I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky...
The location has the rough beauty of rolling landscape, forest, sandy beaches and wide crashing expanse of unspoilt shore - part of which was our home at the Silver Sands caravan site. A bargain in terms of cost and situation close to the harbour. Also in terms of beach caves, and a lighthouse, and particularly homely once decorated with Peter's home-grown rhubarb!
So, to the diving...
visability of 15 metres, and temperatures of 12-14 degrees, conditions were good. The wrecks were lying between 25 and 45 metres, in good condition and with lots of features - toilets, walkways, open holes to penetrate, and imposing bow sections to provide tremendous structural views. One favourite was the Valentine tank, sitting alone on white sand at 12 metres, intact inside and out with an array of brittle stars and hermit and fighting crabs for company. Very high cute factor.
And of course the Verona, my personal favourite, a ghostly yacht with a romantic history as it was built for a bride, but sadly after a name change and appropriation into service for the First World War, is now a war grave. Sadly also un-dived by us, due to alcoholic and other circumstances beyond our control, more of which later.
Afternoon scenic dives offered lots of fish, seals, life, and in fact our tea on a couple of occasions after sterling efforts by Nic to capture those pesky crabs, and Cleggy in showing his mettle by preparing and cooking them. The rest of us helped out with the eating of course.
And the rest of the time? A jazz evening, great pub food. Also a late night walk on the Findhorn sands to visit a local seal colony. This after the pub, but practically in daylight due to the northern summertime light. As we walked around the headland, Mike heard those blubbery sirens calling, and couldn't resist setting off to commune with them. Unfortunately, an expanse of rippling water lay between him and them, with little indication of depth, squishiness, or other potentially dangerous hazard. Despite this, with misty eyes and a 'A Man's Gotta Do What A Man's Gotta Do' set to his shoulders, he sallies forth into the shimmering dimness of the night, heading straight into the Moray Firth. His figure recedes... he gets halfway... the water is way over his knees. He looks back. We hold our breath. He then slowly begins to rise out of the water again, at which point Nic and Cleggy consider it safe to follow. All three of them last seen that night trouserless and paddling gamely.
So, you get the picture. Great fun, and a world away from grimy London. Many thanks to Bill Ruck and his catamaran 'Topcat', which with ample deck space and a storage hold made for comfortable kiting-up and no after-dive transportation of kit. Also for the curried tatties and beans, soup, drinks and inimitably large grin. And many thanks lastly to everyone who came on the trip and made it such fun.
Clare Ruck (Photos by Simon Pritchard and Nic Oatridge)
The voyagers (Mike, Nic, Simon, Peter, Ernesto, Shona, Cleggy, Tony and me) journeyed northward, by air, by rail, by car, to reach the Moray Firth just east of Inverness at Lossiemouth on July 6th. There they found a coastal time capsule of model fishing villages and early closing on Wednesdays, incomparably hospitable local friends, and, of course, some of the best quality diving in the UK.
And how to describe the wonderful hospitality of Jools, Nic's sister, who invited us to BBQ at hers, and also to her Moulin Rouge party on the Friday night. What fun, and what costumes! With absinthe drenched sugar cubes to greet party-goers at the door, and a polaroid to capture those singular moments, it was the sort of party which wouldn't help you at 40 metres on the Verona the next day. 
The star of the party was Mr Amoure - our own Argentinean god, who with few words and heavy accent unintentionally slayed every Scottish woman in the room. Also the Sultan, whose fishnet tights and dark Gipsy eyes had much the same effect. And as for Shona and that pout...
