Staffa and Fingal's Cave
Jun. 3rd, 2019 05:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cycleboy1957Last night we booked a place on a little boat to visit Staffa, Fingal’s Cave and its associated puffins. The boat departed from Fionphort. Although Mull is hardly a big island, this is 46 miles from our accommodation and along some single track road, so not a journey you can rush. However, our departure time was 2pm, so we did not have to hurry.
The morning began showery, but stuck to the promised forecast and cleared up by noon. Fionphort is at the extreme western tip of Mull and right opposite the Isle of Iona, famed to Radio 4 listeners as the source of some of the ‘Thought for the Day’ bits from the ‘Today’ programme. As we walked down from the car, Junko was complaining that I’d parked too far from the ferry. In fact, the ferry terminal she had focussed on was actually on Iona. Ours was merely 100m ahead but, given the scenery and perspective, her mistake was perhaps understandable. Iona is barely 1km from Mull.
When we boarded the boat, the skipper told us that there was a swell beyond the limits of Iona which almost prevented the morning’s landing on Staffa. If it was any worse, then we might not be able to land, go inside the Cave or see the puffins close up. Should we wish to, we could cancel there and then and he’d give us a full refund. Needless to say, nobody did. However, as we emerged from the shelter of the strait, the swell hit us and the journey to Staffa was indeed choppy. Closing in on the side of Staffa, the sandwich of volcanic ash, basalt and upper layer (whatever that is) is very striking and the looming majesty of the entrance to Fingal’s Cave is truly awe inspiring. The skipper took us as close as he dared, but the swell was such that close approach was impossible. So it was for the landing point just around the coast. Even for the landlubber, it was clear that the boat could not get close to the landing stage without being smashed to bits against the concrete, so a closer inspection of the cave was denied us. Likewise a close meeting with the island’s resident puffins. That said, we were ably to stop the boat next to a number of birds who were bobbing about on the waves, waiting for a suitable moment to visit their burrows. Although I’d foolishly left my own binoculars at home, the other crew member passed me his, or perhaps the boat’s, with which I was able to get a fairly close view of these engaging little creatures.
On our way back to Fionphort, the swell had not abated and I was beginning to feel distinctly odd. Not exactly queasy or even unwell, but I was yawning all the time and could barely keep my eyes open. This was odd because, when I was in Indonesia, I crossed from Flores to Timor on an overnight ferry in which everyone, or so it seemed, was violently sick. Except me. Perhaps it’s just down to a particular frequency or size of swell that triggers a reaction. Maybe the Timor ferry was pitching so far above my threshold that I failed to react. However, when we arrived at Fionphort, the skipper said that, as their last stop would be Iona, we could stay on board should we wish to visit the island and catch a ferry boat back. Tempting though the offer was, I did not accept, but made contact with unmoving, dry land as soon as possible. Indeed, as soon as I spied a patch of grass unbaptised by the local sheep, I lay down and promptly fell asleep for 45 minutes.
We took an alternative route back to our B&B, partly up the west coast and across the island. Some of the scenery was really beautiful and I hope I can convey the wonder of the place with a few photos that Junko took along the way. Given the time of day, early evening, and the fact we were on the western side of the island, the light was perfect.
https://www.facebook.com/mark.kuramotoheadey/media_set?set=a.10213270304170230&type=3
The morning began showery, but stuck to the promised forecast and cleared up by noon. Fionphort is at the extreme western tip of Mull and right opposite the Isle of Iona, famed to Radio 4 listeners as the source of some of the ‘Thought for the Day’ bits from the ‘Today’ programme. As we walked down from the car, Junko was complaining that I’d parked too far from the ferry. In fact, the ferry terminal she had focussed on was actually on Iona. Ours was merely 100m ahead but, given the scenery and perspective, her mistake was perhaps understandable. Iona is barely 1km from Mull.
When we boarded the boat, the skipper told us that there was a swell beyond the limits of Iona which almost prevented the morning’s landing on Staffa. If it was any worse, then we might not be able to land, go inside the Cave or see the puffins close up. Should we wish to, we could cancel there and then and he’d give us a full refund. Needless to say, nobody did. However, as we emerged from the shelter of the strait, the swell hit us and the journey to Staffa was indeed choppy. Closing in on the side of Staffa, the sandwich of volcanic ash, basalt and upper layer (whatever that is) is very striking and the looming majesty of the entrance to Fingal’s Cave is truly awe inspiring. The skipper took us as close as he dared, but the swell was such that close approach was impossible. So it was for the landing point just around the coast. Even for the landlubber, it was clear that the boat could not get close to the landing stage without being smashed to bits against the concrete, so a closer inspection of the cave was denied us. Likewise a close meeting with the island’s resident puffins. That said, we were ably to stop the boat next to a number of birds who were bobbing about on the waves, waiting for a suitable moment to visit their burrows. Although I’d foolishly left my own binoculars at home, the other crew member passed me his, or perhaps the boat’s, with which I was able to get a fairly close view of these engaging little creatures.
On our way back to Fionphort, the swell had not abated and I was beginning to feel distinctly odd. Not exactly queasy or even unwell, but I was yawning all the time and could barely keep my eyes open. This was odd because, when I was in Indonesia, I crossed from Flores to Timor on an overnight ferry in which everyone, or so it seemed, was violently sick. Except me. Perhaps it’s just down to a particular frequency or size of swell that triggers a reaction. Maybe the Timor ferry was pitching so far above my threshold that I failed to react. However, when we arrived at Fionphort, the skipper said that, as their last stop would be Iona, we could stay on board should we wish to visit the island and catch a ferry boat back. Tempting though the offer was, I did not accept, but made contact with unmoving, dry land as soon as possible. Indeed, as soon as I spied a patch of grass unbaptised by the local sheep, I lay down and promptly fell asleep for 45 minutes.
We took an alternative route back to our B&B, partly up the west coast and across the island. Some of the scenery was really beautiful and I hope I can convey the wonder of the place with a few photos that Junko took along the way. Given the time of day, early evening, and the fact we were on the western side of the island, the light was perfect.
https://www.facebook.com/mark.kuramotoheadey/media_set?set=a.10213270304170230&type=3
