After which, the Mate of course had to set his sail, and when it drew the wind he looked upon us with benevolence.

‘It can snow now,’ said the Crew.

So we went up through that fabulous world, seeing no ship, passing from Benderloch to Upper Lorn, from the Lynn of Morven to Loch Linnhe; and it was as if all the legends and all the ancient histories were run into one, caught in the long syllable of Lorn, in the two-winged cry of Morven.

Eilean Baile Ghabhain came to meet us, but Ru-more, its finger on the sea, beckoned us on. So we brought it abeam and stood along a clean shore, until the land fell back in invitation and at last we saw a pier and knew we were entering Kintallen. Beinn Bheithir, behind, was all dark-driving storm cloud and we wondered whether Kintallen Bay, like Loch Corrie in Morven, might not be subject to those fierce mountain squalls that can make an anchorage a terror. ‘Anchor well in-shore, just before the point jutting out from the W. side of the bay.’ But we did not like the look of this point, with its steep rock and all the firth in front, and held on round it, opening a small inner bay where there was a red buoy, a boathouse, and a yacht half out of the water. We cast envious glances at the buoy, but obviously we were now in some landlord’s ‘private anchorage’, so I throttled down all I dared while the Crew started sounding. When she couldn’t get bottom, I went into reverse and then into neutral, quite calmly. We were by this time inshore from the buoy. Nine fathoms. Too close in. A shout from the boathouse and a hand pointing to the buoy. So I put her ahead, swung round, shut off and glided slowly up with an ease that must have looked the real thing from the shore. The Mate picked up the buoy’s float and in a few minutes we were all fast. I subdued any outward signs of pride, but expected at least some complimentary remarks on my handling of the engine. The Crew, however, was looking about her as if she had lost something.

‘Anything wrong?’ I inquired.

‘No. Only—it was all so tame. There was no excitement.’

There is a small red-headed boy in Kintallen who manages a very large boat and shoots his own net. He was obviously attracted by our arrival and came and examined us all round critically. In no time he and the Mate were in deep conversation as to the lie of the fishing grounds.

‘You might get a rock cod there,’ the red-head summed up, with a waif of a smile, ‘if you’re lucky not to get a dogfish.’

‘Do you ever get much in your net?’

‘Yes. We often get trout.’

‘Not sea trout?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hm,’ said the Crew, unnaturally.

‘A boat should never put to sea without a net,’ said the Mate sententiously.