20 July: A Taste of Northern Remoteness
A lady running a Bed & Breakfast on Islay explained to me that she was working on a home page for her little hotel-business, but they were still waiting for a fine day to take some pictures, she explained. Maybe later this autumn, she thought. I have heard this several times before, namely that October seems to be a favorable time of the year to visit Scotland. The water has become warmer and the Gulf Stream has had plenty of time to warm up the country. Going swimming (with no wet suit, I mean) in October is more likely than in July, I learnt.
“But winter! That’s dreadful!” the lady continued without any hesitation in a heavy Scottish accent revealing that she certainly has been living here since here childhood, knowing what she was talking about. “So, what do you do during winter time?”, I asked.
“During winter, my Bed&Breakfast is not asking for as much attention as in the summers, obviously, when I work until 01.00 in the night and then make breakfast already at 07.00 every morning for my guests, seven days a week. – What I do during winter? Well, last winter – I think it was in March – I went to Paris for a couple of days. That was great!” The lady halted for a few seconds going back in her memories and then laughed up loudly. “They were all thinking I was crazy, these French people in Paris!”, she remembered, “They were all complaining about this extraordinary freezing ‘spring’, while I was running around in a T-shirt! All the time, I had to explain that I was Scottish, and this seemed to explain it all: They all looked at me with compassion, saying no more….” Another hearty laugh before I asked if she liked her life out here. “Yes! This is much better than a nine-to-five job! You meet so many nice people. Did you know, by the way, that 90 percent of my guests are Swedish?!”. “How come?”, was my immediate question. She smiled from one ear to the other: “Whiskey…!!”. Well, that said it all, I thought…
This is in theory, still often practiced in Swedish 16 to 18 deg C of water (60F-65F). Could possibly this be done in Canna as well? A quick look at the thermometer made me staggering. My ancients could not have been of the harshest Viking-type, since 11 degrees C (52F) was maybe stretching it a bit too far, at least for my blood. Against this fact stood my curiosity to see how the propeller was looking, this very essential piece in our propulsion system. Why isn’t there a small window in the engine room or in the aft cabin, so you could get a glance of what is going on underneath?
How the propeller looked? To my great relief, it looked fine and did not need any scrubbing until in wamer waters.
This sunshine followed us on our way to the Outer Hebrides, the chain of islands I have long dreamt of seeing one day. Possibly, we should have gone even further north, to Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis, or even St Kilda, to catch the most remote places, but we didn’t want to stretch it too far this time, since it was southbound we wanted to get eventually, wasn’t it? Barra would thus act as our point of return, our personal extreme of our northern Scottish adventures – for this time. After our return to Sweden, we knew for sure: there was much to explore in our vicinity like northern Norway and Scotland.
Isn’t it often so in life, namely that when you have tried an appetizer of something, a subject or a place on earth, you feel that this was just like scraping on the surface, the so called top of the iceberg? The more you see, the more you learn and the more you find is still left to be explored.
For this time, Barra was just as remote and exciting in the Outer Hebrides as I could have expected. The welcome was as exciting as it should be: the entire island was embraced in a big cloud at sea level. Fog, in other words.
Coming closer to the island, the sun suddenly disappeared completely as if it wanted to say “see you later when you return out of the Hebrides” while we continued like in a fairy tale, diving deeper and deeper into the cloud, finding new adventures in the fog.
The radar and plotter guided us into the sheltered vCastlebay. Such a romantic name triggered our imagination, of course. Was this bay as sheltered as a castle? Was there a castle in vicinity, which once was to be conquered via this bay? Would the rocks at one place resemble of a castle?
Sitting in the cockpit looking over the landscape and village of Castlebay gave this immense feeling of satisfaction. We had really come to the Outer Hebrides! Sailing-wise, this was no big deal, but emotionally it was definitely. Typical, I thought, as so often before, a big goal that seemed so inaccessible at first, suddenly has been reached! Looking back, it was nothing else but going one step after the other. A first step is always the beginning of a journey and every little step that follows takes you closer to your destination. Overlooking the castle in the middle of the bay, which was just about to be conquered by the latest generation of Viking-invaders, seeing all the brownish grey houses ashore, I got a sudden feeling of déja-vu: When I was a child, I remember getting a new maths book at school. Flipping through my brand new educational challenge at the beginning of the semester, I turned the pages towards the end of the book. “Oh no!” I thought, “This is impossible! I don’t understand anything of what they write here!” New strange letters, often in Greek to give an extra sent of mystic complexity were staring at me as I looked at the last pages of the new maths book. To my big surprise, at the end of the semester, I got to the pages and they were not more difficult than the very first ones had been, provided you went step by step, completing one chapter first, before you begin your next.
I wonder how people live out here. Would it be similar to the movie “The Shipping News” playing in Newfoundland? How deserted is this island in the winter? We saw tiny shops that sold literally everything you need for a household. It was impressively well stocked, despite the limited space. They stocked a few items of each kind, making up something like a complete house in spare parts. And then, we saw the local COOP grocery shop situated in barrack-like hut, which was less inspiring, but we got what we needed, anyway.
In these cases, possibly it was better to sell a church to private enterprise, like the souvenir shop in Tobemory, which nowadays is hosted in the old church? Difficult to say what is the least bad solution for unneeded ancient churches, in times when souls drift away like the ebbing tide.
The rain rattled on the coach roof when we anchored in the southern end of Tobermory bay, where we stayed over the passing cold-fronts, close enough to get to town by wet dinghy-rides, resulting in an unsuccessful trial for washing laundry. We were more successful, however, in exchanging our broken pressure water pump onboard, of which I luckily had a spare one onboard thanks to the good advice of Vickie Vance at HR Parts&Accessories.
As found in Britannica 2002 edition on DVD (great to have on board, by the way!).
With Regina safely hooked up, we planed across the sound to the actual village of Iona, were both an ancient nunnery as well as fully active monastery is situated.
The door to the chapel opened with a squeaking sound and we entered fully devoted to all that must have taken place here throughout the centuries. Standing in this chapel from the very first years of last millennium, I felt as if I had traveled in time myself, now standing in this holy building from the end of the Viking age. In my imagination I could see, feel and hear the last Vikings being christened around me.
We followed the sound of bagpipes and met a small cortège consisting of a group of Scottish players in kilt marching up the road from the harbour up into the village. I had to rub my eyes to confirm I was not dreaming!
The last leg in Scottish waters on our continuing way south took us through the sound of Islay to Port Ellen on the south tip of Islay. It was a special feeling to pass the many famous distilleries on our way, which we could distinguish. Distinct white buildings with huge letters expressing LAGAVULIN or LAPHROAIG could not be mistaken. The smoky scent seemed to fly over to Regina over the waves. Luckily, I had still an opened bottle of Lagavulin onboard, which that night tasted better and more real than ever!
A last toast to this extraordinary and wonderful whiskey country, before we head further south to Guinness-land. Here, you will meet Rob, who makes millions of meters of draft beer piping each month and how it became impossible to pay for a splended service to get a Whale pump repaired in Bangor.
Until then - Cheers!
