Shakedown 2022

Saturday 28^th May dawned bright and clear and we locked out of Glasson at 09.45 bound for the Isle of Man. We being Captain Pete, chief cook and bottlewasher and Steve, engineer extraordinaire.The third part of the unholy alliance was Flipsam, an LM 30 motorsailer acquired the previous August. The plan was to catch some of the classic bike racing on the Bilown circuit just outside Castletown, then to venture up to Bonny Scotland and meet up with Admiral Swannie and his doughty band of cruisers in Oban on or about 11^th June. What could possibly go wrong?

With a light westerly headwind (why is it always a headwind?) and a slight sea, the mighty Volvo was well up to the task of powering us westward. What wasn’t up to scratch was the autopilot which I had ‘dry run’ the previous week, satisfied it went in and out on demand (it works on the cockpit tiller rather than the wheel). What I hadn’t checked was the compass bit which was resolutely stuck on 214 degrees. Ahem, a dose of hand steering it would be, just like the good old days before Autohelm invented the best cruising aid known to man.

Our next little challenge was the discovery of a very wet carpet in the saloon. Spillages and incontinence were swiftly discounted as were leaks from the seacocks. After all, the ship had been sitting afloat in Glasson for the previous ten days, dry as a bone. We decided to have a beer or two in the hope inspiration would come – it didn’t!

21.30, Port St Mary.  This place used to be buzzing, now it’s Port Somewhat Dreary, the yacht club was deserted, the chippy shut. The fishing boat we went along side announced he was leaving at 04.00. Of course he was. Similarly, the Manx yacht ‘Magic’ (it looked like it would need more than magic to get it seaworthy again) we finally tied on was off at 08.00. Guess what, both were firmly esconced at 09.30 when we gratefully departed. The only reason we put in here was to avoid the rigmarole of drying out in Castletown at an ungodly hour. You know the old adage – never go back!

Sunday. New day, new challenge. Castletown is everything PSM used to be. The harbour staff opened the bridge smartly and we had a snug drying berth opposite the Glue Pot, AKA the Castle Arms, mains electricity and water laid on free. An interesting sign of the times, the same staff look after all the little harbours in the south of the island, appearing on request. One wonders whether the decline in visitors precipitated a staff cull and, of course, Covid wouldn’t have helped. One to ponder over a beer or three!

Monday and Tuesday were devoted to the racing. The sound of a gaggle of Manx Nortons is like an orchestra to the petrol head! Similarly the smell of Castrol R beats Chanel number 5 hands down. We met all sorts of like minded souls including one character who had never sold any of the bikes he’d owned; a grand total of fourteen. In between the bike fest and the odd tincture we did contact the local marine electronics man who surveyed the autopilot, scratched his head and admitted defeat.Time to move on.

We cleared the bridge at 11.15 on Wednesday bound for Douglas; deep sea! The harbour staff had forgotten to bring the card terminal so would forward the invoice. I still haven’t received it. We opted for Douglas, the wind being firmly in the North, Aeolus was still laughing at us. Locking in at 13.00, we found the Capital busy but blessed with sunshine and we bagged the last pontoon berth, being a mere tiddler compared with most of the visiting craft. However, time was now ticking away if we were to rendezvous with the B&F fleet, so a quiet night was had with the resolve to brave the weather on the morrow.

At last! A fair dose of East in the forecast to give us a slant towards Portpatrick. The gate opened at 11.15 and we positively charged up the coast to carry the ebb up the North Channel. Remember the wet carpet? Well, after a reluctant visit to the lazarette, there was the problem. The bilge pump discharge pipe had a minute split in the most inaccessible place up in the canoe stern. Of course, at rest the outlet was above the waterline but under power the stern settles, et voila a leak! Obviously, as fast as we pumped ship we got our own back, so to speak. Rubbaweld tape to the fore, a toast was proposed to Poseidon!

20.30 Portpatrick. This little harbour has always been a firm favourite, obviously, tidal constraints make it almost a mandatory stopover. It used to be buzzing, especially in the early seventies when half the population of Donaghadee came over at weekends to escape the ‘Troubles’. It was busy again this evening as the late great Elizabeth’s Jubilee was being celebrated with the lighting of a beacon on the harbour head. Over the years the place has been sanitized somewhat but the charm remains. We dined adequately in the Crown and retired buoyed with the forecast of more Northeasterly winds.

I had it in my mind that there was a back eddy on the Galloway shore on the flood. This prompted a departure a couple of hours before high water. The GPS said otherwise but, no matter, we decided on Rathlin Island as a suitable destination. Now Rathlin is a great place. The wreck of the Dreadnought HMS Drake sits in Church Bay and is a terrific dive. To make it even more interesting, one dark and stormy night (I made that bit up, it was actually flat calm!), the Fleetwood trawler, Ella Hewett hit the wreck and sank on top of it! If only I were still young enough to don an aqualung! The harbour has been extended recently and offers loads of pontoon berths. As is usually the case with Ireland, North or South, the welcome is fantastic. We only had to poke our nose round the harbour wall at 19.00 before half a dozen folk appeared to take our lines, our reputation for dodgy manoeuvring must have preceded us . Not only that, it being a Bank Holiday and a classic boat meet, harbour dues were discounted by 50%. Anywhere else they would double! Now, I must digress at this point to extol the virtues of Irish Guinness. You may say, all Guinness is Irish. True, but it’s the way it’s presented that matters. There is the initial pour, then the settle and finally the finish. You may be gagging for your pint but this takes time – it cannot be rushed. Time, in Ireland, is a flexible concept.

Enough of my alcoholic ramblings. We slipped at 11.30, remarkably clear headed and proceeded to play spreader basketball. Now, the previous day, somehow the main halyard decided to take a trip between the masthead and the spreader and wrap itself round the radar reflector. Nothing would persuade it to unhook itself, hence the decision to throw the trip line buoy over the spreader with suitable lines attached, both to pull the halyard tail forward to free it, and the back again to where it should be! Steve was a natural for this, if only he’d been taller he could have played professional basketball!



Flushed with success we now had a great sail across to the Sound of Jura with the possibility of Craighouse or Ardminish Bay, Gigha for the night. We chose the latter but , in hindsight, with the wind in the East, this wasn’t the best call. We picked up one of the profusion of mooring buoys that now smother the bay at 18.30. The cynic in me wonders why mooring buoys are needed in a bay noted for excellent holding. Could it be revenue collection, now that the islanders have bought Gigha and are running it as a kind of co-operative? Notwithstanding, Gigha is a really interesting place with the stunning Achamore gardens in the south, and who can forget Seamus McSporran, he who had about fourteen jobs back in the day? Everything from running the local store to policeman, fireman,postman, taxi driver, piermaster et al! Having decided against rowing ashore in the increasing chop we dined simply on caviar and champagne (I made that bit up as well!) hoping for a decent passage on the morrow.

Hopes dashed again! Our 09.30 start was greeted with drizzle, poor visibility and a biting south easterly. To compound the misery, our old friend the mail halyard was up to its tricks again in the bouncy chop. This time though we were prepared with our basketball lines still rigged. The next little challenge was the CalMac ferry steaming out of West Loch Tarbert, seemingly intent on close encounters of the unwelcome kind! Surviving the dodgems, the day was gradually improving. It wasn’t long before the sun came out and we could enjoy the scenery. If you get the timing right, you can carry a fair tide all the way from the Mull to Oban. It was certainly helping us as we made excellent progress up the Sound, passing the spectacular Corryvreckan and the Grey Dogs, scene of many a fun afternoon in the RIB, powering up and down the ‘waterfall’ generated on the flood. We were young and foolish then. Now we’re old and equally foolish!

As the afternoon was now wearing on, an easy decision pointed us towards Craobh haven and the prospect of dinner in the Lord of the Isles. Another factor influencing the decision was the fuel gauge. This registered full until suddenly dropping like a stone at about two thirds capacity. From then on it seemed to behave but, now it was approaching the red zone we thought it prudent to go for a ‘splash and dash’ at Craobh. Thirty litres later, at the exorbitant price of eighty pence a pop, we were back in the green.

Repairing to the pub, a call to Admiral Swannie was met with the amazing news that he too was in Craobh! A thoroughly convivial couple of hours then ensued and we returned to the boat in the gloaming at peace with the world.

Monday morning, laundry day. Claymore left early to catch the last of the tide through Cuan. We dismissed the thought that they wanted to skip off before the dockmaster caught them for harbour dues! Having decided on the afternoon event we busied ourselves with ‘household’ chores. Peculiar place Craobh, it has the air of being uninhabited despite the considerable infrastructure of marina, holiday lets and pub. I remember it forty years ago as a natural harbour before they dumped a load of rocks in to form an outer breakwater.

15.00, off again in the sunshine to brave Cuan. We passed inside ‘scallop rock’ off the north end of Torsa, a brilliant place to dive for the delicacies as the dredgers can’t get near without fouling their gear. Other yachts went the long way round, obviously more prudent mariners! The rest of the passage to Oban felt very familiar, perhaps something of an anti-climax. Puilladobhrian looked busy. I’ve never managed to walk over the hill from thereto the Tigh an Truish pub, always opting for the easy dinghy ride up to the Bridge over the Atlantic, idleness perhaps! We’d phoned ahead to reserve a berth at the excellent Kerrera marina, so perhaps complacency was setting in, we’d done the ‘hard yards’ as our American cousins say. Sure enough, feeling smug on the approach to our berth, Steve helming, I wandered up to the unfamiliar ground of the foredeck and promptly tripped over a cleat to lie prone on the deck! Fortunately, John Counsell, crewing for the Marsdens saw our plight and raced over to secure the boat. Dangerous thing complacency. 

Obviously the only thing to do now was to repair to the bar for some anaesthetic. Here we met the assembled B&F company, the aforementioned Marsdens plus JC, the Haworths and the motley crew of the Admiral’s Barge, Claymore! Again, a thoroughly convivial hour ensued, the only glitch being a fully booked restaurant. Jo Haworth came to the rescue with a couple of eggs, the only shortfall in our larder for the ingredients of a spaghetti  carbonara. Thanks again Jo. 

Essentially, that was our shakedown completed. Our Esteemed Leader has chronicled the following couple of days jollies before the weather turned thoroughly nasty and sent everybody scuttling to their respective boltholes. Altogether a brilliant idea to gather in foreign waters – whither next year?

Peter Berry

2022