like any other. The children, who had been on a visit, were starting their journey home—a trip of some 14 hours. The cat, who had turned up with a lame rear driver’s-side leg the day before, needed to go to the vet, and about 50 litres of solvent-based products that had been cleared from the boat shed and loaded into the minibus had to be disposed of responsibly at the recycling centre.
We made our way onto the pier with Magnus and Shadow in his crate. Due to offshore storms there were considerable swells, which knocked our usual docking place out of action. Instead, we sailed inland and looked for the one boat ring that had not been used for years and had become as one with its surroundings. Sharp-eyed Rubi spotted it, and we tied on as the fenders tried—but failed—to stop boat meeting rock. Stepping onto wet boulders with full rucksacks and a worried-sounding cat, we shuffled along carefully. When our footing felt unsure, we passed the cat between us.
Reaching the relative safety of the field up to Knockvologan, we passed the cat around again—its shuffling somehow made it feel heavier. Finally, we arrived at the minibus. I opened the front door and was knocked back by the concentrated cocktail of paint, white spirit, glue, marine grease, and diesel. Luckily, Ophelia needed to sort things out for a few minutes, which gave the bus some much-needed ventilation.
With windows wide open, we set off. Petrol was low, so we stopped at the only garage for 30 miles. Robin keeps his commercial enterprise like most others on the Ross of Mull: keenly aware of his total lack of competition. Maybe this is why the fuel pumps are held together with a combination of ratchet straps and cable ties. He noticed that a tyre on the back was a bit flat but didn’t have the right attachment for his compressor, so he concluded that we’d be fine until Craignure. By this time, after being stationary for a while, the hum was strong again in the car and the cat had become subdued by the intoxicating effects of the various chemicals on board.
It was one of those days with flashes of bright sun that lit up the mountains of the interior and their busy gullies.
I said fond and sad goodbyes to Ophelia and Rubi, and reset the satnav for the vet, another hour away. By this time I had to keep checking on Shadow in case he was slipping into a kind of stupor. The roads were even narrower than the southern ones but less busy, thankfully. Approaching the location of the vet I looked for signage. Of course, this being remote north Mull, the vet worked out of a Luton van behind someone’s house. I had phoned to say we’d be a bit late and hoped Shadow could still be seen. Overwhelmingly glad to be out of the minibus, I was greeted by the loveliest vet, who inquired about our trip. I managed a sheepish grin and handed the patient over.
It turned out that Shadow, who had been missing for a couple of days, had damaged his sciatic nerve—perhaps trying to extricate himself from a tight spot. He might get better, he might not, but, as the vet said, he has three crutches and a home environment free of aggressors, so a more sedentary life wouldn’t be too bad. Most importantly, he was in no pain. She also remarked that, of all the cats she had seen that day, Shadow was, by a stretch, the calmest. I couldn’t think of anything funny to say that wouldn’t have sounded concerning to someone dedicated to animal welfare.
After being talked through the anti-inflammatory meds, it was back in the bus and on to the tip. I was told to expect dogged scrutiny by the staff. As I drove in they were leaning on a skip having a chat.
“You know what you’re doing?” one inquired without moving.
“Yep,” I replied, whereupon they all left the yard, presumably for lunch.
Glad to finally be shot of my toxic cargo—apart from the black exterior paint that I couldn’t fully get off the floor—I briefly enjoyed the feeling of orientation and lucidity until I realised it was 3 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Luckily, The Coffee Pot at Salen was there when I most needed it. They even have a 24-hour honesty cake cupboard around the back!
Then it was just the one-and-three-quarter-hour journey back to Erraid. I had put a blanket over the cat basket and Shadow was, mercifully, at peace.
The final leg of the journey was no fun at all. Tired of the stop-start nature of single-track roads, I began to resent the mobile homes and the blind spots, the careless sheep, and the beauty I couldn’t properly take in for fear of driving into oblivion.
But finally, after nearly eight hours, I made it back to Fidden, stopping to pick up 100 kg of chicken feed before meeting the boat again.
Luckily, there was some cricket on the telly that evening. I retired early, jotting a note to myself: buy a manual tyre pump.
Erraid life 