The baltic air seemed to permeate through clothing like it was red wine to a white sofa. The water had an inky blackness, its surface smooth, no hint of a breeze, and went as fair as the eye could see. The sun had not yet risen, the darkness hanging on just that little bit longer. The journey started, smooth, the water parting as we passed though making good progress, gliding seamlessly.
That is, until we reached the downhill bit. Because no, we were not in a boat looking at a peaceful lake, but in the car on the school run looking at a dirt track that had had snow, and then compacted snow. But it had started to melt. The water sitting peacefully on top of the ice, quite content not to move, and I had not put snow chains on.
The back of the car swung starboard. My oldest asking me, in awe, how I had just managed to get the car to move that way. Two hands gripped the wheel, we realigned, before it then decided to swing port side (which was better, less of a ditch off that side of the road). The back of the car was eager to catch up to the front, it was not happy at the back. The front wheels then decided they wanted to try a glide before a few rough stones stopped the slide and got them back to the usual roll. And then, it was over. The council road was before us. We had reached the end of the mile and a half track in one piece, a car that stayed on the road, and two children were shipped off to school. The sail boat was put away as the snow chains came out to get back home.
And then, it was gone. The snow covered fields, the frozen water pipes, the sheets of ice disappeared. The water trough flowed once again. And so, until the next block of artic blasts come our way, I have no plans to go sailing again.
Birchwood Croft, Inverness-shire 