The drizzle had not relented, but the winds had subsided, perhaps a little run on Shemaron was in order, a trip up to Carradale would give her engine a blast and diminish accumulated weed growth, the result of her reasonably inactive summer. It felt good to be on the move heading out of Campbeltown Loch shielded from the weather by layers of waterproofing. Although it was wet it wasn’t the least bit cold, and the magic was still there, stronger in fact for the lack of vision. Landscapes and seascapes retain their magic and beauty in all weathers it is different I think in the towns and cities.
Talking of magic how often do you get to anchor under a rainbow? We were travelling on our very own treasure towards the rainbow that arched over Carradale Bay. The anchor chain rattled down to the seabed and held fast, patches of sun kept breaking through the cloud. I sat at the end of the rainbow with my back to the rigging, the sun on my head and my face was turned into the mist. Chris was busy at the stern, but I was away on a moment. Time slowed, boat time, sea time, we sat on the “sweep and throb of the Atlantic” caught in the natural elements, breathed the “undiluted essence of human health,” and healed a little from the rigours of life, (more poetic phrases from the Rev McLaren Young’s Southern Kintyre History). With the sea state not being conducive to a comfortable night, we decided to winch up the anchor, a task which seems to get easier each time we employ it and head back Campbeltown.
The weather closed around us making visibility difficult, Chris stood on the bow looking out while I took the wheel losing the land often while trying to keep the little arrow which, blipped reassuringly at me from the plotter screen, on track. Even Davaar island with its lighthouse was not visible until the last minute; we turned into the channel looking for the buoys we knew were there but could not see and cautiously returned to the harbour.