From Skye to sea

The best way to see the stunning Argyll coast and its islands is not by land but by sea. And if the voyage involves several whisky tastings along the way, so much the better, says Tom Bruce-Gardyne

It was a stifling, hellishly hot London night as I made my way towards Euston, where my Scotrail sleeper was waiting to depart. I made it with seconds to spare, soaked in sweat. As we pulled out of the station the sense of relief was immense—I felt I had caught the last train from hell.

After a decent sleep, I woke—not in heaven, but Glasgow Central.
I jumped in a cab for a four and a half hour journey to the isle of Skye and the Talisker distillery on the banks of Loch Harport. There are cheaper (and easier) ways to get there, but even with the Skye Bridge, it is a long way. What took me to Skye was the combination of whisky and sailing that is the Classic Malts Cruise. It's an annual event in which up to a 100 yachts sail in a wide loop through the Inner Hebrides, bagging distilleries on the way. I joined the cruise for the middle leg from Talisker to Oban, aboard the Eda Frandsen; a fine, broad-beamed whale of a boat owned and skippered by Jamie Robinson.

The Eda Frandsen (or "Esther Ranzen" as she became known) is a classic gaff-rigged cutter built in Denmark in 1938 to haul lobsters from the Baltic and later cod and haddock from the North Sea. With a maximum eight knots under sail and six under steam, Robinson conceded "she wasn't built for speed; her role in life was to carry five tonnes of fish". Robinson bought the boat in the early 1990s, but nearly lost her to a workshop fire. He explained how he had spent months just walking round her unable to decide what to do. The three-year resurrection from the ashes was undoubtedly a labour of love.

The cruise began with lunch on deck, where I met my crewmates; two Scots, three Swedes and a couple from Lausanne. Most were involved in whisky in some form, and all had been at the Talisker party the night before, which explained the drowsy mood on board as we set off for the open sea. The muffled throb of the engine, plus a few glasses of wine in the sunshine and I, too, was soon dozing.

But Robinson had other ideas. There was a slight breeze and there were sails to fill. It was time to rouse this sorry crew. Orders were barked, positions assigned and ropes pulled until finally, after much fumbling, we managed to hoist almost 3,000 square feet of canvas into the air. The engines were cut and we were sailing—not as fast as the sleek, fibre-glass yachts in the distance—but we were definitely moving and looking magnificent to boot.

Our boat had crossed the Atlantic more than once, had survived force-11 gales and could right itself, even if the masthead was touching the water. But we were hardly in testing conditions and the cloudless skies often mocked our efforts to be sailors. A teasing gust of wind would spark us into life, only to die down and leave the sails flapping listlessly. Still, there were compensations, not least the views of the Cuillin mountains, whose volcanic peaks dominate Skye and the islands to the south. There was also the sea itself. Being flat-calm, it was an almost Caribbean blue.

When we anchored in Loch Scavaig on Skye's southern tip, the urge to dive in was irresistible, even if the temperature wasn't tropical. I borrowed a wet-suit from a crewmate and swam out to a colony of seals playing off the rocks. The seals were curious but grew shy if I came too close. As the seals bobbed out of sight, I gazed back at the Eda Frandsen. She looked sublime in the still water, framed by the black mountains behind.   

Back on deck, it was time for "a wee dram"—a coy expression that signalled the start of the evening's drinking. I took a slug of Talisker—the so-called "lava of the Cuillins"—and felt its warmth spreading through me. Over the next few days, we tasted our way round the entire west coast, sometimes at the relevant distillery, but usually on board, thanks to our boat's copious supplies. Occasionally there were impromptu "nosing" sessions, where the group was encouraged to speculate on elusive aromas. This gave rise to free-flowing whisky-speak that burbled into the night. "I'm getting smoke and beach bonfires"... "seaweed and old rope" ... "I'm getting tar and something I can't quite place" ... "I'm getting drunk".

Yet come morning, hangovers were easily dispersed. All that was needed was to stand on deck, fill your lungs and then drop below for a hearty fry-up, prepared by Robinson's mum, Mary. After breakfast came the group discussion of where to go, and with the day's one decision made, it was back to the frantic routine of day-dreaming, idle chatter and trying to spot minke whales.

What was obvious is how these waters are simply made for sailing. On one side is the absurdly indented coast of Argyll—said to be longer than that of France—which you could never begin to know by car. On the other, lies a rich scattering of islands, all with their own stories.

The next stop was Rum, the so-called "Forbidden Isle", where the curious or uninvited were occasionally fired upon when it was a private sporting estate. But there are no guns now and the island became a nature reserve in the 1950s. Its architectural claim to fame is Kinloch Castle, a late Victorian hunting lodge in municipal red sandstone that ruins the view down Loch Scresort. It was built for George Bullough, the son of a Lancashire tycoon, who inherited Rum in 1891. No expense was spared on his pleasure dome, from the stand-up jacuzzis in the bathrooms to the 300-foot greenhouse. In its day, this was full of exotic plants and humming birds that used to fly round the drawing room. There were also heated pools for alligators and giant turtles, and an electric "orchestrion" that could replicate the sound of an orchestra. It was the Bang & Olufsen of its day and still works, as our guide demonstrated, filling the house with a deafening march and plunging it, briefly, back to its Edwardian heyday.

That night we dropped anchor in the glassy waters of Loch Moidart and after dinner drank whisky in the slowly fading twilight while Robinson played his accordion. His doleful ballads about whaling ships far from home were at odds with the bucolic scene. We were moored beside the beautiful Eilean Shona, an island owned by Richard Branson's sister. I couldn't help feeling a twinge of envy, at the thought of having a tycoon for a brother.

In the morning we were ferried to the other side of the loch to admire Castle Tioram, perched on a rocky outcrop that becomes an island at high tide. This is a real castle, albeit a ruin, with a 14th century keep that was torched by its clan chief to prevent it falling into Hanovarian hands in 1715. Its new millionaire owner wants to restore it, but is currently fighting with Historic Scotland.

The wind had got up and the Eda Frandsen was pitching against the waves as we rounded Ardnamurchan Point. It was suddenly cold and I noticed one of our party had turned as green as his waterproofs. Luckily, there was time to recover in the sheltered waters of the Sound of Mull before disembarking. By the time we got to the evening's farewell ceilidh at Oban distillery, I had a fairly clear picture of what heaven was like.