On Day 8 (Sept 13) I awoke in Oban to sunny skies - the last I'd see for a few days. On that Friday the 13th I had the whole day to prepare for the cruise to Ireland, and I spent it stocking up on clothes and books. The Hebridean Air flight I'd taken the day before had only allowed for 10kg total luggage, so I'd been travelling light. A beautiful sight greeted me when I walked down to the marina that day. Berthed together on the pontoons were Hjalmar Bjorge, Elizabeth G, and Zuza. I've spent many memorable days and nights on those three ships.
The next day was cold, wet, and gray. On boarding Hjalmar Bjorge I met my fellow passengers: Bob and Patty, Roger and Josette, Margaret, Hazel, Pam, and Susan. The crew consisted of Skipper Mark & Anna, Tim Wear, guide Chris Gomersal, and chef Steve. Tim had been skipper for my two Zuza cruises, and this would be my 12th trip with Mark on Hjalmar Bjorge. During the safety brief we were told that due to the conditions we'd spend the first night tied up to the pontoons.
It was another gray and dull morning as we set off early Sunday. The plan was to see how far we could get based on the conditions once we were in the sea south of Colonsay.
Conditions were fairly smooth as we approached the Slate Isles of Belnahua and Fladda. But once past the Garvellachs things steadily got worse - so bad that I would not venture out on deck for the next eight hours. A couple times, during the worst of the pounding, I went down to my cabin to lay flat. But it was not very restful. Aside from the repeated up and down thrashing, I'd see my porthole dive up and down: one moment showing the sky, the next under the sea.
Amplifying that visual mayhem was the clank of the anchors banging into the hull every time the ship crashed down from the top of a 12-foot swell. The paint on the bow had taken an anchor-beating during the gale we'd endured last July, and this was even worse. When I went into the wheelhouse a little later flecks of blue paint could be seen. Flakes that had been scraped off the bow and come to rest on the forward windows before being washed away by the heavy rain. The hard crossing was brightened up by the occasional sight of storm petrels soaring low over breaking waves.
Amplifying that visual mayhem was the clank of the anchors banging into the hull every time the ship crashed down from the top of a 12-foot swell. The paint on the bow had taken an anchor-beating during the gale we'd endured last July, and this was even worse. When I went into the wheelhouse a little later flecks of blue paint could be seen. Flakes that had been scraped off the bow and come to rest on the forward windows before being washed away by the heavy rain. The hard crossing was brightened up by the occasional sight of storm petrels soaring low over breaking waves.
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| Fladda & Belnahua |
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| The Garvellachs |
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| EiIeach a Naoimh - its 'Ikea' lighthouse left of centre |
After an eight hour beating we eventually crossed the North Channel to find an anchorage for the night off Port Salon (Lough Swilly). We were finally in Ireland. We woke Monday morning to promising, sunny skies. The anchor was lifted, and we set a course west past Fanad Head. Destination: Tory Island.
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| Port Salon |
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| Fanad Head |
After two hours Tory Island came into view. The dramatic narrow headland of Tormore, tipped by a rock formation known as 'The Anvil', looked like an enticing place to visit. I decided it would be my first destination once ashore.
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| Approaching Tory Island |
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| Tory - 'The Anvil ' at far right |
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| Approaching West Town - Tory Island |
We dropped the anchor a few hundred yards south of the pier at West Town, and in short order we were all ashore. A local gave is a warm greeting, and said he'd open the bar if we were thirsty - my kind of island!
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| Failte gu Oilean Thorai - Welcome to Tory Island |
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| The Queen of Aran - Tory Island passenger ferry |
After taking a look at the round tower I started along the 'The Tory Way'. Other than a tractor there was no traffic. After taking a look at Hjalmar Bjorge at anchor on the calm sea, I headed east.
As I walked east I came to an odd sight, a red pillar marked on the map as 'An Torpedo'. During WWII this torpedo washed ashore, and some local lads thought it would be fun to erect it beside the road.
Tory has two settlements: West Town and - take a guess - East Town. At a road junction to East Town I stayed to the left to make my way to the far end of the island.
As I walked the road a man in a tractor came to a stop by this shrine, crossed himself, and then carried on, but not before giving me a friendly wave.
The cliff scenery here is fantastic, and there were signs saying the islanders keep an eye out for drug runners. But other than myself there were no suspicious looking characters about.
I eventually reached Port Doon, a small bay with a substantial pier. A signboard alerted me to the fact that choughs were in the area, a type of crow with a distinctive beak. The 'Doon' name refers to the headland fort of Dun Bhaloir, which occupies the headland to the north. The fort was said to be the base of Balor of the Evil Eye. Said 'Eye', when opened, was said to spread destruction on his enemies. But the name Balor could just be a corruption of the local place name 'Baile Thoir' (East Town).
It was a dramatic walk up to the summit of the fort, crossing, along the way, several large earthen berms built to defend the fort. From the summit I could see across the island to the lighthouse on its western tip. What I did not see were any choughs, but several from our group who'd walk this way a bit later reported seeing choughs and wheatears.
It was a dramatic walk up to the summit of the fort, crossing, along the way, several large earthen berms built to defend the fort. From the summit I could see across the island to the lighthouse on its western tip. What I did not see were any choughs, but several from our group who'd walk this way a bit later reported seeing choughs and wheatears.
The narrow ridge jutting into the sea, tipped by 'The Anvil', was a stunning sight. To get to its base you have to cross an airy, narrow ridge.
Rock climbers have made the traverse to the Anvil. The biggest obstacle (other than fear) are several rock pillars known as Balor's Soldiers.
I was not at all tempted to climb out to the anvil. Instead, I took a seat looking over this amazing thing, popped open a beer, and ate my packed lunch. Even though I did not have a lot of time left, I got a notion to complete the Tory Way. I would see if I could walk its complete length to the lighthouse at the other end of the island - a one-way distance of three miles.
Once back in West town I walked past 'An Club' - after delving into my Irish-English dictionary I figured out this translates as 'The Club'. The sight of a hundred beer kegs stacked next to the pub made me want to wet my whistle, but sadly I didn't have time for another beer, so I carried on west.
It was a long, level walk to the lighthouse, which dates to 1832. It was disappointing in that I could not get anywhere near the tower itself - as was the dearth of seabirds. A sign indicated there were war graves nearby, but I was unable to find them.
Time was short. I had to be back at the pier in a half-hour, and the pier was over a mile away. So I power-walked for 20 minutes (for me that means running for a minute, then stopping for two to catch my breath). Just as I reached the pier Mark was busy loading everyone onto the tender. There was still some daylight left. And as I stepped aboard I wondered where our next stop would be. Little did I know it would be an island I'd wanted to visit for over 30 years.
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