although she did have a telephone.
Because she always took such an interest in the anchorage at Ardinamir – she painted a white leading mark on a rock to help entering yachts, collected rainfall statistics, and had kept a register of all visiting yachts since the 1940s – Irene was made an honorary member of the Clyde Cruising Club. The entrance to the anchorage is through a very narrow and shallow gap between submerged reefs, tricky at the best of times, but if any helmsman was ever foolish enough to graze a rock Irene’s stentorian advice could be heard on the mainland; a sound that could strike terror into any sailor’s heart.
Irene spent most of her time on the bench seat at the open window admiring the West Coast Drizzle and watching the yachts entering and leaving Ardinamir. She prided herself on remembering the names of every visitor but, sadly, the passing years brought uncertainty. The one and only armchair was the property of McElvie, a very large cat with pink eyes.
We were signing the register one day and McElvie, for once, was not occupying his armchair. Irene was at the open window, dressed as usual in woolly jersey and jeans, when a couple appeared with a large black Labrador. They entered the room to greet her and were immediately asked where the dog was.
‘He’s waiting outside,’ they said.
‘Quickly!’ Irene bellowed, ‘You must get to him before McElvie does!’
On another occasion, since we were in the vicinity, we decided to anchor for the night at Ardinamir. It was Peter’s turn to prepare the evening meal and Craig was absorbed in his favourite occupation, crouching in the lazarette (the warmest place aboard) tuning the diesel-fired heating system – which occasionally worked. Ian and I went ashore to see Irene. She welcomed us from the open window. McElvie was asleep in his armchair.
‘Thank you for your postcard,’ shouted Irene to Ian as soon as we had entered ‘– and that will do for a Christmas Card too, mind.’
We discussed sailing, local topics, signed the register, and shared some shortbread which we had brought along. The telephone rang from beneath a heap of old newspapers on the stone floor.
‘Och, that terrible machine,’ yelled Irene, ‘and it will not be for me at all. It is for you, of course,’ she said to Ian and sat back.
McElvie’s red eyes were open and staring malevolently at him. Ian rummaged under the newspapers, picked up the telephone and put it uncertainly to his ear. To his surprise it was his wife, Jean, trying to contact him urgently, and she had only tried telephoning Irene on the wildest improbability.
McElvie’s eyes panned slowly round and met mine. Then they closed and dismissed us all.
All things change. Irene, sadly, is no longer with us, after a spell in Oban (where she enjoyed watching television). McElvie, a pathetic shadow of his former self, and semi-wild, would come out of the shrubs to greet us for a while, but now, like Irene, he too has faded away.
Luing, which has one of the largest lobster-ponds in Scotland and its own famous and unique breed of prize beef cattle, is an easy island to reach from the mainland as there is a fast and regular car-ferry service across the 200 metres wide Cuan Sound which separates it from the island of Seil. Seil in turn is linked to the mainland by the famous ‘Bridge over the Atlantic’. From the attractive village of Toberonochy in the south to the equally delightful village of Cullipool in the north, Luing has the gentle country atmosphere of a much more mellow age – except for the northern corner which is a dramatic contrast. Slate used to be the principal industry (Iona Cathedral is roofed with Luing slates) but the quarry was abandoned in 1965 and it stands there now in deserted glory, a gargantuan composition of steel-grey slabs and platters, reminiscent of a Paolozzi sculpture.
KERRERA
. . . the bays afford all sorts of shellfish in great plenty; as oysters, clams, mussels, lobsters, cockles, etc., which might be pickled and exported in great quantities.
Some years ago we moored Jandara in Ardantrive Bay at the north end of the pleasantly rural island of Kerrera. Kerrera, which forms a natural breakwater for the important harbour of Oban, once had a population of nearly 200 and still supports about forty residents. The island’s main function for many years was a stepping-stone for the annual cattle drive from Mull to the mainland.
It was a damp evening and Peter, Ian and I retired below to find the saloon chilly and unwelcoming. Craig, who is our expert on such matters, disappeared into the lazaret and twenty minutes later warm air was circulating pleasantly. He had fitted a larger diesel jet in the heating system, he explained.
Some time later, food, sea air, warmth and wine were having their inevitable effect. The ship-to-shore radio spluttered occasionally in the background. Someone was calling Oban Coastguard about a yacht which was on fire and there appeared to be no one aboard.
‘Where are you?’ asked the Coastguard.
‘Ardantrive,’ said the caller.
We grabbed our cameras and rushed on deck. Our motivation may have been heroic dreams of rescue or a photographic scoop – but more likely it was pure mindless curiosity.
We peered through a dense cloud of black exhaust fumes coming from our heating system and with great difficulty saw the red-faced skipper of the adjoining craft asking the Coastguard to cancel the call as it now appeared that there were four men aboard the yacht and that they had the emergency under control.
We switched off the heating system, thanked both the helpful caller and the Coastguard for their concern, and retired shame-facedly to our bunks.
Most of Kerrera’s 3000 acres have belonged to the Clan MacDougall since Somerled’s time in the 12th century. Although it is so close to bustling Oban it is a world apart with lovely views and quiet walks. An easy climb up Càrn Breugach through shrub woodland is rewarding for its magnificent view of the Lorn coast.
Gylen Castle
It was in Horseshoe Bay in the beautiful Sound of Kerrera that Alexander II’s fleet anchored in July 1249. Alexander slept aboard ship. In the morning he said he had dreamed that St Columba had come aboard and told him he should return home immediately. Alexander’s nobles felt he should heed the warning but Alexander scoffed at the idea and went ashore. But as he stepped off the vessel onto Kerrera’s soil he stumbled and before he could be carried back on board he died. The land behind the bay is still called Dalrigh – ‘the field of the king’.
The tall ruin of Gylen Castle – ‘castle of the springs’ – is on the south coast of Kerrera above natural springs which provided ample fresh water in case of siege. It was built in 1587 by the 16th MacDougall chief, on the site of an earlier fortification. In 1647 during the Covenanting Wars it was besieged by General Leslie who promised the defenders safe passage if they surrendered. They accepted, but as soon as they had left the castle every single one of them was slaughtered and the castle burnt. On a gloomy day the ruin still looks formidable poised above the steep and rocky coastline and an inscription inside seems to say – ‘Trust in God and sin no more’.
Gylen Castle was the repository for the MacDougalls’ famous Brooch
