Jean Says: I'm beginning to wonder whether I went wrong with the navigation, and at some point turned left instead of right. We're in the middle of somewhere that looks like Scotland, sounds like Scotland (except for all the Northerners), and yet doesn't FEEL like Scotland, on account of it being very hot. We've also logged 952 nautical miles, so that means we could be in the Bay of Biscay by now.
The locals are in shock. They're not sure that they've ever really experienced a heat wave like this one before, and certainly not in May or for so long. We know how extraordinarily lucky we've been to have managed to have more than a week of Mediterranean sunshine, slap bang in the middle of our (near) circumnavigation.
Having conditions like this has opened up a whole new range of unexpected possibilities for us. It would be a waste not to seize this opportunity to go much further afield than we've previously planned, and anchor in some of the more remote bays far away from civilisation as we know it, i.e. Smiths, Boots, the Co-op and endless charity shops.
On Friday we sailed North West from Tobermory to the Isle of Canna, a very remote island with only fourteen people living on it. Canna is tucked in behind Rum, Eigg and Muck, and was gifted to the National Trust of Scotland by well known (late) gaelic scholar Sir John Lorne Campbell, a man who's life's work was all about conservation.
We met a lady who has recently moved to Canna because her husband has taken the job on as head gardener at Canna House. They'd moved from Suffolk so it must be quite a culture shock. She said that she and her husband both enjoyed photographing wildlife, which is lucky, because it could be their main form of entertainment here on Canna. She said that a ferry comes over three times a week with supplies and is the only time they would have a chance to leave. Swimmimg away is definitely not an option. It must feel very strange to live on this tiny island with limited opportunities to escape and only thirteen other people to talk to, but then there would be some of tourists in the summer like us. I'm sure I could only cope with that life for a few weeks. I must be more urban than I thought.
The ten o'clock Saturday ferry arrived with quite a number of people on board. We found ourselves willing them to stay onboard, and not clutter up our new found paradise. Bob had got the binoculars trained on the back end of the ferry and counted seven people, one with a bike and a dog getting off.
Sitting nicely moored on your boat and spying on others through binoculars is a standard form of entertainment for yachties, and you can almost hear a resounding tut tutting when you bodge a mooring attempt.
Once we were installed on Canna, we were in a dilemma about whether we wanted stay for a whole day, relax and generally concentrate more on doing short island hops, or go for a long haul adventure and head right up to Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides. We decided that we could do a bit of both and have the day off in Canna, but then head for East Loch Tarbert on South Harris.
We're so glad that we stayed for a full day. We had one of our best days yet. We discovered that there was a once a week tour around Canna house and gardens which was fascinating. The Campbells main interest was Gaelic music, and John Campbell collected a huge archive of traditional Gaelic folk songs and stories. The library at the house contains the world's largest collection of Gaelic literature. We spent the rest of the day walking, swimming and reading, and finished off with a visit to the island's only restaurant, run by a fabulous Dutch guy and his wife. Aart was also the island's coastguard. The food was superb, and we were unexpectedly entertained by one of the other guests playing his guitar. We had a singsong until the light began to fade 11.00pm up here at this time of year) and got our dinghy back to Bella Rosa thinking that a day couldn't get a lot better.

Jean swimming in a wimpy wet suit with the tiny restaurant in the background on the left and the even tinier church on the right.




Bob swimming without a wimpy wetsuit.