Up at 7.30. It has been the same everyday. People stir and poke their heads out of their curtained bunks or sit on the edge looking a bit dazed. These people who were strangers 10 days ago now familiar. A team. A crew.

It’s overcast and still. A sea otter is in a bay a few hundred metres away. You can see his head pop out of the water, bob around a bit and then his sleak back arches as he dives. The last thing to disappear are his pad shaped feet. We see him come up several times and calmly paddle, just his head visible. Suddenly the glass of the surface is shattered by tiny fish scattering. Calm on the surface but clearly active beneath.

Trying to sail but it doesn’t seem to work. Skipper is yelling and rushing to get the sails up. Several of us wonder what the rush is.

1st mate ‘Calm down’

‘I can’t!’

It reminds me of a comedy sketch but can’t remember which one.

Once again we get all the sails up for less than 30 minutes. I seem to be the bow sprit boy now. Three times now I have had to climb up the bow sprit to fold or unfold the the jibs.

It’s precarious. There’s a clutter of ropes, sails and wires. I climb over the bow onto the ratlins, the ropes that connect to the bow sprit meant for walking on not looking at the water beneath my feet or even worse imagining what would happen if I fall in and get mown down by a 100 foot ketch.

I have to straddle the bow sprit along with Taylor and Richard and reach over and start folding the sails into their creases before wrapping them up into a sausage and then tie them to the sprit with the Gaskells (ropes).

Once we’ve done one it’s onto the next two. The final one at the end the ratlins runout and Taylor and I are sitting only on the whiskers, the bendy bouncy wires that run along the outside of the sprit. My legs are more hesitant each time I take a step. There’s a whisker to sit on and a whisker to stand on while you pull and fold and push and wrap.

Yet it’s incredibly exhilarating. A mixture of adrenaline, workmanship, teamwork and the realisation that we’re in the middle of nowhere holding onto the very tip of an old boat makes me smile and then laugh.

‘Come on James we haven’t got time to look at the view. Get back on board!’ It’s like being back at school.

We get back into the Sound of Mull. Looking out for buoys. The sun comes out after lunch and we motor. We have sails up but it makes little difference. Under sail we make about a knot.

We are heading for the Isle of Kerrera for our last night. It is just off Oban so that we can get back to port in time for our disembark time of 10 am on Monday.

We have to tack a few times to get round the corner of Kerrera. As we come into the bay on the western edge is a lighthouse repair vessel, the Pharos.

Once again we’re in the rib to go to Gylen Castle, a narrow ruined Castle which stands on a promontory looking to the eastern coast of Mull. It is like something out of a picture book or film.

After it was built it was owned by the MacDougalls but was only lived in for 65 years (by a garrison) before it was put under siege, the men were forced to surrender with the promise of imprisonment before they were all slaughtered.

Everywhere here there are remnants of a brutal and savage past where massacre and slaughter seemed to be regular occurrences.

Swam off the rocks in the clearest blue sea. Used to the cold now. Always the fear going in. It disappears as soon as I’m in.

It’s an hour’s walk to the eastern side of Kerrera to meet the Bessie Ellen. As always she stands out as she has in every destination I’ve seen her.

I am on the jetty waving to get the rib to pick me up for the last time.

Back on deck we have drinks and look at the promenade of Oban. Tomorrow it takes only 30 minutes to get there. We’ll say goodbye and part, most of us never to see each other again but just for a few days we shared adventures, experiences, stories, skills and knowledge. It’s been intense and full of wonder. I’m already planning a greater adventure for next year.

No wind. Again. We get all 8 sails up but we’re still only doing 1 knot or less. Heading for Ardnamurchan Point. When we get within half a mile engine goes on. At helm hard over to starboard but makes little difference.

1100 I fill in the logbook. Course 150 degrees. Sea 0 or still. Conditions overcast. Interrupted by Nikki who sets course. Can’t make her out.

We get the tender over to Ardnamurchan Ppint. Built by Alan Stevenson in 1849. Most Westerly point of mainland Britain. This feels so remote.

Simon ‘I’ve driven here and it takes hours and there’s nothing else here’

As we wait to get on our tender from the rocks being watched on by an old border collie a young Scottish woman makes her way down the rock staircase to join us

‘Is that Bessie Ellen (she’s half a mile out at sea)

I’ve worked on Irene and seen her before in Oban’

Shows how recognisable she is but also the small world of classic boats.

I follow Taylor to take down the jib sheets on the bow sprit.

Above Drumbuie the sea Loch winds it’s between tree and heather lined slopes. In midstream an almost island (Oronsay) splatters across the middle of the loch. Around the edge the grey rock has a black line – the high tide mark – then it’s beige. Below this the honey coloured seaweed ribbons it’s way round the bays and inlets. Drumbuie means Loch of the yellow hill.

The loch gets narrower like the upper Thames or Tay and disappears behind a craggy headland. Behind that a ridge rises up into the sky, the top lost in cloud. On the side of the ridge below the cloud, pale sunlight briefly lights the wall. It’s the only sunlight for all the miles and miles I can see.

Below it in the inlet the Bessie Ellen sits at Anchor. It’s like the scene in the film Master and Commander when Paul Bettany’s doctor spots the French naval ship moored off the island he is exploring in the Galapagos.

I am 14 again. I really feel like it. I am on the sleeper train with Dad listening to The Unforgettable Fire and dreaming of the mountains and the rivers where the Salmon lie.

I believe in God again and I see him in that sunlight. I want to be there.

I am sitting my GCSEs in the gym at school and dreaming of getting on a boat across to the Hebrides to Mull. To be free. To feel that feeling of communion that has always been there. And here I am 30 years later doing jus that.

Later I swim off the rocks with the sunlight still lighting the distant peaks. The water is still and cold. Again I can see clearly beneath the water. There are hundreds of mussel shells strewn across the bottom, no doubt picked apart and dropped by oystercatchers.

When I get back I am shaking and eat industrial quantities of chilli with salsa and sour cream with dill and cheese.

While swimming on the deserted beach on Sanday in the morning a woman with thick grey hair and a big white hat floats along in a canoe.

‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’

‘Is it warm or cold?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Ha! Well you’re very brave.’

On parting ‘I wonder what you’ll make of Muck. It has a strange atmosphere…’ she says this as she’s already rowing away from me.

Set off at 12 for Muck. Some sailing but going at only 1.5 knots with the engine off so once we have lunch we take down main and jibs and head on into the fog with the engine the only sound. No one talks. We have the 7 mile state of people used to being at sea staring into the open. It always makes me think about time and life.

Arrived at Muck 1615. All islands have campers often just pitched on outcrops, etc. The right to roam as made law by the the Land Reform Act of 2003. England could learn something from this.

Muck is mucky. There’s lots of metal on beach fencing, lobster pots, rusted wheelbarrow. A whole tip w metal. Is this how they get rid of it? Even outside the working farms there are rolls of fencing or piping just left lying about. The graveyard near where we land is uncared for.

I think this is what my friend from this morning was talking about. After a walk to Horse Island we retire to the boat for a beer and dinner.

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.

Depart about 8 past the cliffs of Conachair where I looked over the edge yesterday. The cliffs where the fulmar slaughter would take place.

8.50 Across to Boreray, Stac Lee a giant lump of granite crisscrossed with fissures where the gannets sit in rows or else wheel in great circles over the top. This is the largest gannet colony in the world.

There is a loud cawing but none of them are feeding. They must do that further out at sea where they dive missile like into the ocean with such velocity it makes a huge fump sound and sends up plumes of spray. Likewise with Stac an Armin.

The men of St K would take their one boat over here and try and try to jump onto a shelf and find something to moor onto, the swell often making the boat rise 14/15 feet at a time.

Hirta recedes into the distance a brown and green mass half lit by sun half covered in cloud.

Nikki ‘there’s not enough wind. It’ll just make us roll so we’re going to carry on motoring. It’s 60 miles to the Sound of Harris. Back onto our watches. We are in the same groups of 4 as on the crossing over.’

Grey skies and a keener breeze than we’ve felt so far. Good visibility. Temperature can drop v quickly at sea and standing about it’s easy to get cold even with jumper, fleece you need proper sailing wear. Big canvas red jacket Dremtech Plus Guy Cotten. It must be XXL but I’m grateful for the loan from the crew.

10.45 6 sails up including main, jibs and mizzen. Ketch means mainsail is at front.

Crew constantly kept busy, sanding, varnishing, painting. The skipper is keen to put them to task. She says ‘they should be always thinking about what job needs doing next. I shouldn’t have to tell them.’

If they are not preparing food, they are sanding, painting, polishing brass, retarring the rigging.

Nikki: ‘Bessie Ellen was the last of the West Country cargo ships. There are only 3 left in existence. Where you’re sleeping there would be room for 150 tonnes of cargo. During the war she went to Denmark and carried on being a cargo boat (under a different name) until I brought her back in 2000.’

Owain: ‘most of produce is from local stockists around Oban. The local wholesaler delivers it to the boat.’

Nikki is a skilled cook as well as skipper. Big meals – cod loin in tomato and parsley, duck casserole with lentils, scallops and good local smoked salmon for lunch, excellent cheese board. Then cakes: sticky toffee with pecans, apple tart, etc. Despite working on pulling up sails, pulling down sails, folding sails, tiring sails, swimming, walking I am putting on weight! Who cares?

On a course 100 degrees just off East.

12.30 we sight land: Pabbay (the Northern one) and Shellay. Little else to see apart from the sea. A white bottle that looks like it might be for detergent floats by. I saw another plastic bottle earlier but that’s the only flotsam I’ve seen so far.

Engine goes off for the first time about 2pm. We are sailing properly with all sails full and heaving at the creaking ropes.

Turning starboard into Sound of Harris

Jibs start to flap.

Alice ‘Bring in the jib. Leave one turn on.’ One of us sweating the other tailing.

‘Make fast.’

The same with flying jib.

1700 passing through sound of Harris with South Harris off port bow. Smattering of houses close to coast. Again no trees. Many other small and low islands off to starboard. Many marker buoys. Narrow passage.

Bring down all sails. Learn how to fold sails by grabbing folds and then wrapping it up like Big sausage and hung up. Same with mainsail.

We arrive at Rodel on southernmost point of Harris about 6. Hidden natural Harbour. No other boats and just a few houses here or there. We take the tender over to the sweetest little harbour with a stone jetty, a house and an old hand powered crane. It seems like no one uses this little mini Harbour but who knows?

A little way up the hill is St Clement’s church. It’s dark stone and empty inside without pews or altar but this is the resting place of many of the Mcleods the same clan who for years owned St Kilda. They were also known to be brutal warriors. The man laid to rest in the main tomb here was known for killing 398 men, women and children by lighting a fire at the mouth of a cave they were hiding in and suffocating them to death.

Two tombs show figures like prostate like warriors. One is surrounded by engraved panels of important scenes: the holy trinity at the top, an angel blowing an instrument and a sail boat – a Birlinn – which would have been a sign of wealth and status.

‘When a skua flies towards your face put your hand up and it’ll come close but then fly over the top of your head.’

So advises Sue the Ranger from the National Trust for Scotland about walking around Hirta, the main island of the St Kilda archipelago. It’s an indicator of how much this is an island habitat where birds rule the roost (excuse the pun).

Sue had lost her job on St Kilda during lockdown when no one was visiting. She went back to her old job of being an occupational therapist but now she’s back doing what she loves.

‘We are just coming up to the 91st anniversary of the evacuation so the descendants of St Kildans come back to see where their forefathers lived.’

It feels like I’m on edge of the world here. From here the Atlantic Ocean seems to stretch forever. I imagine myself as one of the thousands of fulmars who call this home or one of the puffins who have already left (July).

To fly due West from here I would get close to the toe of Greenland but finally find landfall in Newfoundland. Somewhere to the North of here are the Faroe Islands, another isolated group of islands. Beyond that is the Arctic Ocean.

There are three main peaks with a bowl hanging in between. Within this are enclosures and cleits and the one street.

These are the highest cliffs in the UK. The cliffs of Conachair. I love that ‘air’ is in that word because that is what I am most aware of here: elevation, space, air. As I edge to the side my legs and feet quiver. Can’t help imagine what it would be like to fall.

Chattering of fulmars are a bit like geese and a wailing echoes up one of the gullies. Hirta is a horseshoe with two peaks at the end of each prong or peninsula. There’s a short gap at the end of the Southern point and then another island (Dun) which is a sharp ridge of rocks and green rising out of the sea.

A steep ridge rises around the back of the shoe with a mast that listens out for anything that might interest the MOD in the North Atlantic.

The slopes of the ridge slope down to the U of the bay and as the land flattens is the street – a line of 16 simple one room cottages built of stone in the 1830s where the last inhabitants of St Kilda resided until their evacuation on August 29th 1930. The street is parallel with the beach.

Behind the street is a long dry stone wall that enclosed their livestock.

Dotted all over this land and the hills behind are the dry stone cleits, neat piles of stones that look like ancient burial chambers that were actually where the St Kildans stored the dead fulmars that ensured their survival for so long.

For the UK’s most remote island there is a lot of activity and noise. 2 diggers are hard at work behind the only jetty and next to the Manse.

Sue tells me they are landscaping after having got rid of the original MOD buildings. Instead there are wood clad one storey buildings with of Scandinavian design with turf roofs. These are for employees of Qinetic who Sue tells me now ‘man the mast on behalf of the MoD.’

‘Your walk shouldn’t be compromised by the sheep count that’s going on. Researchers are here to carry out scientific research on the Soay sheep’.

These sheep are native to St Kilda and are named after the small island of Soay (part of the archipelago) and are descended from the breed that would have lived here over a thousand years ago.

I saw the Kirk with its prayer books and austere interior. A plaque on the wall commemorates a captain whose ship registered at Greenock ran aground here. He managed to borrow the St Kilda boat and make his way back to the mainland. He contributed a bell.

Walked along the street. Each house has the name of the residents including the last person to live there before it was evacuated. Visited the good museum in one of the houses.

After this I went via the beach back to the jetty so that I could find Sue to interview her about tourism and the island.

After lunch I headed up the back of the village to the cliffs. So steep and high like one of my dreams where I am falling from a very great height.

Fulmars swooping wheeling or just sitting on a shelf in the cliff. This is where the men would lower themselves on ropes to slaughter the birds.

Flat blue sea in all directions. Vague outlines of the outer Hebrides are just smoky blue apparitions on the horizon to the south east.

The path follows the top of the cliffs then climbs steeply to the highest peak. There are two rough sheep at the top and a cairn. The sea stretches for miles in every direction. From here across a saddle to the next peak where the mast is. En route a skua flies a few metres over my head.

At the mast I join the road that zig zags back down the hill to the beach. I swim in turquoise sea which Sue tells me is 13 degreees. So hot the cold is like balm then fall asleep on beach.

I wake to the sound of a foghorn low and mournful. Sure enough there is a sea mist and the sun a smudge behind it. We leave before 9 heading south to cut through the bottom of the Outer Hebrides passing close to Pabaigh then heading roughly North West to St Kilda. There is no wind again so we motor. It is 70 miles approximately and should take 12 hours.

I take the helm on a course of 290 degrees avoiding lobster pots indicated by two buoys. By 10.30 we’re into the Atlantic proper surrounded by grey sea and mist indistinguishable from each other.

The sea is so smooth it could be a grey vapour stretching into the mist. Many jellyfish with long tentacles and pulsating pale heads float past. Lions mane jellyfish – owing to the orange ‘feathers’ that come out of their heads with tentacles that can be 6/7 feet long. Penny tells how her son got stung by one recently ‘it looked like a burn from a poker and blistered and became raw like a burn does.’

The only sounds are the thrumming of the engine at the back, the slosh of the water coming off the bow, the creak of cleats and muttered conversations from people in small groups around the deck.

There is a sense of calm.

I am in watch in the bow when suddenly a shout from the stern: ‘Whale!’

The engine is cut and we stop in the flat calm. Everything is silent and still. There is a holding in of breath. About 100 metres off our starboard bow a glossy grey back slowly breaks the surface with its dorsal fin. Its back appears. As it arches out of the water I guess its length 20, 30, 40 feet long. It slips away as smoothly as it appeared. We can see its white patch slowly coming back across our bow, turquoise blue in the water and then swim astern. It breaks the surface once more and is gone. Minke.

Nikki: ‘That’s as good a sighting as you’ll get. The best thing to do when seeing a whale is to switch the engine off and wait. Often they want to come and see who you are.’

Just before 2.30 we have another pod of dolphins at the bow. We cross into the shipping lane and the skipper tells us to keep eyes peeled for big container ships.

We plough on motor running and the fog descends again. Sometimes we can see a mile or more. At others it’s only a few hundred metres.

There is a sense of expectancy. It’s cold and we’ve been at sea the whole day. Evening is upon us.

At first St Kilda I mistake for another layer of mist. It’s a slightly darker shade of grey. We’ve been looking at grey all day. It’s the first time I’ve seen the horizon for hours and suddenly I can see a raggedy line meet the line of the sea.

Then off the starboard two vertical sides of rock rise up and then are quickly enveloped in cloud. It’s sublime in the traditional sense: terrifying and beautiful. I’m all of a sudden wondering why I’m here in this desolate, lonely place. I can’t keep my eyes off it what I can see of it. Steep slopes, moraine, rocks. The only sign of human presence is some small enclosed spaces surrounded by dry stone walls and the little low buildings that they lived in and one cleit.

I feel like Chris Klein in Solaris. This place seems to exert a huge unknown force on me. I feel scared and powerless like I’m being drawn into a whirlpool and am unable to stop myself.

Named after the original owner’s daughters, Bessie and Ellen. She is 120 feet long. According to her dedicated website ‘Bessie Ellen is one of the last surviving West Country trading ketches from a fleet that once stood at nearly 700.’

She was capable of holding 150 tons of cargo. The website says how she ‘transported clay, peat, aggregates, salt and many other bulk cargos around the UK and Ireland.’

She carried on shipping cargo until 1947 before being bought by a Captain Moller from Frederiksvaerk in Denmark. She was renamed ‘Forsøget’ (The Attempt) and was transformed to have less rigging and rely more on a big engine. She carried on carrying cargo until the 1970s.

Nikki bought her in 2000 and restored her to her original self.

The main space sits in the middle of the boat where once the cargo would be stored.

It’s spacious and nice and wide. There are 6 bunks along each side. Each has its own curtain and LED reading light. I sleep next to the rough, dark varnished timbers of the sides. 4 fixed dark wood tables are on the floor.

There are banquette seats along the sides next to the bunks under which are our lockers under cushions. The seats on the inside of the tables are old sea chests with cushions on top, rope handles at each end and each painted pale blue and a traditional compass painted on the side. Inside they store provisions for the trip.

At one end the roof can be opened like a sun roof. Nikki has made it homely. Old boat name signs are at one end, her given name when she went to Denmark Forsoget and the place she was registered Svendborg. There are 2 chests of drawers and pictures of old clippers.

From the ceiling white origami stars of different shapes and sizes dangle and Bob with the motion of the boat.

Across the main cross beam branches of flowers made from material remind me of hops hung above a bar in a pub. Hurricane lamps provide light and a toy parrot hangs from the ceiling. There is a shelf of books at one end.

Above deck she has eight sails: a main sail, top sail, mizzen, mizzen top, stay sail and three jibs. We manage to put all of these out apart from the mizzen top.

She is painted black with bright green lines at the water line and along her gunwales. She flies a Danish and Norwegian flag and the royal ensign. Wherever we anchor people come to see her.

◦

Fairly good sleep. The faint restlessness of a new situation sleeping with strangers. No movement. No creaking like on Leader 2 years ago.

A fantastic breakfast: fruit, yoghurt, cereal, sausages, rolled cheese. People eat quietly. Many talk enthusiastically about the wildlife: seeing humpback whales and 2 minkes on previous trips aboard BE.

Underway before 9. Skies are clearing and sky is mostly blue. We make our way West across the North of Mull with Ardnamurchan Point on the mainland off our starboard bow. Passing that we can see Muck, Rum and Eigg a few miles to the North, the larger points of Rum flossed with cloud like ice cream on a cone. The sea is blue black and smooth but then ripples as we pass Mull and out into The Minch.

First thing on deck is to hose and sweep down decks. One of the crew Ned ‘The saltwater pickles the deck and stops bacteria growing. We try and do it every 1 or 2 days.’

Nikki, our skipper, tells us our watches.

‘It’s a long day to Vatersay so it’s something to keep us occupied.’

She tells us how after we pass Coll the sea gets deeper up to 23 metres and this is where it’s good to spot whales. I’m on 3 til 6.

We see dolphins breaking the surface dead ahead but half a mile distant. Suddenly they are heading along the surface towards our bow like torpedoes. As they arrive they quickly flip over underwater like Olympic swimmers starting a new length and follow the bow close together rising and falling to the surface in that way they have.

They also like to turn their grey white bellys to the surface and fix you briefly with one of their eyes and smiling mouths as if to say hello to all of us peering down at them. When they do this their undersides appear a lovely bottle green. Like the sunlit water around them.

I notice many of them have abrasions on their backs and heads, long straight scars and one has squares of criss crossed abrasions like the hand grip you might get on a tool.

I read that these are ‘mostly caused by social interactions but also by tussles with prey.’

The skipper’s 2 year old border terrier, Bracken, is beside himself trying to poke his nose between the small gap below the side of the boat running back and forth barking.

We soon settle into the slowness of life on board. There is a calmness to being at sea (obviously not always). We sit and look at the sea and the views. Feel the sun and wind on my skin. We cannot go anywhere. Since yesterday when I was rushing about trying to get everything ready, get on time. My breathing has slowed. My thoughts are less frequent. Sometimes I don’t think at all. I just look and feel.

The sea is like a gently rolling blue and blue black flatness. Lit by reflections of white clouds above Rum.

Arrive at Vatersay about 5.45 into a bay with perfect sand and turqoise sea. Looks Caribbean but feels Arctic in the water. Stay in for 10 minutes but it’s too cold to try to enjoy looking for sea life. A few 100 metres across dunes is the Atlantic. The sun is above the Western horizon. I have the yearning for travel that is intense when you’re young and has diminished but is still there.

The moon, bulbous and orange, rises from behind the hill on the promontory. Stars are coming out but I’m too tired to wait up for them. I climb into my bunk and fall fast asleep.

Oban is rain soaked. It’s coming down in solid lines: the sort of rain that gets through to the skin in less than a minute.

North Pier is on the front near all the shops, eateries and throngs of visitors. There are boats of different shapes and sizes: a motor launch that advertises ‘Sea Exploration’ with a dirty grey hull that wouldn’t look out of place with pirates on board near the Horn of Africa, a smart looking medium sized cruiser with navy blue paint, polished brass portholes and staff in crisp white short sleeved shirts. There’s even a round the world yacht covered in advertising being chartered out for youngsters.

At the end of the L shaped pontoon beyond all the rest one stands out. She is the belle of the ball. Bessie Ellen. Over 100 foot long. Two masts. A tall ship. Built in 1904 in Plymouth. One of the last of the old cargo ketches from the West Country. There are only two left like her.

We leave at 1600 exactly. 27 miles to Tobermory.

We have to motor. Not enough wind to put sails up. Bracken the border terrier. Sits upright on the back looking out to sea.

Mull appears to our left. Low clouds snake themselves around hills or lie heavy in valleys like a sleeping creature.

One of my crew mates asks ‘Why are those clouds so low?’ I don’t know.

A large castle is perched on a square cliff above the water’s edge. It has scaffolding spiking off it on 2 sides. It reminds me of Macbeth’s castle. It seems unreal in its combination of grandness and exposedness. They must feel the gales in Winter.

As soon as we’re underway one of the crew demonstrate how to use the ropes.

A shiny black ball breaks the surface. It’s a grey seal. It seems oblivious to our presence. Sometimes they swim on their backs before diving again.

After about three hours we arrive into a glassy bay. Tobermory. The houses from the bay look like doll’s houses in their jaunty colours and perfect white windows. It’s silent apart from the rush of water. A river hidden in the woods and a waterfall that issues out of the trees into the sea. That sound I always associate with Scotland.