It’s called Tunafish Bay

October 1, 2025, 7:57 am , by Richard Lutz

It’s a long walk to Tunafish Bay, says RICHARD LUTZ. Through the Ayrshire Hills and over a gate or two:

Down a bracken lined lane towards the west’s grey sky:

Past stands of haws, red with autumn:

Until the land opens to the sea and a sky brightening:

And there it is, Tunafish Bay. To the north, a coastal path runs 100 miles. To the south, ferries steam in and out of Loch Ryan linking Scotland and Ireland.

Actually, there are no tuna in Tunafish Bay; it’s Currarie Port. Always has been. But when I first stopped by this empty spot a decade ago, I devoured a pile of tuna and mayo sandwiches. That’s how it got its name. 

Whatever it’s called, the sheltered inlet is a good spot for lunch. Also for checking out the smokey outline of Irish hills, the Rhinns of Galloway sticking out from the mainland like a hammerhead, the Corsewall Lighthouse that blinks at sea traffic, and, plunked out in the Firth of Clyde like a Christmas pudding, the 1000 foot high volcanic plug called Ailsa Craig.

I approached Tunafish Bay by following the Shallochwreck Burn that bubbles west to the beach. A long time ago, a baleful bull blocked our way, threw us a murderous glare and then decided that feeding off hardcore gorse was a better life choice than petrifying intruders ready to jump a fence quickly.

Tunafish Bay (aka Currarie Port) used to be a smugglers beach back in the day. Now, its quiet waters are the landing spot for the Moyle Interconnector which is a massive electrical cable linking mainland Britain with Northern Ireland. The system is buried deep in the beach and under the sea.

Today the only activity about is a rarely seen dipper near a bridge over the Balloch Burn. The bird hops on and off the riverbank and nearby rocks. It’s a busy little thing as it checks for food.

I leave the little bay via a steep path. A stone wall is a guide to the next nick in the hills, leading to the headlands north. The vague outlines of both County Antrim in Northern Ireland and Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre line the horizon. They’re only eleven miles apart:

Looking north is a tilted world: sloping hills, a wayward waymarker, the slanted line of an ocean, a changing sky and, behind the old harbour village of Ballantrae, a finger of land pointing west.

The route, part of the 100 mile Ayrshire Coastal Path, is rougher than it looks. Tufts and tussocks make it a choppy walk. The angle of the grass means my left leg is continually lower than my right. There are sudden detours too around steep gullies and coves and it creates alot of awkward steps.

The nine mile stretch seems to be longer than the last time I followed the path. As a matter of fact, each time I do this route, it lengthens. How can that be? Is the world stretching like an elastic band? Or is it…age?

Today, on lower rocks, cormorants stand as still as black statues. A lone skylark dances above. A buzzard’s call pierces the clouds. A meadow pipit patrols above the green uneven earth:

To cap it off, unusually spotted, a red squirrel suddenly darts across a woodland path:

Over generations, it’s been edged out by foreigners- the insidious grey squirrel. Sightings of the natives are more infrequent each year. The Wildlife Trust says: ‘Time is really running out to save our red squirrels.’

Walking off the headlands to the rich farmlands below, a trio of white tailed roe deer:

They rest and then eventually enter a field of tall grain. They dive in, disappear, appear again, leap up, dive back in as if ploughing through waves. Then they leap up again in and out of a harvest yet to be reaped, appearing,disappearing, appearing again. Each time in unison, elegant, silent, heading north up the coast.

credit: additional photos from Geograph.org