Easdale of the Slate Isles

Easdale was a significant milestone, as it was the final island on my final cruise as a guide on Hjalmar Bjørge. We'd spent the morning on na h-EiIeacha Naomha of the Garvellachs. Upon learning none of the guests had been to Easdale, I decided to make it the last island of the cruise.

And so, on a scorching hot, cloudless September afternoon, Skipper Tony motored Hjalmar Bjørge to an anchorage near the east entrance of the Sound of Easdale. We loaded into the inflatable and set off to the Easdale slipway. The slipway lies atop a slate-shard beach, and we had to get ashore quickly as the island ferry was fast approaching with a full load of passengers.

With seven quarries, some reaching 300 ft below sea level, Easdale had been the centre of the slate industry. As described by Patrick Gillies in Netherlorn, Argyllshire and its Neighbourhood, the island was severely damaged during a storm in 1881.

The working of this quarry came to a sudden and disastrous end. In the early morning of the 22nd November 1881, after a very severe gale of south-west wind followed by an exceptionally high tide, a large rocky buttress which supported a sea wall gave way under the excessive pressure of water, and at daybreak the quarry, which had been wrought to a depth of 250 feet below tide level, was found flooded, and two hundred and forty men and boys were thrown out of employment. Since then Easdale has not been prosperous. Lately, however, some of the old workings, abandoned about a century ago on account of the then inadequate machinery, have been reopened, and with sufficient capital and cautious management it is to be hoped that a long period of prosperity may ensue.

The slate works on Easdale ceased in 1911. Other quarries continued to operate for a few years. But, unable to compete with cheaper, imported slates and the use of clay tiles, they, too, became a thing of the past.

We were a bit thirsty - well, I was, anyway - so we went in search of The Puffer, the island cafe/pub. We found it thanks to this helpful sign, which also told us that Sydney was only 11,275 miles away. 

After refreshments, we walked the island paths before visiting the excellent museum, where there were as many ‘No Photography’ signs as there were displays. I was sorely tempted but refrained from taking photos of the 'No Photos' signs. 

The island was quiet as we walked the paths along the flooded quarries. The largest quarry, at the southeast corner of the island (pictured below), is where slate skimming competitions are held every year.

Fortunately for us, the skimming competition had taken place two weeks before. Nearly a thousand people would have been here, many of them clustered around this flooded quarry. Skimmers must launch from a rectangular slab of slate lying at the north end of the pond. We each stood on the slab and gave it a try. My attempts were pitiful. I blame it on the fact that there were no good skimming slates near the launch point. The area had been picked clean, and all the good stones lay at the bottom of the pond.

Each contestant must use Easdale slates no larger than three inches in diameter. They get three tries to see how far they can skim, and the stone has to bounce at least twice. The point where it sinks is deemed the length of the skim. The flooded quarry used for the competition is square, about 200 feet on a side (63 metres). If the skimmer hits the quarry’s far wall, they are given a score of 63 metres. The winner in 2024 skipped a total of 155 metres over three tries (a perfect score would be 189).

Later that evening, as Easdale disappeared astern, we set a course to Loch Spelve on Mull. An overnight anchorage at Spelve allows for a quick sail to Oban in the morning. And we needed to be quick. It would be a Friday, and the pontoons fill up fast on weekends. All the tour boats have to make a mad dash to Oban if they hope to secure a parking spot.

That Friday happened to be the last day of summer. As I carried my gear up the marina ramp to the busy streets of Oban, I thought back to a spring day eight years before, when I’d set out from Oban on my first guide trip. I also recalled a summer’s day in 2004 when I’d set out on my first cruise as a guest on Hjalmar Bjørge with skipper Mark Henrys. Over those twenty years of magic, I’ve been aboard her for fourteen cruises, spending over 140 nights in her snug bunks. I want to thank Debbie, Sally, Skipper Tony Morrison, Deckhand/Steward Colin McKinnon, Chef Steve Milne, and owner David Lambie for making the 2024 cruise memorable.

Na h-Eileacha Naomha of the Isles of the Sea

After exploring Inchkenneth, we set a course to na h-Eileacha Naomha, one of the Garvellachs, also known as The Isles of the Sea. On the island are the ruins of St Brendan's Monastery, which include two of the largest beehive cells in the Hebrides. The island is unusual in that it has four names: na h-Eileacha Naomha, Eileach an Naoimh, Aileach, and, to some, Hinba.

It's a tricky approach to get near the island. A series of black reefs known as Sgeirean Dubha guard the east side, so you must carefully motor around the south tip of the reefs before heading to the anchorage off the small inlet below the monastic ruins. The tide was high enough so that Colin, skippering the RIB, could set the three of us ashore near the head of the inlet.

Once ashore, I led Sally and Debbie up past St Columba's Well, a welcome sight for sea kayakers running low on fresh water.

The first stop on any tour is the island’s oldest ruin, a seventh-century double beehive cell. The corbelled stone roofs have collapsed, and the cells were altered for sheep pens at some point. These are the most massive beehives in Scotland, a dozen feet in diameter, with three-foot thick walls that once would have looked like the intact cloghauns on Sceilg Mhichil of Star Wars fame.

Just below the cells is an odd pillar about twelve feet high. Its top end overhangs to one side, creating a sheltered spot. It is a perfect preaching place that has come to be known as St Columba's Pulpit. We took turns preaching, but other than soaring seabirds, there was no one to appreciate our sermons.

From the pulpit, we climbed the ridge to the monastery. The most interesting ruin is an underground beehive cell, where we took turns sliding feet first into the small space. Patrick Gillies describes the cell in Netherlorn, Argyllshire and its Neighbourhood (1909):

Close to the chapel is an underground cell called Am Priosan, and tradition tells very circumstantially the mode of confining prisoners. There was a large stone in the bottom of the cell with a V-shaped depression; the prisoner placed his clasped hands in the hollow, and a wedge-shaped stone was securely fastened down over the palms of the hands, and so tightly that it was impossible to extricate them: the whole arrangement was called, a' ghlas laimh (the hand-lock). Probably, however, the underground cavity was a well, or maybe a cellar for storing the ‘elements.' 

In The Isles and the Gospel (1907), Hugh MacMillan describes a somewhat horrific way punishment was inflicted on the guilty miscreant. The cell can fill with water when it rains, and MacMillan speculates about a ‘curious custom’ of the Columban Church, where if a monk was guilty of a ‘grave offence’ he was required to seclude himself, and that:

Another punishment often inflicted for light offences was the recitation of the whole or part of the Psalter, with the body entirely immersed in water. This penance may have been carried out in the curious underground cell near the oratory, which, as I have said, is often half-filled with water during rainy weather. I was informed by some of the old people at Easdale that thirty or forty years ago, a curious stone was found near these beehive cells with a narrow aperture in it, which was used in the administration of justice. The accused was required to put his hand through it, when if innocent, he could withdraw it easily, but if guilty, his hand became swollen to such an extent that he was held fast.

The following photo is of the altar inside the underground cell and dates my first visit to Aileach (1997). There was no sign of the stone handcuffs.

On the hillside above the monastery lay the heart of Aileach: the circular mound of Cladh Eithne, the grave of Eithne, the mother of St Columba. Ten feet in diameter, it is rimmed by stones and marked by two upright slabs, one incised with a simple cross. Hugh MacMillan (quoted earlier) gives the lineage of Eithne as ‘the daughter of Dima, son of Ner, descended from Cathaeir Mor, King of Leinster, and afterwards all of Ireland.’

Is it truly Eithne’s grave? Maybe, maybe not. Even if not, it is the burial site of someone important, someone whose tomb is marked by one of the two remaining cross-stones on the island. There were once many such stones here, but they’ve been stolen.

Sitting at Eithne's Grave, overlooking one of the oldest Christian sites in the Hebrides, I wondered if this was Columba's Hinba. Many books on the Hebrides state, some with complete certainty, that it is, but in The Celtic Placenames of Scotland (1926), William Watson makes a convincing argument it is not. Based on the few written clues about Hinba, he concludes it was likely Jura. A few of the clues are:

Clue 1: When Columba founded the monastery on Hinba, he placed his uncle Ernan in charge.
Ernan, Columba’s uncle, was one of the men who’d come with him from Ireland. On Jura, ten miles south of Columba’s Cell at Tarbert, is Cill Ernadail, the cell of St Ernan.

Clue 2: Hinba has a Muirbolc Mar, a large sea bay.
Aileach does not have a large bay. Jura’s Loch Tarbert is certainly large. It is a mile wide at its western mouth at Ruantallain, where you’ll find one of the most remote bothies in the Hebrides. From there, as you sail east, it quickly narrows to 300 feet at the raised beaches at Cumhann Mòr, the big narrows. It continues to cleave its way across Jura, at one point narrowing to 100 feet at Cumhann Beag. The loch ends a mile and a half farther west at a point a half mile from the Sound of Jura, where—and here is another clue that Jura could be Hinba—you’ll find the chapel and well of St Columba.

Clue 3: Hinba was on the sea lanes from Ireland to the monastic settlements of the Hebrides.
After crossing from Ireland to Islay, a direct route north would be to go with the strong tides up the Sound of Islay, where Loch Tarbert was just around the corner. Alternately, if it was stormy or the tides were not favourable, a route east would lead up the Sound of Jura to Tarbert Bay. Columba had a cell at Tarbert, and from there, it would be a short portage to transport currachs to Loch Tarbert. 

Clue 4: ‘Hinba’ may derive from the Old Irish word inbe, an incision or a great gap.
Loch Tarbert cuts a seven-mile-long incision into the west coast of Jura. If it went another half a mile, Jura would be two islands. Rising sea levels may make that a reality, as only a fifty-foot increase will flood the ‘Tarbert.’ The following photo shows the site of Columba's Chapel at Tarbert. It is a charming spot, and in springtime, blooming daffodils tint its edges a bright yellow.

The sparse trail of clues to the location of Hinba is a fascinating one. Jura sounds most likely, but we will never know for sure. That may be a good thing. It is a mystery that has led many of those seeking Hinba to the remote shores of na h-Eileacha Naomha, Jura, Scarba, Oronsay, Canna, and several other isles of the magic west: a seeking that, in its fulfilment, is a blessing handed down the centuries from Columba and Ernan.

When the time came to leave, Sally, Debbie, and I returned to St Columba's Well. Unfortunately, the tide had dropped, and the inlet was dry. That required us to scramble across the rocks to a spot where Colin could get close with the RIB. It was not easy, but it was exhilarating to safely slide into the RIB after a day ashore on St Brendan's Aileach. 

Leaving the Garvellachs in our wake, we set a course for the final island of the cruise: Easdale of the Slate Isles

Inchkenneth

After a night at anchor in Lon Bearnus, we set a course west to circle around Ulva and Gometra. With the always-tempting Treshnish isles dotting the horizon to the west, we made our way along the southern coast of Ulva. Once past the collonaded castles, we motored into the shallow waters between Inchkenneth and Mull. The anchor was set, and we loaded into the inflatable to seek a landing on St Kenneth's Isle.

The tide was low, and the reefs that pierce the sea meant we had to putter a mile to the south, where we went ashore on the sandy beach of Chapel Bay. From there, it was an easy climb to the chapel. 

The thirteenth-century chapel sits on the site of St Kenneth’s monastery. Three chapel walls still stand, but the south wall is mostly missing. Entering through a door in its north wall, we came across a collection of carved medieval tombstones. Two lancet windows in the east gable let the sun shine on the scant remains of an altar. James Boswell, writing in 1773, mentions the presence of a Celtic handbell on the altar. Unfortunately, it disappeared sometime in the last 200 years.

Above the chapel, set among the tombstones of the burial ground, is the Inchkenneth cross. It is made from a single piece of grey-blue slate with zigzag designs carved along its edges. The elegant ring-headed cross stands five feet tall and dates to the sixteenth century. Most of the decoration has worn off, but a pair of shears is still visible at the bottom of the shaft. Below them, and hardly discernible, is something with bristles, possibly a brush or comb. The significance of the shears and comb may come from their ceremonial use in cutting the tonsure.

Twenty years had passed since my first visit to Inchkenneth. Seeing the chapel, burial ground, and the elegant cross made me a bit nostalgic. It can be a bad idea to revisit a special place like this, as you risk marring a cherished memory. I would not have come back here on my own, but guiding people who’d never been there gave the visit a vastly different perspective. I was bringing a cherished memory to like-minded souls. The visit would not mar a memory but make a new one.

After a look at the well, its waters bubbling down to the sea, we climbed the hillside above Inchkenneth House. The house has quite a history. It was once the home to Harold Boulton, who was known for writing lyrics for The Skye Boat Song.  After that, it was a holiday home for the Mitfords. It is unlikely, but there is a rumour Hitler visited the island.

Near the high point, we came to a semi-circular enclosure containing a small bench. Twenty years ago, I was told by the fellow who managed the island for the Barlows (the current owners) that it was called Poets' Corner. No poets are buried here, but it is a spot that could inspire a verse or two.

Several famous folks found refuge on Inchkenneth, and all of them would have come to the corner to revel in the isolation. The corner deserves a poem from all visitors. Here’s a go:

In 1773, Boswell, and Johnson, too,

  Stood at Poets’ Corner to enjoy the view.

In 1930, came Harold Bolton, in the last years of life,

  He’d make the climb from the house, along with his loving wife.

Then there were the Mitford girls: Unity plus five,

  A sad fascist, she left, barely alive.

And rumors are afloat, that from a U-boat,

  Came a man named Adolf, too.

When the time came to leave, the tide had dropped several feet, which meant there was no way the inflatable could come ashore. And so we descended the short cliff to the kelp beach below the house, then made our way north across a beautiful, white-sand beach to a spot where the inflatable could come close. The boots had to come off, and it was a cold wade 100 feet out to where the RIB was barely afloat.

Under a gloriously blue Hebridean sky, we set off from Inchkenneth. The itinerary for the next day was exciting: Eileach an Naoimh of the Isles of the Sea, the site of St Brendan's Monastery.

Rum and Dutchman's Cap

After a night at anchor off Hallaig, we set a course south to transit under the Skye Bridge. That gave me a brief look at two historic sites. To port was the Eilean Ban lighthouse and cottages, made famous by Gavin Maxwell. To starboard was a lesser-known historic site, the Chain Stone of Skye. This stretch of sea has been a strategic choke point for thousands of years, as the inside passage is far easier than the long journey through the exposed waters west of Skye. When the bridge opened, there was quite a furore over the tolls. But it was not the first time tolls were collected. Centuries ago, it must have been an interesting sight when a 1000-foot-long barrier of chained logs stretched across the channel: one end securely fastened to Eilean Bàn, the other to the Chain Stone on the Skye shore.

Once through the Sound of Slate, we headed west to find an overnight anchorage in Loch Scresort of Rum. We had a few hours of shore leave before supper, so we went for a wander. Sally met up with the warden to talk ponies, and I took Debbie for the two-mile nature walk that follows an old road up the north side of Kinloch Glen. We returned to the ship after tea and a beer at the shop - I'll let you guess who had the beer. On the way back, we passed the sadly decaying Kinloch Castle. Such a waste.

We departed Loch Scresort the following morning on a quest to an island I'd wanted to visit for decades and one that Debbie also had a keen desire to see: Bac Mòr, better known as Dutchman's Cap. I first noticed the Dutchman in 1989 while on a Turas Mara day trip to Lunga. After climbing to the summit of Lunga, I saw an odd-looking island two miles to the south. It was a plug, a big hump rising out of the sea, a nearly 300-foot volcanic cone atop a grass-grown plateau of dark stone. 

The island’s Gaelic name is a mix of Norse and Gaelic; Bac, Norse for ‘hump,’ and Mòr, Gaelic for big. Seen from afar, this 'big hump' looks more like a Mexican sombrero than a Dutchman’s cap. The name may have stemmed from Dutch fishermen being the first to fish in the area commercially. But Donald MacCulloch, in his book Staffa, suggests that ‘Dutchman’ may be a corruption of Doideag, Gaelic for a witch, which is a possibility, as the island's profile could be compared to that of a witch’s hat, although not as pointy as the one worn by Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West.

I have long wanted to set foot on Dutchman’s Cap. The main attraction was not its distinctive geology but the remains of three circular dwellings. Could they be beehive cells? Maybe, maybe not. There is also an enclosure 100 feet in diameter surrounding them—similar to a cashel. Cattle were once grazed on the island, so the enclosure and the dwellings may have been built for that purpose. But, just perhaps, they were built long ago for use as an island hermitage, as Iona lies only seven sea miles away.

Landing on the Dutchman is only possible when the tide is low and the sea is calm at a shelving ledge on the island’s east side. Approaching that spot can be dangerous. The surrounding sea is a minefield of skerries and, in places, only three feet deep at mean tide. The largest skerry is Sgeir Blàr nan Each, the skerry of the field of the horse. It is an odd name for a reef barely spanning 200 square feet at low tide. It’s hard to imagine someone putting a horse on that sea-washed reef, but that’s the name the surveyors recorded in the OS Name Book in 1878. However, on an 1859 coastal chart, it's named Sgeir Bhàirneach, barnacle skerry—which sounds like a more probable name.

After a three-hour sail, we approached the eastern side of the Dutchman. Strong winds had blown all day, and a six-foot swell lashed against the cliff-girt shore of the island. It was readily apparent we’d not be able to land. That was a disappointment, one I’ve gotten used to over the years. The engines were throttled back to give us a long look at the island. The enclosure and old dwellings are set back from the lip of the table rock and are not visible from the sea. What was visible was the massive hump that gave the island its name; stair-stepping terraces of turf encircled its lower half, a sign that grazing sheep have been here in the past. The upper half of the hump was a basaltic mantle crowned by a cylindrical trig-pillar. (The settlement site is marked with an 'x' in the following photo.

In his book Coll & Tiree (1903), Erskine Beveridge briefly mentions the Dutchman: Upon its east shoulder, below the prominent 'Cap,' the ruins of three small circular erections—probably old shielings. Bac Mor is now tenanted only by Highland cattle, as to which a local saying runs that nineteen will thrive upon this island, but twenty would starve—surely a most precise computation!

We occasionally saw the landing ledge where, per Erskine Beveridge, cattle were once set ashore. Our sightings of the ledge were brief because the rolling sea repeatedly washed over it. Even if the sea is calm, there is no place to anchor, so the chances of landing are always slim. In Islands by the Score, Alasdair Alpin MacGregor commented as follows on the suggestion that the ruins on the Dutchman were shielings:  Could these be the ruins of summer shieling visited by the Lunga folk in olden times, as has been suggested? What would seem to render this unlikely is the fact that, even on the calmest days, it would be impossible either to land cows, alive, on this island, or to get them off, alive, at the end of shieling-time.

As for MacGregor’s comment that it would be impossible to land cattle on the island, per Erskine Beverage, as many as nineteen were pastured there. But the sea state we witnessed on that September day would make it impossible to land people, let alone cattle. A landing on the Dutchman would have to wait for another time. A private charter out of Tobermory or Ulva Ferry would be the best way—an adventure for the future.

Before leaving, we passed the skerry of two names: Sgeir Blàr nan Each/Sgeir Bhàirneach. There were no horses on the reef, and if there were any barnacles they were covered by the roiling surf. We also took a look at Bac Beag (on the left in the next photo). Bac Beag is the 'little hump', which at low tide is connected to the Dutchman. This little hump is actually humpless—a flat table of basalt rising fifty feet above the sea.

Leaving the Dutchman in our wake, we set a course for the shelter of Lon Bhearnuis, a bay on the north coast of Ulva. 

After settling into the bunk that night, I set the alarm for 3 a.m. When it sounded, I was hesitant to abandon the warm bed. But then I remembered that the heavens were calling. Trying not to wake anyone, I went up on deck as quietly as possible. It was a clear night, the hills of Mull and Ulva glimmering under the light of a full moon. Several others joined me from the ship’s company, and together, we watched the moon dim as Dubhadh Gealaich, the lunar eclipse, began.

Return to South Rona

The September 2024 cruise on Hjalmar Bjorge was different than any I’d done before. Due to cancellations, there were only two guests, which made my job as a guide much easier. What made it not so easy was the weather. Force 8 gales were streaming off the Atlantic and had blown away my plans for a sail around the Outer Hebrides. Fortunately, the guests, Sally and Debbie, had been aboard before. They knew itinerary changes happen when the weather worsens. And turn for the worse it had.

Due to the wind, we needed to stay in sheltered waters for a few days. So, after leaving Oban, our first night was spent at anchor in the cradle of Drumbuie, between Oronsay and the Morvern mainland. Oronsay has a sad history. In the 1840s and 50s, over fifty souls eked a living out of its hard ground. But, like the people of the nearby Morvern townships, they are all gone. The infamous Patrick Sellar had a role in the clearances here. Due to his participation in the Sutherland Clearances of the 1810s, he was notorious as the most widely hated man in the Highlands. In 1848, he acquired his first Morvern property, Acharn, eight miles from Oronsay. He proceeded to evict its fifty families and brought sheep from Sutherland to occupy the land. It was an era that Marion Campbell succinctly summarises in Argyll: The Enduring Heartland.

The Blackfaces, a’ chaorach mhòr, brought sorrow to Morvern when Patrick Sellar came down there from Sutherland to boast of his success in replacing wasteful humans with profitable flocks. 

After a night in Drumbuie, we made our way north to another sheltered harbour, Acairsaid Mhòr, the big anchorage of South Rona. Fifteen years had passed since I was last there, and I was delighted to meet Bill Cowie on the pontoon dock. Bill had been island manager for twenty years, and since I’d last seen him, he’d gotten married. The wedding had been held in a special place on Rona, Church Cave, on the island’s eastern cliffs. Bill told us that significant changes were in store for Rona. He was retiring and thought the island would be sold. It will be fascinating to see how the new owners will manage this gem of an island.

Sally, Debbie, and I then set out to climb the Burma Road to the top of the pass. After the descent to Dry Harbour, we discovered that the two self-catering cottages were occupied. I was jealous of the occupants, enjoying a whole week of Rona peace. Near the cottages is the ruin of the Rona School. At one time, there were three schools on the island. This had been the largest, with over thirty pupils aged five to thirty. The school closed in 1930. Its windows, doors, and floors are long gone; bushes sprout from the chimneys, and all about lay shards of the slate roof. 

We then made a tour around the scattered ruins of Dry Harbour. In the 1870s, over a hundred people called Dry Harbour home. There are remains of over forty structures: a dozen black houses, a similar number of 'modern' stone houses, and an assortment of byres and gardens. Roughly half the village sits on the northern side of the glen, the rest on the south; between them runs an overgrown track, Rona's Main Street, which climbs its way up through the village. Most of those who once walked this now-abandoned street came from Raasay, whose population swelled in the 1800s when MacLeod of Raasay sold out and moved to Tasmania. Starting in 1846, George Rainy, the owner of Raasay, wanted to reduce the population to make room for sheep. He sent many of the people to Australia and forced others onto the poor ground of Rona.

To end the tour, we visited the museum. When I was here in 2007, Bill had just started putting a roof on an old house to turn it into a museum (first photo below). The second photo shows Debbie and Sally at the museum in 2024.

We then made the steep climb back up the road to the pass. Debbie wanted to continue down the track to explore the area around the lodge. Sally wanted to see Church Cave, so we started down the boot-beaten path to the cave.

It was a sloppy slog as we followed the rain-dappled path to Church Cave. The final section of the path is a steep descent. It had been raining for days, and the route was more river than path, water cascading down to carve deep, muddy pools around newly exposed stones. It was ankle-twisting terrain. The kind of terrain that imparts a sense of dread, impending doom, into the hearts of guides everywhere. To make things worse, due to liability concerns, the estate had removed the ropes and posts that had been there for years, allowing for an easier, safer descent. (The following photo is of my wife in the cave in 2004.)

I didn't want to see anyone sprain an ankle or break a leg, so I decided we should turn back. It was a disappointment, as we were only 500 feet from the cave. After we returned to the track, Sally continued down to the lodge. I decided to stay behind. It was time to get high and live in the past. A short, steep ascent from the track led to the trig pillar atop Meall Acairsaid.

Nearly three decades had passed since I first stood there on a day in 1995 with my wife. I sat against the trig pillar and cracked open a beer. Then, after a long, slow pull, I powered up the mobile phone to give her a call.

Twilight was setting in when we returned to the ship. After motoring away from Rona, we found a sheltered anchorage off Hallaig at the south end of Raasay. The weather was improving, and we set a course for Rum the next day.

Once Around Great Cumbrae

I have not posted in a month. It's been a sad month. One of my four brothers-in-law passed unexpectedly, and then a few weeks later my mother-in-law passed. The election results on top of that have made for a depressing period. But there is no better way to forget about bad times than to talk of a day on a Scottish island.

* * *

Last time we'd spent the day on Little Cumbrae. After that, I still had a day in Largs, which was full of tourists there for the Viking Festival. It was a fun atmosphere, but far too busy. After resisting the temptations of the Ferris Wheel and Dumbo Ride, I walked onto the ferry to Great Cumbrae.

Once ashore on Great Cumbrae, I followed the ring road to the north tip of the island. Here you'll find an obelisk memorial to two teenagers who drowned while sailing a small boat. The memorial reads: To the Memory of Mr. Charles D. Cayley, aged 17 years and Mr. William N. Jewall, aged 19 years. Midshipmen of H.M.S. 'Shearwater - Promising young officers, drowned in the upsetting of their boat near this place. 17 May, 1844.

A mile down the west side of the island I passed Stinking Bay. I believe the name comes from the smell of rotting kelp at low tide. The tide was high, and no smells were evident. Great Cumbrae must be smelly on hot days, for on its east coast there is a Stinking Goat Bay. A bit further down the coast, I came to the Fintry Bay Restaurant. I could not resist the temptation, so ordered a cheese & tomato toasty and a bottle of Peroni. Both were delicious. 

Just south of Fintry, I turned onto the 'Targets Walk' trail that climbs up the west side of the island. (I think the name stems from the area once being used for target practice.) 

After following the path for a few minutes, I left the forest and entered the grassland below the Cumbrae Reservoir. There, an odd stone caught my attention, 100 feet off the path. On the OS Map, it is called 'The Gowk Stone'.

The stone looked like a small-scale version of the 'Praying Hands' stone in Glen Lyon. A local, who was walking by, told me 'Gowk' was Norse for a Cuckoo Bird, and that she had seen them on the stone and in the nearby golf course. 

The path ended at Upper Kirkton, from where I followed the road to the Cathedral of the Isles. It is a remarkable structure: a Gothic revival design that looks as if it had been built centuries ago. (Construction began in 1849 and the cathedral was consecrated in 1876.) To quote from R. Angus Downie’s Bute and the Cumbraes: 'The stained-glass windows, the tesselated floor, the naked oak beams, the altar and its crucifixes, remind one of the earlier ages of faith.

A treed burial ground lay next to the cathedral. Buried here is the Reverend James Adam (1748-1831). Adam was the minister here for many years and is famous for a prayer he often made, one that was recorded for posterity in Sir Walter Scott’s Journal:

Prayer of the minister of the Cumbrays, two miserable islands in the mouth of the Clyde: "O Lord, bless and be gracious to the Greater and the Lesser Cumbrays, and in thy mercy do not forget the adjacent islands of Great Britain and Ireland."

It was a steep road walk from the cathedral to the top of the island. It was a busy spot, and I had to wait a while to get a photo of the view indicator and trig pillar not surrounded by tourists. One of the crowd had opted to park his bike at the pillar. I was tempted to throw it off the hillside.

A few feet from the summit is a large glacial erratic called The Glaid Stone (also known as The Gledstane). I have not been able to find a meaning of 'Glaid', but I was glad that from there on my walk would be downhill. The following photo shows the Glaid Stone (at right) in 2008, taken during the walk described in Chapter 2 of Firth of Clyde to the Small Isles.

A mile down the road I came to the Broomy Knowes Footpath at NS 1758 5695. Tired of road walking, I decided to follow it. That was a mistake. The path was a muddy swamp, heavily trampled by cattle. Making matters worse, the path disappeared on the hillside above the ferry terminal. To reach the road I had to bash through rough, steep terrain, and nearly broke my leg when I stepped into a hidden hole.

Back in Largs, after sunset, I walked along the crowded waterfront. The sky was filled with smoke from the Viking boat burning (you had to pay extra to get close - I settled for a distant view). More smoke filled the evening sky an hour later when a fireworks show lit up the darkness. Off to the west, the skyline was also briefly lit by a bonfire on the summit of Great Cumbrae. 

Next up: we board Hjalmar Bjorge for an adventure at sea. I had a detailed itinerary planned, one that gale force winds would blow away.