Messing around with Nessie

Nessie: Oh look, there it is. No, really

The sighting came just off the starboard bow after a squall of rain had sent the crew diving for cover. 'There she is,' I yelled. 'There's Nessie. I can see Nessie.'

On the stairs there was cartoon-style commotion as they rushed back on deck, hitting heads on the hatchway, cursing, blinding, fumbling for the cameras that were still down below.

'Where's Nessie?' demanded my wife. 'Yes, where is she?' threatened my daughter. 'Over there,' I said, pointing at the sinuous and monstrous shape that was silhouetted, black and obviously slippery, against the waves. 'You can make out its head and everything.'

'That's a tree,' they chorused. 'It's been washed into the loch. The head's just one of the branches.'

Had I been of a more impish persuasion - and had my own camera not been downstairs - I might have taken a shot of the thing and shown it off to the tourists when we moored for lunch a few minutes later at The Clansman Hotel on Loch Ness's northerly shore.

Like most of the places that rely on Nessie for a living, it was devoted to the monster - first sighted in AD565 - and had a shop racked with monster souvenirs.

One small fridge magnet later - a green Nessie wearing a tasteful tartan scarf - we were on our way again, manouevring the 39ft motor cruiser Highland Monarch across the swell towards the comparative calmness of the Caledonian Canal.

It was the last day of a cruise along Thomas Telford's masterful combination of canal, river, loch and lock which had seen us cross 60 miles from one side of Scotland ( Inverness) to the other (Fort William) and back again.

In between we had seen some of the most spectacular scenery in the world, enjoyed walks, mountain bike rides and whitewater rafting, simmered an on-board haggis, fried black puddings, caught tiddler trout (and thrown them back) - and experienced most of the things the Scottish climate can throw at its visitors within the space of six days.

When we set off from the Caley Cruisers base in Inverness on that first Saturday, the sun shone from a cloudless sky and sparkled on the tranquil waters.

The crew, six of us, basked on the deck and scoffed at the antics of others as they tried to moor for the night with roaring engines and clouds of black exhaust fumes in the cramped artificial harbour in Urquhart Bay - scene of most Nessie sightings.

Our boat, for all its length and 13ft width, had bow and stern thrusters as well as the main propellor and rudder and could consequently turn on a sixpence. Although boating can seem daunting, everything tends to be fine if you take it slowly and listen to the instructions given by boatyard staff at the start of the holiday.

Next morning, the sky was threatening from the west as we cruised towards Fort Augustus, and by the time we reached its flight of five locks, rain was spattering the deck.

Three lock-keepers arrived to say that we would be going through in a flotilla of other boats in a couple of hours' time. As the drizzle increased to a constant patter, we headed for the pub. 'And there's bound to be a shop selling those fancy Gortex coats,' I reasoned.

There wasn't. Instead I donned the first mate's fishing jacket, which for some reason had only a left-hand pocket, and crammed a waterproof golfing cap on my head as others in the crew manned the bow and stern lines and pulled us through the locks in teeming rain.

After an hour during which we were the source of much entertainment for more suitably clad foreign tourists, we forged on to Loch Oich and the sanctuary of the Great Glen water park, where there were mooring pontoons and a hose to replenish our water tank.

By morning, the clouds had been persuaded to give way to the sun and we sailed for Loch Lochy ('the Scots obviously ran out of names,' said my daughter, Hannah) and thence Fort William. We dribbled along, trailing fishing lines to try to tempt brown trout, and smiled happily at the lock keeper at Cullochy Lock as he came to take our ropes.

In the sort of tones of which Private Fraser would have been proud, he urged more speed. 'There's a storm coming from the west,' he said, '70 mph winds. Come tomorrow night you won't be going anywhere.'

With the crew practising some very poor 'we're doomed, Captain Mainwaring' impressions, we headed straight through Loch Lochy, where the breeze was already producing white horses on the tops of the waves.

By late afternoon - and a couple of trout later - we were at Fort William which was journey's end because cruise boats are not allowed down the flight of eight sea locks called Neptune's Staircase.

While the men in the party pumped up the dinghy and went fruitlessly fishing, the women summoned a taxi and then took a cable car up part of Ben Nevis, enjoying spectacular views over lochs and mountain ranges.

My son Tom finally caught a couple of tiny brown trout, and on being told they were too small and would have to be put back, announced that he did not like fish anyway.

That evening, Ben Nevis stood bathed in sunlight, visible all the way up to its 4,406ft summit and beyond. By morning, however, it was as if it had been mysteriously spirited away, so wreathed in black, swirling cloud that there was not a part of it to be seen.

We cast off and headed for shelter - joined in the locks by a rough, tough fishing trawler whose hardened crew cast derisive eyes at our sleek white hull and kept smiling to themselves.

They ploughed across Loch Lochy, battle-hardened to the elements, as we followed their path. The sun broke out again, chasing shadows across the hillsides as we returned to the sanctuary of Loch Oich and the water park.

The storm broke in the night, but we were snug on our mooring and just listened to the wind whistling through the glen. Other boats, we learned later, were stranded in more exposed moorings at Fort William.

We had not planned on taking a day away from the boat, but now used the 'monster' (geddit?) facilities of the Water Park, hiring mountain bikes, trying archery, having a proper shower and a restaurant steak.

In a moment of rashness I signed three of us up for whitewater rafting before we set off on the following morning. 'You're going to drown,' reasoned my wife. 'Don't be silly,' I said. 'We're just going to get wet.'

Having parted with £40 each, we were given wetsuits and kagouls and lifejackets tugged so tight you could hardly breathe. 'It's because we have to pull you out by the shoulders when you fall in,' said Ian, our helmsman. 'We don't want it to come off, do we?'

Near the lochside, the River Garry thrashed from a hydro-electric dam, forming midge-ridden pools and then charging over precipices with scary names like Devil's Sphincter. With Ian expertly steering a course, the eight others on board paddled at his commands as if the Devil were in pursuit. We made a breathless descent, then went back to the top to try it all again. Log flumes and other such theme park thrills will never be the same again.

Though our itinerary had been interrupted, we still had plenty of time to cruise to Fort Augustus for the night, mooring below the locks and enjoying the luxuries of the waterways board's shower block, the Indian takeaway and canalside chippie.

It left us with a final day's journey down Loch Ness, seemingly alone on its huge dark expanses - until Nessie came along...

Travel Facts

Hoseasons (01502 502588; www.hoseasons.co.uk) offers a week in a three-cabin boat with additional dining area accommodation from £1,191. Or contact Caley Cruisers on 01463 236328 or www.caleycruisers.com Monster activities are at www.monsteractivities.co. uk or call 01809 501340.

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