Here are the Clyde to Caledonia Waters

Collected from Peccadillo, Missee and a little dolphin watching vessel in the Moray Firth...

Bowling Beach and Margaret

I’m picking up the blog again after coming somewhat undone with Clyde to C…
Never mind, all journeys are good and it seems I’ll get a chance to gather my waters after all, setting off with Colin and Ann on their barge Missee tomorrow, Wednesday, headed for Ardrishaig. Meanwhile come for a walk on the beach with me… a letter to my sister Juliette.
(You can also see it on the Clyde to Caledonia blog .)


Margaret Donaldson
I learned today of the passing of fellow poet Margaret. What an aching space this will make in our Bank Street Writers group, but I am glad to hear she went peacefully. The poem below is not finished but I wanted to put it up today.

Bowling Beach
Keep this secret Bowling beach to yourself; it’s an Eldorado for mosaic artists like Jane and Julie and for stained glass masters like Joyce. Just before the Erskine Bridge at bowling the River Clyde narrows significantly, and Julie and I believe that boats of old (and, sadly, of today) ditched their rubbish overboard when entering and leaving the city. Tumbled glass and pottery can be found in abundance, and this is where, after the gales of 2 January, I found 46 complete vintage bottles, perfectly preserved in river mud, in which I am now collecting waters of the west coast. She heard a story once that tea clippers from China would bulk up their ballast with that blue and white china (broken or no?) and then ditch it before they docked to deliver their cargo; can anyone confirm or refute?

Letter to Julie

How generous Bowling beach was today! Clambering down to the beach I could tell there were major changes; two huge trees had been deposited in the middle of your stick drawn sand grid, long gone. Standing next to them I raised my eyes to the tops of the wall staves, way above my head, and sensed the volume of water that must have been swirling about this very space … my head under water…. for these giants to drift over and settle here. 

It was a spring tide, low. Extremis. Low low low. I knew it because the timing of the tides has woven into me after weeks and months of watching them and the weather. I still watch the weather… check the winds and their direction. Winds and rain, wonderful rain that flattens waves. So low was the tide that treasures stretched in all directions; I hardly knew where to begin. As I arrived the Waverley was passing, her grand red funnels towering through the trees as she pattered her way to Glasgow along the dribble of river the tide has left.. Richie took fright and bolted away from the beach. I remembered that the last time we were here the Waverley came by when just as fireworks display had gone off at Erskine Hospital across the water… he’d been terrified. Poor chap. Had to keep him on a lead the whole time.

To the high wall  I went first, where we found the stag horn driftwood. Among the scabby plastic I found a whole coconut with a missing eye. Peering in I could see the solid white flesh, perfectly in tact, and when I tipped it up the creamy milk poured onto he beach. What a thing! Where could that have travelled from? A distant island or a fairground in Largs or a passing ship… such stories we could tell! I split it on a rock to reveal clean white coconut…what to do with it?? Couldn’t eat it; much as I love this beach its filth is poisonous. Failure to wash hands after foraging will guarantee a dose of the runs. I could take it home for the birds… but in the end I left it there on the beach.

What other treasures were there? One complete wee green medicine bottle, ancient bits of blue & white pottery (can I put them in your box?) and one extraordinary piece of green tile, well worn. Many excellent bottle necks and just one glass stopper. A tiny round compact, so old that all marks were gone. The little catch dutifully opened as I pressed it but alas, the hinges came apart as it opened, and the dark, odourless, sandy kept its history for a secret.

Richie was leaning forever shoreward in his collar, whites of his eyes straining backwards on his face in relentless anticipation of explosions and certain death at the Erskine Hospital for old soldiers.

The sun was getting on down by now and a wistful sunset began to paint itself on the Clyde. I cast a loving glance ever and again towards the Kyles. Such an ache was in my heart for this firth; not sad or regretful but full and hopeful. It is not done yet. To get a boat for THESE waters, now that would be worthwhile.

I sat on the top of my plastic bag of treasures, promised the river I’d stay there till the curlews cried again in the shallows across the way. For an age that soft crrrr crrrr crrrrrr had carried across the water from the mud flats like a river’s caress. They were quiet now. Only oystercatchers and seagulls shouted to echo the noise in my head… stupid thoughts squawking incessantly.

I sat. I waited. But the curlew didn’t cry. The dog strained in his leash and the cold of wet sand began to creep into my buttocks. 
What’s the time Mr Wolf? 
Two curlews past a heron.

The sun dropped further in the sky, clouding over, chilling. 
Come on curlews I whispered, chastising myself for such pathetic commitment to even this, the tiniest of meditations. In the end the dog began such distraught whimpering, casting back and forth, that I abandoned my vigil with a soft apology to the waiting curlews.

What else did I find? Two tennis balls for Richie, a beautifully rusted big spring and the tiniest bright red apple you ever did see. Perfectly formed. Perhaps the greatest treasure was an ivory and tortoiseshell clothes brush… ancient… bristles all gone to reveal a startling pattern of dark, black holes in contrast to the soft brown magic on top. NOW I wanted you there, wanted to shout LOOK at THIS my Julie!!! And looking up I thought how if you were here we’d come picnic here, spend a whole day… or if not a day a good few hours round this lowest tide, scouring the beach and maybe making wobbly sculptures with our finds. I laughed to think how others might turn their noses up at this filthy beach, littered with tampon applicators and old plastic bottles bleached and blind. But for you and me? A treasure trove! And if you’d been here you’d have helped me wrestle free that fine length of coir rope around the trunk of that well travelled tree. We’d coil it up and bag it and march back to the boat for all the world like two hunters with the low slung dripping carcass of a stag, slain to save the starving village.

Back at the boat we’d brave the rolling of disbelieving eyes as we laid out one precious piece after another on blank, damp swathes of kitchen roll. The air would be filled with happy chat of mosaics made and to be made, or candlestick sculptures of white wax dripping over tumbled green bottlenecks.

Eventually the rolling eyes would shout and the table would be conquered in favour of dinner. Precious blue pottery would be packed into cardboard boxes as you flew back to Canada and I returned to a world of nonsense in which coconuts are not shy of their labelled packets, brushes must have bristles, apples must be largely eaten off pieces of pottery that form entire plates. Bottlenecks must needs be attached to their bodies to make soft glugging sounds as we pour their whisky out.

And boats? Boats must be sold to settle mortgages. Not sit expensively round to welcome home marauding beach parties and tease dreamers into planning voyages of folly.

love, Bev


Margaret Donaldson
You are the dark green of the moss.
Not even the moss but the shadow beneath it,
moss, so damp, long after the rain has been.
You are the brightness of the sun on stone
long after its story has set.

I find you in this sacred ancient place,
find the prints of horses hooves,
myths in soil turning to gallop past
the bark of a thousand trees into
a sky of a thousand blues.


You are the air between the feathers
of  the gryphon swan, the story of
a thousand lives, from knighted lands
long, long ago. A glint
in the storytelling eye.

You are all around.

I was there you said, I was here.
And now I go elsewhere.

BS Aug12

Bowling and Safe

Arrived Bowling 1600 Tuesday 10th July.

That's it... for now.

Prop Repaired

A million thanks to Joe and Teresa for bringing a replacement prop out late last night (getting home to Kirkintilloch goodness knows when he had to be out on the road by 5 this morning) to Davie Waterson for the prop, Davie Morrison for tracking another down, Jimmy and Anne for putting up with running commentary of procedure and panic... Wow how lucky I am to be so surrounded by loving support... And how I aware I am I have stretched it to the limit! Let's not forget Mike who hung around with his indomitable good cheer as I got the prop off and, even as I type, is undertaking yet another arduous bus journey to Rhu to crew with me today.

My writing, you observe, has descended into relatively inarticulate functionality. So tired sweeties but pregnant with stories that I look forward to harvesting. Meanwhile if you want a flavour of the magic go to the breathtaking blog of Gerald... The Frenchman who materialised out of the mist of some mariner's tale on a hand made yacht with a matching dog called Vega. He and his photos are out of this world. Just enter these search words in google and click on the translate option next to the link... Unless, of course you would like to read it in French? keikiwai gerald blogspot

Rhu to Bowli.... Uh uhhhh

A perfect run from Sandbank to Rhu with Graham yesterday , river perfect and flat when Mike arrived today and we set off for Bowling... Bowwwwwwling... Cannnnaallll.... Hoooome... Baaaaaath... I could almost taste the shortbread on Gerry and Morven's wee round table... Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

BUMFFF .... Something hit the prop.... Boomff boomff boomff boomff... Something was not right... Back into Rhu marina... Weed hatch open, one of the prop fins completely gone. No go. Would shake the whole arrangement to bits. But Joe Holland is on his way with 2 props, and he doesn't take no for an answer when it comes to mechanical outcome.

Here's hoping cos after tomorrow the weather closes in again...

cc +61 Dunoon

I've been putting off doing this blog entry, no prizes for guessing why. Peccadillo will not be going to the Atlantic sweeties and there's an end to it. Dunoon is as far as I go. There was rather more excitement in the first 10 legs of the journey than I'd intended for the whole thing, and after the breakdown last Monday I had a little sit down of my own... weighing up adventure versus responsibility. 

Bottom line is that it's one thing to risk my own life, but those of others? No way, and I can't handle her on my own out here. The bob on the Firth of Clyde was not life threatening but the Forth was. And I can see how to make it safe but don't have the wherewithal to make it happen. 

1) at least 6 months to just sit and wait, be available (my crew too) for good stretches of settled weather (it's been a nightmare these past few weeks!)
2) at least 1 large rib (that's one of those large rubber power boats) for company, assistance in the event of breakdown and the occasional push of speed
3) lots and lots of money to pay the astronomical fees of these marinas that charge by length; at 50' I'm paying the same rate as HUGE sea going vessels... no account of the actual size of the boat

Sooooo, as everyone gathers for Falkirk Wheel 10 celebrations and I sing happy birthday to me I look back over it all and think, what a disaster? Embarrassment? Frayed knot sweeties... I sit out here in the Holy Loch (rather too far out to be honest... the wind's picking... force 7 tonight and she's fair gettin shoogled aboot... so that's why the other yachts snuggled right in to the marina!). It's the most beautiful mooring south of Croabh near Oban the boaters say... I sit here with a little brown dog and a fine cup of coffee and think, Peccadillo is not for these tidal waters, not with any dignity... we both knew that. But d'you know what? She's the only boat I have, the one that I know best, and this was my only chance to have a go at it... so we did.

And we've had a grand old time. There's a wee weather window coming in on Sunday so we'll wend our way back to Bowling via a couple of other marinas. It's the canal, but no' the Crinan canal for me!

Day 10: Bowling to Dunoon (Holy Loch) on 25Jun12

Well the story has traveled far and wide already and some of you have even seen it on the
RNLI's Helensburgh Lifeboat Station website
so there's no hiding the fact that we broke down in the middle of the Firth of Clyde. There's a story, of course there's a story... but you're going to have to wait for the full version. Here are the bare bones...


We set off from the Bowling Sea Lock shortly after 1600, a little ahead of the top of the tide at 1725. Our sweet, warm send-off party (Jimmy, Gerry, Colin & Anne) had immediate validation of the furrows on their brows as I turned 50 yards out of the lock and sailed directly over the breakwater (it stands well above water at low tide) instead of proceeding to the exit. What they couldn't see that we were greeted, on exit, by an enormous wave, the wake of a passing tug. I had no choice but to turn and meet it head on or we would have been flipped before we even left to wreck dock. The wee yacht that came out with us was tossed about like a paper cup.


But there we were, off at last. That beautiful river all about us and the exhaust roaring in our ear (Jimmy has made a high extension for tidal waters). Our trusty crew for the day was Mike Storry, Adrian and Billy Billy Billy... singing in the galley again; oh Peccadillo was smiling. At Dumbarton Rock we tested the radio back to Bowling and Alec said the signal was weak so we tested it on the Clyde Coastguard. It's quite something getting past the embarrassment of talking on the vhf radio (yes sweeties, even for me). I mean
Clyde Coastguard Clyde Coastguard Clyde Coastguard 
This is Peccadillo Peccadillo Peccadillo
Over...
You just feel like such a pratt. But as the communications progress you come to grasp the reason for all the formality... the form of it that makes it clear who's saying what when in the rush of wind and water... and the roar of the engine. Mike found this exhaust noise most disconcerting and Adrian, and engineeery sort, began to suggest all sorts of baffle solutions. But me? The closer I am to the heartbeat of my engine the happier I am, and she was running so sweet I didn't mind the noise at all.

Anyway, the Coastguard were reading us loud and clear and indeed, just 5 minutes later asked us for assistance as a member of the public had reported seeing 2 adults and 2 children on a raft off Langbank. Ohhh it was GRAND to have a mission, and we duly scoured the horizon (unfortuately looking directly into the sun). Now Langbank is a really shallow piece of water... long banks were built at right out into the wide shallow Clyde to force the water down the main shipping channel and so keep it clear. With Peccadillo's 2' draft we were able to search well beyond the shipping lane though the tide was dropping so we couldn't take too many chances (having used up our luck for the day sailing over the breakwater...).

We never did find the raft though we did see some old timber posts that could easily have been mistaken for people... we abandoned the search and carried on. The sea was slight but the wind, between a F2 and a F3 began to make a nuisance of itself as the tide turned against it. For any other vessel it would be a giggle but the wind resistance and uncomfotable water makes the engine work doubly hard and I decided that it would indeed be Sanbank (Dunoon) and not Rothesay (as we had tentatively hoped) that we aimed for this night. The engine is the bottom line for me and I've come to know when she's working hard... as Joe says, just continuously running that engine for 5, 6, 7 hours... it adds up. The temperature was sitting lovely and I just kept the throttle comfortable but that dastardly wind kept our speed below 5 knots (over the ground), even when the tide started to trundle.

As we passed the Coastguard at Greenock point the sea began to rough up a bit. Although the recorded wind was still relatively slack, there seem to be ribbons of fast stuff that whip along, and then there was the wash, broadside, of those blasted ferries. Anyway, Pecc was managing it all well, but after nearly 5 hours of uncomfortable water I wanted to check the prop shaft coupling (on the nastiness of the Forth a couple of bolts came loose). I asked Mike to ease back on the throttle, count to five (to let the prop shaft stop spinning so I could look at it) and then carry on.

Here was the mistake. As the throttle slowed some shaken up sludge settled in the pipe, and as he opened it again it shlurped up against the lift pump filter and blocked it. The engine died. This is the first time I've heard that sound in 12 years (apart from the time I ran out of diesel). Nothing I could do would get her going again, bearing in mind that getting into the fuel line is out of the question as it is a mighty mission to bleed this baby. Indeed it took the mechanic and I six hours to do so the next day... Joe remotely diagnosed the problem immediately but even after we'd cleared the lift pump we kept heading off on one investigative red herring after another because we couldn't start her... even though the engine was turning over ok. But that was just it... she's a pig to bleed. Won't stop once she's going, but won't start once there's air in the line.

Anyway, blah de blah you're saying, what about he drama bit... Mike called in the Pan Pan (step before mayday - to warn other vessels to stay clear). The police launch was upon us in minutes because we were strategically bobbing in the MOD Submarine lane. They offered to tow us but the Coastguard said they'd prefer us to wait for the RNLI boat from Helensburgh. Peccadillo was beginning to rock rather wildly with the waves from the ferries and passing tankers and I had to ask the Police boat to shield us from them at one point. Note to self: priority in a situation like this to perhaps get the dinghy in the water to try and hold the bow to the waves... she naturally swings broadside and begins to roll really uncomfortably.


The miraculous RNLI men, Robin, Davie and Chris, were there within half an hour... in fact I think it might even have been less, and the Coastguard watched the whole drama unfold from their window! Mike and Adrian leapt into impressive action and Billy defused some of my tension with his unassailable good cheer... the bastard LOVES adventure... I don't think I'll take him again cos I want a BORING trip.


I sent a silent thank you to Jimmy, Scott and Davie Brown with who's help and advice I had attached, with great difficulty, a HUGE tow-rope right the way round the boat (danger of towing a boat like Pecc is that she can just split... or things snap off). What a mission it was but I think the whole setup made it clear to the RNLI that I had approached the journey with every possible caution, and they didn't give me a hard time at all.


Sooooo, as we hurtled into Dunoon at 6.5 knots and Stevo and the Dunoon gang set out to meet up with us in their boat, everyone was just so kind, and so busy, and so enjoying the adventure that the abject humiliation dissipated long before we got there. I marvelled at the energy of these magnificent men in their shiny yellow boots and space-age helmets; at the alacrity and strength of Mike and Adrian skipping over the top of the barge, at the indominable good mood of that Billy boy and at the relentless encouragement I've had from one and all to keep going.


But as this was all going on I stood stunned at the stern... the first time in 12 years that she has so much as missed a beat and this is fundamental to my journey. I dropped down and tried one thing after another... tried again and again to start her... sinking in disbelief. Yes I had cleaned the diesel tanks... I do it every spring (this comment for any of you who might be considering putting yourself in mortal danger by suggesting as much) and I now have a contingency plan for this event. 


But the whole escapade has shaken and drained me beyond measure. Pecc feels tired too, though she warmed to our carresses the next day, Dr Stewart and I as we gently explored every bolt and wire, pipe and charge till she was sitting snug and sweet, purring again and ready to go.


To go? Where do I draw the line between adventure and irresponsibility? I have passed hundreds of boats on my journey so far... less than 1% of them moving. Dare I say the report on the RNLI website was a little pleased to have been involved (not a single canal barge callout since they opened in 1965). And here I am on MY Peccadillo in DUNOON! It's stunning... and I'm going to stop and think... for a week at least. A big think sweeties... what to do... I'm just sooooooo tired after all this preparation and trying to get the money in.... need to rest and think

and write.

*********************************************


Anyway... by way of therapy I did do some writing in Dunoon

indistinct

Reach for the stars

and feel the ground dissolve beneath your feet.

Watch, wide eyed, as the hard facts of your life

slip out from under your searching toe

and you are left clinging to the spar of the billowing sail

of an unknown yacht

shaft of an arrow let loose to cry

Why?

What?

Fade to mist in the suck and blow that is

the air in your lungs,

questionable existence

questioning resistance

to the one hard fact...

that you are everything and nothing

even the questions are no longer your own

all you can do

is keep breathing