Mull, July 2001

(styled in a pathetic imitation of the great GJF Dutton, to whom humble and profound apologies are owed).

By Pete Venters

It had been tough, really tough. Awake at the first pale light of a summer dawn. Kit, mountains of it, loaded into the car. Driving north and west, on and on. Eventually the ferry, then further out into the remote seas beyond Mull. And finally the struggle ashore on Lunga, uninhabited for years, on the very edge of the Atlantic. But what was really tough, concluded Charlie with a heavy sigh, was that after all that effort only one of himself and Roger could work at any one time.

We stood there politely, still somewhat confused to be met by a man wielding a clipboard and stopwatch as we brought our kayaks ashore on an island less than a mile long and half that wide, well off the less than populous west coast of Mull and supposedly inhabited only by an unfeasible number of sea birds. We - the Teacher, the Gentleman of Leisure and myself - were on day two of a week sea kayaking in the waters round Mull. For this week the cares of civilisation had been left behind and we were to wander as free spirits, bound only by whim and the stentorian tones of the shipping forecast. Sharing remote islands with clipboarded officials was not an expected agenda item. And was that a generator we could hear?

Gradually light dawned. We were to be enjoying remote Lunga in the company of two radio amateurs, who we of course immediately christened Roger and Charlie. Charlie, who was now explaining their unfortunate predicament, had approached us initially to make sure that we didn't trip over any of the wires and antennas with which they had festooned the single obvious camping area. It seemed that they had driven up from the Borders to spend all weekend on the island, using a special Lunga call sign to add some excitement to their transmissions to other similarly minded and equipped enthusiasts across the globe.

And it wasn't going to be easy, not now that they were restricted to taking turns, sighed Charlie, apparently oblivious to the self-inflicted nature of his difficulties. They would most probably have to be up all night, he said. The generator whirred, and we could hear Roger exchanging important sounding numbers with a contact. All night, we said. Ah.

We set up camp as far from our new friends as possible without actually falling off a small cliff. The Gentleman of Leisure, fully equipped with ear plugs suitable for just such an event, was nearest. His palatial residence would perhaps act as a shield for those of us less well prepared for an unexpectedly riotous Saturday night on Lunga.

Keen to regain some of the air of remoteness more appropriate to the location, we prolonged our evening stroll as much as possible. This was not an onerous task; although cool, the sky was bright and the gloaming ideal for roaming. And the other inhabitants of Lunga provided great entertainment. Although it was many years since the ruined cottages on the island had been occupied, the puffin and guillemot populations were making the best of the (mostly) unsullied solitude. In clear defiance of sanitation and noise regulations, vast numbers of guillemots were crammed onto a single upthrust of rock. The puffins meanwhile, with considerable greater dignity and much less noise and fuss, had riddled the grassy tops of the cliffs with their burrows. Neither bird was in the least bothered by sea paddlers on a late evening stroll, a fact we embarrassingly realised only after our initial SAS style, let's not frighten the birds, approach.

But at last, having watched the light change slowly over the Outer Isles, there was nothing for it but to return to the tents and retire for the night. We drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Roger's voice intermingled with the throb of the generator.

In the event, none of us was disturbed by the telecommunications extravaganza underway so close by. The next day was bright with a gentle wind set fair for our onward voyage to Staffa. We breakfasted, broke camp and packed up, the only incident being an attack by a local gull intent on doing Stuka impersonations.

We were on the point of leaving when a rather haggard Charlie appeared. I strolled over, intent on expounding the ornithological wonders of the island to him, as he had clearly not stepped more than a cable length from the antenna for his entire stay. But I soon picked up that something was amiss in the Radiating Camp. Roger, explained Charlie with an air of some contempt, had not only been hogging the transmitter until late, but had then resumed at 5 am, unsurprisingly waking Charlie as he started the generator. It was clear that Charlie had not had much of a look-in when it came to transmitting. He looked almost wistfully towards the puffin-riddled cliffs. There's no way I could drag him away up there, he muttered before dejectedly wandering back to inspect his antenna. We left them to the troubled domestic life that they had brought with them to Lunga and headed for Staffa.

With the light wind behind us, and an almost cloudless sky, the day was warm. Life was Good, Things were going well. This being my first expedition in my own boat, I was still pleasantly surprised that the little Pintail, loaded down with enough gourmet food for nine days, hadn't sunk without trace on the first launch. Not only that, but we had now survived the first two nights camping, despite the surprising radio amateurs on Lunga and the slightly less surprising wild goats the night before. Goats being well known for their enthusiastic taste, extending to spray decks, flares and deck lines, I am certain that we had been saved that evening only by my cunning deployment of the remains of an unfeasibly sophisticated and entirely unappetising vegetable chilli which served to keep them at bay.

The rest of the journey south from Lunga continued deceptively smoothly. In glorious sunshine we reached Staffa and paddled into the cathedral like splendour of Fingal's cave. We were suitably amazed at the giant sloping woodpiles of hexagonal Basalt that make up the island. We didn't even fall in when attempting a tricky post-lunch re-embarkation in front of a boatload of day-trippers. The crossing further south to Iona, the arrival on the white sandy beach there and the trip to the coffee shop helped fill a dreamy western isles summer afternoon, ending when we set up camp in a gentle valley carpeted, as if an Alpine meadow, with clover blossoms.

However, returning from supper, which we took on a rocky outcrop watching the summer light change and the shadows lengthen over Mull, our run of good fortune came to an abrupt end. There, in the middle of our encampment, was a frisky flock of young bullocks, contentedly licking anything salty. After three days at sea, this meant just about any and all of our possessions.

Some time later, having chased away the herd and removed the worst of the slobber from tents, stoves and utensils, we felt sufficiently recovered for an evening stroll before bed. It had been a long day and we were all looking forward to a solid nights sleep, undisturbed by any passing radio amateurs.

However, it was not long before I awoke with a start. To describe the sound I could hear as heavy breathing would not do it justice. Imagine instead a full on, three-packets-of-Woodbine-a-day asthmatic rasp, amplified to a deafening level. Warily opening the tent flysheet and peering out into the dim midnight air, I came face to face with the source of the disturbance: the bovine boys were back in town. And this time, with the memory of all that salt from earlier in the evening driving them on, they meant business.

I imagined the accidental damage that a curious herd of three quarter ton, salt seeking sirloin steaks could do to three tents and their occupants. From my companions, there was no sound. I had to act. Crawling out of my tent, I stood there in the half-light. I looked at the herd; taking a brief break from tent licking, they returned my stare. Concerned not to waken my sleeping co-navigators or to startle the herd into stumbling through a tent, I said shoo, quietly. The row of bovine faces continued to stare at me. Did I detect a slight air of pity? I tried a slightly louder shoo, with an identical non-result. I waved; I clapped my hands, quietly. Still no movement, although the expressions were now recognisably contemptuous. Finally, as I combined quiet shoo with quiet hand clapping and foot stamping, the herd ambled slowly off.

I was on the point of returning to my tent when I heard another sound. This time it was unmistakenly human. My companions, it would seem, had been awake all along and had hugely enjoyed my attempt to move the herd of cattle in the dark by whispering in their ears. The sound I could hear now was stereo giggling.

The following day was again bright and clear. A brief pit stop by the Iona ferry slipway was marred by the near loss of all three boats on the rising tide, but with our composure remarkably unruffled by this near catastrophe we paddled off up Mulls' Wilderness Coast and its miles of spectacular cliffs, including the famous Fossil Tree. Famous it may be, easy to find when you don't know what it looks like, it is not.

We fetched up at the end of the day on a small island at the mouth of Loch na Ceol and made camp, noting somewhat nervously fresh cattle dung nearby. Tension increased when the evening shipping forecast made it clear that we could be on the island for some time.

It was late the following morning, as we sat in bright sunshine watching the "Force 6, occasionally 7" blast past, that the cattle hove into view. There could be no escape on such a small island. Fortunately these more mature beasts were content to munch on seaweed unseasoned with salt from the tents.

There are many things to do when stormbound on an island not much more than a stones throw across. A walk around the shore can be had in either direction. This can be supplemented with a walk up and down in the middle of the island. And in extremis a shore walk can always be followed with a walk in the middle. Despite this splendid range of amusements to tempt us, one day on the island was enough and the day after saw us battling off the island into an almost unabated wind in the direction of the nearest cake and coffee shop.

In light of the developing westerly set to the weather, and banking on the Teacher's assertion that there were some top notch refreshment facilities accessible on that side of the island, we then headed for the east coast of Mull. The next few days saw some excellent paddling: across to Lismore, up to Lochaline, down to Loch Spelve. A visit to a fossilised beach half way up a cliff and to a fully functioning toilet completely outside in the middle of an adder infested swamp. Seals, otters, porpoises and even the occasional midge. Ruined and not so ruined castles, and an impressively smart bothy. The stunning view, across Loch Linnhe to the mountains on the mainland stretching south from Ben Nevis. Oh yes - and the coffee shop at Duart Castle, the bistro at Craignure and the refreshment van at Lochaline. Well, as Dr Johnson said, you can't eat scenery. Or, as the bible (almost) says, man cannot live by "Tuna Twists: prepacked tuna with a refreshing twist of sunflower oil" alone.

So what to conclude at the end of this Great Expedition? Myself, the Teacher, the Gentleman of Leisure - two Scots and an Englishman - spent a week living from our kayaks (cake and coffee excepted), we paddled ourselves to amazing places and at the end of it we were still talking to each other (except when my stove was doing its impersonation of a rocket engine). Are there lessons to be drawn for the world? Is sea kayaking the solution to the problems in Northern Ireland? Probably not, but we all agreed that sea kayaking is a lot more of a fun thing to do in the western isles than amateur radio. Roger and out.

With grateful thanks to the Teacher for Knowing Where To Go.
The Gentleman of Leisure and myself paddle with SESK.
The Teacher has a lot more sense and is a member of the SCA (Scottish Canoe Association).