Through the Dorus Mòr, and Into the Crinan Canal

Through the Dorus Mòr, Into the Crinan Canal, and Homeward Bound

As planned, we travelled to Craobh on Monday 13th July and spent a quiet night in the marina. It was just a pit stop — and, as usual, nothing was open — so we made dinner onboard, enjoyed the peace, and prepared for the next day.

On Tuesday, with the sun beaming, we slipped our lines and headed for the Crinan Canal. To get there, we first had to pass through the Dorus Mòr — the narrow, tide‑swept channel between the mainland and the island of Shuna. Its name means “Great Door” in Gaelic, and it’s famous for strong tidal streams, whirlpools, and standing waves when wind and tide oppose each other. Even on a calm day it can feel lively, and today was no exception. We bounced our way through, grateful for the sunshine and even more grateful when the water finally settled.

We waited outside the Crinan sea lock for a little while before it was our turn to enter the basin. It had been a year since we’d last gone through locks, and our long ropes from the Caledonian Canal were now at home — so we had to make do with what we had. Coming from this direction meant all the locks were “up,” so we had to pass our lines up to someone waiting at the top (hopefully!) and then gather the rope back in as Halcyon Sea rose with the water. With a sore shoulder, Tracey found this tough going, but we managed.

Once inside the basin — small, tight, and always busy — we found a perfect spot behind a berth‑holder’s boat. It was out of the way, couldn’t be rafted against, and gave us a lovely view of both the basin and the sea. Even better, there was grass right beside the boat for Pepper. Tracey walked around to the little café and returned with scones and Victoria sponge for afternoon tea.

That evening we took a walk along the canal. With the canal on one side of the path, the sea on the other, and the sun beginning to set, the views were spectacular — golden light on the water, long shadows across the hills, and that peaceful Crinan stillness that feels like time has paused.

Organised Chaos in the Crinan Canal

On Wednesday morning, we got ourselves ready for the passage through the canal. We weren’t sure where we’d stop — only that we weren’t planning to go all the way to Ardrishaig. Our licence allowed four nights in the canal, and we’d only used one so far.

There was confusion in the basin. The lockkeeper hadn’t arrived, so no one knew what was happening. Eventually a stand‑in appeared — clearly unhappy. His daughter had given birth that morning, and he obviously didn’t want to be here. He tried to organise who was going out to sea, who was going up the canal, and who was staying put. A large motorboat was blocking the entrance to Lock 14, and before anything could happen, they had to move. They were still having breakfast when we passed them.

Once they came down into the basin, it felt very full — hardly any room to manoeuvre. Then the lockkeeper disappeared, and another arrived. After another hour of waiting, things finally started to happen. Boats shuffled, locks opened, and suddenly we were off.

We were the last to enter Lock 14. The canal is 225 years old, and the locks are small and narrow. We were squeezed in against one boat, our bow almost touching their stern, and at a strange angle with another — just enough space to close the gate behind us. All three boats adjusted their fenders to protect each other before the water gushed in. The boats rocked in the tumultuous swirl, but we made it out and continued through the next bridge and onward.

The boat ahead was heading to Cairnbaan, and the boat beside us hoped to exit at Ardrishaig — they had a berth booked in Portavadie that evening. The canal was peaceful once we were moving, gently winding through the narrow waterway. Both other boats had three people onboard, which was a godsend. The boat ahead were locals and had used the canal many times — they became the experts of our little convoy.

We’d heard the canal was now fully manned, with help available all the way through. Not today. Staff shortages meant we were on our own, and without the help of the other boats taking our lines, we would have struggled.

Tracey couldn’t seem to find a rhythm with her ropes. Every time she tried to pass one up, it felt like she was wrestling a knotted mass of spaghetti rather than a neat line. It added to the tension of trying to keep Halcyon Sea from drifting back over the cill, and even though Nick kept reassuring her she was doing fine, she didn’t feel fine. She felt like she was making an already difficult situation worse. In truth, she’d have preferred to be off the boat helping with the locks — and if she never had to deal with another rope again, it would still be too soon.

But we persevered. We continued with our little team to Lock 5, arriving around 5:30pm. It had been a long, hot day, and we were all exhausted. The boat hoping to exit the canal didn’t make it — the staff finished at 5pm — but they headed down to wait outside the next lock for an early start.

Nick performed an expert 360‑degree turn to land us on a pontoon with water and electric. After tea and Pepper walks, we collapsed into bed.

The Final Locks and the Call of Home

Thursday arrived, and we prepared ourselves for the last few locks. Tracey sensibly wore lightweight full‑length trousers — the midges and cleggs were out in force. It was another beautifully sunny day, and only four locks stood between us and the sea.

Before we set off, the skipper of the boat ahead came over to speak to Nick. His wife had suffered heat stroke the previous day, which was why they’d stopped where they did. He told us they had spent the evening deliberating whether to continue through the canal or turn back. The decision had clearly weighed heavily on him.

By morning, they had reached their conclusion.

They had to accept that their sailing days were over.

It was one of the saddest things Tracey had ever heard. The disappointment on his face said everything — a lifetime of sailing behind him, and the realisation that he could no longer manage their boat alone. His wife’s health had changed, he himself was aging, and the risks were simply too great. He had sailed all over the world; this was not a decision made lightly.

He asked Nick for help turning his boat around in the narrow canal, but insisted on remaining at the helm — and rightly so. Unfortunately, his battery was dead, and he couldn’t start the engine. He called the lockkeeper, explained the situation, and asked for assistance once the battery had charged for a few hours. They agreed to help.

We left them alone on that quiet pontoon, and the weight of their decision stayed with us. It’s a moment that will come to all sailors eventually — the day when the adventure ends not because you want it to, but because life changes. For now, we were the lucky ones, still able to continue, and it reminded us to make the most of every moment, every passage, every new anchorage. One day, we too will have to stop. But not yet.

We set off with the boat that had been ahead of us the day before and reached the first bridge… but there was no one to open it. Here we go again. We waited about 30 minutes until a staff member arrived. After the bridge, a full team of staff helped us through the final locks, and with only two boats in each chamber, it felt far more comfortable.

We finally reached Ardrishaig. We could have spent another night in the canal, but we were ready for home. We still had the option of heading to Portavadie — only a two‑hour sail — but once we were back out on open water, the call of home was too strong.

The sun was shining, a lovely breeze blew across the bow, and although the wind was on the nose, it was a gentle motor home. We saw dolphins, plenty of seals, and even the coastguard helicopter, which had landed on a small beach. As we passed, it took off and flew right over our mast.

As Ardrossan came into view, a pang of sadness hit. Our first summer adventure was at an end. We wondered whether we’d made the right decision — especially after seeing photos of the Royal Highland Yacht Club Cruise in Company having BBQs on the beach in Muck — but it was too late. At least we were heading home, and the forecast promised a week of good weather. Long enough to catch up on the washing.

Entering the marina, a large group of teenagers were gathered on the pier, jumping into the water. It’s funny how you see the dangers differently with age. And then… we were tied up alongside.

We spent the night onboard. The next morning we loaded the car with just the essentials — washing, food, and a few bits — leaving the fridge and freezer empty. We were home by lunchtime. It felt good to be back.

We now have a few weeks off the water as family visits and a party down south await us, but we plan to be back afloat by mid‑ to late‑August. For now, there are no destination plans. We’ll wait and see where the wind and tide want to take us.Read more