Every night I wake up to go for a pee. It’s always a bit of an effort to drop myself out of the top bunk and onto the bench alongside. After that I always go up on deck.
Two nights ago the moon was up and creating a soft reflection in the ripples of St Kilda. I was interrupted by Bracken starting to bark. Last night about 3.30 it was really windy and the moon was lower with a bigger chunk off one of its sides like a corner bitten out of a biscuit.
I shivered and dreamed of sailing to a thousand different lands at night, each time seeing the stars in a different way.
We are away by 8.
There is a flurry of activity. I have to hoist the mainsail. It takes four of us pulling with every sinew.
‘Pull it into your chestbone and keep your back straight!’ yells the skipper. ‘Pull! Keep going. Another 3 metres.’
Next I am on the halyard, the rope which will take the top sail up to the highest point on the boat. Dave is a giant from Yorkshire and we puff and groan while we hoist.
Owain the first mate is suddenly with us pulling the rope out and in while someone else takes up the slack (tailing).
She is now pulling on all sails. I can feel the force of the wind pushing us forward.
We also have stay sail and 3 jibs up at the front.
1200 Sun is out and a fresh breeze is blowing from the South. Bliss. Skye passes on Port bow: brown cliffs, green slopes and peaks. The cliffs are in blue haze.
Peaks of Rum dead ahead with the low line of Canna to its right.
1400 wind drops. Beautiful strong sunshine. No cloud. Sea glitter. It could be the Med.
We motor around East side of Canna arriving about 6pm.
Isle of Canna
I am in one of the most evocative museums I have ever been in. This has none of the grandeur as the V and A or Natural History but as much impact.
The museum on Canna is in a white-washed block which was the old dairy on the farm that straddles the path to Sanday. There is a disused ceramic sink on legs with some flowers growing. Inside there is a smell of musty old objects. It reminds me of the smell in my grandparents’ larder. It is silent here apart from the tweeting of the sparrows in the sunshine outside.
Old vessels and pots, urns and sets of scales are lined up on shelves and tables. There is a green painted cupboard, a chest of drawers and a life saving ring which has the name Zephyr on it.
These objects all speak of an old way of life. In between these worn objects are information boards that tell some of the history of Canna.
One board is entitled ‘The Story of the Birlinn’. The Birlinn or highland valley was a type of small cargo vessel whose design was based on Viking boats. The board tells how ‘Using highland galleys helped Lord Somerled, the first Lord of the Isles and founder of Clan Donald, to break the power of the Norsemen in the twelfth century. Somerled’s domain spread 25,000 square miles and 500 islands.’ This is the same Birlinn beautifully engraved over Alexander MacLeod’s tomb at Rodel to show his status as a clan chief. Adam Nicolson writes about the importance of the Birlinn and the engraving at Rodel at the start of his book about his time on The Shiants, ‘Sea Room’.
Coming out of the museum other whitewashed buildings surround the track. It is a farmyard. There is a lock with a toilet and shower for the campsite in the field behind. In the garden of the farmhouse next door two border collies survey the track, one his front paws on top of the wooden gate his ears pricked.
In the corner the ‘yard’ in what looks like the back entry to a utility room the sign on the door says ‘HM Coadtguard Canna. Coastguard Rescue Station.’ All in the same farm.
A few hundred metres down the track (there are no roads on Canna) a green shed has a small postbox and original phone box oitisidr. A sign on the shed reads ‘Canna Post Office’. Sure enough through the dusty window I can make out a card payment machine and a Post Office parcel scales.
Canna has something about it. It’s hard to put into words. There is a sense of absolute calm. It’s so peaceful. There are no roads. The contours of the land are gentle. The colours are lush. It isn’t as harsh as St Kikda or Harris. The rock even looks different. It’s basalt which rises up at the top of the island in rod like lines. Someone on board says ‘The Giant’s Causeway is basalt. You can see the similarity.’
Before this, i had followed a dusty track past the whitewashed cafe selling local beer, lobster and crab. After that the lovely Canna House overlooks the bay. The house is closed til next year but the gardens in their bright neatness seem to sparkle in the sun.
I had walked through the farm/campsite/dairy/museum/coastguard. The track follows the edge of the land along a crystal clear river before reaching a footbridge that connects Canna with Sanday. To the right is a perfect crescent of white sand and blue sea. It is a desert island beach like something from a book.
To the West there are low lines of rocks and the crash and rush of the Atlantic coming over the rocks. That and the birds are all I can hear. There are great streams of kelp like thick hair waving. The visibility is good here. A friend of mine said it ‘has some of the best marine life in the UK’ but I’m yet to see much: a few crabs at most.
The Slow Walker 