The handsome Highland ferry port of Oban is a gateway to the wild — and wildly romantic — Hebridean islands in Scotland. From here, the big vehicle-carrying ships of Caledonian MacBrayne provide a lifeline to the likes of wildlife-rich Mull and whisky-rich Islay. They even set off further afield to rugged Barra and beach-lined Uist in the Outer Hebrides.

These functional no-nonsense ferries sustain remote island communities. However, Oban's calm, island-sheltered bay is also home to a variety of smaller passenger craft that travel to those same destinations, albeit a bit differently. They include the four charismatic little cruisers of the Majestic Line, whose 10-night, six-night, and three-night itineraries start from $1,800 per person.

These boats are modeled along the lines of the traditional trawlers and steamers that used to work this coast, and each accommodates just a dozen or so passengers. Their size means that they can nip into intimate ports and anchor in wonderfully unspoiled bays where bigger boats wouldn't dare to venture. Cabins are compact, well equipped and en suite, but it is the deck saloon, warm, convivial and with panoramic windows, where passengers will spend most of their time. 

Here there are charts, wildlife books, and binoculars, and uniformed stewards always at hand ready to serve coffee and snacks at any time. Although you do need to be careful not to ruin your appetite for the full array of meals prepared by the onboard chef using produce from sea, land, and sky. The whole experience is like having a private charter, albeit with a few friends you've not met before.    

With a mother from the Isle of Skye, I know the region north of Oban relatively well, so the six-night itinerary I chose headed south — to the lordly peninsulars, sea lochs, and islands of the southern Hebrides. We set off on a sparkling Saturday afternoon across a silvery sea hemmed in by hazy shoulders of land, watching the swirling and dimpling of the tide as it barged between the islands of Luing and Lunga.  

That evening, we motored past the private island of Shuna owned by the sixth Viscount Selby, the first of many aristocratic boltholes we encountered on this trip. We anchored in Loch Melfort, where the water came to an end in a forested natural amphitheater filled with bird song. The chef conjured up a venison tagliatelle, and the rest of the evening was lost in a gentle haze of wine and conversation.

The next morning, we stepped ashore on this remote part of the Argyll mainland and wandered up to where elegant guesthouse Melfort House — pink-walled in the Arts and Crafts style and adjacent to the upmarket resort retreat of Melfort Village made up of a host of self-catering cottages — was secreted amongst the trees. At the entrance to the Village, the receptionist became very effusive when she realized we were "off that boat in the bay."  The tennis courts were available, she said, and the fine dining restaurant was about to open. She must have thought we were from the ranks of the super-rich.

Scotland is particularly well endowed with castles and country estates like Melfort, and every peninsula in Argyll seems to be castle-defended. Duntrune Castle, opposite the small village of Crinan, our next stop and where the canal of the same name begins, is no exception. The partly 12th-century tower stands high and austere on a rock supervising the bay, where it's supposedly haunted by a ghostly bagpiper. We saw no ghosts, but there was definitely a presence in the abundant castle gardens, announced by a sign saying "You found us! Well done!" We were the only people there, but the creator of the sign was presumably the same invisible hand who'd sprinkled figures of nymphs and naked satyrs amongst the azaleas, so we felt as if we were in company, after all…

Returning to the rock below the castle, we fell into conversation with Jim, a local fisherman. "Off that boat?" He asked. "And you have a chef?" We acknowledged we did, so Jim dug into his bag and produced a fresh sea-trout, which became that evening's appetizer.

From Crinan we moved across to the island of Jura, a famously trackless wilderness where George Orwell wrote "1984," whose tattered rags of green make a poor attempt to cover naked bog and rock. This is one of the least populated places in the U.K., mostly owned by Lord Astor, and home to the Isle of Jura distillery whose single malt was very… warming, on a blustery wet day.

After Jura, the next stop was the island of Colonsay. This is Baron Strathcona's territory, decidedly more upmarket, with a shop well stocked with fine wines. The rhododendron-rich gardens of Colonsay House were open to the public, but the family was away. The sprawling mostly Georgian house was dark, but we did bump into the Baron's nephew's elegant Australian fiancée, weeding the vegetable patch in the rain. Moreover, its congenial cafe had homemade shortbread on the menu.

It looked like the Maclaines of Lochbuie on the island of Mull were away, too, because there were no lights on in their baronial property Lochbuie House when we arrived offshore that night. In the morning, we landed on the town of Lochbuie's unblemished beach, where the Maclean mausoleum stood on a small knoll surrounded by trees. Inside, inscriptions honored a long line of military men and "distinguished country gentlemen."

Our last stop before heading back to Oban was spiritual Iona, a little green chip of land off Mull's southwestern corner. The island has been a place of pilgrimage ever since Saint Columba sailed over from Ireland in 563, founding a monastery here that would become a key hub in the spread of Christianity.

That day was one of those extraordinary occasions when the Hebrides impersonates the Caribbean in its colors, although not quite in its temperatures. We landed alongside the pedestrians coming off the Mull ferry, weaved our way through all the temptations of tartans and woollens for sale, did the obligatory tour of the (admirable) Iona Abbey and its cloisters, and then walked away from the pilgrims paying their respects amongst the ancient stones.

Iona's northern tip is made up of springy machair (wildflower-rich grassland) lined with white sand. Here, Traigh Bhan Nam Monach (White Strand of the Monks) is one of those places whose aquamarine water was particularly inviting to those of us ready to plunge into cold water.

Frankly, though, it was exhilarating enough just to be there, soaking oneself spiritually, if not physically, in the Sound of Iona, its topaz waters flecked by dive-bombing gannets. On days like these, the Scottish islands are heaven on earth for everyone, and not just for aristocrats. 

How to Get There

Oban lies half way up the west coast of Scotland, around two and a half hours by car from Glasgow, or three and a half hours via the very scenic West Highland railway.  

The Best Time to Go

Cruises run from April to the end of October. The early months — May and June — offer clearer skies than midsummer, which can be damp. But even bad weather can be exhilarating, provided you have the right clothes. Wildlife is more active in spring, whilst autumn produces better colors.

Know Before You Go

You do need to have a certain level of fitness, and flexibility, for these cruises, as there will be a certain amount of clambering in and out of small tenders to get to shore. Midges are inevitably a feature of any holiday in Scotland, but usually only on land, and not early or late in the season.