Ten more lock stages to the Atlantic, eight of them in one piece at Banavie. From one lock chamber I go straight into the next; after an hour and a half I come to the short stretch of canal that leads me to the last two lock chambers. The whole procedure is impressive, a testimony to ingenious engineering, and takes two and a half hours – but now I want to go on. Without stopping to Oban. There is supposed to be a petrol station at the harbour…
The drive past Fort William through Loch Linnhe is scenically indistinguishable from the Great Glenn – I’m still in the Highlands, still in this ‘ditch’, but it’s a completely different ride now: the tidal currents remind me that the boat trip on the loch has come to an end and it’s now on to the Atlantic.
After about an hour I am in Oban. There is no sign of a petrol station far and wide. So I grab a trolley, push it through the town to the big shopping centre (with petrol station) at the gates of this small town, and do my sightseeing with it. And so I arrive – in glorious summer weather! – to my well-deserved ice cream (fully organic, with Highland milk, milked by hand and prepared for me with much love… – here too, I can’t even hear it any more).
In Oban, which is home to a university, there are many excursion offers at the harbour to explore the Hebrides: Ferry boats and small/private cruises seem to attract a lot of clientele; the industry is booming, English people come especially. The weather, as I said, is wonderful; I can fill the tanks bare-chested and let the sun beat down on me once more.
The drive along the Inner Hebrides is fascinating; one island follows the next, with different coastlines, and always a lush green on top. The conditions are ideal, I’m heading out into the Atlantic, straight across to Northern Ireland. But suddenly the weather changes and I get cold. So I put on a jumper and jacket under the windbreaker and life jacket, even gloves (for the first time since the trip to Haapsalu, where I had to help myself out with socks). Out here in the Atlantic, the ‘climate’ becomes cool and damp, and the tidal currents also show me their power as I speed between an offshore island to Northern Ireland. It gets tingly just before the entrance to Ballycastle, where water eddies give the ArgoFram a hard time (but after the passage of the Pentland Firth, I am – proverbially – already washed with some water).
In Ballycastle, I am once again greeted by a very warm-hearted population, and a new language… While I am already somewhat used to Scottish, I now have to familiarise myself with the Northern Irish version of English. – Boatmen and harbour masters are very welcoming, uncomplicated, good-humoured. And in short trousers!
As I look around the harbour, I notice that there are an astonishing number of RIBs here, inflatable boats of all sizes and for all kinds of uses (most of them based on a speedboat). I call Marko; he has also heard that some boat builders in this area are fully committed to RIBs and that they are very popular, ranging from practical to extremely luxurious. – I wonder if this has something to do with the waters here, where it is more advantageous to be light, nimble and yet powerful? Or whether there are simply more recreational riders?
Next to the harbour, there is an extensive bay in Ballycastle, a veritable beach, several hundred metres long, maybe a hundred metres wide at low tide, with people on and in the water – and a couple of guys pretending to be movie-ready, doing the official Baywatch. It turned out really nice once again, they say. Well, it was warm over in Scotland, but here, I think? The weather board shows 14 degrees in the air and 11 degrees in the water… It’s late summer and everything is relative… The people here are enjoying it! – The official bathing season ends next weekend; if that’s not a reason to jump into the water once more!
After I tell her that I walked through Ireland in the eighties (and ask her how the bridges between the denominations – and clans! – that have been built in the meantime are holding up), the good-hearted lady at the tourist office presses a booklet into my hand with the proud remark: Look, everything has changed here – almost everything: the former divides have been filled, the police have been replaced at all levels, politics is relevant (and England doesn’t talk so much anymore either). – Yes, perhaps in the next generation or the one after that, history will be rewritten in this torn country. I would wish it on the Northern Irish, indeed on all Irish people.
To my astonishment, there are again countless people queuing up at the dock – in front of a fish’n’chips stall! How can you, why this one of all, when there are others next door? This one is the best, I am told, and try the cod. Well… But the fish soup I ordered is really good, after all.
Afterwards I go for my evening walk; the next day there seems to be a holiday – the pubs are full and so are the people. Socialising, they say here. I go to sleep.