As a small boy, I heard Paul* and Linda wailing to the accompaniment of bagpipes and the Mull of Kintyre was permanently etched into my consciousness. I knew that the Mull was a real place somewhere up in Scotland, but in my imagination it was as remote and inaccessible as the dark side of the moon. I’d never been there and in the intervening three decades, still never have done.
The weekend after next, I launch from west Cumbria. It’s then a long crossing across the Solway Firth to Scotland, and then the next few days will see a series of shorter crossings heading west to the Mull of Galloway. I then have to cross the Firth of Clyde to the Mull of Kintyre itself; either in a series of hops via the isle of Ailsa Craig, or in one long hop right across. The Mull of Kintyre is the beginning of Scotland’s west coast, effectively my start line for the paddle to Cape Wrath; Britain’s most northwesterly point and my eventual target this summer.
I’ve been mentally rehearsing this plan for several years now. It requires perfect weather and will take me about a week in such conditions. But it blatantly isn’t going to happen, or certainly not as I’ve hoped. The wind has now blown hard for a month straight, and the odds of me getting the settled conditions I need are very unlikely indeed. Right now, the Mull of Kintyre seems as remote as the dark side of the moon.
*This was post-Beatles but pre-Ebony and Ivory, Frog Chorus and Heather Mills showdown, when Macca still had a scrap of dignity left.
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