Boulder, Gigalum, Cara, Eilean Garb

Amy on fire watch. Happy days on Gigalum. Photo by Pen

We started out as a big group: Alan, Keith, Wendy, Derek, Gillian, me, Amy and Neil. Then we were a smaller group: me Amy and Neil. Then it was just me until I met some angels: Steve and Mike and a herd of a hundred pretty goats and then Amy and Neil came back. Complicated. 

Good to be back on salty stuff with Amy. She's been working hard at Oban this summer.

At first we were going to “do” Colonsay and Oronsay and (my secret plan) maybe cross over to Jura. But then it turned into Gigha. Gigha means good in Norse. It’d be great. I was just looking forward to being back with the gang. My private plan now was to sleep on the Gigha’s satellite islands.

Boulder island

From Tayinloan we’d set out for Cara Island at the southern tip of Gigha. Alan’s idea, appreciated by me, was that we could camp there. But we got there by lunchtime. The timing was off. It was good for a lunch stop but too early to stop for the day. Circumnavigating the island we passed under some good ragged rocks at the southern end with a herd of goats watching us from Brownies Seat.

Blue sky. Clear water. So good to be back on the salty sea. Photo by Neil

The wind was forecast to increase by morning. The sky was open, generous-hearted blue but you could feel a wind change coming. The kilometre of sea back to the mainland could take on a different character, something Neil, Amy and I had seen last year. The water is shallow and reefy here and when the wind runs against the flow of the tide it can kick up. We didn't know the group well enough to feel comfortable.

So we’re back to Gigha, this time plodding down the west coast. The wind is already changing: a north easterly harrying us, making us work for every paddle stroke forward. We’d started out in the lightest possible clothes and now the only thing keeping us warm was the work of paddling against the wind.

Just a couple of hard-earned kilometres took us to Port nan Each, the only bay on Gigha likely to offer protection from this wind. I look at the grassy camping platform. It’s ok. But I’ve noticed a tiny island, a knob of an island at the apex of the bay. It’s ridiculous. It’s the smallest island I’ve ever attempted. It’s just a pile of boulders with some coarse grass on top, ringed with pinks and yellow vetch. I like a silly challenge. I need to climb up on it to see if the grass patch will take my tent.

 Boulder Island Pinks, photo by Neil Buckland

At this low stage of the tide I can wade my boat out to the seaweedy platform of rocks at the base of the island. I just need a foothold to clamber up. In the morning, twelve hours later, the water level should be roughly the same so I should be able to get off.

Kayakers like to get their boats well up above the tide line. Some even like to get them onto the grass by their tents. No chance of doing that here. My aim is to get her crosswise onto seaweedy rocks with most of her hull above the tide mark.

I was brought up with a wooden sailing dinghy made by my Dad. It wasn’t glamorous but it did the job. We could muck about and learn in it. I never advanced from crew. That’s the low skilled specimen that sits up front. My brother and I spent every winter rubbing that dinghy down and wet and drying it between coats. We raced it. We never would have scratched it by dragging. It was way too heavy for a child crew to carry.

If we did ever stop at a beach, we would float her back out and tie her on a line. Sailing has a whole language of pretty words. I’ve forgotten most of them but some float up to meet me: rope words like line, painter, halyard, sheets, whips and jackstays. Shrouds are the wires that hold the mast up. Sail words: spinnaker, that’s a cracker.

So, leaving Ethel on the water, if I can do it safely, comes easily. The most useful kit I carry and most sea kayakers don’t is a long red band called a sling. It has steel carabiners at both ends. At the island I clip one end through the front deck lines. A steel ring embedded in the rock would be great but there is none nor is there a handy jutting rock to tie her to so I’ll carry the sling up to the top of my island. I empty the hatches into Ikea bags and perch the bags half way up the rocks, hoping I won’t have to load them all back in again if this doesn’t work out.

The thing I don’t like at all so far is the slippery weed carpet obscuring a shelf of treacherous uneven submerged boulders which I have to cross before reaching clean dry rock. I have osteoporosis and have a long record of breaking bones if I fall. So I’m careful, negotiating most of the rocks on hands and knees and bum.

Once on dry rock there’s a quick scramble up to the top. I’m conscious that my pals, if they were watching from the beach are nearly all star climbers. Alan was my youngest daughter Rosie’s first employer when she was a titchy new Mountain Leader all those years ago. Well, all Alan will see is that Rosie was all the more remarkable as a climber. She didn’t get that talent from her Mama.

Made it. I peer over the top of my rocks. My kingdom: just one patch of grass, bordered by pink thrift and yellow vetch, big enough for my tent, if not for guy lines. Weirdly something or someone has peeled the grass back at one end as if it was a thick tufty carpet. It’s not by any means flat but I’m not fussy where I sleep. There are no nesting birds and no signs of birds hanging out there. The paucity of plant species suggests that not many birds stop by.

Disguised by the grass carpet, however, are great crevices and chasms masked by the carpet of grass. After all this is just a pile of boulders. As the first known inhabitant of the island I get to name it. And I do: “Boulder Island”.

One incautious move and I slide waist deep into a chasm. But by then the tent was almost up. My snazzy new camping mattress, which was my last year’s birthday present from Col, bridged the gap and pretty well forced the tent to take on a normal tentish sort of shape instead of wrapping itself up over a boulder and sinking into a second chasm, taking me with it perhaps never to be seen again.

How well established I am. Proud Mistress of Boulder Island. Time for tea! The boulder I had imagined as my kitchen space is, of course, tippy and unuseable. What else could possibly go wrong? Well this: I had left my water and phone back at the beach site. 

I have enough water for one cup of tea, a can of beer and a can of tonic water. Glug the tonic water. Make the tea. My one luxury is a china mug which has travelled with me a hundred times. Very nice. Tomorrow I will break it when I lower the kitchen bag down to the boat. But for now all is good. A bit lonesome, but it'll do.

There’s a strange man waving at me from the beach. And calling. He probably wants to tell me I can’t camp here so I take no notice. His welly boots are familiar. He looks nice. But I think I’ll ignore him. Anyway the descent back to Ethel is something I only want to do once. He jumps around a bit…and then I recognise him. It’s lovely Brian! Paddle Pal from St Kilda and Handa and more.

So back down to Ethel and over to the beach. Good to be back with the gang. I'd reached the limits of Boulder Island's entertainment. Brian is a professional sailor. He’s often skipper for the Silurian, the research boat for the Hedbridean Whale and Dolphin Trust based at Tobermory. He knew we were on Gigha and guessed where we’d be sheltering from the wind. The Silurian was moored just behind Boulder Island. It sounds like the volunteers on the boat have been having a really great time, the weather allowing them to explore much of the Hebridean chain. They’ve been among thousand-strong pods of dolphins. Fabulous. A glass of wine, pick up my phone and water and I'm back to my Boulder. I don't want to climb back up in the dark.

Every night the sunset was beautiful. Photo by Neil Buckland Tin Man Photography

How was Boulder Island to sleep on? Pretty awful but at least I had enough water to make coffee in the morning and could phone Col to wish him a happy birthday.

Gigalum

The next day we rounded the northern tip of Gigha and met the wind head on. Camp that night was a wide bay with a ruined oyster farm at one end. The broken lines and posts did at least break up the surf. Alan and I missed that by landing at the other end of the beach, Alan because he had his sail up and was whizzing like a lion, me because I thought the surf looked cleaner at that end. One good camp with chat and beer and the group split up, Alan and Gillian for home and work and the others for Lismore.

Alan in his element, photo by Neil

The forecast was perfect for the next three days. The thought of wasting those days by driving anywhere was repulsive. No black tarmac! Please! I was all for going back to Gigalum. I wanted to chill and explore. Amy and Neil were up for it. Lovely.

From above Gigalum looks like a barrel jelly fish. From the sea the impression is of several slides of rock lying parallel with one dominating island sized rock. We could circumnavigate it and possibly find a camp site.

 Aerial view of Gigalum. Daily Mail

It wouldn’t do for a big group but it was just perfect for us: perches for two tents quite far apart. A jetty to lie out on and watch an episode of “Rock Pool Killers”. Pleasingly dull. Not much drama. None of the killers seem much good at it. Some Olive Squat Tailed Lobsters are either fighting or courting watched side-ways by a brown crab.

Like me and Amy he’s probably wondering what kind of a beast they are: neither crab nor lobster? Their lobster tails are tucked under their bodies so they can use them to spring backwards like lightning if attacked. If a person had a net they could try for supper but what kind of villain would eat the main stars of the show?

A perch for one tent on Gigalum. Photo by Neil

I have to explore the hinterland. The ground feels soft, springy and cautiously welcoming giving off the smell of marsh and crushed mint rise at each step. A few satisfying tiny paths meander through bracken and a miniature copse of willow, alder and rowan. This explains the rich mix of bird song, both woodland and sea birds.

Amy is snoozing, Neil is off with his camera. He’s standing completely still on the edge of the rocks. All is well with the world. Time for me, a whole afternoon of time floating by the hour over a lagoon between two islands. No need to think about why or how or when.

Floating is a much under-rated skill among sea kayakers. We prize tide race skills, rough weather handling, surfing. All that. There’s nothing like the thrill of big waves. But just floating and looking and just being there. That’s also a top skill.

Birdies. Black Guillemots, I think. Photo thanks to Neil

A line of Eider ducklings are lined out behind some Auntie Ducks, like little buttons on a pinafore. Blackback gulls are sitting on nests along the rocks. They seem too busy with their own nests to bother the ducklings. At least I hope so. They watch me imperiously but are quite unbothered unless I get too close. Ringed plovers scamp along the outer rock lanes. Arctic terns have their nothingy nests somewhere out on the rocks. Their eggs are beautiful. They grace the sky with their delicate, floaty flight.

I like this kind of exploring. On neaps the lagoons don't quite dry out. I can wander through

The water is very shallow and lies in lagoons at the southern end of the island. Little lives play out beneath my hull. Important missions take place across silver sand. Gliding through a thicket of pink sea ferns a swerve of silvery sprats weave below me, tiny green crabs make innocent deviations through subterranean glades, shrimps forever dart backwards.

Kelp gardens all glossy coppery curves. Who goes there? The big boys. Occasionally the sand smooths out into deeper pools. It would be good to swim. But I’m just floating. Something made by human hand catches me eye: a barnacle encrusted stoneware mustard pot, from France, circa 1942. How ever did it get here? And a firepit that has been left to float in the sea and wedged between two rocks. It came in handy later when the wind dropped to nothing and the midges came out, a little fire built carefully small below the sea line. We drenched it in sea water before going to bed. It hasn’t rained for 6 weeks and fire is a present danger. The sun is going down over Gigha, and beyond is Jura. Peace.

Photos by Pen with camera thanks to Zoe Newsam

The next morning a café urge comes upon us. We had packed for two nights camping and have now done three. A café stop is such a lovely thing, especially when it’s somewhere as welcoming and charming as Gigha’s community café.

 Photo by Pen

By the time we’re done, the island shop has closed. It doesn’t make much difference to Amy and Neil who are going to fetch the van and stay here, but I have my mind set on Cara. We have two more nights of force 1 to 2 wind and I want to use it. Change is coming. I have easily enough water, a sachet of hot chocolate and two rashers of bacon left. With sea weed and nettles added what could go wrong? The shop can wait.

Cara

Cara has a ruined chapel, a fine farmhouse and a possible connection to St Finnian, who could also be called Fionnlugh, “a Tower of Gold”, the Fair Headed Saint, the White Saint, Finla or Finnlay. Some say he was also a revered hermit on Islay, just across the sea. In “The Place Names of Argyll” Cameron Gillie describes him as “one of the Irish Picts” suggesting, perhaps, that his religion was early Celtic Christian embracing Pictish religious beliefs.  

I sit with my back to the sun-warmed wall of what’s left of the chapel. A few benches have been put together with great planks of wood on stone. Soaking up the warmth and the view over to Islay and Jura I feel quite strongly that this was, is, a spiritual place and that others had enjoyed this bench and had that same feeling before me. Everything turns towards Jura and the setting sun. I think it counts as another Peregrini or Pilgrim island.

I’m celebrating three good things: Firstly, I’m here. Secondly, Cara is Island 38 of 77 Islands. I’ve passed the half way mark. Maybe I can get this thing done? Thirdly my cat Igor has been declared a big cat, not a fat cat, by the vet so he can go back to usual rations instead of diet rations which distressed the little fellow. All good things.

Big! Not Fat! It's official.

Some say Cara means “corpse” island, because of the shape of the island as you approach from the east. I prefer the derivation from Gaelic (and Latin), Cara means dear, and in Welsh Cariad means darling. I like that such a warm word is linguistically universal.

It’s a small island but most definitely the real thing. Not just a scramble of rocks like dear old tidal Boulder Island. To my left the island rises to a bracken covered high point, falls away and then rises again to the Mull of Caran and Brownies Chair with caves below. We paddled below there yesterday and caught a few nice waves as we went. To my right is the broad camping beach where Ethel has been floated up on the tide. It’s all mine apart from sea birds and sitting geese and a herd of a hundred sweet goats, white, chocolate brown and black, the adults have long white horns. They clearly own the island.

On my sun-warmed Peregrino bench I make an important decision: I will have my bacon for breakfast with nettles I can collect as I walk back. The nettles near the beach are of dubious cleanliness. The bracken shoots are too advanced to eat and I forgot to pick any seaweed when I was further out in clean water. There could be mussels on the outer rocks but as this is a neap tide the tide won’t go out that far. It’s definitely worth skipping a meal just to be here. I bet St Finnla would agree.

Back at the beach I find another tent and two sea kayaks drawn up. Better go and say hello. They almost certainly wish they had the island to themselves. It won’t take long.

Sunset on Cara. Jura as ever looking wonderful. Photo thanks to Mike Sullivan

And lo I beheld two Angels, shining towers of friendliness, bearing gifts of beer and other joyful things. “Would you like a beer” said the Angel Michael. “Yes!” said I, with no hesitation

at all. And then, said the Angel Steve, “Would you like a wrap filled with many good things and also some fine whisky?” “Yes!” I said “To all of the above!” And then, said the Angel Mike who is also a Peregrini having travelled to many islands and even written a book about it, “Would you like to come back for breakfast?” “No!” I said in some indignation, “For I hath my two rashers of bacon and a back of nettles and sorrel what’s more! Do you think I am some island scrounge rat? Take it back thou churl!” “Oh OK,” Said Angel Steve, “How about coffee then, after breakfast?” “Yes!” said I.

I don’t know what had happened to my manners. Maybe I never had any. It may be true that you can do without supper but there’s no way you would want to.

Supper and beer and whisky and chat were simply the best. The next morning coffee was excellent and we departed in different directions with friendly, warm parting waves and no definite expectation of ever meeting again.

Eilean Garbh 

The view from the top of Eillean Garb, photo thanks to Neil

Back to Ardminish to meet up with Amy and Neil, have second breakfast and recharge my phone. A much needed stock up at the shop and then Neil and I were off to circle the north end of Gigha again and camp at Eilean Garbh, an iconic landmark on Gigha.

At the ferry terminal beach there are some large stands of wild maritime brassica behind the beach at Ardminish so I pick a bag full of budding shoots for supper. They are definitely not rare, so it’s okay to harvest some. If they were rare or growing in a fragile environment you would not, of course, pick anything.

Brassica Oleracea. Photo by British Wildflowers

When I paddle I start feeling the need for fresh green vegetables by about day 3. These will taste quite as good as our home grown sprouting broccoli. There are quite a few varieties: crambe mauritanica, brassica oleracea ore just two of them. I prefer the more delicate pale yellow variety for eating and to get them before they come into flower. With scrambled eggs and pepper they’ll be good, even very good.

I had chosen my camp site at the foot of the Eilean Garb when in paddled Steve and Mike. Lovely to be able to introduce them to Amy and Neil and to cement a feeling of warm friendship. As Amy said, it felt like meeting family.

Two pretty Nordkapp sea kayaks. It's the Saints! Steve and Mike. Photo by Neil

Eilean Garb is a chunky fin of rock. Only in recent years has the island been connected to Gigha by a tombolo beach of the finest whistling sand. The sea can still meet across the tombolo in high springs or storms. As a result the fringe of marram grass heading the beach is encrusted with an exciting mix of flotsam and jetsam from fishing nets and boat fittings. I bet the birds’ nests round here are colourful.

Had I climbed to the top of the island there would have been a terrific view of the sunset over Jura. Neil did. But I was suddenly exhausted. I cooked supper with Amy and Neil up at the van then all I wanted was to snuggle down into my sleeping bag. My tent was close enough to a curved wall of rocks to be a little auditorium for a strangely crisp echo of the waves. I woke in the night terrified, hearing waves on both sides of me, momentarily convinced that the sea was surrounding me.

Coffee with Mike and Steve. It's traditional. Photo by Neil

In the morning Neil helped me portage Ethel the 75 metres across to the bay on the other side, thus confirming her as an island under the Nordic definition. In 1098 Magnus Barefoot, King of Norway made an agreement called the Treaty of Tarbert, with Edgar King of Scotland. Under the treaty Magnus acquired most of the islands off the west coast which were “separated by water navigable by a ship with its rudder set.” Ethel has no rudder but she does have a skeg. It'll do.

Nordic rule continued for nearly 400 years. Wherever there is a place called Tarbert in these parts it is worth looking at the map. If it is on a narrow isthmus of land it is likely that a Norse boat would have been carried across to the other side, almost certainly by slaves, to claim an island.

Gigha was an important place during the 400 year Norse rule of the West coast of Scotland. King Haakon IV’s huge fleet of ships gathered off Gigha in 1263 before their final defeat at the Battle of Largs. It is hard to imagine such a mighty gathering in the shallow sound dominated today by a couple of fish farms.

Classic blue day. It won't last. Photo thanks to Neil

A gentle tootle up the west side, then Neil and I cross through the Gigalum rocks and head back towards the mainland at Tayinloan. “It’s going to start raining at 3pm,” says Neil. Neil’s planning is infallible. The first drops fall on the bug encrusted windscreen of my van as we are finishing unloading. As the rain touches the dusty ground there’s a whiff of fireworks. Perfect timing. Boats are on top of vans. Clean clothes I’d left ready in the back of the van a week ago feel good.

As Amy drives her van up from the incoming ferry Mike and Steve wander over from the terminal café. They’ve had second breakfast or first lunch. We’re going to do the same. Hugs all round. They smell clean! I bet we don’t yet. And good bye, good bye. See you soon!

Gigha

Next day, driving east to see my lovely granddaughter Robyn I’m fantasy planning a Gigha trip with her. She’s eight and likes to be called Bob. With a good forecast we could bring a Canadian over on the ferry and spend a few days just pottering the islands. There’d be plenty cheese toasties at the Community café followed by that ice cream. Wee Island Dairy make it with milk form their own coos. It’s award winning and really good.

For them as like it there’s lobster and crab down at the jetty. It’s been caught that morning in the Sound and cooked and dressed by the boatman’s wife. It’s yours, wrapped in a banana leaf boat for £10 a pop. Of course you could go to the Boathouse restaurant opposite and pay £75 for a plate of crab. Apparently it’s good. You pays your money and takes your choice.

As I drive eastwards my windscreen wipers are working on full whack. I am luxuriating in the comfort of the van’s upholstered driver’s seat and being able to choose the music. It's Bob Dylan, for now.

After just 24 hours of rain the beech trees at the sides of the road are a streaming glistening curtain of leaves that sinks right to the ground. The river in the valley, dried out after 6 weeks drought is a storming splurging torrent again. Clouds have the whole landscape wrapped in a grey felted woolly blanket. As it should be. This is Scotland.

Another four islands slept on, Boulder, Gigalum, Cara and Eilean Garb. Cara, Gigalum, Boulder circumnavigated. That means I will donate £43 to Aban to contribute to the great work they do all year round helping young people find adventure outdoors. You can find out more by following their link below. If you would like to contribute there are donate buttons at the top of each page. Sharing this blog on social media is also very helpful.

Thank you, and thank you to Alan Kimber, Gillian Parker, Amy, Neil, Keith, Wendy, Derek for their company and to Mike and Steve, not just for coffee and beer and whisky and food but also for your great company.

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