by Joe Minihane
Mark gave a sage nod and, it seemed to me, a quick grin.
‘What happened to your arm?’
I told him.
‘What a twat,’ he said.
‘Worst of all,’ I said. ‘It means I can’t do the one thing that made me feel better. I can’t swim.’
Over the next fifty minutes, Mark listened as I talked. I told him about how I got het up about small things, felt guilty about taking time off or enjoying myself, and how I’d tried and failed to use swimming as the panacea for my problems. How I had embarked on my journey on Roger’s trail and how I felt I’d turned it into an exercise in box-ticking, sometimes losing sight of the joy it was supposed to inspire. I told him how I tried to keep everything just so and wanted to make things perfect. How I liked to always be in control. And, most importantly, how I thought worrying could make that happen.
‘You’re trying to line your ducks up in a row,’ he said. ‘And the fact is that’s just not possible. Because life isn’t like that. Change is constant and things happen all the time. Just one thing – swimming, in this case – isn’t going to make you better.
‘Think of life as if you’re floating, bobbing around with all the flotsam. It’s essentially a Buddhist theory, but let’s forget the religious aspect. You need to try and see what’s going on around you as largely uncontrollable. In short, you need to step back and recognise whenever you feel yourself get stressed and anxious about situations you can’t affect, take some deep breaths and learn to say “fuck it”.’
‘Fuck it,’ I mouthed. ‘Learn to say “fuck it”.’ I grinned and Mark let out a loud, ‘Ha.’
Just saying it made me feel better.
‘There’s not an awful lot wrong with you,’ Mark said. ‘And I can definitely help you if you want. Let’s have a few sessions and see how we go. Come in, talk, get it off your chest, and we can work out ways to make things better.’
Mark handed me a questionnaire asking about my feelings, as well as a document detailing how talking therapy worked. This was going to be as much about me talking my way through my problems as it was about him giving me concrete solutions. A safe space to be honest without judgement.
We settled on a six-week course. I left feeling lighter than I had even after I’d spoken with Keeley about my problems, better even than when I had waded into the Wissey a few days before. For the first time I had a clear path through to the other side. It was a start. With that, the rest was inevitable, surely. I left the clinic and turned my mind to Jura. It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t be able to swim when I was there, I was going anyway. Fuck it.
Just the name Jura was magical to me. Even before I had devoured Waterlog I had wanted to come to this bleak, beautiful island and walk its raised beaches, camp on its tussocky hills and stare back to the mainland on a bright, clear day.
Like many, I had first heard of Jura through George Orwell. Roger details the circumstances of Eric Arthur Blair and his family’s stay here in the 1940s: the hardship, the knackered motorbike, the swimming prowess of his brother-in-law, who had somehow managed to cross the lethal whirl of the Gulf of Corryvreckan. And, of course, the writing of Nineteen Eighty-Four.
I remember reading of Jura in the weeks after I had read Nineteen Eighty-Four as a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old readying myself for university. I spoke to my uncle Dave about it. An English teacher, he was obsessed with Orwell and told me about his own journey up the narrow road along the island’s eastern side, to the little village of Ardlussa and Orwell’s ramshackle home, when he visited Jura in the 1980s.
I dug out my parents’ road atlas and found Jura, so close to Glasgow yet so far from anywhere. I stared at its long form, the way Loch Tarbert almost cut it into two Hebrides rather than one. I wanted to travel the long distance from my Essex home, use the long last school summer to do something amazing that I could use as something to brag about when university started. But my lack of a car, not to mention my lack of gumption, meant Jura soon faded from my mind. It would be another thirteen years before it began to dominate my thoughts again.
Of all my Waterlog trips so far, Jura was the one I had been most excited about and the one I had planned with the most care. The sleeper train to Fort William with my dad. The long drive south with my uncle Dave and Jim, an old colleague of Dave’s I’d known since I was a teenager, both of whom had been island-hopping from Rum to Eigg to Muck. The swims across Loch Tarbert and around West Jura were all lined up just so.
As it was, the first two parts were unchanged. But there was no chance of me getting a wetsuit over my arm, still less of me wading out and feeling the peaty swell hit my chest, the power of the Atlantic holding me up to the last of the summer sun. Like Mark had said, I had to accept that not everything in life can be controlled. I had packed the natty plastic cover I’d been given by the fracture clinic to use when showering just in case, though. It was almost a dare to myself to leave it in my rucksack if I fancied a dip. But I knew as the train clattered out of Euston and slowly north I was going to have to look on and use my imagination to swim these Scottish waters. I’d felt water seeping in when I used the cover when having a wash in the morning, the top of my cast starting to fray. The Atlantic and Jura’s burns would doubtless render it useless and leave me returning, tail between my legs, to the same consultant who’d told me not to get in the water and admitting I’d ignored her advice. That deep feeling for water I had experienced on the Wissey, my realisation that I carried it with me wherever I went, was going to have to see me through and lessen the frustration of not being able to dive in.
It was dark and wet when we rolled off the ‘wee ferry’ from Islay to Jura, deer lit up in the headlights as we bumped along Jura’s A road up to the village of Craighouse and the bungalow we’d rented for the next five days. Rain lashed at the passenger window. Just half an hour before, dusky clear skies had marked our arrival from the mainland on the CalMac ferry from Port Askaig, a minke whale trailing in our wake, a single gannet tracking out to sea. This fast-changing weather was a fact of life in Jura, the relentless winds blowing through storms clouds at a ceaseless pace.
I woke the next morning to a swimmer’s dream view. Pulling back the curtains from the wide patio windows, a young stag stood just twenty feet away, obscuring a huge, watery view of the Sound of Jura. Despite the wind whipping around the eaves of the house, the sea looked calm from this high point. The Small Isles which dot the Sound looked so close I could imagine putting on my wetsuit and swimming all the way out to them. Smaller skerries burst from the surface, the perfect place for flopping out and drying off on a warm day.
We walked down to the village and got a closer look at the water. It did little more than lap here, slowed by floating seaweed, the boulder-strewn beaches offering plenty of escape routes into the sea for swimmers. As we walked out of the village, seals tracked our path, popping their heads up at intervals, their deep black eyes drinking us in before sinking away into their submarine world. Roger didn’t swim in this spot, but I knew that if I’d been able to, I would have had no hesitation in flinging off my clothes and diving straight in. I wanted to feel the nettle-like sting of cold water on my skin and it hurt to know that the closest I could get was flicking the fingers of my left hand in to test its coolness. I could feel myself growing anxious, beating myself up for coming all this way and not getting in, worrying as I had in the past that I wasn’t doing this trip ‘the right way’, Roger’s way. I stopped as the others walked on. I slowed my breathing, a mindfulness trick I’d read up on after my first therapy session, and intoned Mark’s mantra. ‘Fuck it. Fuck it.’
It worked, and I walked on north out of the village, reaching a small stone jetty where we looked out across the bay as it swept east and then north towards the fearsome Corryvreckan whirlpool. My plaster cast did at least come with one blessing. It prevented me from even making a vain attempt at getting near this lethal phenomenon, the third largest of its kind in the world. I had read Roger’s passages
detailing his own fascination with this unnavigable gulf and was not keen in the slightest. At that point, I didn’t care if I was letting my predecessor down. And anyway, he’d taken one hard look on a rainy summer afternoon and knew it was too dangerous even for him.
While I contemplated my convenient Corryvreckan escape, I saw a small splash next to a nearby skerry. Thinking it a seal, I wandered back towards the road, before Dave whipped out his binoculars and hushed us all to silence. An otter. After failing to see one on the Waveney on one of my earliest Waterlog jaunts or on the Lark just before my accident, here was that most secretive of mammals in the most majestic surroundings imaginable. Far enough away, and with the wind blowing slightly off course, it ignored the four of us as we gawked at it for what felt like hours.
It moved purposefully from one rock to another, diving once and emerging with a fish between its paws, tearing the flesh with abandon as it pulled itself out of the water. This was one of those rare occasions when being in the water would have been worse than being out of it. Swimming would have scared the creature away, and I’d have only been left with the briefest of glimpses. Instead, I stayed stock still and watched it devour its lunch, before it scurried around to the far side of its chosen rock and swam off to a place unknown.
The weather was on the turn now, but the sight of the otter and the fact I’d managed to allay my anxieties by using techniques I’d learnt in therapy made me feel content. It was similar to the happiness I usually experienced after a soothing swim in cold water, but with a much less intense edge. It felt good.
Despite not being able to get in and enjoy that dopamine rush, I still wanted to get up to Loch Tarbert and the boathouse from where Roger had set off on a long swim after hitching a ride from nearby Islay with Viscount Astor, the man who owns half of the island. Leaving Craighouse behind, we got in the car and bumped along the appalling A road, gravelly in parts and clearly unloved for many years, pulling up at the island’s pinch point, where the loch almost completes its task of severing Jura.
The famous Paps were just about visible to the west, appearing every few seconds behind lashing rain clouds which scudded along the loch and dumped their hailstones on us. We pulled on full waterproofs, I shoved an old walking sock over my wrist for protection and we traipsed into the storm, a short stony walk down a wide path towards what would have been my second swimming spot.
Despite being early September, and nominally still summer, the Scottish weather was really putting on a show. Gusty winds whipped up white-tipped waves even in this most sheltered part of the loch, the water fully churned up and roiling as we looked further out to sea. Despite that, I could easily imagine why this would be the perfect place for a long, delicious swim after a day of walking over Jura’s tussocky hills, ankles aching for buoyant relief. The beach was slippery and difficult to walk on in boots, let alone in the neoprene shoes I’d rather have been wearing.
Across the water, the sun cut through the grey cloud, its yellow streaks reflecting back off the fields of flowering heather in a glorious display, as if to remind us that for all the rain, this island could still lay claim to being one of the most beautiful places in the British Isles.
It was a short interlude, and I was back to nestling as deep as possible in my waterproof jacket as we set off west to explore. Deer watched from on high as Dad and I walked along the back of the beach, over wet grass and round to a wide inlet where a burn flowed off the Paps and into Loch Tarbert. The water here was deep enough that you’d get your feet properly wet if you waded over, but a makeshift set of stepping stones helped us on our way.
We followed the burn upstream, splitting up as its spidery course diverged uphill. After ten minutes or so I reached a sluggish spot where the stream turned sharply, its meander creating a deep pool, perfect for a short dip. My trunks were buried deep in the bottom of my bag in the unlikely event I decided to risk my plaster cast and take a swim, but I had no towel and was wary of the changing weather. I’d left the plastic cover for my cast back at the house, meaning the only thing protecting it was the soggy sock which sat floppily at the end of my arm.
I contented myself with sitting on my haunches and dipping my left hand in. The water was mild to the touch and beautifully soft, the peat below giving it a golden, whisky tinge. A convenient natural step made for the most perfect entry point.
As on the Wissey, I could sense the water without fully immersing myself and I could access its joys without having to get in. For now, looking at the scene was as good as being in it. I didn’t feel disappointed about not being able to slide in. The weather was dreadful anyway and I knew I’d have been searching for excuses not to bother if I had had two working arms. But what made this place more special, more magical than the Wissey, was that Roger was so right about it. He had perhaps over-romanticised that spot in rural Norfolk, neglecting to mention its grubbiness. But here, looking back out at Loch Tarbet with my hand wet and my feelings less fragile than they had been, I knew he was right to make Jura seem like the most magical place he had visited on his own swimming journey.
‘There will always be more to discover of its beauties and difficulties’, he had written of the island. I was facing up to my own difficulties on this latest leg of my trip. But the natural obstacles this island offered up, the bad weather, the tussocks and hills, the shoddy road, made it seem all the more worthwhile to come here and try and clear the obstacles in my mind by tackling them. I rubbed my wet hand on my cagoule and took a long look around at the hills and across Loch Tarbet. Deer dotted the horizon as the rain came down in icy sheets. Just being here was enough to know that feeling of ease I’d enjoyed whenever I got into the water.
The following day dawned grey, but with our time on Jura limited we had to get out and explore. We drove south to the Sound of Islay and walked up past the Inver Estate office towards the raised beaches which had so beguiled Roger.
Once again we were togged up in full walking gear, but I had kept my swimming shorts in my rucksack just in case the urge to get in gripped me, the need to wait out the healing process outdone by my need to feel cold water on warm skin.
Dave stayed behind as Jim, Dad and I set off past Loch Chnuic Bhric, this small inland lake choppy and fenced off, cattle chewing the long grass on its banks. The Paps loomed over us to the east as we walked along a car-wide track made passable by the estate’s Land Rovers. I didn’t feel nearly as intrepid as Roger, who had camped and schlepped his way from Glenbatrick Bay, miles north of here, all the way around to Loch Tarbert and the boathouse where we’d visited the day before.
The muddy track gave way to a peaty path which soon became a sandy runnel, slipping its way down to the beach. Colonsay glimmered in the distance. We slid down on our backsides through gaps in the cliffs and out onto the most spectacular of isolated coves. The sea was pancake-flat and the sun was beginning to scorch the edges off the lowest cloud, making it perfect swimming weather. A pair of seals appeared as if to egg me on.
I cursed my tendency towards common sense over joyful recklessness. I know exactly what Roger would have done, but the most I allowed myself was a quick stalk off towards the water’s edge, letting the lap of the water touch my new walking boots. I plunged my left hand in and found the water cold and bracing, far less inviting than the burn near Loch Tarbert. Perhaps my wrist was doing me a favour today. I told myself I’d have been shivering all the way back to the car anyway and looked up to see autumn rays catching the hills of Islay and the higher waves far out in the Sound. The views were just as good from dry land as they would have been with my head bobbing above the surface.
This stunning beach gave way to another, and another. Each one was reached by climbing through natural obstacles: perfectly formed arches, short sea stacks and huge, washed-up boulders marking the end of one bay and the beginning of another. As we reached the last one, we were forced to clamber back up onto the moor in order to get back down to the sand. From on high, the views over the sea to Islay
and Colonsay were relentless, the fast-moving clouds opening and closing to allow a carnival of light on the water. At that point I wanted to be far out, swimming head-out breaststroke and ducking my head whenever I felt the urge, letting the Atlantic sweep through me and push me back to shore when I tired. Instead, I took deep, salty breaths and imagined myself into the scene, calmed by the thought of the swim, accessing something approaching a dopamine hit without having to dip my shoulders beneath icy wavelets.
We walked on and soon came to the first raised beach on this long coastline, the pebbles shelving hundreds of metres inland, neatly graded, like Chesil beach set at right angles. Three islands of tufty grass pockmarked the surface and we each took one, lying by turns on our backs and chests, taking in the long view. Jim reeled off pictures on his camera while I resolved to go for a quick paddle before having to make my way back to the car and the rude interruption of everyday life. As I began telling Dad of my watery plan, a storm blew in, gales and horizontal blasts of hailstones slamming into our waterproofs as, instead of swimming, we tramped out the final mile back towards the car.
It meant that my feet would not be numbed by Jura’s water. I hadn’t braved Corryvreckan. The burn near Loch Tarbert remained unswum. I had walked the raised beaches of the west coast, but would not leave a piles of clothes on the sand as I strode out towards the depths.
For all that, I had learnt more about how to feel the water without being getting into it. There was not a mark against me for not getting in and doing exactly as my predecessor had done. Those feelings of not doing Roger justice began to dissipate the longer I spent in Scotland. I finally saw this as my trip, not just a retracing of his. I felt Roger’s presence here keenly and understood just why he had chosen this island over any other for the Scottish leg of his trip. Water was everywhere you looked. It fell from the sky, trickled slowly down mountain burns and helped make the whisky that I sipped from a hip flask as we headed back on the ferry towards the mainland.