A SKIFFER IN A LONGSHIP by Ali Grant

A chance conversation with Mid Argyll’s Kerr Mitchell led to me volunteering to row a Viking longship as part of the Loch Fyne Viking Festival, re-enacting the legend of King Magnus Barefoot. Here’s an insight into what life as a Viking was like.

WEDS

I pitched up at Tarbert in a blaze of sunshine. It’s a beautiful harbour town with a stunning wee castle. I wandered up a few steps to check this out and admire the views, where I was joined by a herd of woolly beasts, sporting the kind of coats that were like my very own Viking one. Suddenly I felt at home! They had a fine set of horns as well, 4 in fact, and they didn’t seem sure if they wanted to be goats or sheep.
                       

                                       

I wandered back down and bumped into Bob from Troon Coastal Rowing and his lovely partner, Mary and we settled ourselves in the Figgate Bar for the evening.

THURS

In the morning, we transformed ourselves as Vikings and headed to Inverary to greet the incoming longship. 

       

A crowd of roaring Vikings banging on their shields made for a dramatic arrival at the shore. No sooner had the  ship beached, than the Viking’s were out and charging up the jetty, to the sound of real horns being blown and more clanging of shields, Bob from Troon and myself in amongst it all.

It’s thirsty work being a Viking , so we made a very noisy raid on the Loch Fyne Whisky Shop who caved in right away and hastily pacified us all with a dram each. The George Hotel put up more of a resistance and the Vikings had to accept defeat and cough up £90 for a round! Thirst quenched, we roared down the main street, stopping to gain control of a bouncy castle, despite a valiant effort by the wee kids playing on it.

Then it was off to kidnap the actual Duke of Argyll, who clearly wasn’t dressed to be marched through the water and bundled into a longship. Oh well, we did un-kidnap him again, returning him safely to shore. Then it was back in the longship and off to raid.

The next victims were to be found in the sleepy town of Ardrishaig, some miles up the Loch. I climbed in the longship and took up my oar. My fellow crew were all strapping Vikings, who it transpired were in fact The Causeway Archers,  all the way from Ireland who were a good shot with a bow and arrow, but lousy rowers.  So, a bit of a ‘timing’ nightmare on a grand scale, with 10 oars. Thankfully a breeze got up and we were able to put the boat under sail, which meant we could enjoy its magnificence.

As we were on a tight time schedule, we transferred into one of the traditional boats in our flotilla and made ourselves comfy after pillaging its bar, towing the longship behind. As Ardrishaig approached, it was time to get back on the oars and get battle-ready. Ardrishaig were having none of it though and ambushed us from sailing dinghys, squirting us with huge water guns.

                   

As we rowed for shore, the baying crowds were also ready for us, the Primary School having constructed a giant trebuchet, a Viking catapult. Let’s just say we get pelted by water from all angles, with wet sponges, water balloons, B&Q orange buckets… and ended up drenched.

Despite all the action, the day was only just beginning and I downsized into a St Ayles skiff and set off on a 12 mile race down Loch Fyne with the 2 Mid Argyll boats competing for first place. My own boat with a crew made of from Royal West, Troon, Row Porty and Mid Argyll, slaughtered the opposition by miles! We rowed into Tarbert to be greeted by a lone piper, a huge burning beacon and cheers from the waiting crowd. It was a great feeling.

That night, in a pub full of Vikings and Archers, we graciously accepted the prize of a lovely engraved bowl and a bottle of whisky. We had a dram each and poured the remainder into pint glasses to share around the pub, as is the Viking way.

                     

It is probably worth mentioning that 5 minutes before our departure for the race, Kerr Mitchell of Mid Argyll sustained some nasty injuries in a fall. He played these down and managed the 12 mile journey, alternating between coxing and rowing. He wasn’t with us at the prize giving because he did in fact end up in hospital with torn ligaments in his foot and an injured elbow, so we awarded him the trophy.

FRID

Even Vikings need a day off, so I packed my rucksack and took the ferry over to Portavadie for the day, where I enjoyed miles of forest tracks and quiet beaches all to myself. Bliss.

SAT

Re-enforcements arrived in the shape of Larry and Jan and there was no time to lose, so we headed up to the castle to make Vikings of them. The bear, lynx and wolf had reappeared and the Causeway Archers were on hand to show us how to keep them at bay. Jan and Larry were hooked right away, with Larry quickly progressing from hitting the actual target to random shots into the grass behind, thankfully avoiding the wee bunnies basking in the sunshine.

We then watched a Viking battle re-enactment, complete with swords and axes. Some of these guys more than looked the part, in fact, if they weren’t being Vikings, they’d just be plain scary. It was a nice educational diversion though.

Battle over, we headed down to the harbour to watch a bit of torture and humiliation – the ‘Greasy Pole’ challenge. Basically, a whole tree log is greased with Fairy liquid and secured horizontally over a harbour wall. At the end of this, hangs an empty bottle. Bold (or foolish) Vikings were invited to try their hand at shimmying along the slippery pole, retrieve the empty bottle and holding it in their hands, somehow turn around and shimmy back along. Those completing the challenge, swapped the empty bottle for a full bottle of whisky. Hurrah! However, if this sounds easy, it certainly wasn’t and it was painstaking to watch. Those who looked like they were making good progress were rewarded with a bucket of cold sea water chucked over them, with the slightest flinch being enough to send them into the water below. Many just didn’t have the strength required to make it to the end, the majority failed on the turn and others, inches away from victory, dropped the empty bottle into the sea and therefore had nothing to swap. Aaaargggh!

As if that wasn’t enough excitement, the real spectacle was to come, with the official launch of the longship and the re-enactment of King Magnus Barefoot’s claiming of the Kintyre peninsula in 1093. It was said that if a Viking could row / sail around a piece of land, then they could lay claim to it. This wasn’t possible for claiming Kintyre as it was joined to the rest of Argyll by an isthmus, so Magnus portaged the boat instead, from West Loch Tarbert to East Loch Tarbert and today, the whole thing was done again. The boat itself is a magnificent construction of some 40ft long and a beam of 11.5ft. It is constructed from spruce and built right in the spot that the tree was felled.

        

…and so to the launching of the boat which was towed along the main street by rows and rows of Vikings and the whole of Tarbert who had turned out to wish it luck.

There was just a short time to eat and then scrub up for the evening ceilidh. There’s something surreal about seeing Vikings dancing the Orcadian strip the willow, but maybe they did! That suave Ancient Mariner, Malcolm and Carole had also now joined us with their amazing boat, which doubled as luxury accommodation for Larry and Jan. I suggested to Malcolm that it was like something out of the 1970’s, but that was meant as a compliment because I was thinking about ‘The Saint’ and ‘The Avengers’ kind of 1970’s.

          

The finale of the Saturday night was very beautiful. Earlier in the day, a small rowing boat, which had seen better days, was moored in the harbour just in front of the ceilidh tent. Around 11pm, darkness had descended and the Causeway Archers assembled to shoot a flight of flaming arrows into the air, to land in the boat and ignite it. It was a very serene affair and we watched in silence. The clever bit, however, was that the boat had been carefully set up with fireworks and therefore when an arrow hit a particular point or the flames consumed it, brightly coloured fireworks leapt into the sky. What a stunning and very emotional end to another great day.

   

SUNDAY

Sunday was the day we planned to leave early and start the long drive home. Glorious sunshine and the chance of a row over to Portavadie to escort the Viking longship talked us out of that one. So, myself, Jan and Larry roped in Malcolm and the equally suave Ian Sinclair from Mid Argyll and headed off across the Loch to the luxurious new marina complex in Portavadie.

                 

 We lounged about until the Viking ship arrived and we were all treated to a hearty feast involving pulled pork. Tasty.

There had always been talk of how we would get back from Portavadie again and whether we would have to hop on the CalMac ferry, but as it was, no one was going to stop us getting back in that skiff and simply rowing ourselves back across. For our dedication, we were saluted by a porpoise and a seal.

Whilst we were working up to actually leaving, we accepted the offer of coffee on Malcolm and Carol’s boat and sitting on deck in the sunshine, it was hard to leave, but eventually, we did.

IN SUMMARY

I met so many beautiful, inspiring and interesting people on this trip. I learnt things I didn’t know and saw things I’d never seen. There were so many boats to row or sail, with all kinds of oars and all kinds of rowers and I like to think we soaked up the whole experience.

Thanks to Larry and the Heart of Argyll whose photos I’ve used :-) 

Row Porty At An Eathar Rowing Club's Mini Festival of Rowing - by Ali Grant

It gives me great pleasure to tell the tale of my recent return visit to Shawbost, Lewis. This is my version of events. I didn’t manage to squeeze absolutely everything in, because I want to save something for when I return in the future. Look out Shawbost, that’s all I can say!

MONDAY

My Lewis adventure got underway when I braved a spin over to Leven, in darkest Fife, to pick up the Shawbost skiff kit. I’d been swithering about taking my van over on the ferry but thought that if I did then I might as well arrive with a skiff. Although my van’s not big, I brought Jenny Skylark into the world the same way, so I know that if the sheets of ply are cut a certain way, then it all fits in…eventually. I’d dragged Row Porty’s Calum along for a bit of help and this turned out to be a shrewd idea when a timber lorry pitched up at Alec Jordan’s  looking for assistance to offload 2 pallets of wood. I’d recommend this one as a spectator sport. Far easier than doing the lifting :-)

With the kit loaded and the lorry unloaded, we headed to Alec J’s to see his latest form of transport – a massive equine beast by the name of Blackie! Seriously, the man has bought himself a horse and it’s a proper giant  – neigh joke!

                       

WEDNESDAY

After 2 sleepless nights worrying about my van disappearing, I awoke to find all was well. I had a lovely drive to Ullapool in mostly sunshine and was blessed with very few tractors, caravans or Sunday drivers sharing my road space. I arrived at Ullapool in good time and in blazing sunshine. Doesn’t the sun always shine in Ullapool? It struck me that the last time I saw this beach in daylight, it was covered in a brightly coloured carpet of skiffs and skiffers and resonated with the sound of cheering supporters. Today, it was calm and peaceful and I’m delighted to report that my ferry crossing was too.

                                                                              

THURSDAY

Thursday was the day I revealed all. Yes, I opened my van and let Shawbost see what a skiff kit actually looks like. There was no time to waste and we eagerly unloaded it, with some looking a bit perplexed that a glorified airfix kit could become a beautiful boat – and it will.

   

Hard work done, we got back to find the neighbours had arrived. A right scruffy bunch at that.

They weren’t for wasting any time either and no sooner had the boat arrived than in was making it way down to the beach to where it belongs, the sea. There was a few rows out to the reef line and back, but it was a lovely nite, so well worth it.

FRIDAY

Well, where will I start? We all gathered outside the community centre first thing in the morning and what a bonny bunch we were.

I’m going to call this day ‘Tricky Friday’ because we were presented with so many fantastic options that it was very tricky to choose between them. There was the choice of a tour round the Harris Tweed Mill with the charismatic Ian Mackay, a guided tour of the Arnol blackhouse by the very knowledgeable Angus Macleod, a tour of the Norse Mills by local expert Dr Finlay Macleod, or an escorted row around Bernera with Ian Macaulay senior. A tricky choice indeed. I have decided that 2014 will be my year of discovering new places in a skiff, so after much deliberation, I opted to go rowing. This would have meant that we missed out on the promise of a delicious lunch, but thanks to our thoughtful hosts, a giant picnic of goodies accompanied us.

Here is a report of the trip from King Plod (so called because he leads the Saturday plod trips) himself, Andres, who has clearly swallowed a few adjectives in the writing of this;

“We were able to row from Carloway over to Little Bernera, where we landed on a pristine white sandy beach in a lagoon of clear turquoise water. We were lucky to have one of the many Iain's on the Island to guide us with his wee 16' motor boat. We followed him to another white sandy beach called Bosta, navigating through a narrow gap between Great and Little Bernera islands, to arrive at the mouth of a little river which cuts through an Iron Age settlement.

We took 3 crews over making the 16klm journey twice on Friday taking advantage of the lack of any wind and a flat calm with a very gentle swell. As evening fell we managed a row around Craigeam island, a rocky outcrop right on the edge of the big open Atlantic.

The locals were fantastic, providing safety cover on the water, extra radios, charts, and recommendations of places we would have never found, or dared row!

Ice Breaker did about 40 km plods on Friday and the biggest risk came from sunburn! “

***Thanks, King Plod for that report and hopefully lover of all things ancient, Cathy Hooper will add a wee bit about the trip to the Norse Mill and the Arnol Blackhouse , maybe Jude will weave a tale about the Tweed Mill and who will enlighten us about fire engines and hose reels???? .***

By way of a sneak preview, I do know that at the blackhouse, Angus Macleod, recounted the tale of how he had been cured of the king’s evil by a 7^th son with a sixpence and Dr Finlay Macleod, an expert in Norse Mills, told of mill stone wars in days gone by! Ouch! they’re heavy those things.

Meanwhile, back to the rowers who came off the water, overflowing with talk of white sands, turquoise seas and hairy caterpillars.

News reached us that there was some “soup left over from lunchtime” at the Community Hall where lovely ladies had been putting on a spread for the cultural half of our group. We may have expected the tail-end of a pot of soup, having already been treated to a picnic. Instead, we were treated to a gourmet sit down affair with neatly laid tables and served by smiling hostesses. The soup was perfect and as for the sandwiches, we’re not talking cheese and branston, more like cooked salmon and prawns and not a bit of sand in sight.  A nice change.

Lunch number 2 over and there was still action to be packed in. Ian Mackay decided that despite a row and bellies full of food, it would be possible to squeeze a bit of labour out of us and we headed off to cut some peat. The implement used to cut peat looks like a cross between a pick-axe, a sythe and …a golf club! I believe its official name is a tairsgear. Whatever its name is, it’s sharp and if you take your eyes off it for a second, you could easily part company with your foot.

                   

The peat is incredibly moist, so liberating a slab of it is easy peasy, but once cut, it’s heavy to lift and tricky to place on the ground in one piece. It’s quite hard work, but I was proud of the 6 that I cut. That would at least get a fire started eh? It’s free fuel, but a long process to get there. The slabs need to dry out, with different methods of stacking them favoured. When they dry, they shrink to about a quarter of the size, so the 6 I’d cut wouldn’t make much of a dent in the fuel pile.

                                                                                             

We left the peat sunning itself and headed off to explore the Norse Mill and Kilns with the Ian Mackay who has so many roles it’s a wonder he knows who he is. These Iron Age thatched roof constructions are all over. They are powered by water so were built where the water was and there is no shortage of it in Shawbost.

 

SATURDAY

After being blessed with sunshine, we woke up to a dry, but overcast day. A cloud of uncertainty was hanging over things because as we began to gather at the lochside, we were unsure how many people, or if indeed any, would turn up to experience the magic of skiffing for themselves. What happened in the hours that followed was just that – magic!  To kick off the magic, An Eathar got presented with a generous cheque to get their club underway.

We weren’t alone in the water, we had Ullapool and Stornoway for company and just as well. The visitors trickled in and a wave of interest built up from people all shapes, sizes and ages, but mostly called Ian and with surnames starting with Mc, Mac or simply M.

These sessions showed just how easily people can take to rowing as everyone picked it up pretty quickly. A cheer went up when our first 80 year old climbed in the boat. Calum Macdonald, rowed for the first time across the loch he’d looked out on for the best part of his life. There were boat-loads of tiny kids rowing next to their parents and boat-loads of tiny kids showing their parents how to do it. We had crazy races, with mixed up crews, battling their way across the loch to the sound of a cheering crowd. We had laughter and we had smiles. In total, Murdo reckoned we’d taken out at least 69 people.

                                 

All around, I heard snippets of conversations between people who knew each other, people who were meeting for the first time and people who were meeting pals they hadn’t seen for a while. And that, my friends is the magic of Scottish coastal rowing and the St Ayles skiff. Treasure it.

I’m quite certain we would have been rowing until dark, but a ceilidh was calling, so boats were put to bed and gladrags were put on.

Here’s a question. How many squeeze boxes can you squeeze into a ceilidh? There were loads, all of them beautifully played, by the Danns An Rathad and the Ness Melodian band. We heard from a young lad who sang with his guitar and several singers who sang unaccompanied and silenced the room.

I’ve always said that there’s nae talent in Porty (sorry guys!) and as a club we are definitely one shanty short of a shindig as we were unable to rustle up a song for our hosts. However, the day was saved by Topher from Ullapool’s daughter and one time member of Row Porty who bailed us out and squeezed her box in that lively way that only Amy Dawson does. Toes tapping, we decided to disgrace ourselves by re-interpreting some classic Scottish dances. I never get these things right and I wasn’t alone.

As the night drew to a close, I felt a tremendous sense of warmth. Perhaps that was due to the prize giving for the race winners who proudly received their trophies of a slab of local peat festooned in gold.

On the way home, there was a detour to check up on Uncle Alec and to keep him company as he enjoyed a whisky. It would have been rude not to. Murdo and Ian McTiger / MacTiger or maybe McArthur J  had found themselves a song book and insisted on making us listen to them. Whilst there, Uncle Alec scolded me for “putting him on the world wide web” following the blog of my last trip, so for those of you who missed that, here he is again!  

SUNDAY

Sunday in Shawbost was a very different experience to what we are used to. We had beautiful sunshine, crystal waters, a boat eager to explore….however, Sunday is a day of rest, even for boats.

The Western Isles is fiercely clinging onto its tradition of upholding the Sabbath. As a 24/7 city dweller, it’s easy to knock this, but people here work hard, juggling several jobs. One of my hosts, Ian Mackay for example, is a weaver, fireman, sheep farmer, tour guide and all round charmer… So, a day of enforced recovery and a bit of time to reflect seems no bad thing.

There were some casual conversations about attending the local church, partly to respect local tradition, but also to hear the Gaelic psalm singing. In the end, 14 of us pitched up and filled two rows.

For those unfamiliar with the Free Church, the buildings are quite sparse. I didn’t really spot any religious artefacts or adornments. The entire service is unaccompanied, with neither an organ or a church mouse anywhere in sight. I found it a quite a sombre affair, with hats worn and skirts long– and that was just the men. Hey, I’m joking!

The service was delivered by a man referred to on the Order of Service simply as ‘The Minister’ and all credit to him as he welcomed us in English and invited us to be at ease, which was a nice gesture.

‘The Minister’ was positioned high up. Beneath him were 4 austere looking gentlemen in suits, collar and tie, one of whom I was to learn was the precenter. This derives from the Latin meaning "the one who sings before" (thanks Wikipedia!). We were fortunate to experience the Gaelic psalm singing, because it is quite unique. The precenter puts out a line of the psalm in quite a warbling way and the congregation follow. However, they do so at different stages and with varying levels of harmony etc. All I can say is don’t try this at home because it must take practice and you’d clear the streets. The effect is a multi-layered, textured thing, which I found to be quite hypnotic and my toes were never tempted to tap. This type of singing started life as a call and response affair, probably as a result of literacy not being widespread in days gone by. Anyway, it was all part of the experience and I think that the friends we’d made over the previous days were pleased that we had joined them.

It was a beautiful day and we wanted to make good use of it so a plan of sorts was launched to climb, An Cliseam,  the highest mountain at 799m. Now, it’s a well known fact that cats can’t be herded and neither it seems can skiffers.  We left in a convoy of 3 (or was it 4 ?) cars, drove for a bit, spotted big black rain clouds over our mountain, decided to head to Harris instead. Then we discovered that we didn’t have enough fuel and would need to find some on a Sunday, then we got fuel, but discovered we’d lost the other cars. Then we decided to go and check out the Broch….are you following this?

The Broch was bathed in sunshine, so good call. Brochs, are made by concentric stone walls fastened together with galleries at different heights and interlinking staircases. So, in theory, they’re a bit like an iron age version of a tenement, which has really stood the test of time.

                                         

Leaving the tenement behind, we headed to a distillery for our Sunday lunch. Actually, it was a ruin of an illicit still which we stumbled upon on our coastal walk from Gearrannan to Dail Mor. We stopped to have a picnic and take in the views when we spotted some of our group who we’d tried to shake off in the car chase earlier and they joined us for what was a very idyllic afternoon. The cliffs and sheer drops make for an exhilarating and magnificent walk.

Time was running out for us in Shawbost, with the majority of the group having to think about heading home. Although we were scattered across the island, we made real attempts to do things together, or at least re-group. The final gesture to illustrate that was the household of Bill and his 3 quines, Margaret, MC and Barbara who hosted a get together to use up all their provisions. It was delicious.

As I said at the start, way back on Monday, this is my summary of the trip. Others will have grand stories of their own and I very much hope that they share them. It’s impossible to thank everybody individually without missing someone out, but here are a few mentions. Thank you Murdo for kicking this whole thing off. Thank you Andres for towing Ice Breaker and for leading the plod. Thank you Sean for buying dry trousers and standing all day in the water testing them out.  Thank you to everyone from Row Porty who came on this trip and made it special and thanks to Max and Murdo for capturing it in pictures.

Thank you Shawbosters for all the time and generosity you gave us, the effort you put in and the new knowledge and friendships we left with. Thank you for welcoming and getting entwined with us all. You have very good taste! :-)

Lastly, I’d like to thank my beautiful hosts, Annie, Ian and Bamber Mackay for everything from the minute I arrived to the minute I left - and for accepting defeat, so graciously, in the Portobello versus Stornoway black pudding challenge. Admit it, the Porty pudding rocked!

I asked Murdo how I should end this story and he said with a song. I have no idea what it means and it will possibly be the thing that gets me into trouble, but here it is. Gulp!