we return carrying all this extra weight inside!! I also wondered as I handed the bags containing our bikes which had been dismantled and packed over the guard rails, if I would be more successful than my previous attempts to cycle.

I had recently been out of action with a very frustrating and debilitating condition affecting balance and although was well on the way to recovery, we decided just to set off and see how things go. I wasn’t sure how I’d be onboard never mind cycling but what’s the worse that could happen!

Long time he lay upon the sunny hill,
To his father’s house below securely bound.
Far off the silent, changing sound was still,
With the black islands lying thick around.

He saw each separate height, each vaguer hue,
Where the massed islands rolled in mist away,
And though all ran together in his view
He knew that unseen straits between them lay.

Often he wondered what new shores were there.
In thought he saw the still light on the sand,
The shallow water clear in tranquil air;
And walked through it in joy from strand to strand.

Over the sound a ship so slow would pass
That in the black hill’s gloom it seemed to lie
The evening sound was smooth like sunken glass,
And time seemed finished ere the ship passed by.

Grey tiny rocks slept round him where he lay,
Moveless as they, more still as evening came,
The grasses threw straight shadows far away,
And from the house his mother called his name

Childhood   Edwin Muir

The little arrow on the screen remained still, just off Ponta Delgada, pointing north east. I checked it every day and it still remained. I was home and dealing with the after math of Mum’s passing, lawyers, utilities, telephone, return of NHS aids, writing letters, cutting grass and patiently waiting for news. A little text appeared via satellite, “Stravaigin on passage. All well” Relief. I was not worried about the boat or crew, three yacht masters, a good strong boat and fair weather.  However they were way out in the Atlantic. They were having a ball. Poor Jan had left the boat in the Azores returning back to Slovakia for military duty, so just the three had made the second passage from Azores to Dublin but it was going well.

I booked a flight to Dublin, the final one, to meet up with them for the final sail home. The little twin propeller airplane trundled noisily off the runway and made the short flight from Glasgow to Dublin, landing after we had all had a cup of tea and lovely Sean, J’s old school friend was there to meet me. As the boat was not due in until that evening he insisted on taking me home to meet the family and wine and chat flowed as we caught up on our adventures since we last saw them, right at the start and met their lovely daughters Rosie and Kiera, and the dog who lay his head on my lap and gazed up at me hanging on every word. Suddenly Sean leapt up, having checked his Vessel Finder App and announced we had to go as the “boat was coming in!”

We bundled into his car, dropping the dog off at granny’s and we headed to Dún Laoghaire, kids and all. A quick pizza and then a march down to the marina just as I received a text announcing the arrival of Stravaigin, landfall after eight days at sea.

A beaming and slightly hairy, captain stood on the deck as we arrived, delighted at the crowd welcoming them to Ireland and without further ado, headed to the pub for a well-earned Guinness.

It was hoatching, Saturday night in Dún Laoghaire and everyone seemed to have fled Dublin and headed to the coast so after a quick drink, the crew were done and we wandered back to the boat so the captain could finally sleep in his bunk, stationary and with no watch to worry about. And his first mate beside him.

We spent a nice day the next day, after saying goodbye to Michael who was heading home which was only a couple of hours by train away, then cleaning up the boat a bit, refuelling, rewatering, restocking before treating ourselves to a fabulous brunch. We then headed out for a quieter drink in a local pub that evening rather than the huge franchise we had found the previous night. I did notice the rainbow flag in the window and the pink flamingo and unicorn ornaments adorning the bar, but the lads were oblivious, heads in phones catching up on news from home, sipping their manly pints. Time to go as the skies grew dark and as we left the heavens opened in a biblical torrent of torrential rain and we were socked to the skin within seconds. Nothing for it we waded home and literally stripped in the cockpit before dashing down below to dry off. I smiled to myself at dear Stuart, non plussed about decorum as he sat in his thermal underpants, sipping a hot coffee, steaming from head to toe.

Hunger nudged me awake and I smiled as I opened my eyes, quietly. No persistent alarm demanding me on deck to layer up and don red light torches along with life jacket, thermal hat and leather boots to protect my sleepy body from a chill I had not expected in the Mediterranean nights, I was relieved of watch duties as we had three aboard and I would gladly get up to feed us all at breakfast time. At first light we slipped out of the marina and headed north up the coast, a two day, one overnight passage to get to Islay or Jura depending on the weather and tides. It was strange having to factor in the tides again after a year almost of no tidal range but now they had quite an effect and we were keen to get beyond the NW corner of Ireland while the tide was with us.

It was a nice sail, a bit of motoring too but as we headed north the noticeable thing was the amount of marine life everywhere. The sea birds were constant as were dolphin, seals and porpoise. And jelly fish in their thousands, mostly the clear moon with their four purple rings but the occasional orangey brown, lion mane, some the size of dustbin lids, floated by. As the little white capped waves shooed us from behind like children’s’ hands shooing their chooks back to the barn, I could see the distinct dark silhouette of Jura ahead. We were goosewinged out, I’d like to say, gracefully like the Greylag honing in to its nesting site but we were more like Jemima Puddle Duck flouncing her wings occasionally as the wrong wind direction caught the edges of the sail, flapping noisily and regularly.

It was decided we would call in at Craighouse on Jura for the night and it was simply glorious as we sailed up past the Kintyre peninsula, Gigha and Islay, all silhouettes we knew well and a feeling of great pride and nostalgia came over us. It was beautiful. The sun was shining, the seas were blue and there were gannets, puffin, guillemot, terns, seals, gulls everywhere, little colourful fishing boats petered by and gave a friendly wave and the iconic black and red of the Cal-Mac ferries plying back and forth to the western islands made us right at home.

We took a mooring at Craighouse, a small fee if you eat at the hotel and we had been anticipating a feast of seafood at the restaurant as we dinghied ashore, rowing as the outboard had sprung a fuel leak. It was our 34^th wedding anniversary so I had contacted the restaurant to book a table and arrange a bottle of fizz to celebrate, along with Stuart it was a double celebration marking our arrival back in Scotland. The meal turned out to be a disappointment as the food was pretty poor however the view made up for it and we wandered along the shore after eating, soaking in the stunning sunset across the water, other yachts mirrored on the still waters, the cry of the oyster catcher making the perfect back tune to the scene. I felt so glad to be back in home waters, though it did not feel real. Stravaigin looked so comfortable sitting in the bay surrounded by mountains and green hillsides, I tried to imagine her against the pink rock of the Mediterranean and it seemed like a distant memory already.

Deciding to draw the inevitable end out a little, we anchored the final night in our local anchorage in Loch Spelve on Mull, literally chucking Stuart off the boat in the dinghy, as we flew by the mussel farm, to collect a bag from the honesty box and he re-joined us with his successful net bag bulging as we anchored at the far end of the bay, a place we had been regularly over the years. We indulged in moules mariniere, the best of the year so far, and watched a flock of geese both Canada and Greylag with little fuzzy goslings following along as they glided along the shore. It was significant how much wildlife there was since returning to Scottish waters and the lushness of the hillsides, resplendent in greens of bracken and ferns, low growing willows and birches, the purple of the early heathers and foxgloves and the yellow of iris and tormentil, painting a Monet type scene at every bay.

The final morning we weighed the anchor and headed over Oban Bay, not a ripple on the water surface nor a cloud in the sky, I stood on the deck at the bow and watched the blue water slip by, jelly fish appearing ghostly as we sailed past them and the sun’s rays piercing down a fair way before being swallowed up by the deep. Past Kerrera, past Lismore Light and Oban, the colourful buildings circling the bay and the ferries bustling in and out and we rounded the point at Ganavan into Dunstaffnage.

There and back again. Eleven months later and we were tied against the quay awaiting a berth as J’s mum and sister welcomed us back with bubbly and balloons much to the skipper’s embarrassment and joy. We were home.

Home is where the heart is and mine had sailed over the ocean and discovered new lands, new people, new experiences and cultures.  We returned to our wooden house in the forest by the sea loch and sitting in the lounge that evening looking out at the sea stretching out calmly from the bottom of the garden, I felt I had never really left home at all, I had been home all along.

Long Journey,

yet it was never too late

to crest the memories of yesterdays.

A voyage that was finished before

and here I am gazing beyond

through oriel windows once more.

An ocean wide stretched from afar

with a quill and vellum on my hand

I wrote these words and understand

life was never easy reaching its core

self must refine from silver to gold

dreams red as velvet, white as snow.

Pure as the heart of every little boy

moulded from a mother’s fervent love

brave, a father’s heritage in honour of.

Blessed by the gift from Nature

toiling day and night from my storm.

She never left me lonely, till all is won

I gazed back to the oceans and saw,

Someone familiar…

Could it be…

Land A Home,

it was a moment of spring.

I step the shore, my heart felt its beat

And Lo, my guardians caress on thee

for there is no sweeter victory

than the ones who truly loved me

From: Oceans Beyond Oriels    Nico Julleza

Push the boat out, compañeros,
push the boat out, whatever the sea.
Who says we cannot guide ourselves
through the boiling reefs, black as they are,
the enemy of us all makes sure of it!
Mariners, keep good watch always
for that last passage of blue water
we have heard of and long to reach
(no matter if we cannot, no matter!)
in our eighty-year-old timbers
leaky and patched as they are but sweet
well seasoned with the scent of woods
long perished, serviceable still
in unarrested pungency
of salt and blistering sunlight. Out,
push it all out into the unknown!
Unknown is best, it beckons best,
like distant ships in mist, or bells
clanging ruthless from stormy buoys

At Eighty Edwin Morgan

And so I found myself in the Azores, a place I never really thought about and certainly did not think I would ever go. I cheated a little and flew there after some time at home, the intention being to meet up with the boat and crew, spend a little time with the skipper before they would set off again and I would have some downtime to relax and heal a little.
I had overnighted in Lisbon on the way out, really convenient flights from Edinburgh and had booked a guesthouse within walking distance of the airport. I trundled my gold coloured trolley down the pavement, dressed smartly in my white linens and lime green jacket. I had decided to dress up for this wee trip, staying in an Airbnb near Ponta Delgada the main town on San Miguel the largest of the Azorean islands. I had also hired a car for the 5 days I would be there so the captain and I could explore a little. I felt quite pleased with myself and arrived at the guest house, big grin on my face and produced my booking document with a flair. The thin, grey coloured man stretched his neck like a tortoise from his extensive collar and peered at me from over his thin glasses.
“No check in until 2pm”
It was 11am.
“Ah, ok, well can I leave my bag and I’ll go for some lunch and return later? Is there somewhere nearby to eat?”
“Yes, leave bag”. He indicated a space behind the desk, without looking up. “Shops a long walk into town”
Ah well, ok, I wheeled the trolley in place and left, not relishing a “long walk into town”. Standing on the pavement of a busy main road and looked up and down the road with no sign of anything other than medical clinics. I wandered off downhill, a little hopelessly but soon found a pretty city park with mummies pushing prams and teenagers walking along with earphones in, screening out the sound of birds chattering in the trees and leaves rustling on their branches.
And there right inside the entrance to the park was a delightful bijou outdoor café, little mushroom stools and wooden tables, cool jazz music playing round the patio and a pretty Portuguese girl with long black dreadlocks and silver clips decorating her braids, wearing patchwork dungarees, smiling behind the counter.
I ordered a goat cheese salad and her own fresh lemonade and settled back to enjoy the next hour or two until I was allowed to check in.
It was like a scene from Fawlty Towers when I returned to the guest house. The same grey man looked up as soon as I arrived in the foyer, glanced at the clock which read 1400 on the dot and beamed at me:
“Ah Good afternoon Madam, would you like to check in now. I hope you found somewhere for lunch and you can sit in our garden if you like or use the pool. I will show you your room which I hope will be satisfactory?”
I looked at him not believing it was the same turtle man, I looked at the garden which bordered on to the duel carriageway and sported metal chairs and tables that were mostly rust, the pool that looked like a homemade job, raised on a platform and with most of the garden floating on top of it and politely declined the offer but yes I would like to see my room.
All was fine though it looked like a mansion from the days of the Czar, velvet brocade wallpaper, stair hand rails of ornate metal, silk flowers in large china vases and a chandelier that once had been clear glass but now yellow and dusty. My room was a box, decorated similarly but it had a terrace, overlooking the garden, great. It was fine for a quick overnight as my flight to the Azores was the next morning. I was a bit paranoid about getting up in time and although I set my phone alarm, I accepted the offer for a wake- up call too.
I was excited about flying to the Azores, over the Atlantic, the same ocean Stravaigin was sailing over, vast and blue. My phone alarm went off fine and I waited for the phone call alarm then there was banging on my door, I was a bit alarmed thinking there was some kind of problem until I heard the tortoise man, shouting,
“Time to get up!” Ah the alarm call, fair enough.
The flight out was fine and I even managed to grab a coffee and Pastel de Nata, my beloved custard tart, for the journey.
I sat looking out the window and reflected on the last week at home. Time spent sorting out some of Mum’s affairs, emptying her fridge, watering her house plants, cutting her grass with the same unreal feeling , like she was away on holiday, distant but not gone. Time spent with family, my youngest at home from University working at the local seafood shack to accrue, hopefully, some cash for the next academic year. A visit to the GP as I felt so run down and a virus was most likely the diagnosis. A visit to my work town to meet up with friends and colleagues and catch up on the college news, no different really to when I left but did leave me with a positive thought about my return and re-joining the bustle of education and learning. Time spent with the newly weds who came down to stay over and we visited the grave, it still did not feel like it was happening to me. And finally time spent with the skipper’s cousin and her family, a real tonic, much gossiping, catching up, Prosecco and warmth, before snuggling down in one of the wee girl’s relinquished beds amongst pink teddies, unicorns and paintings of ponies on the wall.
I realised we should be landing soon as we started our decent and the surface of the ocean got nearer, I still couldn’t see any land although I presumed there must be some down there! The sea got closer and closer and I actually sat up straight as it felt like the surface was a couple of feet below us when suddenly the ground appeared at the edge of a small cliff and our wheels touched it, screeched to a sideways halt like a hand brake turn and we were down! Think I prefer a boat.
And there he was, a tanned, lean captain sporting his shorts and suncap, beaming from ear to ear.
“Hello gorgeous!” he greeted me, nice to be back together again.
I collected our car and chauffeured him around this time, checking in at our little flat in a small coastal village, overlooking the sea, with a café underneath. Perfect.
We caught up with the news having been out of contact during his crossing, save the satellite texts once a day to check in on progress. It had been a great sail for them, strong winds, steady direction , good crew and banter. I was still glad I didnt go and so was J. It had allowed him to focus on the voyage and not worry about me and I really was not in strong form. The Slovakian Major had departed in the Azores, dubious as to whether it was a call of duty or the sea sickness he was unfortunately afflicted with. They had also rescued a French “Amel” stricken off the coast of San Miguel by a broken rudder and spent the last day towing the stressed couple back to port for repairs.
We headed out for dinner to a beach side bar and enjoyed the best fillet mignon I had had in a long time cooked on a hot stone slab, the Azores are famous for their cattle, both beef and diary, all cattle were grass fed and seemed to live an idyllic life. I felt ok about eating them.
It was a pretty idyllic place, a cross between Brazil and Cornwall, exotic and jungly along with neat hedges and green pasture. We enjoyed a breakfast of sweet golden pineapple, milky scones with creamy butter, Guava jam and Azorean tea grown in the many plantations here, then we headed off for a visit to the volcanic crater lakes and national parks. It was a lovely drive and we marvelled at the scenery, it really is a much overlooked place and so lush. The wanders round the bubbling pools of boiling mud remined us of Iceland earlier this year, the same geological origins but a lot warmer surroundings here! A visit also to the thermal pools in the river, very touristy though with dams creating artificial pools that groups of folks steeped in, parboiling themselves. We joined them for a while until we turned a sulphur yellow then headed for the village for the traditional meal of stew cooked in the fumaroles, followed by pineapple cream. It was a wonderful day and restful for J before heading out to sea the following day.
We used the car to stock up on fresh food for them then they sorted out a chaffed halyard, it seemed the spring installation of the radar was at fault, perhaps large bolts drilled in too far in the mast had caused it and was well spotted by Mike before the main sail would have collapsed down, not ideal when in the middle of the Atlantic! Stocked up, clean, fuelled up and down to three, they motored out the port and headed round the end of the island before pointing north for Ireland, where I hoped to meet up with them for the final voyage home. I watched them go, getting smaller as they edged towards the horizon, not sad or worried about them, but very proud.
Returning to my solo pad, I changed for the beach and took a picnic with me to a little sheltered cove to enjoy an afternoon of relaxing and sunbathing. I lay listening to the waves break on the shore sending occasional Valellas high and dry up on onto the beach accompanied this time by Portuguese Man-O-War. The children seemed to be well used to these stingers and relished finding sticks to pop their inflated bodies with, then twineing the blue tentacles round the stick and chasing each other with them. The more diligent parents scooped them up and put them in the bin so no one would get stung as the toxin is still live after the creature is dead. They were a beautiful colour, translucent pink and turquoise. A crowd of young teenagers appeared along from me, loud, full of energy and hormones. Shrieking girls in bikinis, boys relentlessly kicking a football, girls “accidentally” getting in the way and having to be removed by carrying them off, with more shrieks.
A group of young Azoreans spread their rush mats on the other side, deep tanned bodies decorated with picturesque tattoos and piercings, young women with long hair, one was sand coloured with dreadlocks, a sliver clip adorning each fuzzy strand, one with a headband holding her mane high on her head and the other raven black, long damp tendrils licking her shoulders and deep brown back. The aroma of cannabis floated over me and the musical lilt of their voices added their own playlist to the bohemian scene as they nestled into their respective men, muscled bodies toned by years of playing in the sea. Young lovers, what a place to be young and in love, what a place to be 56 and in love! The ocean stretched wide in front of me, green, pale green then grey then green, the skies darkened and the wind picked up, sending the tops of the breakers white and foamy, time to go before the weather changed too much. Folks picked up mats and towels shaking off the black volcanic sand and washed it off their feet at the beach showers before slipping on shoes and disappearing off the beach. There was a storm due, the reason Stravaigin had headed off to get ahead of it and use the edges to push her north. As I walked up the beach a kite surfer walked down, setting up his rig for an exhilarating ride on the waves, living the good life. It is always good weather for someone.
The next day was windy and cool so I explored the local area finding the Tea House along the road from my flat and went in the saloon type swing doors. It was a bit dark inside with a few elderly men at tables playing cards that looked up when I entered. A friendly faced woman behind the bar greeted me and promptly took me upstairs by means of a wooden ladder type starircase to a roof top garden, a beautiful little oasis with wooden gazebos and bursts of vibrant coloured beds of head high flowers and bushes.
She gave me a tea menu that was 6 pages long so I asked for a recommendation which she gave and then told me to stay up here to take my tea as it was nicer than down below and really women were not allowed in the male part. She told me the men talk about things women should not hear and sometime say bad words that would offend ladies.
I enjoyed my gentile, feminine time in the tea garden with Azorian tea and little bits of toast with pineapple jam while I wrote and browsed on my phone, wondering how the crew were fairing as I looked out at the large waves pounding on the rocks. All the energy built up travelling over the Atlantic and these lumps of volcanic rock the first thing to impeded their relentless march over the ocean.
I had never holidayed alone before, well not since a student and a week spent in Orkney (another healing time), so it felt odd but was quite therapeutic. Family called which was lovely to catch up on goings on at home and made me feel closer to home. It was strange being away still, still on our adventure but not on the boat. I suppose I was trying to grasp the dying vestiges of the trip, delaying coming back to reality but at the same tine keen to get back to family and a routine.
The evening was festive again with fireworks banging off constantly and the seemingly daily evening ritual of parading along the road with farm animals in carts or led by ropes, families hanging out the back of trucks singing and drinking, dancers with hoops of flags, music and a brass band. I watched them out my bedroom window but could not really work out what was happening, other than a celebration of Azorian life.
The following day was pleasant but my emotions were all over the place, I went from feeling strong and confident and making all sorts of mental plans, to feeling weak, tearful and vulnerable. I was ready to fly home and the next night found me back in my own bed, having done the whole journey from San Roque, Azores all the way to Argyll in a day. Stravaigin was surging her way northeast and it would take her 8 days to make landfall again. I wanted to be there to greet her.

“You have come to the seashore, neither searching for the rich nor the wise, desiring only that I should follow.

See my goods, my possessions; in my boat you find no power, no wealth.

Will you accept, then, my nets and labour?

 Take my hands and direct them.

Help me spend myself in seeking the lost, returning love for the love you gave me.

 As I drift on the waters, be the resting place of my restless heart, my life’s companion, my friend and refuge.

With your eyes set upon me, gently smiling, you have spoken my name

All I longed for I have found by the water, at your side, I will seek other shores.”

Adapted from Hymn 532.

All I longed for I have found by the water. All that I was looking for I found on the sea.

Here I was sat looking out at the rain pour down the walls and run off the palms, the sky hung low and grey over the island and the sea pounding on the rocky shore, metres from the little white house. The Azores. Way out in the Atlantic Ocean. On my own. Very alone. The silence was shattered violently every now and then by fireworks exploding over the green fields, randomly announcing the start or end of the local festival. The little birds chirped happily in the trees glad of the shelter from this storm passing over the archipelago.

I did not know what to think, how to think. Everything had changed and yet everything was the same. Life continued on.

Stravaigin was 370nm away from the islands by now carrying her crew of three, the captain, lovely soft Stuart and quiet Michael from Ireland and she was surging along at an average of 8knts towards Dublin , her next port of call. I had waved them off three days previously, their faces eager and full of expectations for the next passage, mine was bright to see them off then full of tears once they had let go the lines and turned the stern towards me, heading away to sea. I had sat on the wall and cried a little, not sad to see them go, not worried, not scared, not sad to be on my own, just sad. There was too much ending. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She was supposed to be at home, waiting for my return, waiting for my call to tell her all about the journey, waiting to welcome us back and hug me and make me feel like the most important person in the world, as she does. And she was gone. Gone.

I felt lost. Lost my compass bearing, my anchor, my waypoint, my guidance, my core.

It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. Yes she was 90 , many would think, well you must have thought she may leave at any time and in some ways yes I had forced myself to contemplate that but I dismissed it. Not wanting to let that thought in. She was fine, keeping well. Looked after, cared for and happy.

We had left the Balearics in early May and sailed further west to mainland Spain deciding to hop along the coast this time rather than the long continual passage that we had done last year. We had allowed a few days in Majorca as our youngest and his girlfriend were due to join us for a short break however he had been offered an excellent opportunity to attend an academic module being piloted in Finland, all expenses paid so we encouraged him to take it up, his patient and supportive partner doing the same, so we left earlier than planned to make the journey to Gibraltar in good time and get up to Catalonia for the preparations.

Cartagena was our next port of call, a beautiful and intriguing city, grand and with lovely architecture. It seemed old style Spain, proud and full of lovely bars and restaurants. We were booked into the Real Club Nautica which sounded very grand but was actually very affordable and the receptionist was the friendliest and most helpful lady, recommending places to visit and  things to do. We listened diligently but knew with only two nights there and our priorities as always were laundry, shopping, water and fuel, we wouldn’t manage any of these but we thanked her and took her maps and brochures. Yet another place to return to. I called Mum as always and told her all about the city and the journey down, she was interested and asked all her usual questions about the weather, was it busy? how as the food? was I ok? I had shared that I was getting a little tired of being away, something I was not vocal about with J, thinking it might bother him although he knew I was in some ways glad the journey was coming to its fruition, I love my home and missed being away from everyone.  I told her I would call her the next evening when we were at anchor, as the next day we would be out of reception. All was fine, she had visitors coming and the garden was looking lovely. She was glad I was nearer home and was looking forward to seeing me.

“Bye bye dear, bye bye.”

We were almost a day out of Cartagena, evening approaching when the storm hit, hard, the maelstrom flew around in circles holding me in the vortex, I held tight to the rail, sobbing. J held the wheel hard and pushed the engine full ahead. The waves picked us up and sent us streaming down the other side, the wind blew our voices away. The phone call had come. I was in a storm. I was lost at sea.

We managed to pull into a cove, horrid and swelly, full of mooring buoys and fishing boats but we could stop. Stop and deal. Stop and think. Stop.

I felt for J, helpless, all he could do was make a plan which he did, while I made the heart wrenching calls to our boys.

Everything seemed a blur, unreal. I felt angry, guilty, scared, gutted and wronged. And lost.

The wedding was next week, we all couldn’t wait to tell her all about it, show her the pictures, the videos, the bride’s dress, my ceremony speech, the gossip, share the love of the day. She had already decided she would not go, the whole thing would be too much for her and we had all supported her with this decision and she felt much happier in the security that we all agreed and would share everything with her once home. I was due home on the Monday after the wedding and couldn’t wait. She was so proud of everyone, her grandsons who would be groomsmen and groom, their beautiful girls at their sides. The stunning bride and us, Mum and Dad, a job well done.

Stravaigin carried her grief laden load along the coast to Almeria the next day, a place the captain had found and fortunately offered all we needed, a safe place to leave her and an airport to fly us home.

I don’t remember those days there and flying home, I believe we flew via London but I don’t recall. I remember arriving at Edinburgh and my first born standing by the car with a bunch of flowers and his strong arms outstretched. I collapsed into his arms.

The week passed in a sad routine of funeral preparations, choosing photographs, organising a piper, notifying people which stung every time. It still did not seem real. I had the oddest sense now and again of “I need to call Mum and tell her what’s happened!” I woke in the night, cold and my heart thumping thinking I’d had a nightmare then the sadness flooding in that it was real. My anchor held  me fast and kept me strong. Amongst this too were gaps of light and joy as we prepared for the wedding the weekend after the funeral.

Our son flew home from his stag do, kayaking in the Pyrenees for the funeral then back again to resume his preparations and I knew how hard it was for him.

I let the tiny bouquet of bog myrtle fall from my hand, tied in a red satin ribbon, a piece of the ribbon that would bind the young couples’ hands five days later in their handfasting ceremony, onto her coffin where she lay with my late brother, overlooked by the hill top where my late father’s ashes were scattered. Myrtle had been in her wedding bouquet and mine and my eldest son’s bride’s bouquet and I pulled a bit to take out to the Pyrenees for this new bride.

New beginnings, new life. She lives on in all of us.

Two days after the funeral we flew to Barcelona and became caught up in a wonderful whirl of preparations, dinners, wine, families, friends, flowers, talking and laughing. The wedding was deep in the heart of the Pallars, the Catalonian Pyrenees, the spring flowers were adorning the valley floors and the hillsides were a vibrant green. The rivers were full and flowing through the dissections of the mountain reigns and the white water rafters were accessorising the river sides with their colours and energy. We set to ferrying guests around, collecting booze from Andorra and sorting out the venues though everything was well prepared by the couple and her family. The day of the wedding was simply magical, everything they had wanted, planned for a year and a truly special for us and our family. The bride was ethereally beautiful, my son in tears of joy, my youngest piped her through the field by the river and my eldest stood proudly at his brother’s side. I conducted their chosen Celtic ceremony and sat while her uncle performed the ring exchange and rest of the ceremony and drunk it all in, committing it to memory that will last a lifetime. I often stood back throughout the day and as night worn on, casting my eye over the assembled crowd of families and friends, old and young and felt so calm and at peace that there was new life and new beginnings here, a lifetime of adventure ahead of them, surrounded by good people that will help to make their journey a safe and happy one.

We left the party at 4.30am feeling rather proud of ourselves and as I slipped in next to the captain, looking for his warmth on my chilled body, I fell asleep with smile on my face and gladness in my heart.

We left for Barcelona a couple of days later and spent a delightful night with our eldest and his wife who were taking advantage of the occasion to explore the city. He is such a sweet boy, folks at the wedding thought he was a Viking warlord but his large muscles and beard cover a tender heart and a gentle soul.  I adore him and his pretty wife who is his angel. Early next morning saw us on a plane back to Almeria and Stravaigin and we sat in the cockpit drinking tea with a look on our faces that read “What just happened?” We hardly had time to reflect and digest, when our first crew member Michael from Northern Ireland arrived and we set to showing him around and settling him in. A retired dentist with three children, a wife whose love is horses, as well as him of course! He was gentle and calm, I knew he’d fit in just grand. A day to restock and charge up, then we headed out the marina and along the coast, final destination for me, Gibraltar.

The next few days were smooth sailing, if a little light for the captain. We motored a lot to boost the speed which was necessary but tedious.

We tried our first anchorage along the coast but it was noisy with tourists and swelly so we went on a bit to another however when we dropped the hook, it kept going! A bit of a drama as the windlass seemed stuck, the anchor was neither up nor down so not holding, the swell and wind were pushing us to the stone breakwater wall and a rather large ferry was steaming in to the channel we were now halfway across! I took the helm and let the boys deal with the stuck anchor, having to winch it up manually with flaked out chain and ropes.  Finally the large metal hook appeared and we were free just in time as I slewed her round and headed for the marina. We were coming in whether they liked it or not however it was not a problem and we tied up alongside the outer quay, glad to be safe and secure. I made dinner but took mine ashore and sat on a bollard to eat on solid ground, the  events of the past couple of hours having rocked me in more ways then one. The next drama was the fresh water pump filter broke in two, for no apparent reason, so out came the Gorilla glue and a temporary fix was applied. All this happened as soon as Mike had arrived, I scoffed at the luck of the Irish! A peaceful night in Motril with a lovely shower, evening and morning, including my breakfast on the quayside too as the choppy berth was making me ill. I had not felt well since the day after the wedding, extreme fatigue, sore throat and headaches, I put it down to recent events and pushed on.

Benalmadena offered us the next berth, choosing to hop into these marinas as they were reasonably cheap, not the over inflated fees of the Costas we had been warned about, though we realised most yachties prefer the Marbellas and Benidorms where you pay to be seen. We finally saw the Rock looming out of the low coast and I felt a surge of pride as we realised we were back here at the mouth of the Mediterranean. The waters had changed along these last few nautical miles turning from blue to green and very confused with currents running in all directions. It gave us 2-3knts at one point. We pulled into Gib to refuel, our three person team now working well together, I liked Mike’s dry Irish humour and he seemed to be enjoying the trip. It boded well for the next big passage. Cheap dieseled up we sailed round the point to La Linea our Spanish port last year and got  a berth only a few spaces along from our original one. I smiled to myself when we saw “Matey’s” boat still there, his offers of cider and plum brandy still being woefully doled out to anyone who passed – although there were ladies clothes hanging out to dry on the rigging – could he have at last found a friend?

It was lovely being back, a feeling of knowing the place, popping over the border in an attempt to buy a charging cable for my phone but no luck so had to buy a cheap replacement phone. I‘m not really a techy person but these experiences teach you  that you need communications and it does become a big part of keeping in touch and connecting with the world. We made our escape from Blackpool-by-the-sea quickly back to the Spanish side and enjoyed a tasty dinner at the marina café. We spent a few days there, a big restock on fresh food for the crews’ voyage, three trolley loads and a drama over a taxi back to the boat which ended up resolved but the captain was in a dizzy sweat! I smoothed things over and sent him off while I rode back with the goods piled high in the back of the taxi and walked back to retrieve my bike, still chained to the lamppost at the supermarket. The glamour of yachting, oh yes. Our second crew member arrived, Jan from Slovakia, a young soldier, dad of two little kids and a very disciplined attitude, we unravelled him of that promptly as J poured him a rum and ran over the very laid back plan for the next few days.

Finally our dear Stuart from Islay arrived, off the late plane, trolley bag trundled behind him and a big hug. He had just finished a cycle sportive race of 100miles and was still high on achievement and hungry. He polished off a sword fish steak that would feed us all and sat back, hands behind his head and stated “Ah that was very good”

Everyone found their space on Stravaigin, we had rearranged and restowed things so they had bunks and storage and I spent the last night with them all.

My flight was not due til late morning but they had to get away at dawn to make the tide out The Straits so as the pink sun was rising and the Rock loomed large behind them, Stravaigin and her four crewmen nosed out the marina and headed due west. Next stop The Azores.

I sat for ages watching them go, not sad or worried. Just philosophical. I did not want to sail with them , it was too far, too long with a possible three weeks at sea and the winds were due to be strong, good sailing but not comfortable. I had done my Atlantic crossing, I was very proud of what I achieved and had enjoyed it but I did not want to repeat it just now. I was low and a little weak. I needed time to recover and build up strength. Over these past couple of weeks I had to keep going. Now I could stop. I had learnt that you need to look after yourself before you can look after anyone else and my family needed me. I needed to be strong for them. Yes I had lost my Mum but my boys had lost their beloved Granny and they were raw. Time to go home.

I sat on the airplane seat watching the Rock underneath me and gazing at the white triangle shapes out on the ocean and though there were sad thoughts, there was also happy ones and I felt a pang of desire to do it all again.

It really is such a beautiful world, so huge, vast and exciting with so many good people living in it. We must strive to be happy. If we have the luxury of living on this planet we need to grab the opportunity with both hands and hold tight but also be gentle with our world. High in the sky looking down it looks so small and fragile but from the surface of the seas, it looks infinite. We all deserve our place on it, we come and we go but the time we have on it we must treasure. It is our treasure trove with untold wonders and we must relish each discovery and finding. Perhaps the greatest treasure of all though, is finding ourselves. All I longed for I have found by the water. I found myself on the sea.

Hymn 532. My mother’s chosen hymn for her funeral, found after her passing, hand written, on June 14^th 2018. “Lord, you have come to the Seashore”

I started early, took my dog,
And visited the sea;
The mermaids in the basement
Came out to look at me.

And frigates in the upper floor
Extended hempen hands,
Presuming me to be a mouse
Aground, upon the sands.

But no man moved me till the tide
Went past my simple shoe,
And past my apron and my belt,
And past my bodice too,

And made as he would eat me up
As wholly as a dew
Upon a dandelion’s sleeve –
And then I started too.

And he – he followed close behind;
I felt his silver heel
Upon my ankle, – then my shoes
Would overflow with pearl.

Until we met the solid town,
No man he seemed to know;
And bowing with a mighty look
At me, the sea withdrew.

By the Sea Emily Dickinson

I felt him move beside me, the ritual of dressing, the toileting, the pull on of shoes, the red light flicking on in the galley. I pulled the quilt over me and rolled over. He kindly said he was happy taking her out and I should sleep on but after a few moments I felt awake and excited. I wanted to get up. I quickly dressed and appeared at the foot of the companion way.

“Oh hello you, I thought you would sleep on?”

“I wanted to get up and see us going out. Fancy a cup of tea?”

We sat in the cockpit, cradling a cup of tea, as we slid out the narrows between the islands, a current running and using the lights on land to guide us. It was very shallow here and we had to follow a narrow channel that was supposed to be marked by sector lights. We couldn’t see any but followed the chart and gradually Stravaigin flowed out the channel and into open waters.

“I’ll take the watch now” I said.

J happily accepted and headed down below to catch up on sleep and I settled down to keep watch and see us on our journey across this stretch of the Mediterranean. It would be a full day and night crossing and we hoped to be in Minorca by mid afternoon the following day. I was well suited up, the chill of the night still requiring an underlayer and full waterproofs on top. My hat was handy and I looked at my tanned hands peeping out of the long sleeves, they didn’t look like mine. I loved being out here on my own, I felt strong and competent. A small group of dolphins startled me as they leapt at the side of the boat, silver in the black night causing phosphorescence as they splashed.  The waters were odd, currents drifting and a lot of flotsam floating by. There was a mist lying on the surface too and with the blinking lights on the shore it looked surreal. I noticed what looked like foam in huge rafts floating by, then it looked like polystyrene blobs all clumped together. I couldn’t make it out. I was a bit concerned, what if it clogged the engine intake. I checked it and shone the big torch on it but still could not figure it out. It was endless, whiteish and blueish. I wanted to get the net and scoop some up but we were going around 6knts, too fast for that. And I was always concerned fiddling about on deck in the dark on my own so sat back and focused instead on the screen showing our progress and more importantly any shipping around. I loved watching the day grow from dark, no light to light just glowing on the horizon. The stars slowly faded, Venus clinging on and the moon paling as the light built from the east. The waters slowly changed colour or at least took colour as we surged onwards, the bow breaking the surface and parting the waves, sending wakes on either side. The blobs were still there not so much a solid raft but dots now. Everywhere the eye could see and for ever. The sun rose casting colour and definition to the sky and clouds, the dew on deck slowly dried back and the teak wood dried off to its pale brown colour. Bit by bit my layers came off, my hat lay under the pram hood, next my jacket and finally my dungarees until the sun was revealed in her full round and my legs appeared too and my brown bare feet, again not looking like mine. I had never been so suntanned.  I felt quite Bohemian.

I glanced down at the water again and could see now these little dots were transparent like bubbles, some tiny only a couple of centimetres, others bigger but still only 5-7 cm at most. They had minute sails and were angled across the wind, all in the same orientation. They were fascinating and so cute like little Disney creatures bobbing along, so dense I felt I could scoop my hand in and bring up a dozen at a time.

Vellelas “ By the wind sailors”,  tiny jellyfish-like polys which are related to the Portuguese Man O War, but are part of a specialised ocean surface community. Each individual is actually a colony, most are less than about 7 cm long. They were a deep blue in colour, but with a small stiff transparent “sail” that catches the wind and sails them over the surface of the sea, just like us.  I was fascinated by them and managed to get a good look at one as unfortunately I found one high and dry having been blown up on deck and could see the deep blue tentacles that hang down in the water and how they catch their prey, generally plankton. The body seemed to have no colour but the blue of the tentacles was so vibrant it stained the white deck.

Once J was awake I told him all about them and we stared at the wee dead one, amazed at the wonder of nature to have evolved such a thing. To sail!

The voyage was smooth, sun was out, not much shipping and unfortunately not much wind so we motor sailed a lot. I was not feeling too great, not seasick just not quite settled. It was noisy and every hour we felt poorer and resented the necessity of having to use the engine. Friends we had made who were cruising on to Greece and Turkey had no agenda, no deadline, no home to return to, so only sailed when there was wind staying at anchor enjoying the place until the winds changed, next time we thought, it’ll be good to do that.

The day wore on and we chatted and dozed and planned and listening to music and ate. Until the light began to fade again and the sun’s warmth slowly pulled back, causing a chill to shiver down my back.

The night watch would start soon so preparations are made. Red light torches, lifejackets and harnesses on, warm clothes and waterproofs ready, snacks in the centre cockpit table, book and glasses laid out for quiet spells. I was happy on night watch now. I was comfortable on my boat, I know how she works and am much more confident. I still need help to trim the sails but I know what should be done. I can take the foresail in and out. I can tighten and loosen the mainsail. I can start and stop the engine. I can operate the AIS and steer us out of harms way. I know when to wake the captain for advise. Yes I think I am a sailor now.

And still the Velellas continued to float by, on their way to who knows? Everywhere, all around in every direction, I marvelled at their numbers, the sea was covered in them and if this was this part of the Med then how far did they stretch? I realised the rafts of foam I had seen previously were swarms of them, pushed by the currents flowing through the straits and funnelling them together.

As day broke the next morning, we saw low lying Minorca ahead. It felt strange returning here and our visit last autumn seemed a lifetime away. Although it also felt good sailing along the familiar coastline, recalling the bar cut into the cliff side and the little coves. I remembered how I’d felt having to pass these by and feeling a bit miffed we couldn’t visit but now I knew how this works and anchoring means staying near the boat for safety, we’d seen too many near misses with yachts dragging anchor and other boats straying too near ones at anchor, you just need to stay aware and look after your vessel and home.

We pulled into a little anchorage once we had made it across to spend the night, before nipping round to the main town in the morning. We were tired after our two day passage so chilled out, fuelling up and watching our download films. We watched “Fish People” which seemed so apt lying in the cabin on the water surface watching these amazing folk who live their lives in the sea, beautifully filmed and narrated. Maybe we were sort of fish people too, living our lives by the rhythms of current, wind and wave.

Mahon welcomed us back with sunshine and bustle.  We got a lovey berth along the town quay and as soon as we tied up we had a good feel about this place. The marinara was welcoming and helpful, the neighbours smiling and the tourists looked happy and pleased with life. I was glad to be ashore and soon took myself off for a walk around the port and up onto the higher path that overlooks the town. Huge ferries and cruise ships were berthed further up the inlet and I marvelled at how they navigated this narrow channel. I sat on a bench back from the busy area in a quiet rather run down part of the backtown and watched the world from backstage when a youth appeared and asked some directions. I was immediately suspicious as I had my phone in my hand and my handbag at my side. I told him what I knew of the steps he was looking for “To meet with friends” but I felt tense. He was a little dishevelled and seemed nervous talking to me.  He went though some pleasantries like where I was from, what was I doing here and seemed genuinely impressed I was Scottish and had sailed here, he was a bit lost he said and couldn’t remember the place his friends had described and he had lost his phone so couldn’t call them. He soon went off in the direction I had given and I watched him as he went deciding I might go back down to the port side another way as it was quiet here with no one around when I saw a few other youths appear up the steps and he hugged one of the girls and clapped the back of the other lads, they grouped together laughing and chatting and walked past me deep in conversation, big smiles on their young faces. ”Jeez” I thought, I felt guilty at judging him, he could be one of my sons, a little lost, maybe the day after the night before scruffy and relieved now to have met up with his pals, I felt mindful not to judge everyone for the one isolated incident from Sicily. He had approached me and asked for help and I had given it. I hoped my own lads would do the same.

We spent a couple of days restocking, refuelling re-watering and fuelling up ourselves, it was delightful berthed right alongside the town quay as I could do my favourite thing, sit in the cockpit with all the cushions out, in the sun, with a coffee or glass of wine depending on the time of day – this seemed to mist over though as the trip continued on! And watch people going about their business. I watched the smart Minorcans with laptop bags under their arms purposefully stride along to the office for a meeting, the smart ladies meet up with friends for café con leche and the couples wander arm in arm perusing menu del dias not really interested in the food but relishing the love time together. And families with colourfully dressed tots, taking hands as they jumped up on the low wall and balanced their way along the top to “jump” down to applause of how brave they were. I was taking all this in one evening as dinner time was coming to an end, the sun was setting and folks were returning to their houses or hotel rooms when a young couple caught my eye. She was beautiful, slim, high heels and a scarlet red summer dress with flutted hem and shoe string straps, he had his pale blue going-out shirt and beige chinos. They were side by side and she was flicking her long blonde hair off her shoulders nonchalantly. As they came near the lovely little mermaid statue at then end of the wharf they stopped as many do to look at it and usually take photographs but he pulled back and stood looking at these two lovely ladies, then as she turned round, he dropped on one knee producing a little black box from his pocket.

It was a beautiful scene and I watched only long enough to see her hands come to her face and a smile that lit up the evening against the golden sunset, then I pulled back under the canopy not wanting to intrude on their moment, though they were oblivious to the world, starting an adventure of their own and creating their own world from now on. I smiled to myself and thought of my middle son whose wedding was fast approaching and couldn’t help think over the years as he had grown from a blue eyed smiling adorable kid to a fine young man about to be become a husband. My eldest already a husband of nearly 4 years, once a little, slightly shy boy who was nervous to ask for the tomato sauce in a restaurant and now filled every room he entered with his strong presence. And my youngest, known for his affectionate haplessness but had lived independently on the plains of Guyana, the Oman desert, the forest and lakes of Canada and the glaciers of Iceland. What had happened, where had these years gone, I still felt a young Mum but now my youngest was at university, a lovely girlfriend of his own, living in their flat in Glasgow. Yup, time to enjoy this time out, my brood were well fledged and thriving.

The next day was the day before the captains birthday and we had ordered him a Kindle so he could pass his time when on the long return passage across the eastern Atlantic but I wanted to get him a surprise too. I had come across a nice sailing shop on my wanders and seen a smart sailing jacket, bright and lightweight and like the posh sailor types were wearing around the marina so decided to get him one. He doesn’t really like getting clothes, none of my lads do, but when they do get something nice they appreciate it and enjoy looking good, so luckily he was up for this purchase. We went along and he was spoiled by the elderly Minorcan gentleman who fussed over him and suggested the right cut and colour until they settled on a bright orange wind proof jacket. It was very smart and cool looking and certainly better than the slighlty scruffy one he had worn continually over the past 10 months. Job done he set of for the yacht club office to do his downloads and get updated weather reports, leaving me to window shop the trendy boutiques of Mahon. Mistake! I had seen a really nice shop the day before with a collection of clothes that literally I could have bought everything, they were my style, cut, colour and size but there was one piece that stood out. A lime green, faux leather jacket, smart as new paint and had my name on it. I went in and the lady, my age and I got on famously. We chatted and I told her about the wedding, my soon to be Catalonian daughter in law and she was  a big Catalan fan, she know the Pallars and she had been to Scotland. Turned out her husband was a yacht master too and sailing instructor and she was a teacher but had this shop as her side hobby. When I told her what we were doing, she took my hand and said “You are living our dream” She told me she and her husband were planning to do a year off and sail in their boat to Turkey and Greece and maybe to Ukraine. We talked for ages and she insisted on calling her husband who appeared soon after to hear our tales and they looked at each other and said, in Spanish, “we have to do it”.

I bought the jacket and left with a big smile on my face thinking about the adventure they were about to embark on and desperate to call Mum and tell her all our news and about the jacket as it had her all over it. She was in great form and was delighted about the jacket, she loves hearing about my purchases! Definitely my mother’s daughter.

“Can’t wait to see it” she said.

“It’s the same colour as your Sicilian Furla bag, you’ll love it but its not leather, my spending budget can’t quite justify that”

“Och, its only money!” she stated.

Reluctantly we let the lines go the next morning and we motored out the channel, continuing west. We stopped the night in Calla de Caves where we had visited last year with its megalithic caves cut into the cliff sides. It was a bit choppy and with the winds funnelling around we had to be careful to make sure she was held secure on the hook. Every time that anchor went down, she hit home first time and held fast, it was so re-assuring and we were glad we had elected for this big heavy job. I dipped my feet in off the stern but the water was still so cold, I decided against a swim.

We headed for Calla Agulla round the bay from Alcudia on the east of Majorca and celebrated the captain’s birthday the next day in style. A lazy day for him and a busy one for me resulting in a tomahawk steak, roast potatoes, salad and a home made birthday cake. I had found a mix at the bottom of a locker and made it in a loaf tin decorated it with a tub of butter icing I also found and sprinkles! He was delighted and it was all delicious though I say so myself. He got lots of calls from his family and was left a little teary at the attention, stating he was a lucky man. We sat out after dinner admiring the view of the turquoise waters all around and the white beach curved in front of us and felt indeed  very lucky. How many people get a chance to do this, though we had worked so incredibly hard to afford it we had made the bold decision to do it. Sometimes the hardest part is making the decision, once its made, things fall into place as you now have a plan, not just a dream.  It is not all easy, there are highs and lows but you journey through them together. Life throws you curved balls from time to time and you just need to deal with them. Black holes appear that you never saw coming and you find yourself being sucked in, almost helpless. Until you reach out a hand and someone grabs it and says “I’ve got you”

I was finding out a lot about myself, I often described myself as unconfident, quiet, slightly scared but here I was almost a year in and  heard other people describe me in a different way, it didn’t sound like me at all. The captain has always been confident, bold and strong, not perfect by any matter but with a self assurance that exudes confidence in others and encourages you to give it a go. I had and look where it got me.

Time was moving on and the unfortunate side to this was we had a deadline, all be it a good one. The wedding was coming up and we had to be in Gibraltar  to leave the boat and fly up to Barcelona to help out, as planned the week before the wedding. We sailed on towards Ibiza, stopping overnight at at Cabrera, a little known island off the south coast of Majorca that is a national park and marine protected area. Another place we agreed deserved a longer visit in the future. Finally anchoring off Formentera at Es Pujols,  opposite Ibiza we had time to relax a  little and catch up with emails and messages. I was busy preparing the ceremony the couple had asked for and secretly preparing a surprise book of connections to the couple. It had seemed a good idea at the time but it was such hard work trying to collate all the contributions and make a book of them, most written in Catalan so translating them was tricky. I had endeavoured to learn the language before the wedding so I could chat to my daughter in law to be’s family and friends but it was harder that I first thought and I had no one to practise on. I accepted this may be a longer term goal.

Dawn saw us slide out the tight gap between Ibiza and Formentera and negotiate the space with fast ferries and other yachts bustling around. Glad to be out in open water again we relaxed a bit until we received a navigational warning.

“All ships, all ships, all ships, navigational warning in Bay of Ibiza, a white cow is adrift. I repeat a white cow is adrift”

We looked at each other, really?

One it was identified as white, not brown, black or Friesian.

It was a cow, not a bull.

It was adrift, so not under way or making progress.

Poor thing, I wondered if anyone was going to attempt to rescue it or was it a deceased white cow but then they may have refereed to it as a carcass? How did it become adrift had it slipped its “moo” – ring? Had its Anchor (Butter from green green grass” ) dragged. Or had it slipped into the sea while grazing near the shore – or tumbled off the back of a ship.

We’ll never know and never saw it. But we kept an eye out. J more interested in another tomahawk steak while I worried about the poor thing floating around.

A former crew member noted on our social media post regarding the incident later that day, there are highs and lows in adventure but perhaps the biggest fear is boredom, never a dull moment on this adventure!