Complete New Tales of Para Handy by Stuart Donald Page B

(necessary for access to island piers at all states of the tide, and to places like Coll which in those days had no pier but relied on flit-boats to attend ships — which came as close in shore as they could).
    I can vouch for her lack of sea-going qualities! Blessed with the happy fortune to have been born a good sailor, I sympathise strongly with those who are not so lucky. I remember with wry amusement the throwaway line from the skipper of the Claymore to a passenger enquiring as we left Oban what the weather ahead was likely to be. “Well I hope you like rock-and-roll,” he said, “for you’re certainly going to get it today!” And indeed we did — not just on that occasion but on many others too.

    M ACBRAYNE’S G LADSTONE B AG — Such, thanks to her carrying capacity, was the nickname bestowed on the little Handa, seen here at an unidentified pier somewhere on the West Coast. Though they lacked the glamour of the big paddlers such vessels were the workhorses of the Highlands and provided the crucial link to the outside world. The engine-room telegraph on the port wing of the bridge, and the ladder behind it, can be clearly seen!

11
    The Vital Spark at the Games
    I t was a fine August morning and the Vital Spark , having made an early start from Colintraive where she had spent the last two days unloading a cargo of roadstone, was punching round Toward Point into a light northerly breeze.
    There was something of a holiday atmosphere aboard, what with the sun glinting on the spray of her (modest) bow wave: but more particularly because the crew had succeeded in selling a few sacks of the owner’s coal to the Colintraive merchant, and were planning a clandestine spree once they were docked at the Broomielaw and before heading for their weekends at home.
    â€œRothesay’s gey quiet the day, Peter,” said the mate, gesturing towards the curving esplanade and phalanx of boarding houses of Rothesay Bay in the middle distance. “No’ mony steamers there at aal this mornin’.”
    Indeed, the usually bustling pier of the capital of Bute was all but deserted. Only the diminutive Texa lay alongside, her derrick swinging the crates of a mixed cargo to the quay, while MacBrayne’s majestic Columba was edging out on her daily mail run to Ardrishaig.
    â€œWell, Dougie,” replied the Captain, “ whit else wud ye expect on the last Setturday of August? Aal the boats’ll be runnin’ in and out o’ Dunoon right noo, and since you’ve reminded me o’ that, I’ve a good mind that we should maybe chust go to join them. What d’ye think yourself?”
    â€œMercy, I’d clean forgot what day it wass,” said Dougie. “But aye — why not, why not indeed!
    â€œThen that’s what we’ll do,” said Para Handy: and after making a great show of whistling through the speaking tube to an engine room and an engineer he could have bent down and touched, he called down it: “Richt, Macphail, if for wance you can get that neb o’ yours oot o’ they novelles for a meenit, ye could maybe get up some steam and see if we can get to Dunoon sometime this month!”

    â€œWhat’s the great attraction aboot Dunoon?” asked Sunny Jim curiously, looking up from the forehatch, where he sat peeling an enormous potful of potatos which, with salt herring to encourage the thirst, had been planned for dinner prior to berthing in Glasgow.
    â€œWe’re goin’ to see Cowal Gaithering,” replied the skipper.
    â€œCowal?” queried Jim with a puzzled expression. “Wha’s Cowal? And whit’s he gaitherin’?”
    â€œMan, Jum,” said the skipper. “There iss times when I think you are nothin’ but an ignorant lowland neep to be sure: but of course I blame your time on the Cluthas. Your world ends at the Yoker Ferry. You havna the advantage nor the concept