Moonlight and dark, empty windows at Greenan.

As the last of the sunset faded to darkness we continued...

...paddling in the moonlight under...

...the grey walls and dark empty windows of Greenan Castle, which has stood...

...on this rock for hundreds of years, guarding the southern approach...

...to the town of Ayr .

We slipped silently and unobserved through the darkness and pulled our kayaks over the sands of Seafield.

Our wonderful short winter day had finally come to an end.

A glorious effulgence on the Solway.

 The last of the wind died...

 ...as the sun dipped towards the horizon.

 The surface of the sea turned to glass and...

 ..every slight ripple distorted our reflections.

 The setting sun was not the sole object of our attention.

 Above the Isles of Fleet, the Moon...

 ...began to glow softly in the darkening, deep blue sky and far below...

 ...its reflection danced on the mirror-like sea.

 We drifted for a while until the air began to chill and we started paddling again.

 With each stroke the sun...

 ...sank a litter further until...

 ...the day was gone and only...

the moon lit our landing.

Last swim at the end of the Solway summer.

 From Knockbrex we paddled upwind to Craigmore Point, which allowed us to hoist  sails and...

 ...close reach back to our start point on the far side of Fleet Bay.

There was time for a quick swim before barbecue time. I have been swimming each day since the end of July and the water temperature has been 16 degrees C for most of September. At 16 degrees I can stay in for about 40 minutes (this was 21/9/2012) but since then the sea temperature has dropped to 14 degrees and I just managed a couple of minutes before I just had to get out as the cold gripped me. I was surprised that "only" 2 degrees C made so much difference. This is of direct relevance to sea kayaking as if you now fall in (and are not suitably dressed) you will be quickly paralysed by the cold. The north and east coasts of Scotland are even colder.

 As the evening shadows lengthened...

 ...and the moon rose after sunset, it seemed summer would last forever. Sadly the deepest low pressure system to hit the UK in September was about to arrive. Three days later we had 29mm of rain in 24 hours and strong winds have blown ever since.

Another fine paddle in Fleet Bay.

Poetry in the landscape of Arran.

We continued paddling up the north coast of Arran passing...

...the great landslip of Upper Old red Sandstone rocks at the imaginatively named Fallen Rocks.

What with virgin's breasts, fallen rocks (and we haven't even come to the Cock of Arran yet) our ancestors sure had a poetic way with words when they named bits of landscape.

Gradually the dusk...

 ...gathered round the great expanse of the Sound of Bute and we eventually came...

...to our camp site near Millstone Point. It was hard work labouring the kayaks up from the spring low water mark. Once we had the tents up, we soon got a fire going and cooked our meal under the Moon Jupiter, Saturn and a myriad of stars. One by one they followed the Sun as they dipped behind the high, unseen mountains in the darkness to the west.

The gathering night had all but extinguished the last embers of the day.

 After rounding the Heads of Ayr, the offshore wind drove us to the northeast towards...

 ...the rising full moon...

...and the town of Ayr under a the dusky pink sky.

Away to the northwest, Arran's ridges soared above the gathering sea fog and...

...by the time we made landfall, the gathering night had all but extinguished the last embers of the day.

Moonrise over the Heads of Ayr.

 As the sun began to set, an offshore breeze picked up and...

...pushed us on towards the Heads of Ayr.

We revelled in the magic of the moment...

...as the sundowner gathered strength,...

 ...the smells of the land filled our nostrils and...

...the Moon rose over the Heads of Ayr.

When you're dun roamin' on Hirta, get yourself a plot on Dun!

From the heights of Ruabhal on the southern tip of Hirta, we looked down over Caolas Dun to the magnificent island of Dun. The Dun gap was unusually calm and quite unlike the previous evening, when we had paddled through it in both directions.

We sat for a while mesmerised by the stark grandeur of the scene before us. The shadows had lengthened by the time we felt ready to leave. Now my problems started. I was faced by a steep traversing descent back to Village Bay. My knee was now causing me a quite a bit of pain. I couldn't keep up with the others but Gordon was happy to keep me company on the way back which was very appreciated.

While enjoying a chat we came across the main mast of the yawl Avocet above the storm beach in Village Bay. She was wrecked here in June 1960 and has clearly seen better days.

Walking back to the pier we passed the International Sea and Airport Lounge. If you are ever ship wrecked on St Kilda, make your way here it is lovely and warm inside!

That night after enjoying another slap up meal on the Cuma, we watched the sun set over Dun. The low rays revealed the presence...

...of lazy beds high on the slopes of Dun. At 9pm the midsummer sun was still shining on them despite the whole of the Village Bay area being in shade. Survival on St Kilda was on a knife edge. That little bit of sun probably made the difference on whether your vegetables ripened or not. Even though a boat journey and difficult rocky landing were required to reach those vegetables, this would have been a prime plot!

As we chatted away on Cuma the sun light faded and a near full moon rose above Bioda Mor, 178m, the summit of Dun.

As the moon traversed the sky above the ragged outline of Dun, we knew there would be a big spring tide to negotiate in the Caolas Soay the following day.