Another mystery boat (well, part of...)

This nice rudder turned up recently, having been dumped in a skip somewhere in Argyll. It ended up at the Moleigh for recycling and such is my reputation for the progue it ended up at my door. Sadly the fine rowing skiff to which it seems to have belonged hasn't turned up yet.

It's about 22 inches from top to bottom and looks pretty old, made from two pieces of mahogany glued together and fitted with a pair of hand forged iron pintles. These are not in-line, suggesting an interesting clinker (lapstrake) transom construction in the original boat. The steering yoke looks as if it's been added more recently, cut from a piece of the same material - either part of the original rudder or form another component. I feel that it belonged originally to a fine rowing skiff.

So, what is it? What happened to its mother skiff? Does anyone want it back?

Kilmory Causeway - cats or careless driving?

A dreich trip back from Glasgow was enlivened by the stories Big Jim put out over the address system. As we rolled past the ancient Clock Lodge outside Kilmory he told us one version of the story of the strange causeway, still visible at low tide across the head of Loch Gilp. According to Jim a former inhabitant of the tower was suspected of kidnapping the Lochgilphead cats and carrying them off for some wizardly purposes, as a result of which he was shunned in the town. To avoid the catcalls of residents he acquired a wooden sledge so that his horse could drag him to Ardrishaig.

Jim’s story is improbable, not least because a couple of tides would have sufficed to erase the tracks of the largest sledge and the story belongs to the century before last. Apart from this why should Lochgilphead be stuffed with ailurophiles while the residents of Ardrishaig, just a couple of miles away, cared nothing for their felines?

What follows is just what I’ve discovered so far and by no means complete, but worth recording as part of our social history. Any comments helping to complete the story will be welcome.

Our story begins on 15 June 1826 when Sir John Powlett Orde, the hereditary second baronet and son of Admiral Sir John Orde, married Eliza Woollery Campbell, then in her early twenties and daughter of the laird of Kilmory.

Admiral Sir John was a prickly chap who readily fell out with colleagues, including John Jervis, Lord St Vincent and Horatio Lord Nelson. In 1805 he was ordered to strike his flag, despite which in the curious ways of the Admiralty he continued to be promoted, ending up as Admiral of the White in 1810, by which time he had secured a shore job as member of Parliament for Yarmouth, which he kept for life.

The second baronet was born at Portman Square, St Marylbone on 9 June 1803, followed the usual path of the English upper class with an education at Eton and inherited his father’s title in 1824 while still a student at Oxford. His marriage to Eliza put him in charge of her affairs, as in those days the husband became the legal guardian of his wife. Three children followed in quick succession and sadly Eliza died during or shortly after the birth of the third, Eliza Margaret in June 1829.

Meantime Eliza’s father had died in 1828 leaving her not only his substantial estate in Kilmory but also a plantation in Jamaica, all of which passed to Sir John on Eliza’s death. This windfall meant that the young widower could now live well on the wealth created for him by literal slaves in Jamaica and virtual ones in Argyll. He was soon rich enough to buy another estate at Lochmaddy. It’s difficult to imagine the gulf that must have existed between Sir John on the one hand and the wretched folk who supplied his wealth, divisions not just of wealth, but culture, religion and language.    

In 1832 Sir John married a second wife, Beatrice Edwards of Harrow, had the original Campbell house knocked down and commissioned the English architect Joseph Gordon Davis to design him an enormous palace befitting his social status. The result was Kilmory Castle, today the headquarters of Argyll & Bute Council. It is described by Frank Arneil Walker  as an

“impressive, residential fortress…ugly and agglomerative…designed with undeniable bravura….No doubt battlemented towers and vaulted halls afforded some symbolic reassurance to a parvenu gentry whose wealth had no historic relationship with the land but had accrued from trade or industry.”

We can add that Kilmory is haunted by a green lady – Eliza’s ghost perhaps?

And a report from the Strathclyde Building Preservation Trust in 2008 noted about Sir John Orde

“An innovator and inventor, curragh racer and scourge of local fishermen, from the time he took on Kilmory he worked to convert it into a smooth running estate embracing up to date farming methods and indeed moving farming forward. He took an active interest in local democracy, sitting on the Police board and taking part in early local government in the area but remained unpopular with local people. His workforce on the estate, which was large and diverse, was well paid but fiercely regimented and his amalgamation of several tenanted farms to put together the Home Farm, meant the removal of tenants at best to waged labour on the farm and at worst to eviction from the land.”

That is the background to what follows, based on local legend and looking more likely than the business with the cats. It seems that one day Sir John was driving through Lochgilphead when some boys held on to the back of his carriage. He struck at them with his whip to drive them off, causing one of them to fall off and die under the wheels. This caused such a lot of resentment that Sir John could not go through the town without suffering abuse. He decided to have a causeway constructed across the head of the loch, for which the Clock Lodge was constructed as a gatehouse.

This expensive, entirely selfish project had the no doubt intended by-product of obstructing navigation rights, there being at the time a fishing fleet of small boats operating from the public pier half a mile above the causeway, which had been built in 1831. There was a massive public outcry which eventually resulted in Sir John being compelled to breach a space in his new construction to allow free passage.

The date of the incident isn’t clear, but there are suggestions that the Lodge is newer than the castle, perhaps dating from the 1850s. It has been on the market for some years and it will be a brave person who takes it on.

PS 21 December

May help to explain the comments below

Now we are three!

This blog has just passed its third anniversary and I thought I'd have a look at the statistics to see where we're now at.

As it says on the cover my idea was to cover everything about boats, more or less in Scotland and it's interesting that there's been a lot of interest from outside our little, perhaps soon to be free, country. In this context it's fascinating to note that there has been an avalanche of hits from Poland on the post I wrote about Don Roberto, which I guess is due to the current interest in Scottish independence. Recently there has been an increase in hits from Spain, I suspect for the same reason.

This being post number 156 means that I've managed an average of one per week throughout. Pageviews are nudging 150,000 to date, about 1,000 per week. Not bad for a non-monetary blog that will not carry commercial advertising.

Recently I've been heavily involved in skiffing and so had less time for research, so there haven't been so many historical posts as earlier. If you're new here please have a look at some of the earlier posts, such as the very first one The Scottie which are I hope still worth reading. One of my favourites is about St Abbs, the little port that had a huge impact on the young me.

Apart from needing to feed a writing habit the main reward from this blog has been the feedback via comments and private emails, resulting in a lot of data being preserved. So, if you have anything to do with boats that you want to share, please let me know.

The image at the top is from a new series of works by Paul Kennedy, prints of which will be available soon. 

A long way to go for a pub lunch

We’ve been lucky with weather for rowing all this year, from the fantastic summer sun over the Skiffieworlds to the calm water for the Loch Venachar sprints a few weeks ago. Last weekend it held up again for the Selkies and their friends the Uisges as both skiffs set off from  Ardrishaig for a long row to Otter ferry for lunch at the Oystercatcher.

 

We set off mid-morning with a couple of hours of spring tide left to carry us up Loch Fyne. Forty five minutes of brisk warm-up rowing got us to the bays at Castleton for a short break, then we were out into the tide for the stretch across to the spit.

At Otter Ferry we were met by the Tighnabruaich folk, who had trailed their Archie Smith across. 

The pictures show the three skiffs plus mid-Argyll’s wee Orkney-style support boat.

 

Lunch was enjoyed by the log fire in the pub, then we were off back home with the ebb.

Through Castleton again with the water much lower we had to dodge the shallows to get through and found quite a chop in the short stretch across to Loch Gilp. By that time a South easterly was coming in, speeding us back to the jetty but reminding us how cold and miserable the trip could have been.

Rowing Machines with added Scenery

This year has really opened my mind to the concept of community recreational rowing in all its aspects.

At the start of the year I was involved as one of the builders of the Isle of Seil’s Selkie, but didn’t imagine that I’d get involved in actually going out in her. How wrong I was.

Scottish Coastal Rowing is enjoying an explosive expansion, with 24 clubs in Scotland, about 60 skiffs on the water and a couple of dozen more in build. There could be six on the water in mid-Argyll alone next year and our local waters are much more favourable than those on the East coast.

Last weekend the Selkie was in action for sprint races on Loch Venachar, the closing event of the SCRA calendar. We did quite well, given that our average age was a little more than some of our competitors.

The Selkies, before they stripped down for the race.

An interesting aspect of the skiffing is its appeal to women. Throughout the country ladies teams are out there in all weathers keeping fit and enjoying themselves. The Isle of Seil provided mixed and ladies crews but didn’t manage to put a men’s team on the water.

Our coxes can be male though!

The picture at the top shows that our ladies were putting their backs into the job too. For most of us when we start skiffing our previous experience has been paddling rubber ducks or at best sculling wee blunt tenders, where you can’t stretch out. Those techniques almost have to be unlearned, meaning that folk with no previous experience at all can perform on a skiff just as well or better than old hands.

 

The super-fit Anster ladies

Occasionally we’ve shipped along newcomers with previous on rowing machines in gyms. Once they’ve overcome their fear of being outdoors they’ve done very well.

On Seil we’ve met some (usually men, I’m afraid) who object to being coached and come up with remarks like “of course I can row, it’s just like walking”. The truth is vastly different. Rowing with a single long oar engages the whole body. After a session newcomers feel it mainly in their upper and lower backs and legs.

In all its numerous aspects, involving communities, promoting healthy exercise, keeping traditions going and just having fun coastal rowing is one of the best things happening in Scotland today.

If you’re reading about skiffing for the first time please visit www.scottishcoastalrowing.org and www.seilskiff.org.uk. 

Crinan Again

 

In the decades since the first pedestrian excursion described in the last post I’ve been through the canal many times in varying weather conditions and with an assortment of boats and companions.

It isn’t great fun in pouring rain and a strong following wind is worst for old yachts with wing engines or outboards, as you can’t slow down at the locks.

On a cool dry day with a group who’ve been through before it can be a nice sociable day. Rope throwers of the one-coil school can add excitement and fun. Either way it’s best to settle down to a full day of enjoying the history and the scenery.

Last month Captain Cormorant offered me a berth on his fine ship and our passage brought a lot of memories back.

We left Loch Melfort in darkness and had a good voyage down under power against one of the neepiest tides in the year. There’s something very special about being the only boat out on a still morning in Autumn, well wrapped up against the cold, drinking hot strong coffee and solving the problems of the world (or maybe just Scotland). In the old days there would have been a bit of smoke around too.

We pushed through against the last of the tide at the Dorus Mor by hugging the Craignish shore and were joined by the extra shore crew, who had driven down after their breakfast and were surprised to find us already in the basin.

There was a slight hiccup after the Captain had checked in to the canal when the engine, which had run perfectly earlier, refused to start. While this was being solved by a process involving prayer, three other boats joined us, making up a good squad with plenty of muscle power and good chat.

There are always some interesting vessels to be seen in the canal, and one wonders if they ever venture out. These do:

Not sure about these:

We started too late to have any chance of making the complete passage, but after a good day’s work the good Captain was last seen heading to a pontoon above Ardrishaig, with only a couple of locks between him and the open sea.

The Crinan Canal not quite for me

In 1971 I visited Mr Hain, the manager of the Royal Bank, and asked him for a loan to buy myself a boat. To my shock he instantly agreed and soon after I found myself the owner of the Loch Long Class yacht no 98, Gaudeamus. Once I’d repaid the money Mr Hain told me that had I been looking for, say, a fridge he would have been much more dubious about the idea. He hadn’t understood how important it was for me to get afloat and that for some having a boat is one of life’s necessities.

I bought Gaudeamus from Edinburgh University, one of four boats that they were forced to sell after lobbying by Gordon Brown and others, the Students Association seeing anything called “yacht” as a symbol of privilege.

Although less than ten years old the University’s boats (the others were, of course Igitur, Iuvenes and Dum) were all suffering from the constant hard use and lack of proper maintenance typical of club yachts, especially those made available to students. She had a lot of broken frames and her sails were exhausted. All this made her affordable, with Mr Hain’s help.

Loch Longs are of course technically yachts, but they lack many of the features that one might expect to find, such as a cabin. Doing serious coastal cruising in one is quite a basic undertaking, but that is exactly what I wanted to do.

In late September I set off from Cove with a friend we’ll call Big Jim with the intention of cruising the West coast. We made good progress down the Firth of Clyde and through the Kyles with the intention of making Tarbert our first port of call. But exhaustion and darkness took over and we eventually anchored in Skate Hole, somehow getting in without hitting “the rock which covers at H.W.” according to the CCC Sailing Directions, see image below.

 

After a rather uncomfortable night we woke to find ourselves in more or less the same spot, in retrospect surprising, given the lack of chain in our anchoring arrangements. We got underway and had a fast run down to Inverneill, where the parents of a university chum gave us breakfast and encouragement, then on to anchor in the shallows off Ardrishaig.

At this point a small element of realism entered our world. We had allowed ourselves just a week for our first trip and had already spent longer than expected just getting to the canal and plainly the traverse would take longer than what was left of day two. The plan to explore a few islands began to look a little unrealistic. It seemed a good idea to do some serious investigations into what might lie ahead and these started off in the hotel, where we soon found such good company that we ended up staying the night.

The following day we walked the canal and spent a pleasant afternoon in the public bar at the Crinan Hotel, which was in those days a friendly place. We ended up quite unable to walk the nine miles back and got a lift back from a nice old fellow in a Land Rover, who turned out to be the Bishop of Argyll. We found Gaudeamus a few hundred yards nearer to Lochgilphead, pitching about in a South-westerly half gale, nasty muddy waves breaking over her bows. So we booked ourselves in for a second night, abandoned plans for the cruise and began to realise that the main focus would be on getting back home.

We left after breakfast on day four, beating into short steep waves thrown up by the strong wind against tide. The little ship coped well, less so the rigid pram dinghy, which constantly filled so that we had to stop and bail it out every half hour or so.

Off Tarbert we passed a tiny plastic cruiser with three aboard, struggling a bit but seeming cheerful, the only other craft we saw all day.

Each long tack across Loch Fyne got us half a mile or so closer to Ardlamont Point, which we rounded as it was beginning to get dark. It had taken many hours of constant hard work to get there. The wind had steadily freshened during the day, but now we had a lee in the West Kyle and flew down on a reach to Tighnabruaich, where we found a mooring. The hotel was full but we persuaded them to find us some space to doss in our sleeping bags. The talk in the bar was about that little plastic cruiser, which had been lost an hour or so after we had passed her, drowning her crew.

Severely chastened, weather-beaten and tired but a bit wiser, we had an uneventful day five spent reaching and running back home. I haven’t seen Gaudeamus for many years but it’s good to know that she is still around. These tough wee boats have a habit of surviving. Big Jim is still around somewhere in the South of England.