SHORES OF THE CLYDE AND FIRTH. 
131 
the blue peaks of Arran. And out yonder, on our left, are 
the sea-begirt crags of Ailsa Craig, for our voyage to which 
we now hasten to prepare. 
TO THE CRATG. 
It is easy to procure the services of a boatman in Girvan 
to make the voyage to the Craig. But since the lighthouse 
has been established upon it, a regular boat service, once a 
week, is kept up with the place. By this means we secure 
a passage, and now, under the care of two hardy seamen, 
we are paddling our way adown the little narrow harbour 
towards the open sea. Our craft is a powerful skiff, pro- 
vided with an ample spread of mainsail and jib, which, 
with a puff of the indispensable breeze, is capable of landing 
us at our destitation in something less than an hour and 
a-half. The sea is as calm as glass, but well out from the 
land we have hopes of getting our sails filled ; the air, 
however, flattens down to not a single breath, and our 
hoisted mainsail hangs as dead as a wall, save from the 
movement of the vibrating swing of the oars. " Whistle on 
the wind, Johnnie," in imitation of the superstitious sailor's 
belief, is the jocular advice of skipper Girvan to his little 
son, who happens to accompany us, and is seated at the 
tiller ; but no amount of hornpiping is capable of invoking a 
breath to our aid. Under a broiling sun we are doomed 
to tug the whole distance with the oars, and while sympath- 
ising with the sweating labouring wights before us, we are 
selfish enough to console ourselves with the thought of 
having the luck of being here on such a day, rather than 
that on which we might be considered something of a Jonah 
on board. Under such labours the distance, about ten 
miles, is a long, weary fetch, but gradually the cliffs of the 
mighty rock become more visible, the birds on the water 
