By Paul Bryers, June 9, 2026

Days 7–10: Lochmaddy → Lochboisdale → Vatersay → Tobermory → Lismore Island → Oban

After two fantastic days at St Kilda we head back east across the Atlantic to the Outer Hebrides, specifically Lochmaddy. The five-hour crossing was lumpy but manageable.

Not much to see out there other than open ocean and the odd gannet or shag going about their business with an air of complete indifference to our suffering.

Captain Marky Mark and Emily were, as ever, unfazed. Gemima produced cake. Equilibrium was restored.

Lochmaddy is the main settlement and ferry port on North Uist — famous for its extraordinary natural harbour (a fractal labyrinth of sea lochs and headlands that took up twenty minutes of Captain Mark’s frugal quota of geographical commentary), its rich Norse and maritime history, and what appears to be a thriving arts scene for somewhere with a population the size of a medium bowling team. It was the former home of Hercules the Grizzly Bear! He was famous. He escaped on location, swam around a Scottish beach for a bit, and was eventually recaptured – which is more or less how I feel about most holidays.

Lochmaddy is also the birthplace of the founding members of Runrig. I mention this because it pleases me, and because it was the best pub quiz fact of the entire trip.

At anchor we encountered CalMac’s MV Hebrides, which dwarfed us in the manner a cathedral dwarfs a garden shed. We enjoyed a long and very lovely sunset. The hills of North Uist turned amber, the sea turned bronze, and even the most photographically incontinent among us — no names — exercised some restraint. Some.

The following morning we sailed south to Lochboisdale for a quick stop.

On arrival, CalMac’s MV Lord of the Isles (LOTI) was just departing — and by departing I mean she was generating a wake of such magnificent ambition that it made a direct attempt to capsize our Zodiac. Our bosun Emily responded with some quickfire manoeuvring that I can only describe as genuinely inspired. Crisis averted.

The Lord of the Isles steamed serenely away, entirely ignorant of the small drama unfolding in her wake. Unconcerned. Unstoppable. Magnificent in her indifference.

The Lochboisdale Hotel, it must be said, looked exactly as I remembered it from many years ago. Stoically, magnificently, determinedly deteriorating. The Hebrides are full of buildings like this. They have a kind of stubborn dignity. I respect them.

After lunch we headed to Vatersay and anchored in East Bay.

Vatersay is a quietly astonishing place. The island is connected to Barra by a narrow causeway, and is separated down its middle by a tombolo — a thin neck sand and reeds dividing the Frantic Atlantic from the Soothing Sea of the Hebrides.

The island has the distinction of being both the southernmost and westernmost inhabited island of the Outer Hebrides, and the settlement of Callas on its north coast is the westernmost permanently inhabited place in Scotland. A lot of “mosts” for an island you could walk across in the time it takes Gemima to produce a Victoria sponge.

The livestock were a study in contrasts. The calves were absolutely delightful — curious, friendly, extremely interested in cameras, waterproof jackets, and the concept of personal space. Their mothers, it should be noted, held a rather different view of us. We moved along briskly.

Our excursion to Castlebay in Barra was facilitated by Big Bertha, who gave us a ride in her “big caaasar” — a vehicle of considerable character, as was its driver.

The Castlebay Hotel delivered what may have been the finest haddock and chips of the decade: fresh, flaky, golden, and consumed with the particular enthusiasm of people who have been at sea long enough to really mean it.

The next morning we rose at five o’clock — I draw your attention to the time — and set out for Rum.

After approximately one hour, the sea had made its position clear. Berserker conditions. Capital B. We turned around and went back to Vatersay, which received us without comment, as Vatersay tends to do.

We pottered about on the boat. Some of the women went for a swim in the North Atlantic. Voluntarily. I watched from the deck with hot tea and what I hope was an expression of respectful bafflement. Each to their own. The sea temperature was, shall we say, clarifying.

The next morning we set out again. This time: south and east.

As we sailed into a Force 6 SE gale, we passed over a patch of sea that the chart annotated, with pleasing directness, as “Dangerous in SE Gales”. Oh, we laughed! We were, it will not surprise you to learn, sailing in a SE gale.

We laughed again! We laughed quite a lot, actually – the particular laughter of people who have decided that the alternative is worse.

The boat was pounded. The swell was enormous and very determined. Morning tea was cancelled. I wish to give that sentence its own paragraph, because it deserves one.

Morning tea was cancelled. Bastards!

Lunch was delayed because Gemima was unable to remain safely in the galley. When the chef is defeated, you know it’s serious. We ate later, slightly grey around the edges but deeply grateful, and agreed unanimously that it had been character-forming. We are now people of tremendous character.

After about six hours of this we reached the lee of the west coast of Coll, and the relative calm there was so welcome as to be almost emotional. The sea flattened. The tea reappeared. Order was restored.

Eventually — battled and bruised and considerably better acquainted with our own limits — we reached Tobermory for the evening anchorage. I have never been so pleased to see that cheerful painted waterfront. Even the distillery looked welcoming, and I don’t really like their whisky.

On our penultimate day, word came through of orca in the Sound of Mull. Drama!

We gave chase down the Sound with the cheerful optimism of people who have not yet learned their lesson. The orca stayed elusive. The wee buggers. We saw nothing but beautiful water and increasingly smug seabirds. The Sound of Mull is magnificent in any case, and we consoled ourselves accordingly.

That evening we anchored on the west side of Lismore Island, beside a ruined castle — one of those gloriously derelict grey fortifications that Scotland scatters about the coastline like a man who can’t remember where he put things.

The evening was calm and golden. Gemima excelled herself. Somebody produced a bottle of something excellent. We sat on deck, and nobody said very much, because sometimes there is nothing left to say and that is entirely fine.

Next morning we headed through the mist and rain – the Hebrides offering a traditional farewell – back to Dunstaffnage Marina, Oban.

And that is the end of my tale.

Ten days.

Approximately nine hundred cups of tea.

Several involuntary sea baths.

One cancelled morning tea (still processing).

Two days at the edge of the world.

One near-capsize courtesy of CalMac.

One gale crossing of genuine ambition.

Zero orca (I will be writing to someone about this).

One perfect evening beside a ruined castle, with good company and nowhere else to be.

The crew – Captain Mark, Emily, and the incomparable Gemima – deserve whatever award exists for managing a small shipload of opinionated, inquisitive, and thoroughly delighted passengers across some of the most dramatic waters in the British Isles.

Janet, Ann, Claire, Vivien, Kim and Dave: it has been a privilege and a joy.

Would I do it again?

Reader, I am already looking at the dates.