As seen in SAILING September 2002
By Betsy Crowfoot with photography by Christine Spreiter and Mark Pepper
We awoke to the now familiar patter of rain on the hatch overhead and savored the last moments of warmth. Although it was July, Scotland was relentlessly cool and drizzly. "Soft," the Scots called it and indeed, the surrounding hills were plush with grass and the rocks spongy with moss.
Sealgair, our 46-foot Oyster, rocked gently to port, then starboard, as our neighbors aboard the gaff-rigged Eda Frandsen started the process of shoving off. Nestled under a down comforter we listened to the crescendoing aubade: the heavy steps of the guys topside; Eda Frandsen's thick lines—ropes so fat you could hardly fit your hand around—sliding along the deck; the clanging of the teapot in the galley; all underscored with a lyrical Scottish brogue.
My daughter Coco, and I, had been invited to join the Classic Malts Cruise, which is held every July in northwest Scotland. Although not much of a whisky drinker, I was anxious to escape our flat in Southampton, a dreary industrial port, and see the countryside.
The Classic Malts Cruise is sponsored by United Distillers & Vintners, makers of various whiskies, Guinness, and other spirits. More than 100 boats come each year to enjoy a series of events at three distilleries. In between the cruisers meander through the scenic isles. We jumped in at the gathering at Talisker in the middle of the two-week cruise.
We flew into Inverness, about two-thirds of the way up the eastern coast of Scotland and the entry point of the Caledonian Canal, which links the North Sea to the Atlantic (for those wanting to avoid the northern passage around the aptly named Cape Wrath). Driving the length of this rift valley across Scotland, we began to absorb the atmosphere of the Highlands.
Coco strained to examine all 22 miles of Loch Ness as we rambled by, hoping for a glimpse of Nessie (first sighted by Saint Columba in 565 AD). At the foot of the loch we went west, driving past the Five Sisters, a quintet of mountains gouged with skinny waterfalls that shone like threads of mercury. We passed the beautifully restored Eilean Donan Castle, and traversed the new bridge that replaced the Cal Mac ferry roughly a decade ago, to the Isle of Skye.
Skye earned its name from the Norse term on skuy which means misty isle and true to form, foreboding clouds lapped over the Cuillin mountains. As we approached the small coastal hamlet of Carbost, people waved as they passed in cars that squeezed by on narrow gravel roads rimmed with tiny yellow daisies and pink clouds of heather.
Talisker's angular, white buildings stood out against a backdrop of ebony stone and verdant hills. Originally a sheep farm, the owners added a distillery in 1827 over the objection of local clergy. But by the end of the century Talisker had become one of Scotland's most popular single malts. During a tour of the distillery, we traipsed from the pungent mash tuns to the musty cellar where we, of course, sampled a wee dram even though the Talisker made my eyes weep. At 46-percent alcohol, it’s one of the strongest of the classic malts, with an intense peppery, peaty-iodine flavor. Meanwhile, the children enjoyed barrel-building contests and games of water shanty and lobster hunts (not for real lobsters, although seafood was abundant later that night, at a huge Ceilidh or Scottish country dance. Hardy sailors in matching blue fleece pullovers that were free to all participants gathered beneath a huge tent, where Scottish lore was played out in song and dance. Ruddy-faced cruisers reeled and stomped to "Strip the Willow" and "The Dashing White Sergeant," late into the night. There were hundreds of revelers, many who had done the cruise several times, since it's inception 10 years ago.
The fellows aboard Cicero of Rhu told me it was an annual getaway for them—a two-week-long boys-night-out. An Irish couple, Stephen Clarkson and Fiona O'Neil, also returned for their fourth cruise, enduring an 80-mile sprint across the North Channel and through the Inner Hebrides each time. Sailing Vilia, a slender, low-profiled 32-foot gaff-rigged sloop, from Belfast Loch was a challenge, Stephen said. But the scenery, so many choices of anchorages, and a good crowd of people kept luring them back. The cruise was definitely a family affair with sailors from 10 weeks old to … well, we were too polite to ask.
With Saturday's forecast for strong winds on the nose, our skipper Graham Moss, decided to get a head start on our first destination, 40 miles away. Already the yacht was bursting with aroma. Topi Morris, our cook and first mate, was busy preparing what would become a satisfying repertoire of classic Scottish dishes. She admitted she preferred to be below decks cooking, where it's warm, and had actually retired as a cruising chef before being talked into coming back for one more season.
Friday night we peeked at two anchorages to the southeast and decided to overnight at Soay, a stout figure-eight-shaped isle. It was only possible to enter the pinched isthmus at high tide, and carefully lining up two sticks ashore, we snuck in. As the tide dropped there was barely a skim of water over the shingle bar at the entrance. We were trapped, in a comfortable, protected harbor until morning.
The derelict remains of a post-World War II shark oil processing plant had survived just ashore and its moss-covered stone buildings and decaying metal boilers provided a playground for the crew the next morning while we waited for the tide to come in. Then, it was off to Loch Scavaig, a dramatic spot where a spidery waterfall cascaded down the cliff, tracing a ravine carved over the millennia.
The bay was shadowed by the 3,000-foot-high Black Cuillins, volcanic mountains with imposing names like Am Basteir (The Executioner) and An Garbh-choire (The Wild Cauldron) tackled by only the most adept mountaineers. We took the dinghy to a rickety-looking steel dock at the northern tip of the anchorage to go exploring and ran into two of these hikers—young women, burdened with backpacks as big as themselves. They had been perched for two rainy days in a tent near the landing, hoping not to miss the infrequent ferry. I’m sure we would have had stowaways if the small motorboat hadn't shown up to fetch them. Leaving, we passed near Prince Charles Cave, one of several places where Bonnie Prince Charlie hid after a blundering attempt to reclaim the throne of Scotland in 1745.
Sealgair was launched in 1989, as the wooden original for the Oyster 46 design. Built of two-inch mahogany, she was heavy and robust under way and secure down below. Coco and I shared a luxurious double berth aft, with our own head and hot shower. But we spent most of our time in the saloon, warmed by a perpetual kettle of tea, rocking to Scottish tunes from Topi's library: Anna Murray's Celtic funk; Dougie Maclean (who is to Scotland what John Denver is to the United States); Wolfstone; Capercaille and the Gorillaz.
Graham had leased the yacht for several seasons to run a charter business. In some ways, he pointed out, it was similar to an earlier stint as a guide in the Himalaya: both involved tending to customers and a fair amount of independence. Although he had spent eight years cruising these waters, he said there were still plenty of new places to explore. Considering Scotland has 787 islands and 6,338 miles of coastline, this wasn't surprising.
Close friends with Toby Robinson, the skipper of Eda Frandsen, Graham decided to buddy boat with them during the cruise. Eda Frandsen is a 1936 cutter originally built as a Danish fishing boat. Ten years ago she was decommissioned and converted for charter. Fifty-feet of classic, rustic beauty made Eda Frandsen appealing to groups, and she carried five guests, plus the crew, including Toby's mother Mary, as cook.
Together we approached Inverie: a span of humble whitewashed buildings in Knoydart, shadowed by the Munros, four 3,000-foot mountains coveted by a class of hikers called "Munro baggers," along the Bay of Loch Nevis. One of the few buildings was the Old Forge, Great Britain's most remote pub. There were no roads to this place, just well-worn footpaths and an "X" on the chart.
Another Ceilidh was rumored to be scheduled for Saturday night, and sure enough when we arrived, a dozen young women were clustered about a patchwork of tables. A few fellows had squeezed in too, including one who nodded off, despite the lively Gaelic music. Guests pushed aside the hodge-podge of chairs and tables, and soon a small scrap of dance floor had opened up. The band played feverishly all night on instruments we'd never seen before and even struck up Happy Birthday for Coco, who turned 10 that day.
On the way in we'd deposited our jackets near the door, on a pile of slickers the size of a buffalo. Somehow, on the way out, everyone retrieved the proper garment. Smugly we ambled out to the pier, until we realized the tide had receded during our outing, and our dinghy was spinning, ant-sized, in the water below.
We swarmed down the algae-slicked ladder, but the boat was another five feet beneath the last rung. Dangling and jumping, with the help of two sturdy sailors, we made it into the dinghy. Nearby a tottering old Scot attempted the same with great jolliness, and plunked right into the water. It was hardly waist deep and he continued to laugh as he pawed through the dozen or so boats until he found his, clambered in and rowed away.
The familiar patter of rain returned later that night so we were in no hurry Sunday morning. The seas and wind were flat, so we would take our time motoring to Muck Island. Its Gaelic name, Eilean Nam Muc, or Isle of Pigs, referred not to porky pigs, but sea hogs as evidenced by the corpulent seals that blended in with the smoothed rocks along the edge of the bay.
As soon as we set anchor at Muck, a smiling, blond, fresh-faced boy rowed out to greet us. He stood confidently on the gunwales and lifted up a plain metal bucket for us to examine. It was chock full of snapping pink crabs. Another bucket overflowed with fat blushing shrimp. We bought them all.
Muck is a bucolic, low-lying island, with the omnipresent sheep grazing in knee-high grass that stretches down to white sandy beaches. Its few residents are self-sufficient (there are just a couple dozen who stay there year-round) and until recently the handful of children were schooled in a corrugated iron shed with an outhouse. During our hour-long walk we saw no one, but experienced what would be a rare glimpse of Scottish sunshine. It was a glorious afternoon: blue skies and turquoise water.
Broad reaching under increasingly overcast skies, we made a pleasant 6 knots past several other isles: Eilean nan Each, Eilean Aird nan Uan and the neighboring enclave known presently as Eigg. Most of these islands are still almost completely undeveloped. In fact, only one-quarter of Scotland's islands are inhabited. An obstacle course preceded that night's anchorage. At the entrance to Loch Moidart sits Eilean Shona, so with cruising guide in hand, we picked our way through the rocks of the south channel, zigging and zagging, abreast a roaring countercurrent at one point, then past Castle Tioram. Built during the 13th and 14th centuries on a tidal island by the Macdonalds of Clanranald, Castle Tioram was the site of several skirmishes. Ultimately, in 1715, the owners burned it down to prevent it from falling into the enemy's hands. Every night Topi had invited other cruisers to join us for dinner and enjoy regional treats like Highland beef steaks, haggis (lamb gizzards with oatmeal) and seafood and on Monday night the crew of the 105-foot square rigger Jean de la Lune reciprocated with a whisky “nosing.”
Unlike my first nosing—a somber affair with furrowed brows and burrowed snouts—this was casual and fun. We nestled into cozy sofas in a paneled, carpeted retreat, we were prodded to use familiar terms to identify the flavors and aromas of the samples. Gingerly we began dissecting the scents: fig, cinnamon and vanilla, wild cherries, toffee, caramelized apples, mocha (I began to fantasize about Baskin Robbins) Smokey, spicy, medicinal, and so on.
Scotch whisky is basically just a distilled mixture of barley, water and yeast. But multifarious influences such as the water source; origin and strain of barley, as well as the yeast; climate; copper stills; the application of peat fire and smoke; the type of cask; location and length of aging—all define its flavors.
Slowly the flavors unfolded before me. Dalwhinnie, made in the central Highlands, harbored a heather-honey sweetness, while Lagavulin, from the outer isle of Islay, was potent and salty. Glenkinchie, sometimes referred to as a "lady's malt" (I scoffed) was a pale, dry aperitif made just miles from the capital city of Edinburgh in the eastern Lowlands, and hence had a lemon-grassy nose. Smooth and mildly fruity, with a hint of vanilla spice, Oban was made with water from the mossy hills adjoining the bay. Blending the delicate sweetness of the Highland malts with a touch of smokiness and a zephyr of sea air, it was no surprise that this would become my favorite.
We awoke Tuesday, none too heavy-headed, in Loch Droma na Buidhe, an elliptical anchorage between Morvern, on the mainland, and the Island of Oronsay. I bolted upright, startled not by rain but the howling of a strong westerly through the rigging. Overhead, amidst a cerulean sky, puffy white clouds streamed by. A trip to Tobermory—earlier discounted with predictions of rain—was back on and we left even before toast and tea.
After four days at sea, civilization was welcome. Tobermory did not disappoint, as the crescent of brilliantly colored two-story buildings appeared on the distant shore. The Tobermory Chocolate Company sat whimsically adjacent to street signs that warned "Weight Restriction Ahead." A gourmet food shop promised "Whisky Galore" and sold a cheese called ”Stinking Bishop". There was a laundromat, restaurants, pubs, and shops.
From here though the sailing got serious. We were bound for the Point of Ardnamurchan, the westernmost spit of the British mainland, and it was blowing like stink, of course, right on the nose. The guys proclaimed it a full Force 7 (about 30 knots) as we romped through the waves. Graham howled the Scottish equivalent to "Yee haw!" while everyone else clutched the cockpit combing. Once round the point we cracked off down the Sound of Mull on an invigorating sail the length of this fjord. In the 13th and 14th centuries a chain of castles was built on either side, making it possible to transmit a beacon signal from one to the next. We passed several of these citadels and ruins, and another classic: the J-Class yacht Velsheda, built in 1933.
At the foot of the sound, where the Lynn of Morven met Bernera Bay, we squeezed into a sliver of an anchorage between the small craggy Bernera Island, and the pastoral bluffs of Lismore. The skeleton of the old Bishop's Castle stood vigil as we relaxed that night in the cockpit of the sturdy wooden yacht. A Swiss photographer onboard described this trip as his "pilgrimage" as we bobbed imperceptibly at our mooring, sipping the world's most coveted single malts, and eavesdropped on Toby and his mate, Thew, singing softly on the bow of Eda Frandsen. Our resident distillery guy, Mike Nicolson, dug another bottle of some special vintage out of his duffel, for us to indulge.
Through the hatch, from the cabin below, came the delightful laughter of several children: a cacophony of giggles and snorts in a United Nations of dialects. The approach to colorful Tobermory A faint Scottish mist enveloped us—you could hardly say it was falling—as we sniffed and swirled and relished these sublime whiskies in a moment of peaceful bliss. The next morning the yacht would arrive in Oban, the gateway to the Hebrides on the Scottish mainland. By local standards Oban is a major port, with plenty of facilities and shops and another distillery. The fleet would layover for more parties, games, tastings and provisioning, before continuing south to the island of Islay and the final events at the Lagavulin distillery. But we would be getting off and returning to Southampton. I savored that final night under a soft Scottish sky and enjoyed another wee dram.
For more information on the Classic Malts Cruise visit www.worldcruising.com or for information on chartering in Scotland visit www.sailscotland.co.uk.
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