Sailing the Shipping Forecast: The Hebrides

Celebrating 100 years of the BBC Shipping Forecast, Jane Russell takes us on a series of coastal cruises through the forecast’s sea areas, exploring some of the special places on offer in each zone

This is a spectacular but remote cruising ground. It is essential to be well-prepared and self-sufficient. The Hebrides sea area is right on track for the passage of depressions across the North Atlantic and subject to rapid changes in conditions.

Prevailing winds are southwest at a summer average of Force 3-5, but north to east winds become more frequent in May and June if a high pressure establishes north of Scotland. St Kilda and the west coasts of the Outer Hebrides are fully exposed to the wind and swell generated by Atlantic systems which, on average, bring Force 7 or above on three to four days a month between May and August.

The good news is that the chain of outer islands creates a break, and conditions are sufficiently different inside of them that the inshore forecasts are split: Ardnamurchan Point to Cape Wrath including the Outer Hebrides covers the more exposed area; The Minch covers the more protected area within.

Most enclosed are the waters east of Skye, although here there may be significant shifts and accelerations to the wind as it comes down off the mountains.

Tides generally flood north up the west side of Skye and up its east side to Kyle Akin, but then meet the south setting flood coming round the top of Lewis and down the North Minch.

Currents run very strongly in places, particularly through Kyle Rhea between Skye and the mainland, where the right passage timings are essential. Wind against tide can lump up considerably.

South-west 3 veering west or north-west 5 to 6, occasionally 7 later. Slight or moderate, becoming moderate or rough later. Showers. Moderate or good, occasionally poor.

We had reached northwards past the infamous Ardnamurchan Point, the most westerly point on the mainland, and I was perfectly happy to feel a slight sense of anti-climax. It is not the defiant headland that its reputation suggests. Rather, its old bones, draped in a soft diaphanous cloak of green, seem to slouch towards the waves, worn down by the millennia of standing up to them. Yet it continues to stand sentinel over an often unpleasant patch of water and it is a gateway to some of the most remote coastlines of the UK. It was a significant milestone on our voyage around Britain.

The light southwest wind was just about pushing us through the lumped-up water and we were loath to bear away, preferring to stay up a bit to keep momentum. Clear of the point, the sea state improved and we dropped the main, twinned out our headsails and straightened onto a run. As we passed the island of Eigg, a veil of rain descended around us, obscuring the majesty of any nearby mountains. Completely shrouded, we left Malin behind and cruised into the Hebrides forecast area.

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We were now into the seventh week of our three-month voyage around Britain and the choice of our route north was being made by the weather and our time constraints. When the weather had been more settled we had dreamt of stopping in the anchorage on Canna, the most northwestern of the Small Isles; or maybe crossing to Loch Skipport on South Uist in the Outer Hebrides; heading on up via Loch Maddy on North Uist; perhaps Scalpay, The Shiants, Loch Mariveg and Stornoway.

We had even hoped to have a dash out into the Atlantic to the island of St Kilda, some 40 miles west of the Outer Hebrides, and back. Sailors who make the trip have the right to wear a special puffin tie.

But that window had closed and none of these would be achievable for us on this voyage. Nor would the west coast of Skye. We would need another cruise with more time and more settled weather. We made that promise to ourselves. For now, we were looking for some decent protection from the forecast strong westerlies or northwesterlies.

We headed up the Sound of Sleat, on the east side of Skye, to Isleornsay on the southeast coast of the island. We sailed past the lighthouse, giving the north end of the island a good berth, then rounded up and anchored as shoal as we dared, with plenty of room between the lines of moorings on either side. The excellent mud holding in this gently shelving bay was exactly what we needed when the blow came.

The log records ‘30 kt gusts from the west, undramatic’. Nevertheless, when the worst was past, we felt that a celebratory meal ashore was well deserved. Also, there was no phone signal in the anchorage and we wanted to find one to get some weather updates.

We stretched our legs around the charming village, everything gentle in the soft light under rainbows behind the rain. I picked a sprig of heather to mark our passage beyond Ardnamurchan, as is tradition, and stuck it in my hatband. Then we succumbed to the warm hospitality of the bar at the hotel and a really delicious fish chowder.

Feeling rather daunted by the tidal streams through Kyle Rhea we had checked and double-checked our timings but were reassured when another boat upped anchor just after us and headed north in our wake. We were aiming to go through on the early flood.

The way that the wind bends around the various crags of Skye is very tricky: we had it behind us on our way to the narrows, but then it came round at us right on the nose. Too light, though, to give us much steerage, so we resorted to the engine and motored through with no drama, and on through the buoyed channel under the Skye Bridge, enjoying the view of the Cuillin mountains beyond.

Clear of the bridge the wind started to funnel down the Inner Sound. The other boat was heading to Plockton, and we were very tempted to join them, but with the continuing westerly winds we didn’t want to give so much away. We had Portree in mind, on the Skye shore, up the Sound of Raasay.

On the wind, the shifts were turning that track into a battle, but then backed enough to give us an easier angle up to Caol Rona. We went with it, but were kept busy reefing then unreefing, as a series of rain-laden squalls hurtled off the daunting black hulk of the island of Raasay and enveloped us as they passed.

Close to Caol Rona, an incredible phenomenon appeared to leeward. It was a patch of sea that appeared to be on fire. We thought it must be something similar to a rainbow, but with only the red-orange end of the spectrum caught in the misting above the water. Eventually it turned a yellow-green and dissipated, but it lifted our mood. Moments like this are part of the magic and privilege of cruising.

We were very glad to get in through the narrow, rocky entrance into the calm enclosure of Acairseid Mhor on the island of Rona. There was no hope of spotting under-the-surface rocks in the flinty light but we took care with the pilotage, felt our way in successfully and picked up one of the visitor moorings off the jetty.

The reward for the anxiety of the entrance is the complete tranquillity in what feels like a secret harbour cradled within the island. It was wonderful to be in this special place that we’d been told about so often.

Seemingly in the midst of some building works and improvements, the lodge was closed. Everything was very quiet ashore, but we posted our mooring fee into the honesty box then walked between rocky banks cushioned with moss and lichen, through low and gnarled woodland, up to a perfect viewpoint above the anchorage.

Up to this point we had not given up entirely on our hopes to take in the outer islands, but with the forecast developing, and with Cape Wrath in our sights, we decided to head northeastwards, back towards the mainland.

Another stop on our wish list was Loch Ewe, in particular because we wanted to visit the lovely Inverewe Gardens. However, in the current weather the anchorages near the gardens, described rather ambivalently, didn’t inspire confidence. We probably could have been braver, but it was another reason to return.

Off Rubha Réidh, a reach became a run into the shelter of the hopeful sounding Summer Isles. Our sodden arrival there in grey upon grey was not what it said on the tin! But then we spotted puffins. Like dolphins and rainbows, they never fail to make us smile. They are so comical and apparently blundering as they attempt to take off, their bright orange legs akimbo. Then they warp speed their wingbeats and transform into bullets.

Exploring the summer isles

Variable becoming east or northeast 2 to 4. Smooth or slight. Fair. Good.

Another day, another world. Summer seemed to be finding its way home. Heading ashore from the anchorage off Tanera Mor, we were given a friendly welcome but asked, very graciously, to explore with respect, this interesting private island. Under patches of blue sky, and even some sunshine, we were rewarded from the top with wonderful views to the mountains, over the islands and out across the North Minch towards Lewis on the western horizon.

It looked as though a window was opening the following day to round Cape Wrath without heroics, with a dropping swell and light easterlies. We headed northward, making as much as we could of the tide and the light winds. Swell was still rolling in from the northwest and we needed some help from the engine to keep us sane but, at last, we could see the majesty of the mountains of Assynt and beyond.

Stoer Head was benign and the sandstone stack of the Old Man of Stoer was, of course, unimpressed by our passing, but we felt very differently towards him. Thinking about the eons of time and the geological forces that created him becomes mindboggling.

As we approached the towering cliffs of Handa Island, a Scottish Wildlife Trust reserve, flights of guillemots bustled past us, always in line and on a mission to somewhere. They are often our companions on passage but as we made our way into Loch Laxford we thought we hadn’t seen as many as we expected.

Already a strange land of rounded pink boulders and sparse vegetation, what struck us most about Loch Laxford was an almost eerie silence. We anchored, serene under the cottage in Fanagmore Bay, and found ourselves whispering in the quiet. We guessed that perhaps bird flu had taken a heavy toll.

So this was it. Cape Wrath, here we come! In the light easterly wind we first motorsailed, then sailed, picking up the start of the northerly tidal set that would take us around the corner. As we approached the formidable cape, worthy of such a name, we were reaching gently over a scarcely murmuring swell under blue skies. In fact, the cape was not named for anger from the gods, but in Old Norse as ‘hvarf’, a turning point, which is as we found it.

We were leaving Hebrides behind us and heading on into Fair Isle.

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