Tracy's Blog

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!