Well, I'm marking time here in the Royal Quays Marina while just cooking up a storm. Storm Dennis, in fact :)

I almost didn't make it home for Christmas this year thanks to the unexpected (to me!) Metro train drivers' strike.
Living in Newcastle is a bit like living in the 1970's!

We managed an almost flawless Christmas dinner this year - we've really got it down now. Famous last words :)
Even the children were prepared to eat this yuletide's festive starter (we told them they were chicken nuggets).

Kurt got the roasties perfect - he brought the cooking water to a boil before adding the potatoes and threw in some bicarbonate of soda too which really seemed to help. Thanks Serious Eats!
Also he didn't boil the fuck out of them this time.
If I have one complaint; the bread sauce just didn't taste quite right. Perhaps it needed longer cooking. Like the mysteriously sticky Christmas pud it says two hours right there in the recipe!. Well it wouldn't be Christmas without having something to complain about - right Kurt?

Unusually this year Kurt dragged the fambly to a Christmas Eve carol service in the village church (to much wailing and gnashing of teeth) which turned out to be really fun. The vicar was young, enthusiastic and female it was all very Vicar of Dibley and the kids got the chance to set fire to themselves and their neighbours with lighted kristingles (nope, me neither). They even joined in the singing.
It's a Christmas miracle!

Now here are the things no Christmas is complete without:

Featuring my triumphant return to Port Edgar Marina.
And the sad realisation that it's the same inhospitable, badly managed, poorly maintained, swell-ridden shithole that I sailed away from almost exactly three years ago :(

It's very disappointing to report that whilst the lucrative properties around the marina - the shops and restaurants - have been improved immeasurably whilst I was away, the infrastructure and facilities of the marina itself have not gained in the slightest. The pontoons are every bit as rotted and holed, the cleats as loose and unreliable and if anything there is even less tyre barrier and even more uncomfortable swell than when I left!
Not only that but the old amenities have completely evaporated, with the marina now offering a single men's toilet and two miniaturised shower stalls to be shared not only between all the berth holders but also the marina staff and even some of the local shop workers.
And all only a short cycle distance away from the pontoons!

The sooner they build this fancy new marina down in Leith to offer some real competition on the Forth the better for everyone I reckon.

From the very start Port Edgar management were unwelcoming - I hurried to the marina office to announce my glorious return after 3 years of travelling the high seas and their reception troll sourly informed me that "You're not allowed to receive mail here" whilst handing me a 'Welcome Home' card that some kind soul had inadvertently sent me in the post (thanks Flora xx).
I explained my plans to live onboard the yacht until I found a flat and was told that the marina policy was to allow no-one to stay aboard for more than two weeks and that I would have to leave after that. How a marina can function without allowing visiting folks to stay on their boats more than two weeks I simply don't understand but there you have it.

I've only come across two or three other marinas which were in the least bothered by the idea of paying customers actually using their marina, and they were only concerned about people spending more than two or three months living aboard. Mind you, those marinas didn't feel as if they might break apart and wash out to sea. Well, excepting Holyhead that is :)

I tussled with the reception troll over whether this two week period was consecutive or cumulative (apparently the inflexible marina policy is entirely at the troll's discretion) and we finally agreed on my being kicked out at the end of the month. Just time to dry out on the slip and restore Harmony's anti-fouling (badly needed), and to do all my laundry (for free - since Port Edgar management isn't competent enough to maintain the coin boxes on their washers and dryers).
Silver clouds eh?

To take a break from Port Edgar's inadequate toilet facilities, if only for a few days, I moved in with Flora and Marco.
Whilst there, in-between doing house repairs, I cooked a couple of traditional British roast dinners for Marco, who's from Italy and therefore completely ignorant about good food.

Flora has been wanting to try out a fancy starter she'd recently eaten and which I thought sounded like a good contender for my family's Christmas dinner: figs with goats cheese and basil. So she prepared them to kick off our classic roast beef dinner; featuring yorkshire puddings, boiled potatoes, horseradish sauce, some over-cooked asparagus and a rich gravy.
The gravy was absolutely delicious - if I say so myself.
I persuaded the nice Stockbridge butcher to chop me up a big bag of bones which I boiled up into stock to bulk out the typically meager roasting juices so we could have a decent amount of gravy.

Unfortunately the centre-piece beef was disappointingly tough and dry. I presume a combination of a relatively poor joint (butcher's fault), and an unsuitable roasting method (my fault). Since the butcher's sirloin was dauntingly expensive I had gone for a cheaper rolled topside (or was it silverside?) and roasted it at a moderate temperature (around 180°C) for a couple of hours.
Perhaps the joint would have more suited longer cooking at a much lower temperature, say 100°C possibly in a little liquid? And it also might have benefited from being sliced much more thinly than I managed?
Still, the failure of the meat was more than made up for by the magnificence of the Yorkshires, which exploded out of their muffin tins like miniature aliens, and the richness of the gravy.
Did I mention the gravy?

All was not lost with the chewy beef though since Marco used the leftovers to treat us to some fine Italian meatballs called Plopettes - justa lika his Mamma useda to makea :)

Fortunately we made up for this partial culinary success with a very fine lamb dinner beginning with a surprisingly tasty turnip soup (possibly because it was mostly sweet potato) and finishing with a classic bread and butter pudding. Served with a not-so-classic vanilla ice cream.
The roast leg of lamb was absolutely gorgeous. Perhaps because, as Flora never resisted reminding us, it was extraordinarily expensive.
We cooked it at a very high heat with a ton of garlic à la Keith Floyd (though without the anchovies) and served it with salsa verde, creamed leeks, some green beans with lemon, capers, garlic and anchovies and the usual roast potatoes and parsnips.
Flora turned down my offer of bread sauce :(

Every so often Flora gets a care package from some French friends, and I was lucky enough to be there when the latest one arrived. She suggested we attempt to make a meal out of one of the cans of mystery meat, which turned out to be some kind of tinned French haggis.
Quelle horreur!
I won't even attempt to describe the smell. Or the texture. Or the taste.
I'm not generally a fussy eater but take my advice - if anyone ever offers you some delicious French haggis; Run! Run Fast!


The eventual return of Flora's Mum meant I got kicked back to Port Edgar (getting kicked out seems to becoming something of a pattern) since she can only handle one awkward house-guest at a time, but I didn't leave empty-handed. Flora kindly gifted me a bottle of weird Czech liqueur called Becherovka for flavouring vegetables, and cleaning toilets.

And now my two Port Edgar weeks are up, so I'll be setting off on my nautical wanderings again - I'm heading down the coast for Newcastle's Royal Quays Marina where I fancy spending the winter. In preparation for which I'll be soon making up some aromatic Christmas stock for our fabulous Christmas gravy.
Sigh.
I shall miss having a real kitchen.

Moving right along.
From Kinlochbervie marina, around Cape Wrath at the North West corner of Scotland, along its short Northern coast and then into the Pentland Firth. It's a strangely empty stretch of coastline and not a good place to be caught out by bad weather. Kinlochbervie is the last homely house before the Wrath and the ideal leaping off point for the trip around the top of Britain - if you can find space on their limited but popular pontoons.

It used to be a busy fishing port, but these days you will struggle even to find someone to sell you diesel there.
Lobsters, on the other hand, are a deal easier - you can just hail one of the many passing lobster boats and offer them a tenner for one of their living catch. If the weather is accommodating then just pop the lobster in a bucket of seawater (you might want a lid) and anchor for free around the corner in Loch Clash. It's a pleasant, sandy bay with what used to be Kinlochbervie's main pier, and a fine anchorage when the wind isn't from the west.
Hang your barbecue from the stern guard-rails, slice your squirming lobster in half, slather with garlic butter and get grilling.
Yumsk!
On an unrelated note, I've now come to the firm conclusion that all the time, trouble, mess and cleaning involved in barbecuing for one on a boat is just not worth it :(

Cape Wrath itself is a well-titled horribly exposed rocky headland which has notoriously lethal tides and overfalls that any amount of rough weather can quickly roil up into a small-boat-eating maelstrom. Despite approaching the cape in settled mellow, if misty, weather a surprisingly strong wind whipped up around the headland and there was enough churning washing-machine tidal action to encourage me to keep well away from the rocky coastline. Which left me with little to see in the persisting sea fog over the whole of the next two days.

In fact I arrived at the charmingly named port of Scrabster, at the eastern end of the north coast of Scotland, in a complete pea-souper barely able to see my anchor in front of my bow. Thank goodness for my GPS chart plotter, and for Scrabster harbour's radar operator letting me know about the giant fishing boat also inbound.

I was so pleased with this blog title The Currants of Wrath that I just had to invent a recipe to go with it. It would have been appropriate if I'd made it during my sail around the Wrath, but I didn't have any currants. Or raisins. Fortunately there's a Local Fucking Supermarket™ on the outskirts of Thurso which does.

After a couple of days banging off the filthy tyres fending the Scrabster harbour wall (like Kinlochbervie, Scrabster has limited but popular pontoon space), I set off across the Pentland Firth for Orkney.

I'd been in two minds about skipping the northern Scottish islands completely and just continuing on around the coast to Wick. There's a lot of up north up north. I could easily spend weeks sailing around Shetland and the Orkneys but I was running out of year. Also, to be honest, I was quite nervous about the whole thing; the Orkney islands are bedevilled by fearsome tidal streams, and north of Fair Isle is getting disturbingly remote. Still, it seemed a shame not to do the whole circumnavigation thing properly, so I screwed my courage to the sticking place and sailed north. With good weather, careful planning and a good bit of luck I made my way through Scapa Flow to Stromness (handy for picking up fresh mackerel from neighbouring yachts who are much better fisherman than I), then up the west coast of Orkney and on to Fair Isle. After a rough night tied alongside the Fair Isle ferry Good Shepherd IV in the north harbour (and I have the blue paint marks to prove it!) I finished the leg up to Shetland. Probably the worst crossing of the three year voyage :(

But the next day dawned clear and sunny and I spent the week visiting Scalloway (where I learned the wonder of reestit mutton) and happily meandering around the west coast of Shetland, before making my way back south to Orkney.
I had such a good return crossing that I was able to skip Fair Isle completely and make landfall at North Ronaldsay. What a difference the weather makes! Unfortunately several days of storms were forecast, so I picked up one of Orkney's handy free mooring buoys for a few days - in Elwick Bay, behind the picturesque island of Shapinsay across the sound from Kirkwall marina..
And there I saw the sea monster. An honest-to-God actual sea monster. It happened like this...

About three days in, fairly late in the evening as the light was failing, I had finished my dinner and was just starting in on the whisky and happened to glance out of the cockpit. I noticed a puff of smoke, as from an engine exhaust, so I popped my head up to take a look (you never know when you might be on for some free fish).
I heard a cough from the engine and could clearly see the smoke drifting over the low-lying island in towards the shore, but could see no sign of the boat.
Wait, what low-lying island? And how come that low-lying island is drifting? Moving?? Swimming???
And so I watched in astonishment as a vast oily black behemoth oozed its way past my boat just an arms-length off in the gloom, glistening and puffing with barely a ripple just a great dark hump showing, the damn thing easily the length of my boat. And as it disappeared off into the twilight I was left in a strange mixture of excitement and terror.
And it was at that point that I ran for my camera.

Which is why I have no photographic evidence, honest! Anyway it was already pretty dark, and I'd only have ended up with Loch Ness Monster quality photos. Though I'm pretty sure it was actually a basking shark.

After that, re-crossing the Pentland Firth back to mainland Scotland was something of an uneventful letdown!

Edinburgh here I come...

So I finally lived the dream - the secret dream of all British sailors: To make the passage out to the UK's nautical El Dorado, its salty Shangri La, its xenobathic Xanadu - the fantastically remote island archipelago of St. Kilda.

Not that St. Kilda is really all that far - it's only about 50 miles from the nearest safe anchorages on Harris, but still it is an exposed voyage out into the raw Atlantic with its risk of sudden changes in weather and seas. Plus you are starting from somewhere that's already pretty remote - the outer side of the Outer Hebrides. You don't get much more outer than that!
'Tis a wild and lonely place, ye ken.

My sail out there wasn't entirely straightforward, it ended up being a two day beat (natch), the first leg taking me massively southwards to the almost equally remote low-lying Monach Islands, where I anchored overnight, before finally being able to lay St. Kilda on the second day. And an exciting relief it is to finally see those sheer rocky cliffs rearing out of the empty ocean with their promise of a sheltered loch.
I anchored in the well-protected Village Bay, some distance off the old pier and the new slipway. The bottom is clean sand and I eventually got Harmony firmly secured, even though the convenient shallows were congested by a host of small buoys, and rowed ashore.

The St. Kilda radio operator was very welcoming, but asked me if I'd mind moving my yacht from where I'd anchored between the marker buoys which guide in their delivery ferry, landing building materials onto the slip. I declined, opining that they would probably manage to work around me.
She then gave me a fine introduction to the island and its surprisingly large population of birdwatchers, sheep taggers, archaeologist and the remaining small MOD contingent (as they dismantle the old barrack buildings). And to the excellent museum set up on the single street of drystone black houses where the original (and ancient) Kildarians resided in medieval squalor before the last 34 of them were shipped off to the mainland in 1930. Probably not a moment too soon - a funny-looking bunch of inbreds they were and the creepy old photographs in the museum still give off a very Wickerman vibe.

Then I spent a few pleasant evening hours hiking up the rocky hillsides and investigating the drystone cleats (St. Kilda is rich in stones) where the islanders used to dry their seabirds, eggs, bits of stringy goat and their peat. And used to live! at least in the bigger ones. Apparently they managed surprisingly little fishing due to the inhospitality of the local seas. Or possibly not so surprisingly.
And so to bed. I did ask if there was a pub. There wasn't :(

During the night the wind kicked off pretty enthusiastically quickly reaching a (un-predicted) Force 7 and bringing astonishingly fierce gusts down the steep mountain sides into the bay, spinning my little boat right round its anchor and keeping me awake worrying most of the night. Fortunately the holding was good, and Harmony survived but I left at first light the next morning for the looooong, wet, horrible 12-hour sail back to South Harris.

And no time for cooking :(

I came in to pick up a mooring in Loch Nan Ceall off Arisaig over a week ago to be safe during some predicted southerly gales.
As often happens the predicted high winds failed to materialise but heavy rain did. (Amazing isn't it, that a meteorological service unable to predict regional weather 48 hours ahead is convinced of its unerring capacity to predict the climate of the entire planet for the next 48 years?) So I moved off the mooring buoy (saving £12 a night) and anchored off to wait it out. I'm on holiday dammit - I don't need to sail in no rain.
And here I am still waiting.
Meantime I bought a very-reduced-price pack of celery from the local Spa, and had to think of things to do with it. Here they are.

The rather picturesque Wee Isles off the south of Skye consist of Muck and Brass, Eigg and Chips, Rum and Coke, and Canna [insert your own joke here]. I visited while working my way through a series of curries. Or at least I started with Muck, and then the wind came and then the rain came. So that's as far as I got for a while. Scottish summer eh?

Bit of a funny old place, Muck. Incredibly busy when I was there, but I suspect populated almost entirely by visitors. As far as I saw there was a tea room, but not a single shop.
Very pretty views though.

A big shout-out to those who took up my invitation to catch up in Oban (hi Rosy!).
And a boo-hiss to those who promised to do so but failed - you know who you are, Callum.
I even bumped into old sailing colleagues unexpectedly, which was a bonus.
Rosy's dad John the fashion model has a mooring off the Brandystone (somewhat unmaintained and weighed down with loch life, it must be said) and she was kind enough to loan it to me for a few days on his behalf (thanks Rosy). Mind you, I'm still waiting for his seafood chowder recipe.

Anyway what with the proximity of Ogden's fine seafood stall (no anchovy paste though - what the hell?) and various well-provisioned Local Fucking Supermarkets™ (also no anchovy paste) I was able to roll up a breast of lamb with oysters for a nicely lubricated Dinner with Rosy and concoct a few other bits of surprisingly haute cuisine.
For living on a boat.

I moved across to the marina on Kerrera for a few days after to take advantage of the electricity and the WiFi (they give good WiFi, as long as you pick a berth next to the transmitter) and use up some of my precious anchovy paste that I hadn't been able to replace in Oban.
Mostly, and slightly oddly, in recipes involving cauliflower...

My pilotage book describes Loch Tarbert on Jura as The wildest and most remote loch south of Ardnamurchan and the Inner Loch is currently providing me with a welcome respite from some fiersome Atlantic storms, and from the heavy whisky lunches of the distilleries of Islay. Though sadly not from this bottle of oyster sauce so far out-of-date as to demand being used up now, now, now!

Port Ellen on Islay, in whose small marina I was previously berthed, sits at the head of a 4-mile whisky trail linking three of the island's current impressive total of eight whisky distilleries - Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg.
I recommend the whisky tasting tour at the Lagavulin distillery, though I doubt you'll get the treatment I did. True story:

Usually their tours are booked up, especially over Easter it seems, but when I turned up for an introduction to whisky making at Lagavulin and the promise of three drams at the end (for a three-dram price) the day after booking it I was still the only guest. So after a very informative stroll around the factory, my guide and I repaired to their tasting room and she brought out the three tasting bottles, poured me three measures, one in the glass I was to be allowed to keep, bored herself dry telling me all about their various ages and characters and left me to finish them off alone with the invitation to take my time.
Left me with the drams.
And left me with the tasting bottles.
So I tasted all three, then poured myself another. Looked round, poured myself another. And I kept on pouring myself taster measures until I physically couldn't drink any more whisky without being sick, staggered outside back to the whisky trail and found a bench to relax on for a couple of hours. Much to the amusement of passing fellow enthusiasts.
Best. Tour. Ever.

Pinned down here in Loch Tarbert I'm now rapidly running out of palatable alcohol, and since you really shouldn't give up the drink all at once, I've invented a new cocktail to keep me going - Tequila (well, Mezcal) and Bitter Lemon. It ain't half bad, though I say so myself.
Cheers!

It was time to return to scenic Greenock and my wee yacht Harmony. Before Kurt kicked me out.

Fortunately, between Bradford and the mud-green sea of the Clyde was Sam Peckers 50th birthday - she of Dufour charter fame.
The deal was fancy dress beginning with "S", so avoiding the obvious Sailor trap, and dodging being a giant Shit about it, it came down to a toss up between Stan, Satan's drunker younger brother, or a Sausage.
It was the devil costume's red muscle chest that really clinched it for me though.

A drunk time was had by all (HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM!) - I really hope you got all that red facepaint cleaned off the furnishings!

It's been something of a cookery dessert, er desert in Bradford since Christmas though. I roasted up some of Angela's pork and I used the tub of ricotta cheese I had bought to try in our Christmas starters, which Kurt mysteriously stored in the freezer, to make a Spinach and Ricotta Lasagne. But I spared Kurt the blue cheese, since he hates it, and I'd already made him eat those stilton panna cottas.
I didn't even get around to trialling things to do with all the tapioca flour I brought off the boat. It's all back aboard now, sigh - a project for another day I guess.
In the end I stayed in Bradford just long enough to finish off the Christmas baking (2 months - maybe I overdid the mince pies?) good job the stuff keeps :)

I've paid for berthing fees in James Watt Dock marina, Greenock up until the end of March, after which their rates start to rise quite steeply, so I'll need to be sailing on in early April, weather permitting. Just time for a bit of boat maintenance, and to decide whether to sail back out around the Kintyre peninsula, or cut up through the Crinan canal, saving about 100 miles but meaning I would miss out on Islay and Jura.
And that's nine whisky distilleries right there!