Editor’s note: You’ll have to excuse our scribe this week. Last week he discovered somebody actually reads what he writes and now he thinks he’s an author. With any luck he will be back to normal next week.
The following is a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty, but they know who they are.
09:00 hours, Girvan harbour: On a floating pontoon in the middle of the harbour eleven men waited in the damp grey of an overcast June morning, dressed in a loose uniform of waterproof jackets and trousers, rucksacks slung over shoulders.
Slowly, the Motor Vessel Glorious left its mooring on the side of the harbour and chugged quietly towards the waiting men. On board were skipper McCrindle, a short, plump man with the vestige of a moustache adorning his chubby face, and his companion, an older man and equally stout; men who looked as though they should spend their time in front of computer screens in some darkened call-room somewhere instead of plying their trade on the open waters of the Firth of Clyde. But both were proficient in their duties and steered the Glorious steadily towards the waiting men. As soon as it reached them, the men sprang aboard the vessel and sat on the hard wooden seats around the stern. Their leader said something to McCrindle and the Glorious chugged away from the pontoon towards the harbour mouth.
On the open sea McCrindle opened the throttle and The Glorious shuddered up to cruising speed.
09:30 hours, Glorious weather: Even those without binoculars could see the rain coming, a dark mass of cloud approaching from the south trailing a curtain of equally dark rain underneath. Within minutes those seated around the open deck of the Glorious were being drenched as the rain hit. This did not augur well for the mission; it would have been much better carried out in drier conditions. Still, there was nothing they could do about the weather and the mission had to be completed today. They looked from one to the other, shrugged their shoulders philosophically but said nothing as the Glorious chugged its way towards the eleven hundred foot high, rocky island now obscured by the falling rain.
‘Good job I brought this’, said Gary McRob and unfurled an umbrella.
At least he would be safe from the elements.
10:15 hours, the island: McCrindle edged the Glorious in to the dilapidated pier, a pier that once served the lighthouse and the island’s only industry, the granite quarry. Now the lighthouse was automated, the quarry closed and the island uninhabited. But the old pier still stands even if it is in a state of disrepair, not having been maintained since the quarry closed. The tide was low and McCrindle could only nudge the vessel to the very end of it. One by one the men came to the bow of the Glorious and clambered on to the rusty iron and concrete of the pier as if they had done this many times before. It was easy for them.
Once all eleven were ashore, McCrindle reversed engines and pulled the Glorious away from the pier; there was no point hanging around and anyway he had other business to attend to. The men stood for a few minutes and watched the Glorious pull away. There was no going back now.
The concrete of the old pier was not nearly as slippy as they had expected for somehow the rain that swept the firth earlier had missed the island and the green algae on the pier was dry and not too slimy. The rain itself had gone, sweeping up the firth towards the mainland but it had left low cloud blanketing the summit. Though their mission could still be completed, these were far from ideal conditions. Still, the calm air should be a help.
Once ashore the men’s undertaking became clear.
10:45 hours, the old castle: John Jamieson threw down his rucksack and leaned against the rough stonework of the old castle, the steep climb and the warm, humid air had taken their toll. He was accompanied by McRob.
‘Gees, it’s clammy, said McRob.
Jamieson nodded in agreement and sat down on a low wall, grateful for the respite.
There had only been one moment of concern so far. That was when a head suddenly appeared from behind a stone wall near the lighthouse and asked questions of them. But the questioner turned out to be an island bagger, a tourist, and nobody that should bother the men nor interrupt the mission. They answered his questions cheerfully without betraying too much then tackled the climb to the old castle some hundred and fifty metres above them.
In ones and twos the men joined Jamieson and McRob on the level in front of the old castle, Irvine Sim being the last to appear. The climb had exacted a severe toll on Sim who hadn’t quite shaken off the virus of a few weeks back, his drawn look and slow step revealing this to all.
‘I can’t go on, skipper’, he gasped.
‘We’ll have a break here, and a brew’, said Jamieson, ‘We’ll let Simmy recover’.
Kleb Peterson, a craggy faced man from the hinterland of Ayrshire, a man who looked as though he had seen much in life, reconnoitred the old ruin, climbing in what had once been a first floor door but was now just a ragged hole in the wall overlooking the drop to the sea below.
‘Careful, Kleb, we don’t want to lose anybody just yet’, said McRob, concerned for his old friend.
‘It’s dry inside’, reported Peterson on his return a few minutes later, ‘We might be able to use it later’.
His comments were duly noted by the group. Then each shouldered his rucksack and prepared to set off.
11:10 hours, the push: With words of encouragement to Sim from his close buddy, Matt Johns, the men set off. Automatically, as they had done a hundred times before, they split into two groups.
The fast assault group led by McRob included Rex Carter, a wiry old Aussie, the father of the group; Ian Merrick, the scientist and quick with a needle, as quick as the men needed; Shawn Polcrank, a tall, long-legged Lancastrian, intelligent, a bank of information valuable to such a group; ‘Meek’ McDavie, the navigator, a useful man to have in the fog. And it was into the fog that they now climbed, into the cloud that clothed the summit of the island. Their purpose was to drive a route forward that the others could follow.
Five minutes behind the first group came the slower, more methodical one. Along with Jamieson were Peterson, Sim, Matt Johns, a tall thick-set powerful looking man, not a man to argue with, Adam John, a new man to the group and as yet untested, and Fazer, simply known as Frazer, nobody knew his first name. Upwards they pushed, and upwards, ignoring screaming sea birds and muscles and lungs that burned with the effort. Eventually Sim succumbed.
‘I can’t go on. Just leave me here and go on without me. I’ll make my way back down’, he said through exhausted gasps.
No words of encouragement or comradely banter could change a mind so firmly fixed by exhaustion and it was with a little reluctance but full understanding, that they left the exhausted Irvine Sim to his own devices and climbed on. Not once did they look back to their stricken colleague. The push was on and time was against them.
11:45 hours, the summit: The summit of the island came quicker than expected. The slope suddenly levelled and ten metres in front of the lead group the trig point that marked the summit appeared through the fog. This was the place to wait for the others. While most lounged on the dry turf around the trig point and opened ration packs and flasks of strong coffee, ‘Meek’ and Merrick took the opportunity to reconnoitre the summit, walking into the fog along the broad southern ridge. And the fog cleared for them, cleared long enough for them to see the sea far below, the sea surrounding the small volcanic plug on which they stood. Then it closed in again and the men’s world was reduced to a few metres once more.
Then one by one a fragmented second squad arrived, Frazer, and Johns, and Jamieson, and finally Peterson and John. The terrain and interest in things botanical or geological had split the group.
12:00 hours, mission accomplished: The men lay around on the dry turf on the top of the island feeling pleased with themselves. The mission had gone well so far and the men had every right to feel pleased. They were the Early Ooters; an eclectic group of retired gentlemen whose sole purpose in what was left of their lives was to carry out such tasks as they were engaged in this day. And today’s task was to climb to the top of Ailsa Craig - Ailsa Craig, Paddy’s Milestane, that eleven hundred foot high lump of granite that sits in the Firth of Clyde half way between Belfast and Glasgow and nearer to Ayrshire than to Kintyre. Last week the mission had to be aborted due to strong winds in the Firth but this week the mission was accomplished and the men felt pleased about it. It was just a shame about the cloud on the top that prevented them seeing anything apart from the sea.
13:45 hours, mission complete: Once again McCrindle nudged the Glorious into the old pier. The sea was higher now - the tide had turned - and the glorious came alongside the pier. Once again the men boarded one at a time and settled on the stern benches.
The mission had been accomplished, the summit reached, but disaster nearly caught them out on the descent. Jamieson set a rapid pace downwards, a rendezvous was to be kept with the Glorious and McCrindle would not wait. Such was the speed of descent that carefully laid checkmarks were overlooked and it was not until they stood on the brink of a four hundred foot precipice that they knew they had gone wrong somewhere. But wrong directions are nothing new to the Ooters and there was no panic. If all else failed, footsteps could be retraced. But where to go now for the best? In front of them were the cliffs dropping vertically to the sea, to the right was the steep slope they had just come down, to the left an even steeper slope ran down to God only knew what rocks and cliffs; only behind did the ground offer any easy escape. They climbed on to the ridge behind them. By a skilful piece of navigation known to the men as ‘suck it and see’, they came down to the old castle in two groups by two different routes. Disaster had been averted this time and now they were back on track.
There was no need for the shelter of the old castle for the sun was making an appearance for the first time since the mission began. And since there was no sign of the Glorious on the sea below there was time enough to make a casual and sunny descent to sea level. On the safety of the shingle beach they were relieved to find Irvine Sim somewhat recovered. He had waited until partly recovered then made a slow and halting descent to the beach.
The men’s descent had made been faster, much faster, than the ascent and now they had time to kill. Some lazed around on the sward covering the shingle chatting to the tourist and worming out information that might be useful to future missions, information such as ‘It can only be classed as an island if it is more than forty hectares in extent’ and ‘Some islands require two or even three separate boat journeys’; others set off to explore the island at sea level.
Then, right on schedule, McCrindle nudged the Glorious in to the old pier and the men boarded one by one. Mission accomplished.
15:30 hours, epilogue: In the warmth of the Harbour Bar in Girvan, over a few beers, the men reflected on a job well done. On the return journey McCrindle had taken the longer way home, circumnavigating the island and the men relaxed in the stern of the vessel in the warming June sun and took in the sea-bird spectacular on display. Then it was a smooth and comfortable crossing to the mainland and a few beers in the Harbour Bar to celebrate.
Their next mission, should they choose to accept it, is to conquer fourteen miles of the difficult terrain of the Carrick hinterland, taking in the four lochs, a mission fraught with possibilities.
Ornithological note: Birds seen on the island today were; Black Guillemot, Cormorant, Eider – one on the nest, others with chicks, Fulmar, Great Black-backed Gull (including nests with eggs), Guillemot, Herring Gull, Kittiwake, Lesser Black-backed Gull, Manx Shearwater, Puffin, Raven, Shag and approximately twenty-six thousand Gannets.
..........................................................................................................
2 comments:
Well done Johny Gemstone for the first chapter in your book 'The Pearly Woofters, My Fart in Their Downfall'
A most entertaining blog.
Nail Slam
Re: Ornithological note:
I think I spotted a couple of seagulls too. Can they be added to the list?
Great blog!
Post a Comment