Tracy's Blog

The final morning had arrived. After a fantastic (and occasionally, hilarious) sailing adventure, it was time for the bittersweet farewells. There were hugs, handshakes, and promises to "definitely keep in touch!" – the kind of promises you make when you've just shared an intense week in close quarters, battling everything from sluggish fuel pumps to elusive pub berths.

But alongside the genuine sadness of parting ways with our wonderful crew, there was another, far more enthusiastic goodbye I was personally ready to bid: goodbye to our horrendous cabin!

Oh, that cabin. Let's just say it was… an experience. It was hot. It was sweaty. It was perpetually coated in a fine sheen of condensation, making everything feel vaguely damp. And as for room? Forget about it. You basically had to surgically remove an appendage to turn around. I've always considered myself more of a "four-star hotel with good air conditioning" kind of person, and this trip definitively confirmed it. I am, unequivocally, no camper. I just never quite realised that "sailing adventure" involved quite so much… intimate living.

With our goodbyes done, Malc and I set off for the next mini-adventure: hoping our car was still where we'd left it. You see, we'd parked it in what could only be described as a "rather dodgy place" – specifically, behind a closed Homebase shop. Visions of smashed windows and missing tyres danced in my head. But thank god, it was there, and in tact! A small victory, but a mighty one.

After a quick, celebratory (and surprisingly expensive) £200 dash in Lidl – because apparently, sailing makes you ravenously hungry for bulk snacks – we were finally homeward bound. The open road, the promise of personal space, and the sweet, sweet thought of a clean bed tonight.

I cannot wait! The sheer luxury of lying flat, without worrying about being jostled by waves or bumping my head on a low ceiling, feels like the greatest prize of all. Farewell, tiny damp cabin; hello, glorious, sprawling, perfectly dry mattress! It's going to be the best sleep of my life.

Ah, the final leg! Tobermory to the beautiful Isle of Kerrera. The sun was absolutely beaming, the kind of sunshine that makes you want to spontaneously burst into a sea shanty (which, thankfully, we resisted). The sea was flat, glorious, and shimmering, a perfect mirror reflecting the impossibly blue sky. It felt a million miles away from the wild, choppy waters we'd encountered further north in the Atlantic. And just to top it all off, more dolphin sightings! Those playful, finned acrobats seemed determined to give us a proper send-off.

The vibes were immaculate. Pimm's was flowing on deck – because what's a leisurely sail without a quintessential British summer drink? We were all basking in that blissful, end-of-trip glow, reminiscing about our adventures, and generally feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

Of course, this idyllic scene led to a slightly... relaxed departure from Tobermory. Who needs punctuality when you have dolphins and Pimm's, right? This, naturally, meant a rather late arrival on Kerrera.

Now, we had a dinner reservation. A proper, sit-down, linen-napkin-type dinner reservation. And we were, shall we say, not quite in our "dinner best." The scramble began! We practically hurdled across the deck to get to the showers, envisioning ourselves emerging refreshed, revitalized, and ready to impress.

Oh, the irony! The day was so scorching hot, and our dash to the showers so frantic, that by the time we’d toweled off, we were just as hot and sweaty as we were before. It was like a comical, self-defeating cycle of perspiration. We looked at each other, a motley crew of slightly damp, slightly red-faced sailors, and burst out laughing. So much for pristine.

Despite our slightly dishevelled appearance, we had an absolutely fabulous meal on Kerrera. The food was divine, and the company even better. We sat there, all of us, reliving every hilarious mishap, every breath taking vista, and every unforgettable moment of our journey. From the wild dash to the Tobermory pub (and our subsequent failure), to the three-hour fuel stop that turned into a puffin shopping spree, to our final, sweaty arrival on Kerrera, it had been an adventure for the books. And as we raised a glass, I couldn't help but think: sometimes, the most memorable moments aren't about perfectly executed plans, but about embracing the unexpected, laughing at your own expense, and sharing it all with a fantastic crew.

Have you ever had a travel moment where everything went wrong, but it still ended up being perfect?

Ah, the glamour of sailing! Sun-drenched decks, salty air, the wind in your... well, you get the picture. What they don't always tell you about in those glossy brochures, however, is the utterly captivating (and occasionally soul-crushing) experience of fuelling up. Our post-Canna, pre-Tobermory pub-dash adventures had left us a little parched, both literally and fuel-tank-wise. So, bright and early the next morning, we embarked on what we thought would be a quick pit stop in Tobermory.

Three hours. Yes, you read that right. Three. Glorious. Hours. Of waiting. I'm not entirely sure if the fuel pump was running on a hamster wheel, or if the petrol was being siphoned directly from a very slow-drip IV bag, but it took an age. An absolute age.

However, as with most things in life (especially when you're forced to wait), there was a silver lining. This unexpected time warp granted us the golden opportunity to truly explore Tobermory's fabulous main street. And let me tell you, it's a treasure trove!

With the clock ticking (albeit very, very slowly on the fuel front), we embarked on a whirlwind of last-minute retail therapy. Our mission? To find perfect thank-you gifts for the unsung heroes of our sailing escapade: our incredibly patient pet sitters and the saintly farm workers who were holding down the fort back home.

First on the list were Mary and Willie. Now, Mary is a sprightly 77, and Willie, her partner in crime, a youthful 84. These two absolute legends had taken on the monumental task of looking after our menagerie. Finding something suitable for such esteemed individuals required careful consideration. We debated everything from a lifetime supply of shortbread (tempting) to a small, hand-knitted replica of our farm (perhaps a bit much).

Michelle for minding the house cats!!!Wine, Wine and more Wine !!

Then, our best friend had just welcomed their first grandchild into the world. What do you get a brand-new human, fresh out of the factory? Something iconic, something adorable, something unmistakably Scottish yet universally charming.

A puffin. Of course! A fluffy, colourful, utterly delightful puffin soft toy. Because nothing says "welcome to the world, little one!" quite like a seabird with an existential gaze. So, while our boat slowly, agonizingly, became re-energised, we emerged victorious, laden with gifts. The three-hour fuel stop, initially a source of mild exasperation, had transformed into a delightful shopping spree. And all thanks to a surprisingly sluggish pump and the pressing need to thank those who make our adventures possible. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I hear the gentle gurgle of a full fuel tank... and maybe, just maybe, the distant call of a Tobermory pub. Though I'm not holding my breath this time.

After a truly cracking day of wildlife spotting and exploring the utterly charming Isle of Canna, our intrepid crew set sail for the bright lights (and even brighter pubs) of Tobermory. Spirits were high, particularly for one of our number who had a singular, unwavering focus: to get to the pub before last orders. Let's call him "Thirsty Jon."

I've never quite grasped the sheer, unadulterated length of time it takes to get from one place to another when you're relying on the whims of the wind. Thirsty Jon, however, seemed to possess an internal pub-o-meter, ticking down the precious minutes. This translated into a rather exhilarating (and slightly terrifying) dash across the waves. Our sails were trimmed to within an inch of their lives, groaning under the strain as we tried to wring every last knot of speed out of our trusty vessel. It was thrilling, I tell you, genuinely thrilling! Or maybe that was just the fear of disappointing Thirsty Jon. Finally, with an hour to spare before closing time, we positively flew into Tobermory Bay. "Yes!" we all silently (or not so silently) cheered. Pub success was within our grasp! We could practically taste the… well, whatever one tastes in a Scottish pub on a summer evening.

And then, reality, like a rogue wave, slapped us in the face. The pontoon. It was full. Utterly, completely, dishearteningly full. We circled. We peered. We hoped. We prayed. We even considered politely asking someone if they wouldn't mind just popping off for a bit. But alas, to no avail. Round and round we went, a sad, pub-less nautical carousel.

Defeated but not entirely demoralized, we conceded. A mooring it was for us. The dream of a celebratory pint vanished quicker than a free dram at a ceilidh. As for me, still in my PJs (don't ask, it was a Canna thing), the thought of a warm bunk suddenly seemed far more appealing than squeezing into a crowded pub. So while Thirsty Jon likely shed a tear into his emergency hip flask, I was happily tucked up, dreaming of the wildlife we'd seen, rather than the beer we hadn't.

Another glorious sailing adventure, even if it didn't quite end with a triumphant pub crawl. Next time, Tobermory, next time!

What a difference the sun makes! Our latest sailing adventure was absolutely glorious, proving that a little sunshine can transform everything. And we weren't the only ones enjoying it.

On our way to Canna, the wildlife put on an incredible show. We spotted dolphins leaping through the waves, the distinctive shapes of puffins, and majestic gannets diving for fish. As we approached Canna, we even said, "It's a shame we didn't see a whale." Then, as if by magic, a couple of minke whales surfaced right before our eyes! I'm still kicking myself for being a "shit photographer" and not capturing the moment, but I'm holding out hope that one of my fellow crew members got some cracking shots.

Entering Canna didn't disappoint. The island was utterly amazing, with crystal blue waters and gorgeous, picturesque buildings. I hadn't packed my swimsuit, so I settled for a refreshing paddle in my undies while Malcolm tackled a challenge set by our skipper, Simon, for young Mark.

We also visited a beautiful church with a stone roof that Malcolm had never seen anything like before – a truly unique architectural gem. Back on board, the fun continued. Two of our crew members were practicing for their competent crew certificates, diligently towing around the boat. Then, four of us couldn't resist the allure of the sea and decided to jump off the boat into the glorious water. After the initial shock of the chill, it was absolutely exhilarating! I loved every second of it.

To cap off a perfect day, we enjoyed a lovely dinner on board, cooked by our skipper Simon. It was all so perfect, we really should have spent the night there! But alas, the adventure continued, and off we went again.

Another night, in our "cabin" – if you can even call it that. "Cosy" isn't the word I'd use; "claustrophobic" is probably more accurate, especially with two of us in there. When the lack of space dragged us awake at 4:30 AM, Malc was itching to get out and hit the public showers. His logic? Beat the rush of all the other sailors and campers. My logic? Five more minutes of cuddle time, please!

Eventually, practicality won. He made his escape around 5 AM, and I grudgingly followed suit shortly after. Now, let me be clear: I know some people absolutely adore the "roughing it" experience – camping, shared facilities, the whole shebang. I am not one of those people. The thought of communal showers usually fills me with a special kind of dread.

But credit where credit's due, we got lucky this morning. We had hot water! A small victory, perhaps, but a significant one when you hear that some of our fellow travellers weren't so fortunate. After three days without a proper shower, feeling fresh and clean was a luxury we all savoured.

Once everyone was fed, watered, and feeling human again, we set off. And what a difference a day makes! Gone were the grey skies and choppy waters. Instead, we were greeted with brilliant blue skies and calm, shimmering seas as we made our way towards the beautiful Isle of Canna. It seems even I can appreciate the beauty of the outdoors when I'm not fighting for elbow room or hot water!

What started as a journey to the remote and stunning archipelago of St Kilda quickly turned into an endurance test. After a grueling 20-hour journey just to reach St Kilda, the news of yet another lengthy trip, kicking off at 4 PM, was met with an internal scream: "I effing hate this!"

Oh, how I wished for a democratic vote! My arm would have shot up, enthusiastically campaigning for "anything but another long journey." But alas, we were so far off the beaten path that our destiny was sealed. We had no choice but to push on. Our next destination: the Isle of Canna.

The journey continued, taking us through the beautiful Dunvegan Sound in Skye. Eventually, we landed in Carbost, the spiritual home of Talisker whisky. By the time we arrived, it was too late for a distillery tour, much to my chagrin. However, our spirits were lifted by a truly fabulous meal at The Old Inn. The food was incredible, but our enjoyment was cut short when poor Malc started experiencing heart palpitations. It was a stark reminder of the long and arduous days we'd already endured. This trip had certainly tested our limits, transforming a picturesque adventure into a challenging feat of endurance. But even amidst the exhaustion and unexpected turns, there were moments of beauty and delicious respite.

What started as a journey to the remote and stunning archipelago of St Kilda quickly turned into an endurance test. After a grueling 20-hour journey just to reach St Kilda, the news of yet another lengthy trip, kicking off at 4 PM, was met with an internal scream: "I effing hate this!"

Oh, how I wished for a democratic vote! My arm would have shot up, enthusiastically campaigning for "anything but another long journey." But alas, we were so far off the beaten path that our destiny was sealed. We had no choice but to push on. Our next destination: the Isle of Canna.

The journey continued, taking us through the beautiful Dunvegan Sound in Skye. Eventually, we landed in Carbost, the spiritual home of Talisker whisky. By the time we arrived, it was too late for a distillery tour, much to my chagrin. However, our spirits were lifted by a truly fabulous meal at The Old Inn. The food was incredible, but our enjoyment was cut short when poor Malc started experiencing heart palpitations. It was a stark reminder of the long and arduous days we'd already endured. This trip had certainly tested our limits, transforming a picturesque adventure into a challenging feat of endurance. But even amidst the exhaustion and unexpected turns, there were moments of beauty and delicious respite.

Leaving St Kilda is never easy. After s day immersed in its raw beauty, ancient history, and incredible wildlife, the thought of turning our backs on those dramatic cliffs felt almost sacrilegious. But as we weighed anchor and began our slow departure, St Kilda had one last, breathtaking gift for us.

As our boat rounded the corner of the main island, Hirta, we were met with a sight that genuinely stole our breath. The sky, from horizon to horizon, was absolutely teeming with birds. It wasn't just a few scattered individuals; it was an uncountable, swirling mass of life. Fulmars glided effortlessly on the updrafts, their stiff-winged flight a masterclass in aerial grace. Below them, gannets plunged like feathered arrows into the rich, dark waters, sending up spectacular plumes of spray as they hunted. And amongst them all, the unmistakable, comical figures of puffins whirred past, their little wings beating furiously as they commuted between their cliffside burrows and the bountiful sea.

It was an aerial ballet on an epic scale. So many birds filled the air that they looked less like individual creatures and more like a vast, living cloud, shimmering and shifting with every beat of a wing. It was almost like watching a swarm of midges, but on an infinitely grander, more majestic scale. Everywhere you looked, the air was alive. Above us, beside us, ahead of us – the sky was a canvas painted with the constant, purposeful movement of thousands upon thousands of seabirds.

I fumbled for my phone, desperate to capture the moment, to show everyone back home this incredible spectacle. But, of course, the battery was dead – a common casualty of remote adventures and constant photo attempts! For a fleeting second, disappointment gnawed at me. Then, I remembered my trusty, old-school camera. It meant I wouldn't see the pictures until much later, once we were back home and I could upload them to my computer. But it also meant something else: I had to be present. I had to simply watch, and marvel, and let this utterly amazing scene imprint itself directly onto my memory.

And that's exactly what I did. For what felt like an eternity, but was probably just a few unforgettable minutes, I stood on deck, head tilted back, simply absorbing the sheer abundance of life. It was St Kilda's grand farewell, a powerful reminder of its immense ecological importance and the wild, untamed spirit that thrives on its shores. As the islands slowly receded into the mist behind us, the image of that bird-filled sky lingered, a vibrant, living testament to one of the most extraordinary places on Earth.

After a particularly lively (and, if I'm honest, somewhat undignified) disembarkation from the small tender onto the main island of Hirta, we finally set foot on the hallowed ground of St Kilda. The journey across the open Atlantic had been a test of endurance, but the sheer anticipation of being here, on this remote, iconic archipelago, washed away any lingering seasickness.(https://www.tractors-to-tillers.com/content/images/20250714182744-DSC_0559.JPG) Our arrival was met by the resident ranger, a fount of knowledge and passion for these islands. Standing on the often-windswept ground, we received a fascinating briefing, learning about the unique history of the St Kildan people, their remarkable resilience, and the fragile ecosystem that now thrives here. The weight of centuries of human endeavor and the wild beauty of the place pressed in on us, creating an almost palpable sense of connection to the past.

With the ranger's words echoing in our minds, our next mission was clear: puffins. These charismatic, clown-faced birds were high on everyone's must-see list. The ever-present St Kilda mist, however, had other ideas, swirling around us, obscuring the higher slopes where the puffin colonies typically reside. We started our ascent, spirits undimmed, hoping for a break in the weather.

And then, as if by magic, the mist lifted, just enough. A window of opportunity opened, revealing the steep, grassy incline ahead. We scrambled upwards, our eyes scanning the cliff face, and there they were! A scattering of vibrant orange beaks and comical waddles. We found a suitable spot, hunkering down amongst the tussocks, and spent a good while simply lying there, mesmerized. The puffins, seemingly unperturbed by our presence, went about their busy lives – preening, digging burrows, and occasionally taking clumsy, flapping flights to the sea below. It was a privilege to witness them in their natural habitat, a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.

Our idyllic puffin-watching, however, was dramatically interrupted. A shadow fell over us, and with a rush of wind and a flash of dark feathers, a Great Skua – often called "pirates of the sky" – swooped in. The puffins, sensing danger, scattered in a flurry of panic. It was a stark reminder of the harsh realities of nature's food chain, and while a little disheartening for our feathery friends, a powerful demonstration of the wildness of St Kilda.

As quickly as it had cleared, the mist descended once more, thick and enveloping, signalling our cue to retreat from the higher ground. We carefully made our way back down towards the village, the visibility dropping dramatically with every step.

Our next stop was a fascinating journey back in time: the museum at Number 3, The Street. This humble building, one of the restored houses of the former village, now serves as a poignant testament to the lives of the St Kildan people. Inside, the exhibits transport you to a bygone era. We saw tools, clothing, photographs, and personal effects that spoke volumes about the daily struggles and simple joys of a community living on the edge of the world. The attention to detail in the restoration and the thoughtful curation of the artefacts made it an incredibly immersive and moving experience. It provided a vital human context to the dramatic landscapes we had just witnessed and left us with a profound respect for the resilience and unique culture of those who called St Kilda home.

Leaving St Kilda, the feeling was one of deep satisfaction mixed with a touch of melancholy. It's a place that gets under your skin, a testament to both nature's raw power and humanity's enduring spirit. Our visit, from the unceremonious landing to the fleeting glimpse of puffins and the poignant visit to the museum, was an unforgettable chapter in our adventure to the edge of the world. Now we just had to face the journey back across the North Atlantic !