Tracy's Blog

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!

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.

Arrived last night, 6pm, I was regretting my decision to bring half my wardrobe with me, but whilst Malc parked car I found a fab wee trolley and a very helpful sailor, bost is a 1998 model, its not quite the below deck I envisaged ! But everyone is supet nice, and one passenger John is an expetienced sailor, which I think Simon, the skiper, is silently pleased about. After a saftey briefing, we headed to the pup for a few drams, or wine in my case! , got back on board about 12am, had an out of date chicken wrap before retiring to bed.

Bags packed and ready to go! mine is the nautical themed one!

A Drunken Decision - Real Horses to Sea Horses

For decades, our lives have been a carefully cultivated blend of rural grit and organised chaos.

Malc, a farmer through and through, has spent his life working the land, his hands weathered and his eyes fixed on the horizon of a different kind of field.

I’ve worn many hats—city girl, farmer’s wife, school secretary, sailing club secretary—each one teaching me something new. But our biggest adventure is still ahead of us.

After a few too many BRANDYS we took the plunge and booked a trip to sail the Atlantic. We’re trading the familiar rhythm of the farm, leaving the animals behind, for the unpredictable dance of the sea, setting a course for the remote, mythic islands of St Kilda.

This blog is our logbook, a chronicle of two unexpected sailors and one big leap of faith.