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Duncan Murrell - A Whale of a Time

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Duncan Murrell - A Whale of a Time

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  • Rocks in Tompolo Marine Park, Masoala National Park, the Masoala Peninsula, eastern Madagascar.<br />
<br />
My next camp was at Tompolo, which is within one of two Marine Parks in Antongil Bay. From there on the shoreline was dotted with the most unusual looking outcrops of large rocks; each one looked like it had a set of broken teeth embedded in the top of it. The point at Tompolo was protected by a cluster of these strange looking rocks and in between them was the first significant aggregation of living coral that I had seen on the entire trip to date. The crystalline water was alive with brightly coloured fish, crabs and shrimp. I could clearly see the benefits of the area’s protected status, and at last I was getting a glimpse of Madagascar’s disappearing marine biodiversity.
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  • It was a beautiful place to camp and I spent several days clambering over the offshore rocks and inshore san dunes. There were a lot of shy grey seals that hauled out on the rocks that I tried to get close enough to photograph without disturbing them. Not surprisingly the sea was very cold for swimming but I had brought a wetsuit with me for snorkelling. There was plenty of driftwood to collect on the beaches so I had some spectacular fires on the beach at night to cook my dinner under the glittering canopy of stars.
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  • Every day I walked across the rocks around the peninsula watching the angry confrontation between rocks and stormy sea. I had experienced similar frustrating situations before in Alaska, when I was trapped onshore by bad sea conditions, often when I was running out of food. This was yet another test of my patience and common sense. I could clearly see the Isles of Lunga and Eigg on the seemingly not too distant horizon. The sky was mostly clear, benign and warm in temperament in contrast to the cold fury in the sea below. I kept on assessing the wind and sea conditions, getting ever hopeful whenever there seemed to be a hint of respite, but most of the time I was just trying to persuade myself that the windy weather was relenting. I was in a relatively sheltered bay, and I say relatively because the sea was still very agitated, and I only had the distant whitecaps to give me any idea of what the sea conditions might be like farther out. Anyway, I finally threw caution to the wind, so to speak, and when there seemed to be a slight respite I decided to go for it, but my heart was very much in my mouth.
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  • After stocking up with fresh provisions in Tobermory and spending a few more days in Ardmore Bay I set off for the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. I passed a lot of grey seals hauled out on the rocks on the way. Unfortunately I left later than planned and by the time I reached the lighthouse at Ardnamurchan Point, the most westerly point on the British mainland it was already dark, but at least I had the light of the lighthouse to guide me. Once again the sea conditions were very agitated, and it was that much more challenging because I was paddling in the dark. It was both exciting and unnerving as I paddled around the sheer rock face at the point with the blinking lighthouse lighting up the heaving swells and waves around me. I have always had a bad habit of setting off too late in the day and have frequently paid the price with some challenging survival experiences. But on this occasion it was more exhilarating than worrying although once again I was relieved to reach a relatively sheltered beach on the other side of the point.
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  • Ankarana was a really special experience for me. I loved the marriage between the sculpted limestone rocks and the lush vegetation. The tsingy limestone formations are amazing but quite hazardous to walk around on because the rock has been eroded into vertical jagged blades. I discovered that some of the local crowned lemurs have become semi-habituated to visitors, and associate them with snacks, which is not usually a good thing, but unfortunately it is often inevitable, especially if the guides encourage it too. I was able to camp overnight in the forest on the way back to the park headquarters, and had a memorable soak in a cooling stream to listen to the nocturnal sounds of the forest – and to avoid the worst mosquitoes on the trip so far. <br />
I was really impressed with Ankarana, so it was with the usual mixture of wonderment and sadness that I looked back at the very finite perimeter of another protected area when I was driving away in the taxi-brousse. The abrupt transition from incredibly rich biodiversity to barren scrubland was painfully depressing and becoming too familiar in Madagascar.
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  • Cape Fanshawe was always one of my first anchorages after leaving Petersburg, either in one of my boats, Avalon and subsequently Selena, or in my kayak. It’s on the mainland and at the entrance to my favourite place for vegetation in Southeast Alaska, Port Houghton. Although there are some safe anchorages in amongst the small islands there, and there used to be a fur farm situated there, the actual cape is very exposed to the full power of the elements as can be seen by the way these rocks on the shore have been sculpted; they have been sculpted like waves and are extremely slippery to walk on.<br />
I always remember being trapped there in my kayak late in the summer because the sea conditions were so rough. I was trying to get back to Petersburg at the end of a trip, and when the weather eventually cleared for a while, I had to make a dash for town and paddled continuously for 14 hours to make it back there. I had nearly been out of food, and to add to my torment my tent was being constantly bombarded with cones by a very petulant and territorial squirrel: it developed into squirrel wars!
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  • Ardnamurchan is undoubtedly one of the dramatic and stunning parts of the Scottish coast. It is very wild and unspoilt, and its remoteness is accentuated by the main access route being just a single-track road for much of the length of the 50-square-mile (130 km2) peninsula. This is a view across the rocks of Eilean Chaluim Cille Bay towards the 36 metre (118 ft) tall lighthouse on the point. The peninsula has great geological and historical interest. The whole northwestern corner of Ardnamurchan contains a complex of underground volcanic structures that originate from a 55 million-year-old volcanic complex. Small areas of lava that that were ejected onto the surface are found in some parts of the peninsula. At least seven other similar complexes of the same tectonic episode are dotted up the west coast of Britain. The sub-concentric rings of the volcanic complex can easily be seen in satellite photographs and topographic maps, though they are less obvious on the ground.<br />
In 2011, a Viking ship burial, probably from the 10th century, was unearthed at Port an Eilean Mhoir on Ardnamurchan. Grave goods buried alongside a Viking warrior found in the boat suggest he was a high-ranking warrior. He was found buried with an axe, a sword with a decorated hilt, a spaer, a shield boss and a bronze ring pin. Other finds in the 5 metre long (16ft) grave included a knife, what could be the bronze tip of a drinking horn, a whetstone from Norway, a ring pin from Ireland and Viking Age pottery. Another Viking ship burial was also discovered in Cul na Croise on the peninsula
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  • After leaving Antanambe I faced a 15 mile paddle across a stretch of unprotected ocean, with the biggest ocean swells that I had encountered. The waves generated by the steadily increasing wind were really daunting, especially as sometimes they seemed to be coming from two different directions. My kayak is very stable, but the deck was leaking quite a lot, so I had to keep stopping to pump the water out, and at the same time stop the kayak from being swung around broadside to the oncoming waves, which would have risked getting swamped and capsizing. Unfortunately the prevailing wind was from the SE, and because of my required course to get to the islands the waves were approaching too close to my beam.<br />
To counter this I had to keep tacking and trying to head to the east of the outer island to compensate for any drift. I also had to avoid running directly with the waves because they were so big that they would have washed over my stern or slewed me broadside to the wave, and an inevitable capsize! I had to maintain my concentration to keep the waves on the quarter. As I got closer to the islands I could see the massive breakers smashing onto the rocks; it was one of the most unnerving situations that I have ever been in. I was level with the closest island in the group and rather than trying to run with the waves I decided to go in reverse. The safest angle for any boat to handle big seas is to head into the swells and ride up over them; you offer the least resistance and can maintain the best possible control of your craft. I was allowing the oncoming waves to drive me backwards to where I wanted to go. My heart raced every time a monster wave bore down on me and I rode up and over it. It took a long time but I had no choice. When I was close enough, I could see a break in the coral reef protecting the islands, and I turned my stern into the waves, and surfed towards safety whilst glancing over my shoulder to brace my kayak with my paddle for each surging wave.
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  • A view along the western side of the island looking northwards towards a sea stack called Harp Rock. It is separated from the island by a narrow channel, and there are many seabirds nesting on the stack and the precipitous cliff facing it. It was a spectacular, if not unnerving place to view the activity of all the different species of seabirds nesting there.
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  • I was camped above a rocky cove at the southeast end of the island. Every day I walked around the small island as if I was the laird of my own little dominion. There was a small fairly well trodden trail that I had to be very vigilant on in places because of its proximity to precipitous drops. This photo was taken at the NW end of the island with a view of some of the offshore skerries. I became very familiar with every different aspect of the island, the birds and the plants. In the middle there was an open grass meadow leading up to a terraced outcrop of rock, which may be a volcanic plug as the islands are volcanic in origin. If I wasn’t sitting near a cliff watching the aerial display of the seabirds I was the king of my own little domain sitting on top of my throne surveying the distant ocean and islands.
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  • I had plenty of good weather to enjoy this beautiful, isolated location. I didn’t see anybody while I was there and very few boats passed by. Most of the marine vegetation was the same as what I was used to in my home of South Devon, with species such as thrift and white campion. But the summer peaks at an earlier date than South Devon so a lot of the plants had already finished blooming. After about a week I was ready to continue my journey towards my next island destination, Lunga in the Treshnish Isles to the south of the Isle of Mull. I first had to paddle along the east coast of Coll to reach the main settlement on the island, Arinagour, located at the head of Loch Eathara. On the way I stopped for a break and came across a very small dilapidated house on the beach with an old fisherman living in it. He was very welcoming and gave me an insight into an isolated and traditional subsistence lifestyle that seems so far removed from the majority of the UK now. Unfortunately before I could reach Arinagour I encountered my first really bad weather on the trip and I really had to fight to get there safely. It was a good test for the stability of my new kayak, as well as my nerves, because the sea conditions were so horrendously chaotic with waves coming at me from all directions. I can clearly remember being so relieved after entering the stormy loch to see the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry approaching, because up until that point I didn’t see any other boats if a rescue had been necessary. I camped near the shore there and the next day I enjoyed exploring the quaint settlement of houses and shops scattered around the loch before heading off towards Lunga. What a different life they have to most places on the UK mainland. I was used to living in, and visiting isolated island communities in Southeast Alaska, but the communities that I encountered on this trip seemed more removed from the influences of modern amenities – street lights for example.
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  • It was lovely paddling around the protected shallow lagoon between the three small islets of Nosy Atafana Marine Park but the currents were very strong. I observed a lot of fish in the sea in and around the islets.
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  • Ankarana National Park in north-west Madagascar is a spectacular eroded limestone fortress of sharp ridges, interspersed with patches of dense tropical rainforest, deciduous forest, gorges, deep caves and underground rivers. About 100 kilometres of cave passages have been mapped within the massif. It is a small, partially vegetated plateau composed of 150-million-year-old middle Jurassic limestone, with an average annual rainfall of about 2,000 mm that has led to the erosion that has created the classic “karst” topography, or locally known as “tsingy”.<br />
Ankarana contains one of the highest densities of primates of any forest in the world. Its dense forests supports large populations of crowned lemurs and Sanford’s brown lemurs, in addition to Perrier’s sifaka, northern sportive lemurs, brown mouse lemurs, fork-marked lemurs, eastern wooly lemurs, western lesser bamboo lemurs and fat-tailed dwarf lemurs, and also ring-tailed mongoose, fossa, tenrecs and Madagascar striped civet. There are almost 100 bird species, 50 reptile, including some endemic and threatened snakes and geckos, and 10 species of frogs. Inside the huge labyrinth of caves there are 14 species of bats, along with local endemic blind shrimps and the world’s only cave-living crocodiles.<br />
More than 350 plant species grow in the park; the luxuriant forests around the gorges are always green and are the richest in numbers of species.
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  • Point Gardiner was one of my favourite places to camp, explore and kayak around. The shore was great for beach-combing because Point Gardiner is in such an exposed location at the southern tip of Admiralty Island where Frederick Sound and Chatham Strait converge, and faces towards the opening to the Pacific Ocean at the southern end of Chatham Strait. Many of the beaches are littered with logs from logging.
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  • This was a young brown bear that I encountered quite frequently at my regular camp at Point Hayes on Chichagof Island. It was often foraging on the beach for food while I was cooking on my campfire, but it would always make a wide detour around me before continuing along the beach. I always had to be on my guard against bears getting into my food, especially black bears. I usually hung all of my food high up in the trees. On one occasion I arrived at a camp too late and I just covered everything up with a tarp. I disturbed a large bear that visited my camp in the night and could feel it’s heavy weight vibrating the ground when it was running. In the morning I discovered that it had “sucked” all of my bananas and pears through a mesh bag that I stored them in and I eventually found my large empty jar of peanut butter cracked open like an egg and licked spotlessly clean.<br />
This bear was well behaved but on one occasion it walked right up to my tent in the forest, and sniffed the air while looking up at my food hanging in the trees. I had cut open a lemon and the pungent smell was just too much for the curiosity of the bear. I talked to it in a calm, gentle voice, as I had learned to do: I had even made a bear fall asleep once while I was setting up my tripod to photograph it. I didn’t want to startle the bear too much so I just bent down slowly, picked up a small stick, and tossed it so that it hit the bear on the nose, upon which it promptly ran away.
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  • For the majority of over 30 years of sea kayaking I have paddled solo, because I prefer to do so, but that has put me at much greater risk, in addition to the safety limitations of folding kayaks as opposed to a technically advanced paddler in a rigid kayak. I suppose that I must have thrived on the additional adrenaline rush of being completely alone and totally dependent on myself for personal survival, although I have been through some horrendous and frightening survival situations that I could have done without!! Anyway, I always have to factor in the original risks when deciding whether or not to set off on a journey, especially if it’s a crossing over open and exposed water, as I was facing here at Ardnamurchan.
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  • This is a view towards the Isle of Rum, from the northern side of An Sgurr across the central moorland plateau, with a series of lochs along the way. The Bay of Laig and the northernmost point of the island where I was camping can be seen to the right of Rum. This was a fantastic hike with breathtaking views all the way. For much of my younger days I had Dartmoor to enjoy as my regular local camping and hiking destination so I was well used to hiking across moorland terrain with ocean views to the north and south of Devon, but not as close as this on the islands of the Inner Hebrides. It was truly magical to be hiking across this ancient rugged terrain, with the sea and other islands always enhancing the view, and adding greatly to the sense of isolation and perspective. I seem to remember that my feet were quite sore by the time that I got back to my camp at the northern tip of the island in the fading light. It was one of my classic “race against the fading light” hikes, especially with a precarious coastal footpath to negotiate at the end.
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  • From Lunga I had to return to Mull and get more provisions in Tobermory before continuing on to the Small Isles – Muck, Eigg, Rum and Canna via Ardnemurchan, the westernmost point on mainland UK. This is a view back towards the mainland and Mull from Fladda, one of the other islands in the Treshnish Isles on the way back to Mull. The other islands and skerries at the south end of the archipelago are Cairn Na Burgh Mor and Cairn na Burgh Beag. I paddled above a lot of seaweed to the south of Lunga and the current was very strong. It was evidently another good area for basking sharks to feed because I encountered two more, but wasn’t able to remain with them for very long. The swells were getting bigger and by the time I reached Treshnish Point on Mull and entered the bay on the other side I knew that it was going to be really hard work, and that I had to really stay focussed to stay in control because the combination of the strong south-westerly wind, strong currents and confused waves was swinging me every which way. The conditions were very similar and just as challenging as when I had to fight to get to Arinagour on Coll. I was very relieved to reach the other side and round Callach Point to find calmer sea conditions. From there it was a much easier paddle to gat back to my campsite in Ardmore Bay at the northern point of Mull.
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  • Point Gardiner was one of my favourite places to camp, explore and kayak around. The shore was great for beach-combing because Point Gardiner is in such an exposed location at the southern tip of Admiralty Island where Frederick Sound and Chatham Strait converge, and faces towards the opening to the Pacific Ocean at the southern end of Chatham Strait. Many of the beaches are littered with logs from logging.
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  • After the unforgettable rigours of my crossing from Ardnamurchan to Muck, the relatively short passage to the next island of the Small Isles, Eigg, was relatively comfortable. It is the second largest of the four islands with an area of 31 km2 (12 sq mi), 9 km (5.6 mi) long from north to south, and 5 km (3.1 mi), with a population of about 50. The main settlement on Eigg is Cleasdale, a fertile coastal plain in the north west. It is known for its quartz beach, called the “singing sands” because of the squeaking noise it makes if walked on when dry. The centre of the island is a moorland plateau, rising to 393 metres (1,289 ft) at An Sgurr, a dramatic stump of pitchstone, sheer on three sides.<br />
I landed on the south of the island on a beach near the ferry jetty at Galmisdale where there is a sheltered anchorage for boats, and a new building near the jetty, housing the post office, shop, craft shop, café, restaurant and bar, and of great benefit to me, toilet and shower facilities that are open 24 hrs a day. This modern and welcoming building near the ferry jetty gives a good indication of how important tourism is to the local economy of Eigg, especially during the summer months, and it was a welcome haven for me whenever I was in need of some extra treats during the time that I was camping on the island. At first I camped behind the beach in Galmisdale Bay, and then I paddled around the rugged and steep east coast to find a place to camp with more solitude.
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  • I paddled around Eilean Thuilm at the northern tip of the island and found this beautiful place to camp with a clear view of the Isle of Rum. I spent a lot of time beachcombing or sitting on the grassy slope in the foreground gazing out across the beautiful sea view towards the Isle of Rum. To get to Cleadale and then Galmisdale there was a scenic footpath to get to the long sandy beach in the Bay of Laig, and then on to the single road leading to Galmisdale. It was a fascinating walk through a mixture of rugged coastal terrain, along a nice beach and then arable land with some dilapidated old farm buildings. I particularly remember an old atmospheric abandoned house with a lot of the original contents scattered around. The only thing that wasn’t good to see was the vast amounts of plastic flotsam and jetsom that had accumulated at the top of the beach. The Bay of Laig seems to have become the unfortunate receptacle and receiving end for so much garbage borne by the Atlantic Ocean from distant places, and more likely jettisoned by ships. There were many layers of it fringing the top of the long beach, more than I’ve seen anywhere else in the UK. It’s something that I had become very familiar with in Southeast Alaska, where a beautiful pristine coastal wilderness is exposed to an open ocean, and whatever unwanted trash it is carrying.
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  • I was discovering how relentless the prevailing south-westerly winds are from the Atlantic Ocean and how completely exposed the west coast of Scotland is. Although I still experienced plenty of beautiful sunny days during my trip the sea very rarely, if at all, calmed down. The wind blew strongly for the next few days and I had little chance to make the relatively short crossing to the Isle of Muck, so I had plenty of time to visit the lighthouse and explore the peninsula on foot. It was another beautiful place to camp but every day I could feel the might of the Atlantic Ocean on my doorstep, and as much as I enjoyed camping at that dramatic location I was getting increasingly frustrated that I couldn’t continue my journey onwards to Muck. <br />
I’ve always used folding kayaks for travelling, and they are generally wider than rigid kayaks, making them slower but more stable. My kayaks have always had fairly big open cockpits, because I prefer the comfort for extended periods of paddling, and I also have extra equipment to accommodate as a fully equipped photographer, and often need it close at hand. I’ve never particularly liked using spray-decks or spray-skirts, so consequently, in addition to the extra beam, doing an Eskimo roll has never been an option, if I had ever been unfortunate enough to capsize. I’ve never really had to develop so many technical skills as anyone who just uses rigid kayaks, apart from being able to do high and low braces, which I had to do a lot on this trip. Although the wider hull of folding kayaks, relative to their length, affects the tracking, and usually necessitates the use of a rudder, there are always conditions when I also have to use technical skills to assist with steering.
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  • It was such a relief to set foot on my first beach along the Masoala Peninsula and what a beautiful beach it was. There was a small river flowing out from the dense forest and I couldn’t wait to explore it. But I was physically drained and the next day was a day of recovery and quiet, relaxed contemplation of my verdant surroundings. When I finally paddled up the river and walked as far as I could I was mesmerised by the vegetation. There was such a wonderful variety of different trees, tree ferns and palms, many of them undoubtedly endemic to Madagascar or even to the Masoala Peninsula. This is what I had been dreaming of when I first made plans for this trip; to be alone in a remote part of Madagascar with the means to explore rivers and penetrate one of the most scientifically valuable rainforests on <br />
the planet. I continued along the peninsula looking for more rivers to explore.
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  • Shortly after arriving on Mull I experienced some of the wettest and windiest conditions that I have ever experienced anywhere, and that is saying something! I didn’t know it at the time but it was actually the tail end of the infamous Hurricane Katrina. I was still using an old tent that I had used for over 20 years, and when I bought it in Seattle it was one of the most advanced, extreme condition tents available, with its 2 walls connected, and just one main sturdy staking point at each end making it quicker and easier to erect. It was called the “Omnipotent”, and had been tested in high winds in Antarctica, but now that it was 20 years old it was completely “Impotent” in the assault of wind and rain that it was subjected too. It could just about withstand the strong gusts of wind but not the torrential rain, and my tent became flooded, and my equally ancient down sleeping bag rendered into a big bag of soggy porridge. I abandoned my tent and sought refuge in the village hall, where I was able to hang all of my wet gear up to dry. Some of the residents that I spoke to were surprised that I had been camping out in such severe weather conditions and informed me that it was the most rainfall that they could recall in living memory. Once I had dried all my gear out I pitched my tent on a designated camping area overlooking the harbour, which even had the considerate luxury of propane CO2 burners for trapping the bothersome midges. I wasn’t quite sure what it was until I saw the clear receptacle full of midges packed into a dense black cake of their minute bodies. I have forgotten to mention them up until now but they are undoubtedly the living and biting scourge of camping in Scotland. Fortunately it was usually windy enough to keep them away for the majority of the time that I was there, but I do remember on some occasions, particularly on Lunga, that I was glad that I had a head-net to wear.
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  • From Eigg it was a relatively short paddle to the largest island in the Small Isles, the Isle of Rum. I left quite late as usual, and had to negotiate strong currents and big swells between the islands in the Sound of Rum in diminishing light. I paddled northwest until I reached Loch Scresort on the eastern side of Rum and made my camp along the coast before the main community of Kinloch at the head of the Loch. Rum has an area of 40.4 sq miles and a highest point, Askival, of 812 metres (2,664 ft). This photo was taken from Askival in the highlands in the southern half of the island, looking northwards towards Kinloch to the east, and the sheltered anchorage of Kilmory Bay at the northern end of the island, where there is a good beach and the remains of a village. For much of the 20th century the island became Rhum, a spelling invented by the former owner who did not relish the idea of having the title “Laird of Rum”. Rum has been inhabited since the 8th millennium BC providing some of the earliest known evidence of human occupation in Scotland. The population grew to over 400 by the late 18th century but was cleared of its indigenous population between 1826 and 1828. The island then became a sporting estate and the exotic Kinloch Castle was constructed by the Bulloughs in 1900. Rum was purchased by the Nature Conservancy Council in 1957, and is now an <br />
important study site for ecology research, especially of red deer at Kilmory, and is the site of a successful reintroduction programme for the white-tailed sea eagle. Its economy is entirely dependent on Scottish Natural Heritage, a public body that now manages the island. The 30 or so residents of Rum are all employees of Scottish National Heritage and their families, along with a few researchers and a school teacher, all who live in Kinloch, which has no church or pub, but does have a village hall, small primary school, and a shop and post office, which is manned by volunteers and only opens on an irregular basis
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  • This is the pebbly beach and stack at the northern tip of the island near where I was camping. The steep escarpment that fringed the eastern half of the island can be seen in the background. I can imagine that the Inner Hebrides is a geologist’s paradise. I can only profess to having a keen layman’s interest in geology; physical geography was one of my favourite subjects at school, and I always find myself trying to remember and identify geomorphological features on my travels.
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  • A patch of wild celery on the northwest side of Isle of Lunga looking northwards towards the offshore skerries.
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  • I paddled onto the town of Mananara, whilst nursing my painful foot injury and infected sores. I had to make a long detour around the next point to avoid the minefield of fringing coral reefs and faced the prospect of trying to find a way through the maze of threatening coral in the fading light of the day, and was relieved when I eventually found a clear passage through to the shore. I received treatment for my injuries, in Mananara, and then shared a ride to Maroantsetra, the gateway town to the Masoala Peninsula, in the back of a pickup truck with other foreigners. I was glad that I was able to experience that road journey through the beautiful, biodiverse vegetation of Mananara National Park. I then explored the amazing island of Nosey Mangabe in Antongil Bay, where I had my first encounter with an incredible leaf-tailed gecko, which was love at first sight.<br />
I then paddled from Maroantsetra to the Masoala Peninsula. The sea was flat calm when I passed Nosy Mangabe but just after midday the wind started to pick up as it often did at that time of day. It was coming in from the entrance to the bay, which opens out onto the Indian Ocean, and in a very short time I found myself battling into winds gusting over 30 mph. Once again I had to keep stopping to pump out water whilst trying to hold my position facing into the oncoming waves. Progress was painfully slow and with every laboured stroke I felt as if my shoulders were dislocating. I was getting drenched with spray every time I ploughed into a wave and the salt was building up on my skin. As my body gyrated with each paddle stroke my back was getting rubbed raw by my backrest and the salt aggravated the sores. My throat was parched and I didn’t have enough water to quench my thirst; I was beginning to feel like a galley slave! My arms and shoulders screamed with the exertion, the salt was burning my flesh, and I had to overcome exhaustion; by the time I eventually reached my destination I was completely drained.
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  • As I got farther from the shore and out into the fully unobstructed jaws of the Atlantic Ocean, I quickly realised that I was taking a really big chance with such chaotic sea conditions. I debated whether or not to turn back, but I decided against any rational thinking as usual, and adopted my King Canute attitude of defiance against the might of the ocean. If I remember correctly it seemed as if I had waves coming at me from all quarters, especially from the stern, that required some heavy-duty bracing to prevent me from jack-knifing and capsizing. I felt as small and vulnerable as I have ever done in a kayak anywhere in the world. It was quite reminiscent of an epic paddle on the east coast of Madagascar, when the following waves and swell were so big that I had to paddle in a reverse position into the waves, and “back into” the safety of a sheltered lagoon. To say that my heart was in my mouth the entire way would be too understate how genuinely scared I felt, but as always I was fully focussed and defiant, and even shouted at the waves from time to time just to let them know that I wasn’t going to surrender to them. My eyes were fixed on my destination, the small Isle of Lunga, and constantly analysing how much nearer it seemed. <br />
I had good memories of camping on Muck during my previous visit there in 1990. I was really looking forward to being there again, and that as well as my sense of self-preservation kept me battling away with gritted teeth. It may sound very clichéd but when you are paddling along the precipice, as I was in those sea conditions then every fibre of every muscle in your body is as taut as bowstrings. As I slowly got nearer I could already feel some degree of relief coursing through my veins along with the adrenaline. I could see the entrance to the harbour and the new ferry terminal getting delightfully larger and larger. I then paddled around the eastern side of the island towards a sheltered sandy bay on the northern end of Lunga.
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  • The prevailing wind in Southeast Alaska is SE, and in the early days when I was kayaking mainly in Frederick Sound and Stephens Passage I had to paddle southwards back to Petersburg against strong headwinds and waves. But sometimes the wind and waves were too much for me when the weather  deteriorated in late September, and I had to just sit out the storms and wait for a break in the weather. On this occasion I had to wait at least a week, and I was down to my last provisions. It was exhilarating to look out across the stormy sea feeling the full might of the wind rampaging across the long fetch of Frederick Sound. But I was getting frustrated and my tent was being attacked by a very aggressive territorial squirrel that objected to me living on his patch. It was the only clearing that I could find to pitch my tent, and because it was relatively open the forest floor was riddled with the squirrel's burrows. It started chewing holes in my precious "Omnipotent" tent and then it escalated to bombarding it with fir-cones. I had to retaliate and throw them back at him, and the tension continued to escalate from there until I had to declare war on the squirrel. I was always very wary of the squirrels in Southeast Alaska because they were worse than bears for trying to raid my food, and they chewed holes in some of my drybags, with perfect insight into where their favourite snacks like peanuts were located. Eventually I woke up one night and the moon was beaming across a placid Frederick Sound so I made a dash for it and paddled for 14 hours straight to get back to Petersburg before the weather changed.
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  • Sculpted shoreline rocks in the fog near Point Hayes, Chichagof Island, Southeast Alaska, USA.<br />
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This is not far from my regular campsite at Point Hayes. There was always so much to explore along that stretch of rocky coast, and I spent a lot of time beach combing and photographing the intertidal life.
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  • Wave-cut platform at Cape Fanshawe, on the mainland, Southeast Alaska, USA.<br />
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Cape Fanshawe was always one of my first anchorages after leaving Petersburg, either in one of my boats, Avalon and subsequently Selena, or in my kayak. It’s on the mainland and at the entrance to my favourite place for vegetation in Southeast Alaska, Port Houghton. Although there are some safe anchorages in amongst the small islands there, and there used to be a fur farm situated there, the actual cape is very exposed to the full power of the elements as can be seen by the way these rocks on the shore have been sculpted; they have been sculpted like waves and are extremely slippery to walk on.<br />
I always remember being trapped there in my kayak late in the summer because the sea conditions were so rough. I was trying to get back to Petersburg at the end of a trip, and when the weather eventually cleared for a while, I had to make a dash for town and paddled continuously for 18 hours to make it back there. I had nearly been out of food, and to add to my torment my tent was being constantly bombarded with cones by a very petulant and territorial squirrel; it developed into squirrel wars!
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  • Small boy feeding the family dogs at Barangay Tagibinet, Puerto Princesa, Palawan, The Philippines.<br />
I stayed with this very friendly family while I was photographing Ugong Rock, a karst limestone pinnacle with cave passages leading to the summit. The city of Puerto Princesa has developed it as a new ecotourism destination. There is now a zipline connected to Ugong Rock.
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  • Small boy feeding the family dogs at Barangay Tagibinet, Palawan, The Philippines.<br />
I stayed with this very friendly family while I was photographing Ugong Rock, a karst limestone pinnacle with cave passages leading to the summit. The city of Puerto Princesa has developed it as a new ecotourism destination. There is now a zipline connected to Ugong Rock.
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  • Sparce vegetation on the coast of the Sierra de la Giganta in the Bahia de Loreto National Park, the Baja Peninsula and the Sea of Cortez, Mexico.
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  • With such sparse vegetation and the exposed geology, the sense of perspective, space and geological time is greatly enhanced. In the foreground is an elephant tree, one of the many plants perfectly adapted to surviving the extremely arid conditions prevalent in Baja. Standing water was virtually non-existent when I was there but the eroded streambeds created by the brief seasonal flash flooding were clearly evident.
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  • With such sparse vegetation and the exposed geology, the sense of perspective, space and geological time is greatly enhanced. In the foreground is an elephant tree, one of the many plants perfectly adapted to surviving the extremely arid conditions prevalent in Baja. Standing water was virtually non-existent when I was there but the eroded streambeds created by the brief seasonal flash flooding were clearly evident.
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  • The brightly coloured mottled anemone was one of my favourite creatures in the intertidal zone of Southeast Alaska. The red streaks on its flanks are like flames of luminous wet red paint.
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  • The common sunstar is a species of sea star belonging to the family Solasteridae. It is found in the northern parts of both the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans. The intertidal life in Southeast Alaska is very rich because of the nutrient-rich water that is pumped around by the prevailing strong currents and upwellings.
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  • The town of Loreto is a regular staging post for commercial kayaking tour groups. I enjoyed mixing with some of them but farther down the coast I was I was shocked by the territorialism of some of the kayaking tour leaders. I encountered a dispute between two “rival” American tour groups that each laid claim to a nearby beach to camp on. The beautiful “unclaimed” beach that I gratefully accepted to camp on was evidently less desirable. The next day I stopped at an empty beach to stretch my legs when one of the groups that was involved in the dispute came into view and their leader paddled towards me. I greeted him politely as always and he promptly retorted by just asking me where I was heading. I told him that I was just heading south, to which he curtly replied, ‘I just wanted to let you know that we’ll be camping at the next beach, OK.” I didn’t take it as an invitation to join them for a campfire dinner or to share kayaking stories; I had no desire to detract from their wilderness experience or pollute their airspace with smoke from my campfire. The commercial kayaking groups don’t venture very far south of Loreto so it wasn’t long before I had left that bewildering attitude behind me and could embrace the infinite solitude that Baja had to offer.
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  • The effort to climb to the highest vantage points on the islands was well worth it for the stupendous views along the stark, dramatic coastline of the Baja Peninsula, although I quickly discovered how much caution was necessary to avoid being impaled or lacerated by the prickly vegetation. As a keen amateur botanists I was fascinated by the succulent and scrubby vegetation, so perfectly adapted to such an extreme environment with so little rainfall and almost constant desiccating saline sea breezes. There is a organ pipe cactus in the foreground and the amber flaking bark of a torote Colorado tree { F. Burseracea - Bursera microphylla ) can also be seen.
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  • The brightly coloured mottled anemone was one of my favourite creatures in the intertidal zone of Southeast Alaska. The red streaks on its flanks are like flames of luminous wet red paint.
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  • Observing sea lions at close quarters at their haul-outs was like going to a circus, because there always so much going on to entertain and amuse. They are such noisy and smelly places, and sometimes I had to crawl through the foul, stagnant rockpools to get amongst them, but it was always worth it. There was often sparring going on between the big bulls, which involved a lot of heaving and wheezing, and roaring. If they weren't sparring then they would be posturing in  a high and mighty fashion with their heads thrown back and their chests puffed out. Younger bulls appeared to congregate in gangs like delinquents hell-bent on mischief, usually directed at the less mobile larger bulls. One of the funniest incidents I have ever seen in the animal kingdom was when there was a big bull teetering on a narrow ledge on a rock-face about 2 metres above the sea. Beneath him there were some mischievous juveniles that were leaping up at him out of the water to nip him on his exposed posterior that he was unable to protect because of his precarious situation. He was getting understandably very irritated, and eventually fell off the narrow ledge into the sea making a big splash: it was hilarious! I also enjoyed watching the juveniles playing in the tidal surges that swept them back and forth along channels between the rocks. Sometimes when I was paddling in big swells with waves crashing onto the rocks I marvelled at how the sea lions revelled in the opportunity to play close to the rocks in sea conditions that were threatening to me.
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  • The crossing to the Isle of Coll was good, but I was already experiencing the difficult sea conditions and ocean swells resulting from strong currents and variable wind patterns. I landed at the northern end of the island, and camped on a nice sandy beach between the extensive sand dunes and offshore rocks that create a labyrinth of pools and channels. There is an unmanned lighthouse on one of the offshore rocks. Coll is about 13 miles (20.9 km) long by 3 (4.8 km) miles wide with a population of around 220. Coll has no street lights and little other light pollution, and has been recognised as only the second location in Scotland with dark skies, enabling spectacular views of the heavens, including the Milky Way, when the sky is clear, something that I have also been able to enjoy whilst camping in Alaska and Baja.
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  • It was a beautiful place to camp and I spent several days clambering over the offshore rocks and inshore san dunes. There were a lot of shy grey seals that hauled out on the rocks that I tried to get close enough to photograph without disturbing them. Not surprisingly the sea was very cold for swimming but I had brought a wetsuit with me for snorkelling. There was plenty of driftwood to collect on the beaches so I had some spectacular fires on the beach at night to cook my dinner under the glittering canopy of stars.
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  • After stocking up with fresh provisions in Tobermory and spending a few more days in Ardmore Bay I set off for the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. I passed a lot of grey seals hauled out on the rocks on the way. Unfortunately I left later than planned and by the time I reached the lighthouse at Ardnamurchan Point, the most westerly point on the British mainland it was already dark, but at least I had the light of the lighthouse to guide me. Once again the sea conditions were very agitated, and it was that much more challenging because I was paddling in the dark. It was both exciting and unnerving as I paddled around the sheer rock face at the point with the blinking lighthouse lighting up the heaving swells and waves around me. I have always had a bad habit of setting off too late in the day and have frequently paid the price with some challenging survival experiences. But on this occasion it was more exhilarating than worrying although once again I was relieved to reach a relatively sheltered beach on the other side of the point.
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  • Lunga is the largest island in an archipelago of small islands and skerries that stretches roughly 7 kilometres (4.3 m) called the Treshnish Isles. Lunga is designated a Site of Special Scientific Interest because of its abundant plant life. Many rare and endangered plants are native to the island. Plants include primrose, birdsfoot trefoil, orchids, sea campion, sea thrift, sea pinks, yellow flags, tormentil and the oyster plant. The Treshnish Isles are also designated as a Special Protection Area due to their importance for breeding seabirds such as storm-petrels, kittiwakes, Manx Shearwaters, guillemots, puffins and fulmars. They are also a marine Special Area of Conservation and grey seals can be found there along with basking sharks, as I was pleased to discover. I particularly enjoyed watching the seabirds nesting on the precipitous cliffs, and a dramatic sea stack called the Harp Rock separated from the island by a narrow passage. It was hypnotic to watch the real masters of flight like the kittiwakes and fulmars launching from their precarious nests and soaring in graceful arcs in front of the cliffs and above the rocks and meadows.<br />
Lunga was populated up until the 19th century, and to the NE of the island, and just around the rocks to the right of this photo can be found the ruins of the village, which was abandoned in 1857. I often used to sit in amongst the ruins looking out across the sea dotted with vegetated skerries towards Mull and the mainland wondering what it must have been like to live there. I camped there for a week, and it was a wonderful place to live during the good weather of the short Scottish summer, but I can imagine how challenging it must have been to eke out a subsistence life there in the past.
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  • These colourful Sally lightfoot crabs (Grapsus grapsus) were the species that I observed the most, usually scurrying around the rocks just above the water.
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  • These colourful Sally lightfoot crabs (Grapsus grapsus) were the species that I observed the most, usually scurrying around the rocks just above the water.
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  • I found this beautiful, tiny, exquisitely coloured specimen underneath a rock. The brilliant red on the tips of its legs looked as though it had been freshly painted. As a child I spent my school holidays at the seaside and there was nothing that I enjoyed more than looking beneath rocks for hidden natural wonders.
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  • I found this beautiful, tiny, exquisitely coloured specimen underneath a rock. The brilliant red on the tips of its legs looked as though it had been freshly painted. As a child I spent my school holidays at the seaside and there was nothing that I enjoyed more than looking beneath rocks for hidden natural wonders.
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  • The main range of hills on Rum are called the Cuillin in the south of the island. They are rocky peaks of basalt and gabbro that are part of a core of a deeply eroded volcano that was active in the Paleogene era 66 – 23 million years ago. This view is looking towards Askival, 812 metres, and Ainshval, 778 metres, from Hallival. Hallival and Askival are formed from layered igneous rocks that accumulated at the base of a magma chamber. The chamber eventually collapsed, forming a caldera (crater). There are near vertical intrusions of basalt on the northwest coast, created by basaltic magma forcing its way into fissures in the pre-exiting rock.<br />
I hiked from Kinloch and up along the Cuillin from Hallival to Ainshval, which included some very steep and challenging scrambling on all fours, and then along a long undulating ridge with a fantastic view out across the sea, before descending down towards Glen Harris to the far right of this photo. It was unquestionably one of my favourite hikes that I have ever done anywhere in the world, with absolutely stupendous views in all directions across the island and out across the sea. I was travelling light, and I knew that I only had a limited amount of time to complete the circuit back to Kinloch, so it became an exhilarating sprint across the challenging terrain that kept my adrenaline pumping all the way. It takes pride of place in my top ten hikes in the world that I would like to redo one day.
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  • After leaving Antanambe I faced a 15 mile paddle across a stretch of unprotected ocean, with the biggest ocean swells that I had encountered. The waves generated by the steadily increasing wind were really daunting, especially as sometimes they seemed to be coming from two different directions. My kayak is very stable, but the deck was leaking quite a lot, so I had to keep stopping to pump the water out, and at the same time stop the kayak from being swung around broadside to the oncoming waves, which would have risked getting swamped and capsizing. Unfortunately the prevailing wind was from the SE, and because of my required course to get to the islands the waves were approaching too close to my beam.<br />
To counter this I had to keep tacking and trying to head to the east of the outer island to compensate for any drift. I also had to avoid running directly with the waves because they were so big that they would have washed over my stern or slewed me broadside to the wave, and an inevitable capsize! I had to maintain my concentration to keep the waves on the quarter. As I got closer to the islands I could see the massive breakers smashing onto the rocks; it was one of the most unnerving situations that I have ever been in. I was level with the closest island in the group and rather than trying to run with the waves I decided to go in reverse. The safest angle for any boat to handle big seas is to head into the swells and ride up over them; you offer the least resistance and can maintain the best possible control of your craft. I was allowing the oncoming waves to drive me backwards to where I wanted to go. My heart raced every time a monster wave bore down on me and I rode up and over it. It took a long time but I had no choice. When I was close enough, I could see a break in the coral reef protecting the islands, and I turned my stern into the waves, and surfed towards safety whilst glancing over my shoulder to brace my kayak with my paddle for each surging wave.
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  • The sea lions have such a thick coating of blubber to cushion their bodies that they can sleep just about anywhere and look very comfortable. It is a different matter when they are trying to haul their bulky bodies around with only their flippers to assist them. It involves a lot of huffing and puffing, heaving and swaying with much grunting and steam belching from their open mouths. They look like big sacks of blubber and bones being dragged across the rocks: in stark contrast to their fluid graceful motion underwater like huge flying fish.
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  • Yasha Island was my regular place for observing, photographing and simply being entertained by sea lions. I had to land my kayak on the opposite side of the islet, creep stealthily through the rocks and trees, and then low down on my belly to get right in amongst them. There is usually so much noise and commotion at a haul-out that it's surprisingly easy to get in amongst them. Their vision is evidently quite poor out of water, so as long as I moved very slowly and didn't stand up and become boldly silhouetted, I could "bluff" my way into their close company. Sometimes one of them would stare at me inquisitively but as long as I kept completely motionless, it then continued participating in the general pandemonium that frequently pervades the haul-outs. But sometimes a degree of calm is restored as this photo illustrates, but it takes just one incident to flair up, perhaps when one of them is rudely awakened by the clumsiness of another one trying to get past it, and then the pandemonium sweeps across the haul-out like a wild fire with their extended heads swaying in the air belching out disgruntled roars and groans.
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  • A sweeping panoramic view at the southern end of the island looking towards a chain of small skerries, that I paddled out to explore. I was camped on the other side of the rocks in the foreground on a grassy ledge overlooking a rocky cove. The cliffs on either side of the last fragment of the island were quite high and very precipitous. This is where I had my next dramatic viewing of basking sharks, because they were swimming very close to the base of the cliff so I was able to look directly down on them, and get a very good impression of their massive size. Once again it was one of those wildlife encounters that is so vividly etched in my memory forever. From my lofty viewpoint I could watch them swimming towards the island and then follow the base of the cliffs as they were feeding.
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  • This beautiful view is along the cliffs at the southwest end of the island with the offshore skerries and Atlantic Ocean in the distance. I also watched basking sharks from that side of the island and saw some dolphins just offshore. It was one of my favourite palces to watch the fulmars demonstrating their aerial skills. This was the windward side of the island facing the turbulence and swells of the open ocean, and a magnificent location to look down at the waves crashing forcefully against the rocks below. There was the occasional boat that visited the island during the time that I stayed there but most of the time I had it to myself, and it gave me a wonderful feeling of coastal maritime solitude that I have rarely, if ever, experienced in the UK. I could have stayed there for at least another month but there were still other islands to visit and explore on this trip.
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  • A sweeping panoramic view at the southern end of the island looking towards a chain of small skerries, that I paddled out to explore. I was camped on the other side of the rocks in the foreground on a grassy ledge overlooking a rocky cove. The cliffs on either side of the last fragment of the island were quite high and very precipitous. This is where I had my next dramatic viewing of basking sharks, because they were swimming very close to the base of the cliff so I was able to look directly down on them, and get a very good impression of their massive size. Once again it was one of those wildlife encounters that is so vividly etched in my memory forever. From my lofty viewpoint I could watch them swimming towards the island and then follow the base of the cliffs as they were feeding.
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  • It was always important to know where the safest anchorages were because the weather conditions could deteriorate very quickly. Some weren't secure enough, and I spent many a sleepless night making sure that the anchor was still secure and that Avalon was being dragged onto the rocks.
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