(This was written a week ago, but the onset of a cold derailed my plans.)
The atmosphere on race day is infectious. Here, on this beach, the contestants are gathering for one of the big events of the year on the Isle of Muck: the Raft Race.
But I digress. I had got friendly with a young teacher from Edinburgh, a fellow bird enthusiast called Bird – Tom Bird. The lowest tide of the month was early afternoon, and with it the only chance of getting to Horse Island, the most remote part of Muck which can only be reached at very low tides. There’s a seabird colony there and I wanted to see if there were any Puffins – a big draw for visitors.
That’s Tom on the right with the twin peaks of Rum behind his head and Horse Island on the left. It took us an hour to get to the closest point, fending off the Arctic Terns who seemed to think the place belonged to them.
Stepping from rock to rock, dodging the far too healthy and very slippery seaweed which seemed determined to break our legs, we finally got to the narrowest point, and it really didn’t look very dry. If you have ever waited for the tide you will know that feeling of awe for a movement which reaches out into deep space and laps at our feet. It can be shockingly fast and maddeningly slow. As the minutes ticked slowly by we realised that even if we got there without broken limbs, let alone wet feet, we would only have an hour on the island.
And of course the raft race started at 4:30, back where we had left the bikes, at Gallanach beach. Puffins? Shags? Fulmars? Wilderness? We’d seen them before, but a community raft race was something else.
There was a lot of standing around, assessing the competition and the state of the sea. Perhaps they are worried about the unusually calm and sunny weather.
Suddenly it’s happening. The competitors are at the blocks and they’re off. Someone said they had to get round the headland but then it turned out it was a buoy out at sea. One of them has turned round already, and one crew is in the water. It doesn’t matter. There’s an RIB to pick them up if they need it, but they prefer to swim.
Each team is clapped onto the beach and somehow a winner is decided. It’s the McEwen team in a contraption at least as unlikely looking as any of the others.
But, an outsider might say, they own the island. Tall Colin in the middle is the laird. It’s a fix!
What? Don’t be silly this is Muck.