The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
The day I became a Hebridean twitcher
Benjamin Parker discovers his inner ornithologist on a new ‘Sea Safari’ experience in the Scottish Highlands
Though the potency of early morning Scottish sea gales looked set to pinch the cap from my head, I craned my neck around the boat’s cabin, drops of seawater speckling my face as we whipped over swells at 30 knots, to just about make out Ailsa Craig growing mighty ahead of the bow. The prehistoric hump of scarped granite columns capped by verdure looked more fearsome now than it had from the South Ayrshire shore, or from the turret of Glenapp Castle, where I’d spent the previous night.
The boat stopped on the southern outline, beyond coves that, says local literature, are the dens of marine life. The cliffside was alive with thousands of birds. Distant squawks grew louder as gannets approached our vessel with a glint of curiosity.
It appeared I’d hit a twitcher’s jackpot on this “sea safari” around the Hebrides, a new experience from Glenapp, a 19th-century manor reborn as country house hotel. It should mean very little to me, as someone who doesn’t travel to see animals. But on Glenapp’s eponymous boat, bobbing on the Firth of Clyde, a bolt pierced through any sense of indifference. I was transfixed, and as the next 24 hours unfurled I discovered a swirl of adventure, calm, food and scenery that makes this bespoke experience an idyllic back-to-nature episode – even captivating those unsure what they will get from it. I found an ornithological verve I didn’t know I had, never before seeing so many
birds diving and dancing in front of me. I looked closely at how the wind was caught by swooping guillemots, the “Scottish penguins” as Roddy Leitch, our skipper for the trip, described them.
The Scottish baronial splendour of Glenapp Estate felt worlds away at that point. The character is traditional (no hint of boutique-ification), but it deftly balances cosseting with countryside. The 36-acre estate’s heady mix of just-tamed trails between giant trees – their Cilician fir is the tallest in Britain – and glens contrast with formal gardens, while inside is pin-sharp anticipatory service (expect glasses refilled with wine before you know it, and your room to be made up each morning before you finish a bowl of porridge).
The property, built in 1870, was formerly the family seat of the Earl of Inchcape, as well as home to an aviation pioneer, but the hotel’s recent history is one of a stately restaurant with rooms, holding a Michelin star for one year from 2013. Food remains a key aspect for Paul Szkiler, a former City banker who bought Glenapp in 2015 for £2.1 million. He has since spent £3 million on refurbishing most bedrooms, rebuilding the Victorian tea rooms and doubling the size of the kitchen. But the £300,000 purchase of the Redbay Stormforce 11 RIB earlier this year, giving easy access to outlying stretches, adds the most exciting dynamic to the place.
The expedition properly begins with a 20-minute drive to Girvan harbour. I was introduced to Roddy, a former harbourmaster who was the RLNI’s longestserving coxswain. Our first stop, before finding Ailsa Craig’s feathered population, was 10 miles (16km) north along the coast, under the shadow of
Culzean Castle. We were stationery on the water to watch a falconry display, one of the newer experiences hotel guests can book (whether or not they’re at sea). The African fish eagle, Ripley, perched unmoving on the strand, waiting to swoop for offal thrown from our boat. She was upstaged by the unexpected appearance of three bottlenose dolphins who lapped up our attention with every arch out of the water, putting on a show for more than half an hour; I’ve been told that subsequent boat trips have been surrounded by 40 of the creatures. It’s only when Ripley is chased by a protective oystercatcher that the bird gets our full attention, because it felt organic, unpredictable – exactly what one wants to see on a “safari”.
Serene conditions favoured the majority of our sailing, with only one passage – the Mull of Kintyre, where the Firth of Clyde essentially meets the Atlantic tides – feeling a shade turbulent. The reward is landfall on Gigha, a low-lying island of bonny beaches. The jetty extends out across shallow water that in the midday rays was clear and azure, more Halkidiki than Hebrides. Lunch was from The Boathouse, a seafront feast of the waters: lobsters, razor clams, oysters, mussels, cockles and crab.
The glorious sunshine began to melt behind clouds as we headed towards our overnight stop. Simultaneously, my expectations faded. From a castle to a campsite? The boat was comfortable enough but functional rather than luxe. As we navigated Corryvreckan whirlpool, I spotted tents the colour of cornsilk, and realised my fears were unfounded.
It takes four people two days to set up this base on Jura’s north, a patch empty other than three dwellings (and hundreds of red deer). A boat is loaded in Craobh Haven, six miles (10km) away, and delivers the dining tent, kitchen, portable loos, “bedrooms” and more (equalling more than three tons of equipment). You sleep in something between tepee and bell tent, reminiscent of African safari lodgings but furnished with tartan throws and heavy rugs as an antidote to the Scottish climate. The hotel’s executive chef, David Alexander, tended to a hulk of lamb over flames as rain began to drop. Al fresco dining was swiftly moved inside (though the downpour ceased minutes later), each dish delicious and plated with aplomb – astounding, giving the relatively primitive kitchen.
As the others peeled off to bed, I was left alone beside the fire drinking whisky until 1am. My body was tired, but my mind desperate to soak up the stillness. The next morning, I woke to the sound of very little, just breakfast being cooked and a snoring tentmate. Stepping out into daylight, I felt much like I did the night before: at peace. Other campers opted for an early morning swim; I was content to watch