By Liz Sheridan, January 2005.
I responded to Nick's offer of a trip up to the Isle of Barra pretty much on the spur of the moment, booked a train ticket and a week's leave, and before I knew what was happening we were driving through the Lake District, the late rays of the evening sun striking the mountains opposite and the Outer Hebrides only a couple of hundred miles away.
Until I went to Barra, I had never really given the sea very much thought, other than being something nice and bouncy to paddle on or that salty and vaguely unhygienic bit at the end of Brighton pier.
My days spent paddling in the Western Isles changed all that - nowhere I have been before have I really understood the sea as the living, moving entity that it is, covering twice as much of the planet's surface than the land does. Indeed the land seems almost an irrelevance up there: the people we talked to (and Nick knows just about everybody on the island), all worked with the sea. As the island doesn't really have that much in the way of employment, most of the young people work elsewhere, coming back whenever they can: all of them seemed to end up on fishing boats, ships or oil rigs, as if living on solid land was a bit of an unnatural choice for them.
The first thing we did when we arrived was to check out the boat shed, used in the past by Nick and colleagues when they ran a canoeing summer school for the local children. It is now used by the Barra school, and the kids can canoe at other times of the year as well, so the summer school is no longer a necessity. Having picked up the keys from the local GP, we let ourselves in and fought our way through various piles of old wetsuits and kids' discarded swim-wear to a collection of highly serviceable skerrays (an unmistakeable odour of cat making me feel quite safe that no rats were about). The shed, a rather ramshackle wooden structure, is at one of the most picturesque points of the island, with a fine view over the water, past the old MacNeil castle in the middle of the bay to the little town of Castlebay beyond. Having dug out a couple of boats with a full complement of hatch covers, we laid them out on the grass, dumped the rest of our gear and headed straight off for a pint of "heavy."
Our first trip took us around the island of Sandray (past the Queen's favourite spot for skinny dipping and picnics). The weather was sunny and the wind gentle. We looked for seals but could only hear the whales singing across the Sound of Sandray. Then on our way back to Barra a pair of dolphins followed us for a while, several times rising together from the water to snort loudly through their blow-holes and then vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared. Cormorants and portly little eider ducks kept us company too, skimming along the waves for fish. There were plenty of sea caves to explore, by some remarkable quirk of nature conveniently just a few inches wider than the width of a kayak: we would go in until it was too dark to see then back out again. On the way out of one, I saw the Mother of All Jellyfish, almost a metre across and with a huge burst of tentacles: it gave the profoundly unsettling impression that it was looking up at me and starting to follow the boat. (The next morning there was a piece on the local radio about an unprecedented bloom of the deadly Lion's Mane jellyfish, which fitted the description of this one precisely. I resolved not to capsize at all costs.)
Another highlight of the day was watching the locals "fanking" the sheep. We had stopped to stretch our legs when we spotted a crowd (for the Outer Hebrides anyway), a short distance from the beach and strolled over to have a look. Sheep were being driven into the fank (a holding pen), where they were wrestled to the ground and sheared by hand - I can't imagine there are many places left anywhere where this is still done without the aid of electric shears and a burly Aussie or two, so I feel especially privileged to have seen it. The sheep seemed pleased enough with their new haircuts as well.
The second day the weather held, but the wind picked up so Nick decided it would be best to stay on the inner side of the island. We drove past the airport (which doubles as a cockle beach), and set out from a sea loch down a little tidal waterfall. This particularly appealed as the loch had been used as a safe mooring by the Vikings, who would go out on raids and nip back in again to hide when the tide turned, so I felt I was in good company. I also had the chance to inspect a salmon farm close up - in fact a big crate in the open water, about 10 metres across and full of young salmon jumping about and splashing around. No evidence of gross environmental destruction, really, but I suppose you wouldn't see it.
Our plan had been to paddle up a tidal creek, which would have brought us to a few yards from where the car was parked on a narrow strip of land opposite the Vikings' loch. However an injudicious decision to stop for a swift half on the way over meant that there was no creek to be seen, just a narrow mudflat with grassy banks and the hulls of a couple of abandoned boats embedded in the ooze. Going back was out of the question. Nick managed to make his way to the left-hand bank without major mishap; I decided to head for the side nearest the car. Having dragged the boat over the mud with the help of the paddle (great exercise for anyone hoping for weight loss), and leaving a trail like some kind of monster lobster, I still had to haul it up the bank and over a field to the road, where I ended up, dripping with sweat and estuarine slime. Fortunately there aren't many passers-by in Barra. I had good shower before dinner but the smell tends to linger... and made a mental note to pay more attention to tide tables, and less to the siren calls of men suggesting just the one for the road.
Day 3: the wind was a comfortable 3-4, the sun still shining and we paddled round the little, uninhabited island of Maol Domhnaich before coming back in time to meet Charlie Skrine off his ferry. This time we did see seals, basking on the rocks and plopping into the water to give us the once-over as we approached. Their heads in the water look like Labradors with long whiskers and they love to follow kayaks from a safe distance, ducking out of sight if you look round and make eye contact. We also met some less than friendly cormorants in the sea caves, who have the charming habit of flying out and regurgitating on you. I have reason to believe this is deliberate.
We got back with a little time to spare and headed to the cafe‚ with the best view in the UK, which is run by Nick's old friend Sheila. There we sat at a bench and had a cup of tea and a slice of cake, looked out across the sea, and waited for the ferry to come into sight. We would then be able to nip back to the boats and paddle out to meet Charlie from the water. As the ferry seemed to be running late we had a second cup of tea and a second slice of cake. The previous owners of the cafe, Sheila said, used to sit here and watch the ferry coming in. "We've been here 27 years now and never had time." We were about to embark on a third slice of cake when Sheila suggested we ought to go and pick up our friend. "But the ferry isn't here yet!" we said. "Oh you wouldn't be able to see it from here," she told us. "It comes in from Tiree. It's been here 20 minutes already." So we leaped back into the car and intercepted Charlie heading towards the canoe hut.
Our afternoon paddle took us round the east side of the island to the Piper's cave (the Piper and his dog had gone in there together, the dog emerging 100 years later and the piper after another 300). The cave was dark and appeared to have no end.
Day 4: sun and some cloud. A light wind. We started to paddle around Vatersay and immediately saw a family of otters, to be followed plenty of seals. After a snack-stop at a secluded beach, we headed out round the end of the island into the Atlantic swell. We made our way round a first headland through some impressive clapotis and looked for Nick's best surf beach; the waves were coming from the wrong direction and surf was not to be seen, so we made for the next headland. As we approached, we began to see a promising gap, though as we got closer we could see some kind of disturbed water through it. Almost there - "I don't like the look of that," I say. "Neither do I!" says Nick and charges straight into it. Charlie and I follow and just manage to avoid a large submerged rock (the cause of the waves we could see), on the way out, then find we have passed through the gates of Hell and are now really out in the Atlantic, with some real swell this time, and massive chop caused by the waves bouncing about in three directions at once. The minutes go by and I start to think I may not capsize and end up on the cliff after all. We can see our destination ahead: a wide inlet with a big cliff on the far side. I relax. At this point a wave suddenly breaks a few hundred yards ahead, just where we have been planning to turn. A shiver runs down my spine. "And that's why you always have to look ahead of you when you are out on the sea," Nick tells us. "There must be a reef there and maybe only one wave in fifty breaks on it." That's all well and good, I think to myself, but we have to go across it anyway. But I put thoughts of wave number fifty hitting my boat sideways on, follow the traditional French advice to "serrez les fesses," and as luck would have it we manage to avoid any more rogue surf and make it round the corner.
There was a good mile slog from there to the causeway linking Vatersay with Barra, which we had to cross on foot, but I managed to charm a local lobster fisherman - always look impressed with size of a man's lobsters - into giving us "lobster caviar" and some spare crab claws. From then on back into the water and a short paddle home, where we boiled up the crab - and it was the best I've ever tasted - just in time for me to catch the ferry back to the mainland and what I had always regarded as reality until now.
Nothing had prepared me for the beauty of the Western Isles, the pure clarity of the water, the golden beaches, the blue of sea and sky against the green of the hillsides, the swathes of yellow flag iris, the calls of corncrakes in the bright evening, the perfect simplicity of the landscape and the pervasive presence of the sea. I also discovered an entirely unexpected liking for sea-food and single malt, and even, oddly enough, the products of the Tennants brewery. I'll be back.
Liz Sheridan