The tide of the year is rising. Time for work
There was a rumour of a washed-out bridge in the shortcut as we headed north in the rain, so it seemed advisable to take a nervous detour over the Rest and be Thankful pass, itself built on a landslide, while Argyll and Bute Council tried to decide what to do about it all, which would probably be not much, slowly. And then we were at the bothy.
The bothy is an ancient ferryman’s hut about 12ft from the West Kyle of Bute. It faces north-east, with its back to the gales, except last week’s, which must have been north-easterly, because the door was swollen shut and I had to open it with a crowbar.
Inside, the solar panels had charged up the car battery that feeds the computer, and the water tanks had diligently collected the water from the roof. I lit the wood stove and pulled out five candles, supplied by FADumont, who is also ready to supply British churches (but not me) with light-up crowns of genuine Golgotha thorns at Passiontide. The laptop seemed to be charging rather slowly today.
Beyond the window, five mergansers cruised round the mooring buoy and the kyle stretched to the oakwoods that clothe the crags on the west coast of Bute, now green with new leaves. Two trawlers were ploughing up and down, one from Belfast, the other a Barra boat. Since the 1980s they have been allowed to trawl all the way up to the beach.
This pair had presumably objected to the heavy seas and surfacing submarines down towards Arran, and were charging through the ecologically satisfactory prawn and lobster creels of the village, inducing rage in everyone but their crews and owners, who are also angry, but only with themselves, and possibly the world.
It is easy to hang around all day in this solitary fashion, thinking of this and that. But the future was approaching at high speed, full of sunshine and fresh breezes, so it was eggs on toast and away to the boatyard. People in dirty oilskins were moving among the big tarpaulined beasts, and someone had nicked the hose to run up his engine. Sean the shipwright was under the back end of ayacht, cursing apropeller. When I said hello he stood up swiftly, banged his head on the rise of the keel, rubbed the place and said, “Ooyah, hello.”
Yard life frequently resembles an adults-only Beano strip. Our conversation was illuminated by intelligent but not competitive swearing, for there is no point in trying to o
