‘Don’t let us forget’, suggested the Crew, ‘that we have quite a lot of nice little conical red buoys.’

‘And some with stripes on them’, said the Mate, ‘for the famous women.’

‘No wrangling,’ I ordered. ‘Let us consider the great lights first . . . ’

So I put the tiller towards the Lady Rock and we held over for the north point of Kerrera Island, round which lay Oban Bay.

The north shore of Kerrera is very indented, but after a little uncertainty we finally made sure of Maiden Island. Leaving it to port, we entered the narrows, and brought abeam a ruined ivied castle surmounted by the Blue Saltire, extended in the breeze.

‘A royal welcome indeed!’ The Mate saluted, and we regretted very much that we had no flag to dip.

We should have to make a decent anchorage after that! But there was Oban Bay before us, with its clusters of small boats and jetties and piers and steamers—and beside us the engine, with its turn for social satire. We forgot all about not caring whether we fouled anyone. Vanity rose up again to a fine pitch of excitement. Multitudinous detail was all about us in rich confusion. Our Directions suggested the town side of the bay, opposite the R.H. Yachting Club. Could anyone see the Club? Two or three small racing yachts were going through their paces right ahead. A steamer was approaching. Another was backing out from a pier. ‘I don’t like it here,’ said the Crew. ‘Neither do I,’ said the Mate. ‘I’ll put her about,’ said I. ‘You’ve got to give way to sailing craft,’ said the Mate, ‘and that fellow is just going to put about: watch him.’

Out of compliment to the engine I let it salute the front for a little longer, then brought the boat round and headed for Ardentrive bay opposite, on the Kerrera shore, where all the big yachts were at anchor. I left the tiller to slow down the engine—and succeeded slightly. Steering a bold course between the fine vessels, I saw a vacant buoy away in the north-west corner of the bay. I shouted to the Mate, now standing forward, that he had got to pick it up with the boat-hook. Presently he signalled me to stop. The Crew took the helm and I the gear lever. Now for it! But she came into neutral like a lamb. Forward a little, signalled the Mate. And forward she went. I have got the hang of you now, my pretty lady! I tugged—and spoke harshly—and had to stop the engine. But instead of trying to pick up the buoy, the Mate let go the anchor, though I knew the bottom to be foul from centuries of junk. He indicated that the yacht next to us was riding to her anchor, and suggested we might have no right to use someone else’s buoy. But my whole mind had been set on riding to a buoy. It was the secret desire of my soul. The force of this desire was so strong that it hurtled me into the dinghy, whose floor boards were awash, and rowed me over to a small fishing boat close by the low rocks on shore. There was an elderly man on board who spoke English with a strong Isles accent. No one had been tied to the buoy for many a long time, he said, and it would be all right. Back I went, and with an end of rope pulled off for the buoy and just managed to reach it, the Mate making fast the other end to the mast; whereupon he heaved up the anchor and presently we were riding all safe and snug to a real red iron buoy big enough for a liner. We had arrived. It was a moment of deep beatitude. When, leisurely, we turned and surveyed Oban in the westering light, we thought it the most beautiful town of its size we had ever seen.