Land, Sea And Skye: The Whit Meet 1972

Land—by A. B. Craven

Meet? Perhaps a misnomer, since many of those who tried to attend never met. It looked very different therefore to different groups as they arrived or failed to arrive from land and sea.

Members and guests who on Saturday had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the hotel at Mallaig took a contented stroll down to the pier and were soon aware that small clouds of doubt were blowing around the meet. Larger clouds were already blowing rapidly above Mallaig: the wind was rising, the sea was increasing, there were warnings of gales. But the boat which was booked to take the Club to Coruisk at 2 p.m. was reassuringly tied up alongside the jetty.

Very soon however numerous native bodies, festooned with camping and climbing gear began clambering into it. It was discovered that they were going to camp at Coruisk until Monday. The owner of the boat was not available for comment. His son appeared fieetingly and was politely vague. Wind and sea kept rising, the Scottish boarding party kept increasing until they numbered more than thirty; the omens were definitely bad. The boat eventually cast off at 11 a.m. The time at which it would get back, if it did get back, was in doubt. Unquestionably however it would not be available at 2 p.m. West Coast business acumen had won another victory over the Sassenach.

As YRC members assembled during the morning discussions continued on the pier, in the boat sheds, in cars, in the hotel. Could 60—70 people camp at Coruisk? Did 60—70 people want to camp at Coruisk? What time would the boat get back? Would the crew be willing to make another trip that day? Would conditions be fit for another trip? Nine people had no doubts—they wanted to cross if possible that evening. The boat returned at 4 p.m. and the crew were persuaded to go out again despite the steadily worsening conditions. The party was seen off at 5 p.m. in good shape and full of confidence. No one gave up the ghost on the crossing though everyone except Don Mackay gave up something. The weather was now very bad indeed: the boat arrived back in Mallaig about 10 p.m. The rest of the meet had set up camp at Loch Morar, where an obliging farmer swept up the manure he had just spread in a field on the edge of the loch so that the YRC could sleep in unpolluted surroundings. This part of the meet was to join the rest at Coruisk on Monday when the boat went over to collect the Scottish party. Most members spent Sunday in comparative shelter along Loch Nevis and the upper reaches of Loch Morar. The full gale developed on Sunday night and was still blowing on Monday morning.

Contact was made with the boat-owner. He wasn’t sure, he didn’t think it was fit, the party at Coruisk would have to wait until Tuesday, he’d see how the weather developed, he’d make up his mind later in the day, he’d take them tomorrow —most of the Loch Morar party were tired of indecision and made off to Inchnadamph. A handful stayed on. Four got to Coruisk that day when the boat eventually went over to retrieve the Scots. Two other parties of two each made their own way by ferry to Skye and finished up at Elgol and Glen Brittle respectively.

The Inchnadamph party enjoyed good weather for the rest of the week. Parties traversed Suilven and Canisp both ways, and were out on Quinag, Cul Mor, Cul Beg, Stac Polly and Ben More Coigach. A boating party circumnavigated the Summer Isles. Three eagles were observed for a good fifteen minutes hopping about in brilliant sunshine on a nearby ridge. One eminent past president found himself sitting almost in the lap of a basking adder. The camp-site was dry, extensive and covered with the delightful flowers of dryas octopetala.

Sea—by E. C. Downham

When the revered fathers of the Club, to wit, the Committee in their wisdom decided upon Coruisk in Skye as the base for the Whitsum Meet of 1972 one dreamed of unforgettable days in the Cuillins where one could feel again the sandpaper of gabbro and lie on the peaks with the Hebrides and the mainland spread out before one in glorious sunshine.

After several trips with the Senior Vice-President in his sea-going yacht, the “Helen-Frances”, the attractions of a trip up the West Coast threading a way through the inner Hebrides to Loch Scavaig to join the Club Meet seemed an ideal method of locomotion. Initially, the crew was supposed to be made up of the Senior Vice-President, hereinafter referred to—amongst other names—as the “Skipper” and the Secretary with the high sounding title of “First Mate”—although it must be admitted at a later date in the cruise, the Skipper forgot the rule of the sea and addressed the Mate with names other than “Mister”. Whilst the “Skipper’s” knowledge of the West Coast of Scotland was never in doubt (after all he spends all the summer months in idleness in the fastnesses of the West) the Mate’s seafaring knowledge was strictly limited to the contents of the liquor locker situated in the sharp end of the boat and whilst such knowledge may have been intimate it did little to ensure the safety of a sea-going passage. The remainder of the crew was supposed to be made up of four of the Y.R.C. misguided enough to trust their lives at sea to the ministrations of the Skipper and his mate. Whether news of the proposed trip had filtered to the four men’s wives is, perhaps, debatable, but certainly, and eventually, the four in question decided, discretion being the better part of valour to journey to Skye by more conventional, if hackneyed, methods and to cross to Loch Scavaig by the private ferry hired to the Y.R.C. at Mallaig.

However, nothing deterred, arrangements were made for the Secretary to meet the Skipper aboard the yacht anchored in Loch Craignish on the morning of Friday of the Whit Meet, an arrangement which meant the former driving north during Thursday night from the Lakes and thereby craftily adding another day to the Meet. Leaving Lakeland after suitably celebrating a wedding—or sympathising with the participants, depending on the point of view—in the village on the Thursday afternoon, midnight saw the Secretary heading north in torrential rain which worsened as the miles slipped by, so much so that speeds were reduced to a miserable 20 miles an hour and less north of the border, and the road alongside Loch Lomond was not only under water, but, in places, completely washed away. Fortunately due to the good offices of the police and the A.A. the ‘mauvais pas’ was successfully circumnavigated, the rain eased to some degree, and after snatching a couple of hour’s sleep around Arrochar, seven o’clock on the Friday morning brought a view of Loch Craignish with the yacht lying at anchor. Certainly a glorious view from the summit of the hill, but an ominous swell gave food for thought. A brave halloo to the Skipper brought the dinghy bucketing out from the yacht, and after suitable exchange of greetings the pair adjourned to the local hostelry, the “Galley of Lome” for breakfast intending at least to start the week’s break amongst the flesh pots with someone else doing the galley work. With the intention of returning to the yacht later it was some indication of the power of the wind when it was found to be quite impossible for two subdued yachtsmen to pull a heavily loaded dinghy out in the middle of the lagoon to the yacht, and so the two departed elsewhere to load up with stores and other necessary victuals for the delectation of the Coruisk party.

On their return in the early afternoon the Skipper did take the ferry across to the yacht alone, using his seaman’s knowledge in persuading the Mate first to drag the dinghy no little distance along the water’s edge and then allowing the wind to sweep the dinghy in one almighty flurry of oars to the yacht which the Skipper dexterously impaled with a boat hook. A disconsolate secretary still ashore forthwith adjourned to the hotel to revive the deep depression which had set in and arranged for a powered launch to take him across. It was not until late evening that this was successfully accomplished and so to the bunks for an early start for Coruisk on Saturday morning, confident that the gale would have blown itself out, in spite of the dire forebodings of the Glasgow shipping forecast for Hebridean waters.

Far from dying down the gale gained fresh impetus and it was considered inadvisable (sic !) to sail on the Saturday and the day was not illspent aboard the yacht under the eagle eye of the Skipper ensuring everything was stowed shipshape and the locker at the pointed end wasn’t too frequently broached.

Sunday was a repeat of the previous day’s weather but it was decided it might be possible to venture out of the loch and set a course for Tobermory and Mull. Bucketing up the sound with a shuddering look at the notorious Corryvreekan and its whirlpool between the isles of Jura and Scarba the Skipper’s calculation that we should miss the flood of the Dorus Mhor—or in more civilised language, the “Great Bate”, where all the tides around the coast seem to come together in one mighty smother of water, was justified and it was a relieved Mate who took over the wheel and braced himself to steer the thing in the general direction of Tobermory. A lively sail, to say the least, and it was a relief to reach the shelter of Tobermory and to tie up alongside the fishing fleet riding at anchor in the harbour.

Monday again saw the yacht still anchored in Tobermory— along with the fishing fleet—and a social visit to the crews of the latter did nothing to dispel the prevailing gloom when an enquiry as to conditions outside brought the terse and hardly encouraging response that anyone sailing or trying to sail in such weather should have his head examined. The skippers in the fleet were unanimous in their opinion that it was the worst weather experienced in forty years’ fishing the West Coast. Recourse to the ship’s store of refreshments gave more hope of future conditions than did the monotonous radio forecast of gales with Force 10 winds in Hebridean waters, but on the Tuesday patience gave way to desperate measures and with full sail and the powerful deisel motor pounding away the yacht left the shelter of Tobermory and headed bravely and entirely alone northwards.

Once outside the shelter of the bay it was realised just how severe the gale was and it was hurriedly decided to haul down the sails—the boom, that miniature tree trunk which keeps the sail down or something was crashing around like a demented thing and threatening to decapitate the two misguided individuals alone on the raging seas—and rely on the diesel. At times certainly at least the Mate was frightened of the yacht sinking, the sinking feeling that later gave way to the more fearsome thought that the thing wouldn’t sink and life, such as it was, would continue. Before rounding Ardnamurchan Point—it was a sobering thought that there was nothing between Ardnamurchan Point and America but, the Cruel Sea—a shouted conference resulted in a hurried decision to run for shelter to the Mingarry pier at Kilchoan and snatch a much needed hot meal before ploughing on. Approaching the pier through the spray at the rate of knots it was observed that a coal barge was unloading and the Skipper gave explicit instructions suitably embellished as to what the Mate should do. Simple in the extreme, all that was required was for the latter to throw a rope to1 the coaler who would then tie up and the yacht would be drawn alongside and tied to the barge, tho’ it was understood that a granny knot was hardly the best method of tying a rope fast. All perfectly simple and only a matter of securing a suitable belay. And so the yacht powered on with the Skipper luridly directing the Mate to make sure the paintwork on the yacht’s gleaming side wasn’t scratched. Having watched the Virginian on T.V. lasso the baddies there seemed nothing to it, but the first two casts resulted in precisely nothing. Whether it was the Mate’s lack of direction or the Barge Skipper’s lack of alacrity it’s hard to say but the yacht had to come about and in the words of Robert the Bruce “try, try again”. With the Skipper foaming at the mouth, matching the foaming seas, it was fortunate the wind scattered his ejaculations, but eventually it was with some pride that the Mate did eventually succeed in landing the business end of the rope and the barge pulled in. It was unfortunate that the Mate forgot the rules of mountaineering and omitted to shove the other end of the line around a stanchion or bollard or whatever the thing is that sticks up from the deck. The result was the Mate painfully trying to pull in a vessel weighing eighteen tons in a raging sea. When the rope had finally slipped through his hands, leaving them pleasantly warm, and the yacht’s side had screamed in agony, as had the Skipper, and it was clear that the paintwork wouldn’t need any paint-remover when the next refitting was due, the yacht came about still again. A veil can be drawn over this contretemps but the atmosphere was hardly conducive to a mutual admiration society and the silence could be felt in the saloon over a well deserved hot meal.

With a reluctant farewell to the grinning crew of the coaler, the “Helen Frances”, very unladylike, headed north again amidst the rolling seas and into the teeth of the gales. After some hours of thrashing about nearing the Point of Sleat a weather eye was kept open hoping to see something of the other yachtsmen in the club for Crowther with a crew of three had towed his boat, the “Talisker” from Coniston to Arisaig on the Saturday intending to sail across to Loch Scavaig on the Sunday. Like the crew of the “Helen Frances” they heard the shipping foreoast with dismay telling of wild seas and gale force winds and after venturing out of Arisaig scuttled back to the harbour for safety. On the Monday a slowly rising barometer together with a slight fall in windforce tempted them to try and make the Isle of Eigg on the ebb tide at Monday tea-time, but once outside the harbour they had the old rule amply demonstrated that although wind may moderate the seas remain violent for some time afterwards, and to further reduce their morale a third of the way to Eigg the motor ceased to* function and could not be induced back to life. Whilst wallowing out of control, broadside to the heavy seas they managed to set a jib and run before the wind then rising again, and cruised smartly back to the mooring. On the Tuesday the weather was still wild and an hour or two’s work on the motor convinced them it needed more expertise to make repairs than they possessed. The decision was made not to venture forth in such conditions without the motor, to call off their part in the Meet, cut their losses, and return to the Club cottage, Low Hall Garth, in the Lakes, leaving the yacht at its moorings to be attended to at a later date.

And so the “Helen Frances” looked in vain for their co-yacht and in view of their own experiences in the gale-smitten Hebrides wondered cheerfully if the “Talisker” had sunk but failed to find any bodies floating about or anything resembling the wreck of a yacht.

Loch Scavaig was eventually reached after much trial and tribulation late on the Tuesday evening with the “Mad Burn” living up to its reputation when in spate to see forlorn looking tents, tethered with climbing ropes, and a beleagured party of disreputable looking Y.R.C. men hurling insults to the intrepid yachtsmen. Ashore lurid tales were told of flysheets blowing away and of the chaos which had prevailed in Mallaig, and the delay when the ferry had sensibly refused to sail in such weather. Of the eventual breaking up of the landlocked Y.R.C. on the mainland. Forty odd bodies should have been encamped at Scavaig and Coruisk but a quick count showed only eighteen in camp.

Tuesday evening was pleasantly passed by the courtesy of the J.M.C.S. in the Coruisk Hut when the tale of the Meet was unfolded.

The mountaineering activities of the crew of the “Helen Frances” can be dismissed in almost a single sentence. Just one full day on the island, a gentle walk round to Camasunary and a return to Coruisk by the “Bad Step”, still not blasted away as was once threatened by the army when they built the bridge over the Coruisk burn. It was good to see the bridge had completely disappeared with no sign of the thing ever having been there, though this meant a very cold wade across the burn to reach the Hut again.

Again, discretion being the better part of valour, it was decided it would be more sensible and safer to sail on the Thursday for the Isle of Eigg to ensure being back at Loch Craignish for the Saturday. Surprisingly, the sail to Eigg was a pleasant trip and the seas relatively calm with good views of the mainland peaks, so much so that the pair decided to spend the afternoon on the island after making the harbour around lunch time. A glorious walk across the island beneath the Sgurr of Eigg did much to make life worth while. It was the intention to sail on the Friday but still the trials and tribulations weren’t over for during Thursday night another gale blew up, more vicious than ever and the crew have memories of the very early dark hours when a dragging anchor meant a desperate endeavour to make fast with another mooring line. With oilskins over pyjamas the Secretary recalls the fearsome sight of the Skipper being tossed around in the raging seas in a cockleshell of a dinghy trying without success to lasso a mooring buoy whilst the boat was drifting to some most unpleasant looking rocks. Fortunately their plight had been observed from the island and a power launch put out to succour them and succeeded in getting the line to the buoy, and all was safely gathered in. Whilst the navy may have abolished the rum ration this certainly didn’t apply at any time during the voyage and never was rum so much needed as it was in the storm-tossed harbour of Eigg on that never to be forgetten morning.

To close the epic journey, suffice to say that the yacht left the island at 3.30 a.m. on the Saturday morning and a full day’s sail in conditions not too extreme saw a weary crew back at Loch Craignish at 4 p.m. Then followed a hurried sorting of gear and the Secretary on his way back to Lakeland at 5.30 p.m. A really memorable Meet, enjoyable in retrospect — rather like banging one’s head against a stone wall — its nice when it stops! The dreams of halcyon days in the Cuillins never came to pass but at least the memories of the Meet will remain for ever! Altogether a remarkable Whitsuntide Meet in 1972.

Technical footnote by the Skipper

In May one expects good weather in the W. Highlands and Islands. I’ve been going up there for forty years and know that in May and June one gets good weather, but once the Solstice has passed it worsens, and there is nearly always a short gale at the Solstice lasting one day usually.

I had been basking in the sun at Loch Craignish, all the week doing all the usual jobs one does in the spring, i.e. getting ready for the next winter’s lay-up and preparing for Cliff’s advent.

Cliff had sailed with me several times and deliberately on my part had been gradually introduced to worsening conditions, but the year before had missed his trip with me, so a lot of what he had learned before must have lapsed into the limbo of forgotten things.

Behold therefore a bleary eyed Skipper expecting a hail from the shore in the very early morning of the 26th May having looked out at 3 a.m. and 4 a.m., etc. and then slept; just like Cliff does! What was my surprise when I woke up and looked out to1 see a familiar car on the shore, so I went ashore in the punt, and woke up a weary Cliff, I being much flattered by his remark that he had not liked to disturb me too early being such an elderly gent. Breakfast in the pub soon made Cliff full of bounce and confidence; so soon to disappear as a gale was imminent. Anyhow we were able to give much thought to the other members of the club, and their possible requirements and so stocked up, knowing the shortage expected at Lake Coruisk.

I told Cliff that with the two of us, it wouldn’t be so easy, and he would have to steer when possible, to relieve me.

Ah well the adventures of getting aboard began to chasten him (damn good I thought) and the wild day in port at Tobermory with the other fishing boats I thought might cure him. But not a bit of it, next morning, with a rising barometer, which after a gale usually means a stronger wind from the north-west, Cliff wanted to go, and I being a kindly person thought of all the other members in camp, short of five gallons of paraffin etc., so we went out, into the open Sound of Mull (N. Part). I decided that we would be better with the sails off, in any case they would be a hindrance on the first part of the journey. Well, I hadn’t coached Cliff into holding the ship “head to wind” and the force of the wind was so great, that shouting wouldn’t carry the length of the deck, so several trips up and down decks to the helm were necessary because we had not a third hand to pass orders along. I’d worked the ship into more sheltered water, and we managed to get sails off her thanks to the simple Gaff Rig, and put into Kilchoan Bay, a nasty refuge when occupied by a Puffer. The wind was so strong that we could hardly communicate, words being blown out of our mouths. The N.W. wind funnels down the Glen here. So with grub inside us, we set out again about noon, as I expected the gale to die down later. It was O.K. to Eigg, and we fed in the lee of the island, couldn’t do it earlier. Off the north end of Eigg it was wild and the big Anchor got loose and I nearly broke my leg going out to secure it again.

Tide was against us, and tides are bad round here and Point of Sleat, so we made slow progress, which of course the Mate didn’t know about. How lovely it was to get into the lee of Soay Island and up into Loch Scavaig. The pool in the loch isn’t easy to navigate, it is a passage only 60 ft. wide, but the peace was glorious, and then to see a crowd of miserable, wet, but well fed YRC men was a surprise; we expected a full Meet. Others must have more sense… they got better weather…. Anyhow Cliff and I did not have the mud to contend with, so with thoughts of lovely sunshine we forgot about gales, etc. only to run into a bad time at Eigg; still we had a day and a half of sun, and that and good company is a lot to be thankful for. Anyhow we got home in time for Cliff to appear at work on Monday morning.

Jack Woodman.

Skye—by David Smith

The very mention of the word “Skye” floods the mind of the mountaineer with visions of rocky ridges, rough rock that reduces the fingers to shreds, blue seas, bubbling burns and peaceful serenity. The YRC Meet of 1973 added quite different pictures; chaos, confusion and indecision. For instead of men raving to get aboard the boat for Coruisk, something short of press gang techniques had to be employed to persuade even nine on the deck of the vessel. One member resorted to sending his guest off in his stead, then relented and made the double trip without going ashore.

Was it the heavy seas, or the knowledge that many wild Scotsmen had been put ashore or was it the thoughts of water-logged camp site that deterred people from action?

Late in the afternoon the miserable remnants of the forty strong party cast off from Mallaig to submit themselves to the rolling and tossing of the sea and the buffeting of the rain and high winds. The little craft had hardly taken in all ropes when the first of the band deposited the whole of his expensive lunch into the sea, to be followed after brief intervals by previous meals. This curious ritual was performed by member after member; perhaps it was a Nordic sacrifice to the God Thor. But alas he was not to be pacified.

Having rounded the Point of Sleat it was clear that conditions would not improve and worse conditions were in store. The boat lifted clear of successive waves taking the propeller clear of the water. The skipper at this point cut out the engine to avoid over-revving. A highly disconcerting experience giving the brief impression that the engine had failed. Eyes saw the buffeting seas and searched for survival gear; after what seemed an age the engine restarted.

Eventually the party was put ashore on the little jetty at Loch Scavaig, but it might have been any Scottish island as mist ensured that nothing could be seen. The wind dropped one point and as the rain gave the impression of lessening, the party were lured into a false sense of security and commenced erecting their canvas shelters. Swiftly the wind returned, tents billowed, pegs were torn out and the exercise was repeated. Having finally succeeded in putting up a tent, a drier patch of earth was noticed or a more sheltered corner was found, but after changing sites the wind would change too.

A complete re-design of tent supports and fixing was obviously needed; flat stones were placed under poles; 24 inch long pegs, cut from drift wood, were employed. The most ingenious system was adapted to’ a Black’s Niger, renowned for its good housekeeping and resistance to weather on former Whit Meets. This tent, now in the temporary hands of a member and his guest, would have horrified its owner; 120 feet of nylon rope was festooned about it and upwards of a dozen railway sleepers were utilised to ensure that it would be there in the morning.

After a meal, the site became quiet, everyone feeling happy to be once again on Skye; things didn’t seem so bad after all. Several hours later as the wind increased to gale force and the rain hurled itself against the canvas, one after another of the tents were abandoned and laid low. The sturdy Niger was invaded. The relative peace and order there degenerated into tumult and squalor as bodies with boxes forced their way in.

By morning only three tents remained and not all those in a good state of repair, but it had stopped raining and hopes were high once more. Repairs were effected and plans made.

On reaching the island, the unfortunate guest sent as a substitute for his member friend found that his total food ration for a week was a large cake and half a bottle of whisky, plus a little chocolate. The problem was quickly resolved; one tent of two with rations for at least a month, with greedy eyes upon the whisky, came to the rescue and the unfortunate guest perhaps fared better than he might have. The two were later amply rewarded by a very well informed account of the geological formation of the island and the making of a good friend too.

Small damp excursions were made on Sunday. Monday saw further poor weather and the return of the boat. Fully expecting the remaining members of the party to disembark, the campers were amazed to see just four green-faced people come ashore.

The four who had braved the seas enjoyed the same disagreeable conditions as the previous party and were confronted by even worse camping sites. Oblivious to the conditions, they pitched their two tents in a sheltered bog. The pegs were pushed some six inches or so below the water level in an endeavour to gain a hold.

The Scotsmen turned out to be our good friends of the J.M.C.S. and as the last man left the hut he was waylaid and the sturdy hut became the property of the Y.R.C. for the remainder of the week. The comparative luxury was quickly realised and bunks were quickly filled. Drying out of food and clothes was a great activity, but the greatest interest was shown in a jigsaw puzzle of a scantily clad female. The instinctive detection of key pieces of the lady’s anatomy was clearly an innate skill of some of the members.

Such were the shambles of the first few days. Tuesday did show an improvement in conditions and excursions over the Dubhs and Gars Bheinn and as far as Blaven were made. Wednesday was better and great stretches of the ridge from each end and the middle were covered. The ultimate day was Thursday, when two of the party successfully completed the Great Traverse in very good time whilst others did the ridges of Sgurr nan Gillean or the Middle peaks of Alasdair, Inaccessible and Banachdich in training for further attempts on the Great Traverse or the Greater Traverse on Friday.

Friday was a complete reversal of weather and conditions were back to the earlier part of the week. Much time was spent in the hut. The highlight of the day was the production of fish and chips for all by one enterprising member and his guest. The fish it was learned were pushed ashore to us by the occupants of a small boat sheltering in the little bay. Later we were hosts to a group of very bedraggled soldiers. The very superior officer in charge was quite happy to leave his men outside but he was persuaded that the hut was not an officers’ mess and the men were welcomed in. Interesting information on the ownership of the land was gained from the officer.

Saturday dawned dry and all the packing was completed and stacked ready for the boat, but; hardly had the little boat fixed itself to the jetty than the most torrential of rain descended upon the campers, followed by wind and hail. Within minutes all were soaked.

The return journey was very much a repeat of the outward trip, the same green and grey-faced members pacing the decks, the same regurgitations. One prospective member showed great nautical expertise in the manner in which he swabbed the decks for his friend, quite unaffected by the mess.

On reaching Mallaig all sickness ended and the weather improved, even the sun showed itself. Various car problems were sorted out and the drive south started. The shambles did not end there, one party developed a wheel wobble on a bad bend and narrowly missed the experience of driving on three wheels.

Having said all this about the chaotic conditions all would agree it was a good Meet, climbs were ascended, ridges were walked and scrambled over, friendships were cemented and experiences were gained. Thus the spirit of the hills was manifest throughout the Meet.