Monks, Abbeys and Tinkers

A stunning but cruel end to the annual Round Mull Yacht Race...

Never be in any doubt that the sport of sailing is one heck of a leveller. The moment you think you have it cracked is the moment it usually comes crashing down, and today we left Bunessan with a monstrous lead only to see it evaporate in the final four nautical miles as the wind shut down and we couldn’t buy a shift or a pressure line for love nor money. That’s sailing in a nutshell. What a lot of fun, though, trying.

From the hell and high water of Saturday, the wind front blew through overnight as we sat at anchor in the beautiful sheltered western end of Bunessan Bay. It was magical waking up early to the guillemots swooping and diving and the incessant sound of bleating sheep on the rolling, rocky hills around the bay. It’s moments like that when you wonder if life can actually get any better.

It was an early morning call. An 8.30am start ahead of a solid near-50 miler back to Oban. We started well, launched our kite on the ‘B’ of the Bang and led our fleet out along the rocky coastline as we dropped and hardened-up to Market Bay and the Kintra point, before entering one of the true western isle delights of the channel between Ruanaich on the Isle of Iona and Fionnphort.

Set in just the most sparse and desolate area, right on the channel, is the outstanding Iona Abbey & Nunnery - one of the oldest Christian religious centres in Western Europe where in the 12th century, the Macdonald lords of Clan Donald made Iona the ecclesiastical capital of the Royal Family of Macdonald, and subsequent Lords of the Isles into the early 16th century. Think Harry Potter and multiply it. You’re almost close.

We tacked right on the Abbey and were making superb progress, mixing at the front of the fleet with machinery that should have been miles ahead. By the end they were, but first we had to navigate a channel that if I were sailing on my own, without unbelievable sailors who know the rocks like the back of their hands, I would have bailed out and gone seaward.

The channel that sits just to the north of Tinkers Cove is an instant graveyard for boats that get it wrong. We got it right. I held my breath. It was awesome sailing from people that I have the highest respect for. And there was me thinking Goose Rock and the wreck of the Varvassi at the Needles were rock nirvana. Tinker’s Cove is on another scale altogether.

Once through, we had another heart-in-mouth moment as we exited the channel but a handy lift got us clear of a vicious, swelling outcrop that was, let’s just say, touch-and-go at times. All was set fair. The Yellow Brick (YB Races) App had us leading the overall standings and the mood was good onboard. This was nigh on in the bag. Write our name on the trophy stuff. Oh how the Ross of Mull was to have very different ideas…

The wind went from steady to shifty, from shifty to shut-down to slow pressure builds on an instability that would confuse AI and baffle the mightiest wind whisperer. Looking up at the whispy cloud formations above gave clues, but no answers. Tidal flow was in play to a degree and the variety of tactics was astonishing when you are so used to one-track, one direction, one answer beats to windward.

We tried offshore, it looked good until it didn’t. So we tried inshore and crept back on the fleet and then saw all gains evaporate on a south easterly new build. Again, that’s sailing. Sometimes you just sail away and feel like Dennis Conner, other times you sink behind and feel like…well, Dennis Conner in ‘83.

It was cruel as the wind shut down and went all around the compass and we launched, re-packed and re-launched the kite, played with the Number 1, tried our best, trimmed like hell but it wasn’t our day. The Sigma 33 just didn’t feel like it today.

Mother Nature was having an off-day for us. You take it on the chin, there’s nothing else you can do. The multi-minute lead evaporated faster than acetone on a rag but would we give up, like others? Not a bit of it. We hung in there to the finish and I’m proud we did. Take your kicking and come back stronger. That’s sailing, right? That’s why we love it.

It was a coastline I won’t forget in a hurry. Desolate, barren, punctuated by incredible sandy beaches as we passed places with names like Rubħ Ardalanish, Ardchiavaig, Scoor, and the Crasaig Arches. We finished off a tiny island called Franck Lockwood’s Island, named after a Member of Parliament who died in 1897 and loved the place. It’s a tiny shelving of an island, a micro-island that was the port end of an eight mile long finish line - you gotta love Scotland.

Eventually we ghosted across with plenty of ‘och, ah well’s’ and plenty of immediate analysis on the App. What an experience. We had the race in our hands right to the death and you can’t say fairer than that. To say I loved every second was an understatement. Scottish sailing is epic. Western Isles sailing is unforgettable and perspective-making. Doing the Double-Handed Round the Island next weekend feels a breeze in comparison.

And to cap it all, on the motor back in to Oban, a pod of energetic dolphins buzzed the bow and on arrival at Dunstaffnage Marina a seal popped his head up for a look at us. Unbelievable. Magical.

Thank you Scotland. Thank you to the sublime Oban Sailing Club. Thank you to Jon, Sam, Joy and Guy, the brilliant crew on White Lightning. Epic fun. Put me down for 2026, we have unfinished business…

Oh and square sausage is the next big culinary delicacy - mark my words.

Magnus Wheatley