Far from plain sailing: A nightmare journey from Barra with Caledonian MacBrayne

Ah, but the O'Haras - mum, dad, Cormac, 9, Sinead, 8, and Patrick, 6 - along with a couple of hundred other people, were simply trying to get home from Barra. Sure, we knew about the problems Caledonian MacBrayne had had with their regular ship, the Clansman, and we would've been gracious enough to thole a few hours' delay.

But I'm afraid good grace runs out after 17 hours on a pier, five hours lying on the deck of a boat in the middle of the night, and three hours of incessant puking by three tired, bored and cranky kids

Barra is heavenly. It was our first visit as a family to the Western Isles and as we loaded up the car the night before we left, Yvonne and I promised we'd definitely coming back.

The heavenly experience was even punctuated by small miracles. For example, our caravan didn't have a television, which meant I couldn't watch Reporting Scotland. Guess what? I didn't care! I got on a bike for the first time in nearly 30 years. Guess what? I could still ride it and grumpy old dad actually enjoyed it!

Things just kept getting better. We went to the family night at the BarraFest, which was terrific fun.

Then they got better still. With the Clansman being out of service, we'd been unable to sail from Castlebay via Oban. But purely by chance, we found that the big boat was on again and there was a 9:20am sailing on the Sunday. Fantastic - we'd be home for teatime. Smug as you like, we booked ourselves on and cancelled our alternative route home - which was Barra to Eriskay to Lochmaddy to Uig, then over the Skye Bridge and home for midnight.

And so we arrive at the Castlebay pier at 8am on the Sunday. Right away we're told the boat has broken down again and they have no idea if it will sail today - expect an update at 11am. At 11am, they haven't much more to say - but there will be an update at 1pm. In the meantime, I thank Hilary Mantel for writing her excellent novel Wolf Hall and murmur a quiet prayer for the intentions of whoever invented Nintendo DS.

By 1pm, the dozen or so families left queueing are making their own inquiries.(Of course, they've had to use the single BT call box because there's no mobile phone reception here.) The ship might - might - leave Oban in the early hours. The earliest we would be boarding would be midnight. Up to the hotel for lunch (another 25 quid). By 3pm, the kids are stir crazy. I take the boys for a game of football; wife and daughter go for a long, fruitless walk in search of a mobile phone signal.

We're back at the pier at 4pm. The booking office is locked up and the single-cubicle toilet has run out of paper - back to the hotel, guys. Next, dad treks to the Co-op for water and fruit before it closes as there's nothing on offer from CalMac.

By 8pm, we're all getting hungry again. Back at the hotel we pick our way through the throngs of BarraFest drinkers and are lucky to get a table before the restaurant closes. Another 45 quid. We're paying by card - and it's just as well, as the cash dispenser's run out of money.

It's now 9:30pm - time to get back down to the car. We stop at the BT phone box intending to call grandma to wish her a happy holiday, as we now won't see her before she goes. Foiled: the phone box isn't working any more.

Dusk falls and the pier begins to get busy again as cars arrive and the booking office reopens. By midnight, it's packed with cars and foot passengers. And then out of the night and into the harbour sails the Clansman. I take the boys out to see it come in - cue whoops of excitement. But the thrill and relief is punctured when I see about 200 foot passengers lining up.

Surely, surely after us waiting for 17 hours those passengers aren't going to just saunter on and get the pick of the seats? Ten minutes later, the Clansman docks and the foot passengers saunter on to the boat and get the pick of the seats.

The all-day stalwarts of the pier are last on, by which time the all-day drinkers at the bars have had their pick of the recliners. By the time we get on, there isn't a seat left. In the upstairs lounge, people are sprawled across the seats, already asleep - or at least pretending to be. A few of us kick up a stink and get an announcement played over the intercom. It doesn't make much difference and in the end, it's left to us to ask people to make space. The boys manage to get a seat, Yvonne, Sinead and I curl up on the floor and make the best of it for the next five hours.

We land in Oban at six in the morning; the kids slightly revived, Yvonne and I exhausted. Just before we return to the car, we make possibly the biggest mistake of the lot: we give the kids rolls with sausage for breakfast, courtesy of the voucher given out by a sheepish CalMac employee.

Take it from me, sausage rolls and the undulating roads from Oban to Loch Lomond is not a happy combination. Number one son brings his up ten miles out of Oban; number two waits until Crianlarich; dainty daughter was good enough to wait until Tarbet, but not so thoughtful as to ensure her mother was out of the firing line.Of course, it wasn't the sausages or the roads that brought this on, it was daddy's driving: "You're going too fast. Please, mummy, you drive." I suppose it is also my fault that we arrive back in Glasgow in the middle of the M8 rush-hour with road works on our off-ramp. The nightmare continues…

Home at last - 9:30am on Monday. Abandon the car, unpacked, in the driveway and straight to bed.

Four hours' sleep and then I'm up to cut the grass. I'm back to work on Tuesday and won't be able to do it this weekend - I'm off to Arran … on a CalMac ferry!

• Diarmid O'Hara is editor of the BBC's Reporting Scotland