All was quiet on the Kilbranan Sound as we headed into the swell; we rolled contentedly along watching for buoys, as it turned out they were the only punctuation in our journey.
It was an easy sea on a soft day. Although warm there was a certain amount of dampness in the air which gave the hazy edges of land a yielding quality, as if we could nudge into some point along the shore pressing ever so slightly into the rocks until they gave a little and remolded themselves around our bow.
We were immersed in the positive energy that bounced from the sea and wafted through the hold and forecastle bringing a lively freshness to the wooden constitution of our bonny blue boat. The smell of the sea filled us with a sense of well being and good health.
We eased with a calm dignity into Carradale Harbour to find it afloat with working fishing boats tied up for the weekend, and gently tied up ourselves to settle for the evening.
Shemaron was home once more, from 1964 she fished out of Carradale initially with the ring-net though in the years to come she was to change her habit and eventually take on the equipment appropriate for scallop dredging. We felt very much at home nestled beside the other fishing vessels along the harbour wall.
Later after meeting friends in the local hotel we stepped from the warm glowing lights of the bar into the night and it was like walking into a painted water colour, the stillness seemed overwhelming if one can imagine such a thing. Arran floated on a thin strip, which hung from the bottom of the street. I was taken aback by the silence; it seemed strange somehow in among the houses for it to be so still. Even the wind held its breath as we made our way down to the small harbour to find Shemaron waiting motionless in the quiet. Climbing over the boats as we made our way back, it was like stepping through the painting's frame, some kind of border between two domains and we crossed onto our floating deck.