But Mull had been playing tricks with the wind, and soon we found it blowing from about sou’sou’west. As the sun came out strongly, the breeze seemed to freshen, but the glass was going up and we could read the sky well enough to have no great fears. Yet we could see the Mate was restless, for he was working out in his mathematical head what would happen should the engine, of which he had heard things, decide to break down. This high boat, with its comparatively shallow draught, would certainly be uncomfortable if left broadside on and helpless. As we passed Loch Cuan in Mull, the rocks at its entrance threw white streamers which were wonderfully beautiful but not perhaps inspiring. And a long drift would provide an excellent close-up of the rocks of Ardnamurchan, which would be merciless enough to-day. But I liked the beat of the engine. It had never been so assured.

However, a trapeze act had to be performed to the forecastle and the sails brought forth, and in the cockpit they were carefully gone over until the Mate had the hang of their lacings and sheets. ‘A light little gaff and simple traveller that you could run up in a second would suit me better,’ was his comment. I defended; and we argued rigs until we found ourselves standing more closely for the Caliach than I had intended, for according to our Directions a tide rip extends outward from the Point for a distance of about two miles. As we were now on a tide ebbing strongly against the wind, there should be a nice jabble; but it was a trifle too late for a two mile detour, so we kept our eyes open and passed the Caliach about half a mile out in a short piled-up sea. But it was never more than thoroughly uncomfortable, and I was pleased to see the Mate gain some respect for the sea-going qualities of our craft.

As we bore south we brought the wind a few points to starboard, and though we continued to be tossed about a bit, there was never any danger. And the seas were really alive, a vivid pulsing blue. In the bright sun and flying cloud, the freshness was entrancing.

Calgary Bay looked inviting with its sands and woods, and south of it the terraced formation of the land was very striking. The terraces rose one behind the other in perfect parallels, as if they had been artificially made. The same old basaltic formation as we had met in Skye, of course, only very much bolder and more clearly defined. Each terrace represented an outpouring of lava, and when, as in the mountain of Ben Mor, which we could now see, the total depth of the terraces is about 3,000 feet, and when we recognised that such a depth—or height—must have extended across the area over which we were now sailing, the mind grew a bit dizzy at thought of the magnitude of the denudation that had gone on in what is spoken of as recent geological time. For manifestly flowing lava would not build itself up in neat terraces and ignore the gaping void below! It would naturally have searched for hollows to flow into, and these high terraces that now rise over the sea tell their own tale. They are green, and, as Ben Mor stood out clearly before us, we were very impressed. The cloud shadows lay on its vast bulk like sky starfish. The green became a sombre sage green, and over its immensities, unbroken by tree or jagged rock, was that imponderable air of the immemorial.