Tracy's Blog

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 !

The idea had been brewing for months, a speck of adventure growing into a full-blown ambition: sail to St Kilda. For anyone with a love for the wild, remote places of the world, St Kilda holds an almost mythical status – a UNESCO World Heritage site, a cluster of islands rising dramatically from the Atlantic, steeped in history and a haven for incredible wildlife. Our vessel, a sturdy but not-too-large yacht, was prepped, and our crew, a mix of seasoned sailors and eager novices (myself firmly in the latter camp), were ready. Our starting point: the picturesque, welcoming harbour of Tobermory on the Isle of Mull.

Leaving Tobermory, the sun was shining, the waters of the Sound of Mull were relatively calm, and a sense of optimistic anticipation filled the air. We knew St Kilda wouldn't be a gentle cruise, but nothing quite prepares you for the reality of the open Atlantic. As we cleared the shelter of the Inner Hebrides, the swell began to build, and the true nature of our journey revealed itself.

The hours that followed blurred into a rhythmic dance with the ocean. Our watches were a strict but necessary rotation: two hours on, four hours off. On deck, it was a constant battle of wits and strength against the elements. The wind howled, the waves crashed over the bow, and the boat pitched and rolled with an alarming, relentless motion. Every muscle ached, every fibre of your being was focused on the task at hand – holding the course, trimming the sails, keeping a watchful eye on the horizon. For an inexperienced sailor like me, it was a baptism of fire, a crash course in humility and the sheer power of nature.

When off watch, the "rest" was often as challenging as the work. Below deck, the front cabin became a chaotic tumble dryer. Sleep was a sporadic, fitful affair, punctuated by the violent lurching of the boat. More than once, I was literally thrown from my bunk, landing in a heap amidst a scattering of bags and gear. The constant creaking and groaning of the boat, combined with the relentless pounding of the waves against the hull, created a cacophony that made true relaxation impossible. You'd drift in and out of consciousness, acutely aware of the forces at play just inches from your head.

Twenty hours we battled the elements, twenty hours of relentless motion and the humbling realisation of our smallness in the vast expanse of the ocean. There were moments of doubt, moments of nausea, and certainly moments when I questioned the sanity of this whole endeavour. But then, as the first hint of grey began to pierce the inky blackness of the pre-dawn sky, something shifted.

It was precisely 6 AM when I was jolted awake, not by the violent motion, but by an excited whisper from the companionway. "Look!"

Scrambling out of my bunk, I peered out of the small portlight, and then, clambering on deck, the sight that greeted me stole my breath away. Poking through the ethereal mist that clung to the water's surface, like ancient sentinels emerging from a dream, were the dramatic, imposing outlines of St Kilda.

The harsh, grey light of dawn slowly revealed the sheer cliffs of Hirta, the main island, rising majestically from the sea. The iconic Stacs – Boreray, Stac Lee, and Stac an Armin – stood like jagged teeth, their summits shrouded in wisps of cloud. The raw beauty was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the tumultuous journey we had endured. The exhaustion, the discomfort, the fear – all of it melted away in the face of this extraordinary panorama.

To sail to St Kilda is more than just a journey; it's an experience that tests your limits and rewards you with a profound sense of awe. For an inexperienced sailor, it's a monumental undertaking, but the memory of that dawn, with St Kilda slowly revealing itself through the mist, will forever be etched in my mind as one of the most beautiful and hard-won sights I have ever witnessed. It was a reminder that sometimes, the most incredible destinations demand the most challenging voyages. And oh, was it worth it.