Chapter 3: Aug 3/4 - Kyle of Lochalsh to Lochinver
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
As everyone knows or ought to, we had reached a spot on our voyage north where the direction of the tide changes. It is a most convenient arrangement. You carry the flood to a point not far north of the Kyle of Lochalsh and slide down with the ebb on the other side. After watering ship at the pier, where lay the "Loch Seaforth" with a huge picture of a highlander on his starboard bows we proceeded out of the Kyle and went past the Crowlin Islands down the Inner Sound. As the weather was still fair and gentle, we anchored off Applecross to allow the Booster to pursue his mission. Leaving Applecross which is no spot to linger in, we kept the coast close aboard and had opportunity for a near view of a desolate but extremely attractive tract of country. The colours of the moorland, which rises gently to the foothills of the great mountains behind, illuminated as they were by the westering sun were most soothing to the eye. At the waters edge are low cliffs, well drilled with caves, and, being no geologist, I loosely describe the formation as horizontal strata of trap and red sandstone - the red contrasting with the green and olive, streaked with heather and bracken on the slopes above - and I do not care one blast of the trumpet whether I am wrong or not.
Presently we crossed the entrance to Loch Torridon, the mere name of which produces a sense of nostalgia, for it is a veritable magnet to lovers of Highland scenery in its most attractive form. We pursued a calm and uneventful passage into the region of the purest air in Britain, not too moist and not too dry, but exhilarating like champagne. We were in fact about to enter Loch Gairloch. As we neared the southern horn of the loch we passed the cheerful scattered settlement of Port Henderson on its semicircular silver sanded beach. One would imagine that here, if they could only get there, was an ideal resort for the very young.
I am somewhat perplexed by the frequent use of the word port which prefixes so many of the most exposed townships on the Scottish coast. It would be an interesting exercise in toponomy to discover exactly what is meant. I incline to think it means, not a harbour, but a gateway to the sea. If that is a modest contribution to human knowledge I am more than pleased. At the least it provides a reasonable explanation for Port-Erin (Isle of Man), Port Patrick, Port Ellen. Port Askaig, (Martin Martin called it Port Escock in 1703), Port Rush and Port Salon (in Ireland) and the inland Port Sonachan on Loch Awe. Islay is a notorious island for wrecks and I just wonder whether Portnahaven on its south west point means exactly what it says. Maybe it is the port of the haven and not the other thing. for the Scots, though the most humorous and humour loving race on earth are not given to idle jesting.
There is not much shelter in Loch Gairloch. Badachro is far and away the best anchorage; but our benevolent purposes took us over to Flowerdale where there is a good lee behind the pier. We, however cast our anchor out in the 'street' opposite the hotel defying the yet quiescent elements.
During the war Loch Gairloch was the practice ground of the midget submarines and we heard vivid accounts of the gallant officer who attacked and blew up the Tirpitz in the Norwegian fjord. When she was due for transport from the west coast they attempted to carry this lethal fish on a lorry, but the gradients proved too steep, so they camouflaged the little ship and took it away on a trawler.
From Loch Gairloch we went north and rounding Rhu Reidh (the smooth cape) we called at Ault Bea In Loch Ewe and thence round Greenstone Point across Gruinard Bay to Ullapool after which we sought the solitudes once more. We found Tanera Mor in the Summer Isles a good antidote to the whirl of social gaiety of the last few days. Here the Skipper aided by the most competent and ingenious Tommy Lor found time to overhaul one of the clutches in the engine room and test the sprayers and other necessary routine. The tachometer on the starboard engine was out of order and the Skipper thinking perhaps that the Mate was acting plumber said to Tommy "Fetch me the key from the tool box and do'nt be three weeks about it". Tommy obediently fetched him a key. "That's the wrong one, go and have another look". This time Tommy brought all the keys he could find. "No, none of these are any good, where can it have got to?" Says Tommy most respectfully "Sir, you had it last". At that the Skipper woke out of his trance for the Mate never addresses him as Sir. He felt in his pocket and produced the missing spanner. From my seat in the forecastle I enjoyed a good view. Later and at various times during the voyage they had a 'bilge party' to get rid inter alia of Bristol Channel mud.
Last year we had gone ashore landing on Fraser Darling's quay and found the island literally groaning under a crop of mushrooms. This year they found none, which was a blow to anticipation; but nothing could have mattered less. Our cuisine and commissariat could not have been improved upon. Torrie was a much travelled Lady and whether she had acquired the culinary art in France, China or the plains of Lucullus, she had certainly brought her science to the pitch of perfection. We fed royally and at regular intervals. Often as I lay in my bunk, at night, instead of counting sheep I would recapitulate the courses I had consumed during the day, beginning with the early morning 'piece' and passing through a gamut of bacon, eggs, porridge, grilled tomatoes, saute potatos, toast, crab apple jelly, coffee, Cumberland ham, glass tongue, salad, fruits, custards, cake, biscuits begun or ended with coffee at every meal would fall asleep with a blissful sense of well being. The air gave one appetite; and buoyancy sleep.
What when we're roused from slumber deep,
When eyes and wits are gummed with sleep
What slakes the thirst and fills with joy
And brings to life the Feline boy ?
It's porridge.
I am a great believer in it.
The next afternoon we went out west through Dorney Sound and in calm weather crossed the beautiful Enard Bay. While the sea was glittering in sunlight the background of the Sutherland stoneyard, that weird uncanny group of mountains that rear themselves in freakish shapes and splendid isolation amid the loch flecked moorland was bathed in mist and rain. After a short passage of under two hours we put into Lochinver a place of great charm but a poor anchorage. Coming on deck I met the Skipper who was in good biting form. I asked him whether the 'children' were going ashore. He said "I expect so, they are probably busy painting". Now, sartorially we were a smart crew, the prevailing mode was navy blue which accords well with trim decks and white hulls. We did not carry the thing to excess. If collars were worn they were not starched and a certain latitude was permitted in slacks. But in the matter of headgear: uniformity, combined with utility and chic was cheerfully and gratefully adopted. The skipper who adds to his many accomplishments the very neatest of knitwork had found time at some stage of his busy career to make not pixie but pirate caps complete with touries. These were bright scarlet in hue and fitted like a glove. They were ideal wear for the sea and stuck on in any gale and moreover when their wearers went ashore and lost themselves, they could be retrieved with great ease, being pre-eminently and exclusively kenspeckle. While Torrie invariably affected a neat and distinguished style the Frail varied her garb with her moods. Was she busy about the ships gear or in the engine room she could disguise her self like any plumber. Did she want a bathe or a sun bath - well - the least said about that is quite appropriate. At times she would affect a most cunning one piece frock contrived from a Turkey towel. But when she was for the beach and out to kill, well - then the Skipper's remark quoted above was not without point. My standards being more lax than the Skipper's I confess it was a refreshing sight to see the Frail jauntily tripping down the accomodation ladder with her sunny curls, the colour of Australian gold beneath the scarlet tourie which matched her lips, her seemingly artless complexion contrasting with a yellow jumper and I hope I'll be forgiven if my memory fails to complete the picture.