What follows is a roistering tale of hi jinx on the high seas, but only on the part of the two imbeciles who could have got themselves killed (both of whom are involved in this very ‘zine), and only because my inner idiot told me to do it.

 The tale starts several years prior to the events described, with a man called John G. Hall, a man with a plan.  John’s idea was to get a group of poets onto a mysteriously beautiful isle called Arran, off the west coast of Scotland, and there to spend a week workshopping and writing poetry.  And so, he continued annually, with an ever-expanding band of poets making the pilgrimage.

 In June 2009, I flipped coins for whether I’d join these poets on their annual journey.  Despite my best efforts, the coin always landed showing a face that meant I should go on the trip.  Frantically scanning my calendar for clashes, alas, I found none. 

 A minibus was laid on for the duration of the trip and we were taken from Manchester Oxford Road all the way to our accommodation (two rather spacious holiday homes and a camp site).  I already knew most of the poets who were going (Almost all of them lived in or near Manchester) and they were a very friendly group.  Two came from the West Country to be with us on Arran and quickly became firm friends with the rest of the group.

 The first day consisted of a guided walk around the coast into caves that once hid The Bruce, if local legend is to be believed.  Local legend is rarely to be believed.  Later we were taken to see the standing stones, many circles of which can be found on Arran.

 Arran benefits from the Gulf Stream, and the weather was burny hot for most of the week. Many of the workshops took place outdoors and only decamped indoors when the midges started to bite.  The workshops were quite informal and supportive affairs with varied activities. My natural suspicion of workshops proved unfounded and I wrote a number of poems I am pleased with to this day.

 Outside of these planned events, everyone who attended found their own activities, from climbing Goat Fell (reports I have heard from this venture suggest that there was an eagle up there) to hitting the local nightspot for a boogie.  The team who run Unsung Magazine even organised a poetry event in one of the local pubs one evening and we all performed.

 For my part, I had recently bought a sea-going kayak (and there, many a tale of adventure I could tell, such as would make any hair you may possess stand on end!) and was trying to arrange a kayaking trip to another island off the coast of Arran, known as Holy Island.  Unlike other country where I have rolled up at the coast and hired kayaks cheaply and gone off on my own in shark-infested waters, here you had to go with instructors and it was rather pricy.

 Still the sea called to me.  At nights it whispered my name.  Looking at Holy Island, it could not be more than a mile away at his nearest point (and by this time I knew how to gauge such things having kayaked sixteen miles to an island that looked “quite close” and back, only a month prior).   And so it was that I badgered people to swim with me from Arran to Holy Island and back.  Several people (who subsequently bottled it and wimped out like a bunch of people who do such things and who collectively have a name I can call them without being accused of political incorrectness) agreed to swim with me.

Buoyed by their enthusiastic sense of derring-do, I spoke to the coast guard and asked him if there was a current around Holy Island that might drag me out to see.  He confirmed that there was but that it probably wouldn’t, and I was good to go. 

One man came with me on our journey, and that man had inexplicably brought a wetsuit and that man was Simon Rennie.  We set off on the coldest morning of the entire journey, missing what, I am told, was a fantastic workshop on performance.  We seemed to have swam a long distance from the shore within a very short time and each time we treaded water for a break, we spoke of how we would be there in no time and congratulated ourselves on how easy it was and discussed how we would later tell everybody that it was a gruelling ten mile journey against arctic seas and buffeting winds.

 However, as we approached the lighthouse on Holy Island, every ten minutes swim seemed to bring us no nearer to the shore.  The total distance from Kings Cross Point to the lighthouse was a little less than a mile (according to the map), but compensating for the drift of the current meant that we were swimming much further.  Eventually we climbed ashore.  A woman from the convent had stood watching us and Simon felt sure she would bring us cakes and a cup of tea.  She shrugged and buggered off.

I lay shivering terribly and riddled with cramp for half an hour or more, and we discussed the option of returning on the Holy Island ferry.  The facts that we had no shoes on a stony, nettle-strewn island and were nowhere near the ferryport and had no money with us decided the issue. 

The swim back was slightly shorter since the tide was now going out.  However, the current was now dragging us in the opposite direction to that of our approach.  As the Arran shore drew nearer, a jellyfish slithered all over me, stinging me three times in an attempt to kill its prey.  It then turned its wrath on Simon and he too was thrice stung, but his wetsuit mitigated this to some degree.  After a gruelling swim, we set first hand then foot upon the rocky shore of King’s cross point.  The entire journey had taken three, maybe four hours, including the time taken for my shivers and cramps to subside. 

The Arran trip on its own was brilliant.  The people made it what it was, and the conversations we had led to fantastic poetry (much of which was later published in a special Arran Edition of Unsung Magazine).  However, for me, and probably for Simon too, the highlight was that moment of lunacy when we swam from one land mass to another on a crazy whim.

This year’s Arran trip runs from 4^th to 12^thJune and costs £100 for the week (plus a £20 deposit, refundable provided the accommodation is left in good order); transport to Arran (if required) is extra and leaves from Manchester.  If places are still available, you can book your place by contacting John G. Hall (details here: www.myspace.com/c32isleofarranworkshops or http://www.facebook.com/inbox/?ref=mb#/group.php?gid=37472179157&ref=ts).  If no places are available for this year, I cannot recommend the 2011 excursion highly enough.