Ally bally, ally bally bee,

Sittin’ on yer mammy’s knee,

Greetin’ for a wee bawbee,

Tae buy some Coulter’s candy.

Robert Coltart

The grey sea stretched out behind, reaching to the far north but we’d dropped our hook at the furthest point north on this voyage. It was time to swing the bow round and head south.
It had been a disturbed night. The creak and twang of the snubber on the anchor chain went through a sequence when the gusts pushed Stravaigin away from her seabed fixing, that built to a crescendo before subsiding, only to be repeated in a few moments.
The Swiss Family Robinsons departed in the early hours, hopefully planning a few stops before the Azores! We headed out across the bay under full sail, the corrugated grey skylines lying in layers on the coast. It was certainly a grey day, mist hanging low over the iconic mounts and low cloud ahead like a canopy for us to sail under. I had four layers on under my sailing outers and borrowed a thermal hat from the skipper as I hadn’t thought to bring my own given it was July!

A few seabirds coasted by, the huge sleek gannets seemingly on stealth mode glided past casting us an almost distainful eye. Shags or cormorants, I can never tell which, panicked slightly as this huge white hulk cut the waves on their waters, before upturning and disappearing, their little webbed feet the last view as they dived under. Small flocks of gullimot shot past flapping furiously like they were on a mission, things to do, people/birds to see, places to go!

Time takes on a different measure when you’re underway at sea. We’d calculated around five hours passage to get to The Summer Isles so I’d made up a small picnic for the voyage and settled myself, warmly clad, in the cockpit.
I try not to go down below underway for fear of invoking seasickness which I have been prone to. However I hadn’t succumbed at all so far on this trip which was great as can really ruin a day. I wondered if my nervous system,  still recovering from vertigo, had given up now that I was permanently moving about even while asleep!
Going to the loo though has to be done and involves stripping off what you can in the cockpit before climbing down the companionway to position yourself in the head while bracing yourself against the walls!
You get used to it.
Other than enjoying a mug of warm tea, having a snack, the hours are spent just looking,  which suits me. It feels such a privilege to have this time simply to watch over the sea, visit my thoughts and process.
If we had said, we’re off in the car for five hours south, we’d reach Newcastle and this would be a big deal but surging along the choppy seas, sails drawing didn’t feel like that amount of time actually passing before we started the engine, turned her to the wind to drop the sails before gently nosing into the narrow channel that winds its way through the enchanting Summer Isles, where we were to spend the night.
We chose a quiet little bay, dropped the anchor and went through our stopped sailing routine.
I made a tasty chicken curry and we shared the last of the pies from Lochinver, this time a sweet rhubarb and strawberry one with cream. We were just finishing it off out in the cockpit when there was a commotion overhead, crows and gulls were mobbing a sea eagle as it flew up the side of the small island infront of us followed by a noisy kestrel. We watched the drama unfold then settle and peace returned to this quiet at archipelago.

This was a poignant return. We had made a sea kayak trip out here 13 years ago. I’d always wanted to visit this group of islands after passing them by so often from the ferry out to the Hebrides as they guard the entrance into Loch Broom.  I wasn’t a particularly expert kayaker but had enough skill and confidence to make the camp trip out from Bardentarbet to the islands. We camped in a hummocky little bay, amazed at where we were and soaking up the early spring sunshine. It was idyllic. We had planned to paddle back the next day and had booked a dinner bed and breakfast at the Summer Isles hotel as a birthday treat for the captain.
We set off the next morning and I marvelled at the beautiful mountains rising from sea level, some I had climbed already, others waiting for me.
We reached the shore and carried the kayaks up to the carpark ready to load them on the car roof when my phone, now in reception, pinged and buzzed furiously. So many missed calls and messages from our youngest who was at home looking after the animals and house.
I called him.
He had to deliver the tragic news to me of my brother’s passing in the night.
I held it together for him as he was only a young teenager and I knew this was a tough call to make. The home my brother had lived in with his carers, had called him in the early hours as couldn’t get hold of me and sensitively didn’t want to contact my mum until someone was with her, as they knew she lived on her own. So our boy had dealt with all this on his own and kept it to himself until he could reach me.
Once reassured that we were heading straight back I let him go, no doubt releived he was now not the only custodian of this sad news, then I fell apart.
My little brother, my gentle, innocent wee lad was gone. I was torn apart inside. I felt guilt I wasn’t with him when he passed. Guilt I hadn’t visited more often, guilt the plans and promises had not all been realised. And just raw grief. I don’t think I have ever cried so much, so hard, for so long ever. Four and a half hours to home, the skipper driving in silence, his hand on my knee. There was nothing to say.
He was a beautiful soul my brother, a little boy that wasn’t expected to live an hour past his birth but had made it to his 46th birthday the very night he’d passed.  He was born with Prader-Willi syndrome, a fairly rare genetic condition that cruelly came with a set of disabilities, one of the hardest to cope with was that they have no appetite control. It was a missing regulator in their systems and meant they feel extreme hunger all the time, day and night. This can lead to terrible issues like obesity if not externally controlled and associated behaviour issues. Our lives as a family were dominated by his condition which at times were intolerable, at times funny but always in a loving accepting way. Everyone loved my brother. He had charm, warmth and innocence, he loved people, food of course, model railways and Calmac ferries, to name a few of his obsessions. He adored me and was such a proud uncle to his three nephews.
A big presence was gone from the world and on such a stunning blue sky May day.
On arriving home, I had to deliver the news to my mum. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, to tell a mother her child has gone.

Stravaigin swayed gently in the shelter of the little bay. I sat looking over these islands and remembered him. He’d been with us on all those highland holidays, fished the lochs with his beloved Dad, played houses with me in the bothy ruins and enjoyed every morsel of the delicious meals the grannies cooked. My little brother, a sweet soul.