Having failed to make a trip to the Treshnish Isles from a recent Iona visit, we had explored the possibilities of a day trip from home, but it had to be before the puffins began to leave their burrows and headed out to the Atlantic until next spring. We found the way to do it; looked forward to a date etched on the calendar. And then weather intervened.
Such was wind and rain on 28 June the boat could not sail. Disappointment was tempered with agreement to move the trip forward a week. Tenterhooks, daily forecasts not great. Then it got worse, no chance of sailing. Another week, fingers crossed.
And so we were blessed, a day where Scotland showcases all her glories. On the road a little after six of the clock, return expected around midnight. Sandwiches packed for a long day.
And what a day was served up. Oban for the morning sail to Craignure. Been a while since we did that for our usual route for many years has been via Corran and Fishnish. We met our mini bus, relaxed as we crossed the island to Ulva Ferry, last seen a couple of decades ago or more. Our vessel awaited, in the sun. And from there a Beach Boys earworm played through the day.
The Jack B took us out to the islands. Staffa was a break in the journey, an hour. Eschewing both the cave and the trudge across to the puffin colony, we took the new stairs aloft, the trig point, views all around. Down the Sound to Iona, abbey limned in the haze. The minor caves, basalt columns, a baker's dozen raft of puffins on the swell. Beyond lay the isles of Treshnish.
Further afield Scotland was showing off. Jura's Paps, and Skye's Cuillin, with small isles in between. Over on Tiree the Music Festival would be in full swing; Coll seemed closer than ever. Even little Canna put in an appearance, a trick of light refraction, rarely seen on the horizon. Eigg's meringue peak. And on the mainland, mountains, and ranges and shifting shades and silhouettes, from Ben More so close, with cloud trails, to Nevis and so much more. Scotland's glory out in her finest.
But it was puffins we came for, a corncrake too hopefully. The Jack B chugged to the north end of Lunga. As we neared so the puffins enticed us on, fast flapping wings rising from the water. A floating pontoon awaited, roped on to the boat, trailed to the shore. We picked our way over the boulder field, and followed the painted arrow. Up, and a up a bit more.
Puffins, on display, putting on a show. Razorbills too. Food brought to burrows, nesting materials too yet. Over many years we have watched puffins, photographed plenty, from Staffa to the Isle of May, Bullers of Buchan to Handa, Birsay too. Delightful as these all are nothing comes close to the Lunga colony, on a day of sunshine with barely a breeze.
Crex crex, crex crex. Of course the corncrake teased. I followed the sound, climbed paths, wandered off. A patch of nettles. Photos have appeared this past month or two, corncrakes on Lunga, out in the open. Not so for me. Scouring the nettle patch, listening. They have the skills of the ventriloquist. And all around the puffins played, nature's showbirds. Those big orange feet, the multi-coloured pantomime bill, with it's cornflake rosette. Waddling, in and out of burrows, wings a-flap, taking to the air, whirring and diving. Bringing smiles to every face.
It was Turus Mara that made it all possible. What a day they gave us, linking with the big CalMac ferry, the minibus across the isle, that sail to Staffa and beyond, and then round the various isles of the Treshnish, rich in history. So well run I'm convinced they had arranged those two bad weather days only then to present us with the beauties of the endless sun and perfect sailing conditions.
Already I'm looking at their other options, more time on Lunga, for photographers and birdwatchers, four hours, even a six hour visit. They'd need to arrange that weather again, for on other days it could be a long and cold vigil. Nothing ventured, get over to Turus Mara, and see what you can put in the diary. There's magic to be found out there. And all with a smile.
Random Iona corncrake in full flow.
And to take us back to Portknockie, one of Spynie's red squirrels.
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