August 7, 2026

August 7th

Here we are, then, at Stornoway, on the Outer Hebrides — arrived at last, and at the third attempt. The first was nine years ago, on our original circumnavigation, when we simply ran out of time. The second came in May, when, having reached Tobermory on Mull, we found several days of unrelenting headwinds ranged against us, and elected instead to go where the wind actually wanted us to go, which turned out to be up the canal to Inverness. However, we are ahead of ourselves…

Today turned out to be a weather window not to be missed. Strong winds on Wednesday, and more forecast for Friday, left a narrow gap through which to scuttle across The Minch. Sailing, as we’ve said before, is a business of a hundred small decisions, go or stay, is the wind kind or merely tolerable, too strong or too weak, will the tide still be OK when we arrive? Today offered its usual quota of these. Stornoway lies roughly north-west of Ullapool, and the wind for the first four hours was rather unhelpfully, coming from precisely that direction. A shift to the south-west was promised later, which would suit us perfectly, though quite when “later” might arrive was anyone’s guess. So do we motor on the direct line, or tack laboriously upwind for six hours and see what turned up?

We decided to go. With the cupboards rammed, the diesel tank nearly full and the water topped up, we slipped from the pontoon into the early morning light over the loch, the sky a noncommittal mix of cloud and blue that gave nothing away about what the passage west might hold.

It being early August, we were dressed in our summer finest…summer, that is, by Scottish reckoning, which less shorts and more thermals…

As we eased out, there was little sign of life aboard the elegant tall ship Flying Dutchman, nor on the fishing boats still tied up at the quay, and Ullapool looked lovely in the early light as we motored gently away, promising ourselves, as one does, that we’d be back.

The loch’s exit is guarded by a scatter of rocky outcrops and islands, past stern-faced cliffs that seem set there for the purpose, and with a swell running from the north and the wind stubbornly on the nose, we simply motored on, trusting that the promised sou’wester would arrive sooner rather than later.

For company we had, for a while, a single small fishing boat, and little else, as we chugged steadily westward.

A passage of eight or nine hours soon settles into its own rhythm: coffee at reasonably regular intervals, the odd biscuit, a nap here and there, and (old habits persisting) the log kept up hourly and the position dutifully plotted on paper charts, which we still favour. There remains something quietly satisfying about reaching the next fold in the chart. With a lumpy sea running, lunch was soup, from mugs rather than any tureen, silver service being conspicuously absent, and chunks of bread, and still the rain held off, for all the darkening cloud now gathering over what was unmistakably Lewis and Harris. Somebody’s god, evidently, was smiling on us.

When the wind shift finally came, it came quickly, and Heydays was soon scudding along on a glorious beam reach, full main and genoa drawing beautifully through a rainless, occasionally sunlit afternoon. The wind built steadily over the next hour, sending us back on deck to put a couple of reefs in the main and roll away some genoa. It also brought with it the short, confused chop of wind against tide, and although Heydays is a dry boat as boats go, we still shipped the odd lump of green water over the side for our trouble.

This was sailing at its best, and all too soon we were thirty minutes out from Stornoway and thinking about sails down and the business of entering harbour. We were asked, along with a fishing vessel also waiting its turn, to hold station while a vast cruise ship negotiated what for it was a decidedly narrow entrance. We idled about, occupying ourselves with ropes and fenders and the general choreography of arrival, and were rather amused to hear the harbourmaster politely informing the cruise ship that he had a yacht and a fishing boat waiting, and would it kindly get on with it. It steamed past in due course, trailing a cloud of exhaust,

and we came in behind it, past the imposing bulk of Lews (correct spelling!) Castle,

…and a couple of seals waiting patiently next to a fishing boat…

…to our first landing in the Hebrides.

The weather is closing in for the next 3 days and so we will do some general touristy bits, but for us…this felt like an adventure. Not the stuff of oceans, but a sense of achievement at bringing the old girl to one of the more remote parts of the country…

August 5, 2026

August 5th…back to the old girl….

July has been spent “down south,” as they probably don’t say here in Ullapool, re-acquainting ourselves with friends, family, grandchildren, and the various small trials that come with each.

The south of England, meanwhile, treated us to its third proper heatwave of the summer, temperatures loitering in the low thirties and sleep reduced to a nightly fight over which side of the pillow might, briefly, pretend to be cool. Be careful what you wish for, as someone once said.

Tuesday the 4th duly arrived, waking us bleary in the near-dark for the thirteen-hour haul north via Milford on Sea. We had, of course, been watching the forecasts, and knew perfectly well that the north-west of Scotland had not been sharing in the south’s toasting. What we hadn’t quite bargained for was the precision of it: roughly a degree lost for every hundred miles, so that by the border we were down to sixteen and hunting for a jumper. The waterproofs came out not long after. The landscape, it must be said, was doing rather better than Dorset’s uniform brown, lush and green in a way that had an obvious explanation, which duly arrived in the form of driving rain and wipers struggling to keep pace. This, apparently, is what we had wished for.

By Ullapool the deluge had eased to something merely damp, and after a few unsuccessful circuits in search of anywhere still serving food, we settled for the Essence of India, unprepossessing from the outside but generous with both flavour and value, and a great welcome home.

The harbourmaster ran us out to Heydays through the gathering gloom, and we were soon aboard, unpacking in a very cursory way at the end of a long day, fortified by a couple of nips of rum. Sleep came quickly after that, with no fan whirring in pursuit of nonexistent cool air, and, for once, no need to sleep on top of the covers rather than under them.

Heydays had been on a mooring in the loch for the last few weeks, but we decided for convenience to bring her into a pontoon for a day. Despite a rather grey morning, it was great just to get water flowing past her keels again, even if it was just for a few hundred metres and in the company of the morning ferry from Stornaway…

The day’s plan is the usual mix: an aging old girl requiring her now-customary quota of small repairs and general fussing to keep her in fine form, and a Tesco run for the essentials, namely coffee, wine, bread, milk, eggs, and wine.

With rain forecast we set off with the loose intention of shopping first and finding lunch second, though a hint of sunshine rearranged our priorities, and noon found us at The Seafood Shack, a real favourite from last time. It has the considerable advantage of a gin bar next door, which by five past twelve was already close enough to the first drink of the evening.

A thoroughly glorious place, made more so by harbour staff kind enough to let us park the car for a few weeks in what I gather is the harbourmaster’s mother’s own space.

Ullapool is a funny mix of the charm of a fishing village, complete with local gig rowers….

…and of course a small marina for the likes of us…

…set against the major ferry terminal serving the Outer Hebrides, providing a stark juxtaposition of the old dutch topsail schooner, against the rather less than environmentally friendly modern ferry…

With the rain still politely holding off, we managed a feeble gesture towards exercise, a stroll along the loch to watch the CalMac arrive in from Stornoway with a small fishing boat trailing dutifully behind.

We rounded the day off with a trip back to the pop-up gin bar and seafood shack and some very local music. Its funny how live music in context becomes entrancing, even if it is not something we would naturally be drawn to …

Tomorrow we follow the CalMac ferry back the way it came, wind permitting, with plans to take our time down through Lewis, Harris, the Uists, and Barra, before swinging back to Oban via the small isles, Canna, Rum, Eigg and the rest. That, at least, is the plan…this part of the world has a habit of making fools of the best laid plans.

Footnote: We hope not to follow the ferry in any literal sense…it reminded us of a very early trip acxross the chanel from Poole to Cherbourg (possibly even our first). This was in the days before decent GPS and when radio direction finding was considered state of the art (OK…so we’re old!). The fog came down, we were uncertain of our position, and then a ferry loomed out of the gloom and we followed it, hoping that it was the Cherbourg ferry and not the one bound for St Malo! It did go to Cherbourg, we did get there in one piece and we never fully trusted RDF again!