NOVEMBER and December are not usually good months for sea-kayaking. The kayak was washed and stowed in the garage, the gear cleaned and put away. Then came that amazing fortnight of almost Indian summer weather, light winds, mild...
So perhaps a late-season, last paddle around Dunnet Bay would still be possible. A few years ago I tried this and spent the whole of a precious afternoon taking the boat down to Castletown, getting dressed up in all the gear, capsizing twice trying to paddle out through the swell, then packing everything up again and going home.
The one thing I don’t like about sea-kayaking is the time and hassle it takes to actually get into the sea, properly equipped, and then to get back home and wash and dry the gear.
I have a check list, in my old age, to make sure I don’t forget anything important and it runs to 44 items ranging from “boat” (yes, I could even leave that behind), to VHF radio, to having checked I’ve allowed for the difference between BST and GMT on the tide tables.
The morning was grey with a stiff offshore wind, I paddled out of Castletown harbour and headed across the bay for Dwarwick – good practice trying to keep a straight course with choppy waves coming at me from the side.
It was very peaceful with a few eider ducks and shags and one or two very small black-and-white birds on the water, which might perhaps have been storm petrels (Usually someone tells me that I’m wrong but I’ve never claimed to be a bird-watcher!). It looked too choppy to carry on towards Dunnet Head so I simply turned back along the coast, paddling slowly into the wind along Dunnet Bay and doing a bit of gentle surfing in the two-foot waves breaking on the sands.
The beach was empty, not even one dog-walker on this grey November Monday morning.
“Always practise your roll, even when going out in winter,” say the books. I plucked up courage to submerge a couple of times in the uninviting-looking cold water near the harbour and decided to do the rest of my winter practising in the swimming pool.
THE boat was washed and put away once more in the garage... and the quiet weather continued. Other commitments meant that it was right at the end of the settled spell before I could get out again.
Overnight rain was going to clear to a fine calm sunny morning with the wind picking up from the south in the afternoon. The tidal range was average. A rare chance for a winter trip to Stroma.
Sea conditions were forecast as “rough” but this simply means a big swell and the Inner Sound is reasonably sheltered from the west, moreover with a harbour at each side there would be no need for surf launches or landings.
Slack water around eight meant that if I could get organised to set off from Gills before then I’d have an easy paddle across, the west-going tide would help me back later in the morning. That timing also made sure I kept out of the way of the Pentalina ferry which can take a route on either side of Stroma.
Nevertheless, a solo crossing to Stroma at the end of November was not something I’d attempted before, and it was with some trepidation that I paddled out of Gills in the growing light of dawn. It was much cooler than it had been, clear sky was advancing from the west while above and to the east thick, high cloud remained from the weather front which had cleared through overnight.
The west-going tide would start picking up in less than an hour and that ferry would be coming, good incentives to paddle hard aiming for the eastern corner of the island two miles away. I needn’t have worried about sea conditions, it was just a gentle rolling swell and small choppy waves on a light southerly breeze.
Tidal current atlases and tide tables are wonderful things but I still only half-believed the forecast of no strong tides. A big swell was breaking off the Stroma Beacon and along the western side of the island and I wanted to keep well away! But when nearly across with no problems at all I began to relax. I paddled into the harbour, looking forward to landing as usual on the stony beach. I’d forgotten the grey seals. It was late in the breeding season and many would, by now, have taken to the sea. But there were still at least a dozen pups of various sizes on the stones, some with adults beside them and even a bull seal making amorous advances on one of the females in the water. Where to land to avoid disturbance?
The slipway from the inner harbour basin was fortunately largely clear of the seals, though a couple of well-grown pups snarled from the top as I pulled the boat up. Others, well camouflaged against the grey concrete and stones, hissed. They have a nasty bite, it’s best to watch where you’re putting your feet! I changed into jogging clothes and set off for a quick look round the island. It was not yet nine, but would have to set off back at the boat no later than 11.30am to be sure of missing both the rising wind and the Pentalina on its second crossing from the Hope.
The cloud gradually cleared eastwards to leave brilliant, low sunshine illuminating the views of islands and sea and coast.
Many grey seal pups and adults lay on the stony beaches to the west of the harbour but quite a few had ventured further. Some pups lay on the grass on top of the low cliffs, with “seal paths” leading down to the rocky geos. Here was an adult pair, male and female, in the grass at least 100 yards from the sea. Waves were smashing through the narrow passages by Castle Mestag where I’d paddled in still water three months earlier. Further north, a wrecked fishing boat lay on the shore, pounded by the surf. The Golden Promise is not the first boat to have run straight into the island at full speed in calm weather, on automatic pilot, with nobody on watch.
The crew was safely rescued when the boat ran firmly aground on slabby rocks in September, but the vessel could not be saved.
I jogged on along the higher cliffs, admiring the big waves breaking with the sea surging through the tunnel into the rocky bowl of the Gloup. North of the lighthouse, the Swilkie was churning white, the west-going tide meeting the big swell coming from the west. Beyond, sun glowed on Swona – an island I’ve yet to visit on the other side of the main channel of the Pentland Firth. A case of so near and yet so far.
Time was getting short now, so I went back by the old road across the island, past the empty houses, school and church. On this northern part of Stroma the seals had taken over. A mother with a white pup lay in the middle of the field east of the road, at least 200 yards from the sea. Two well-grown pups splashed in a pool right by the road under one of the ruined cottages. Others lay in fields above the shore, among the grazing sheep. It felt like one of those TV programmes on what would happen to the world if all humans suddenly died. The people left Stroma over 50 years ago, now the wildlife is taking over.
In the clear sunshine, with the old cottages casting long shadows and the far peaks of Sutherland sharp under a brilliant blue sky, it was a shame to be heading back so soon. But I’d already stolen a march on late November and didn’t want to push my luck. The southerly breeze was increasing and indeed the sea off the harbour looked quite choppy with the tide now flowing rapidly westward.
So, carefully negotiating a route to the water between the seals, I paddled out of the shelter and pointed the boat towards John O’Groats; I really did not want to be swept into the rough conditions around the Beacon.
The sun was low and dazzling off the sea, I’d brought a floppy hat and sunglasses knowing that the North of Scotland can be a sun trap at the end of November, but even so it was mostly with one eye shut that I then paddled hard south, straight into the sun, across the huge river of sea flowing west, letting the tide take me safely towards Gills. Looking back, Stroma basked in the low sun, as enticing as ever. But the boat is back in the garage and it’s unlikely there will be another chance to visit before the spring.
