We head off on our
big adventure.
We got back to Ruby on the evening of the 8th to
find that Michael had fitted the new battery charger and cockpit speakers and
that James had received and passed on our deliveries of new charts, flags etc.
ordered over the internet. We had hardly
settled on board when James appeared and invited us to join his family and a
couple from another visiting yacht for a trip across to Cobh for a drink and
dinner. Even though it involved
travelling in a RIB (something she normally hates) Elsie agreed and we had a
great evening.
The following morning, James gave us a lift for provisioning
and waited patiently while we did a week’s shopping in an unfamiliar
supermarket. This is service. If anyone
deserves to succeed, it is this man who is battling beaurocracy to build a
great facility for visiting yachts.
*VISIT MONKSTOWN
MARINA*
Out on Saturday afternoon motoring, then sailing, back round
to Sandy Cove to get sea-legs back and be in a good position for our crossing to
France. Just for exercise, we practiced
‘tight spot’ mooring, by laying our second anchor so that, if the wind changed,
we would stay in a very small radius.
Worked well.
Now for the big one.
We had done the delivery trip up from Shotley to Inverness, with a full
crew; we had done an overnighter, from Orkney to Lewis, with just the two of
us. But we had never done an extended,
two-handed, voyage. The plan was to cross
directly from southern Ireland to the north-west corner of France, by-passing
the Scilly Isles and their traffic separation schemes. The weather forecast was almost perfect, with
moderate winds behind the beam all the way.
Sure, it was going to be cold and raining much of the time but good
clothing copes with that much more easily than ‘the wrong sort of wind’.
Anchors up at 0850 and, at 0900 sharp, set full sail for
France. We had discussed watches and the
one that Elsie definitely didn’t want was the 12 – 4 night watch so we agreed a
4 on; 4 off pattern with me getting that one. The wind wasn’t quite as kind as forecast, turning out to be
SSW’ly for the first 24 hours, making us close-hauled to miss the busy area off
Scilly. It then died for a few hours on
the second night, forcing us to motor for a while to make favourable currents
for our arrival. Our shake-down on the
Saturday also proved insufficient as Elsie got a bad bout of Mal-du- Mer and
was unable to eat. Worrying about this
caused me to be unable to sleep. She
could sleep and I could eat so, I suppose, we made one good sailor!
We timed our arrival off Ushant for the start of my
watch. This is a busy area, with all of
northern Europe’s shipping from across Biscay passing through a separation
scheme. Although we were keeping clear
of this, we still had to cross the traffic, which, in a sailing yacht is a bit
like crossing a motorway with a pony and trap.
I was prepared to motor but, with 12 knots of wind on the beam and
lighter than usual traffic we sailed across, no problem, with only one avoiding
manoeuvre required, to give a super tanker a comfortable passing distance. It transpired that Elsie got the problem bit
on her watch, with a fishing fleet inside the TSS making seemingly random
manoeuvres to get in her way. We entered
the Rade du Brest at 1100 and with a heading wind, motored the last 10 miles to
the Moulin Blanc marina, tying up at 12:45.
311 miles logged, 280 achieved across the ground in 50.75 hours. Not bad at all, for a first attempt!
We had chosen this marina, rather than our initial choice of
Camaret, at the entrance to the Rade, partly because it would give better
shelter in the forecast strong NE’ly but also because it was supposed to offer
good engineering facilities. On the
crossing, Elsie spotted that our VHF antenna had fallen off and was swinging
wildly on the end of its lead. This was
my fault, as I had re-attached it in Rhu, noting that the lock washer was a bit
worn but trusting that it was sufficiently good. Obviously not. We needed a crane to lift an engineer to put
the antenna back or, if the lead broke, to fit a new antenna and, possibly
thread a new lead down the mast. We had
reckoned without the French practice of everyone taking their holidays in the
first 2 weeks of August. This makes the
demand for services highest and their provision lowest. No.
There was no-one in Brest who could help with this. So it was out with the bosun’s chair and a
trip to the top of the mast for me for the first, but probably not the last,
time. It transpired that the lead had
suffered no visible damage; all the fittings were still there to be cleaned,
re-used and super-glued in place. All
done in 20 minutes. The forecast wind
never materialised either, so all a bit of a waste of time, especially as
there was no boulangerie at the marina
necessitating a long walk for fresh bread and croissants, an essential of life
in France.
We stayed for 2 nights and set out again, after a leisurely
start and a re-fuel. The late start was
dictated by the tides through the Raz du Sein.
This passage cuts 40 miles off the journey but has a fearsome reputation
and we didn’t want to experience it with wind against tide. We timed it nicely for slack water (despite
conflicting advice from chart and pilot book).
Unfortunately, as we approached the narrows, the visibility dropped and
dropped. 1 mile; ½ mile; ¼ mile. Radar,
plotter and AIS all working (together with back-up sat-nav on the phone), we
proceeded with caution, making appropriate sound signals from our new fog
horn. This came as a shock to a yacht we
were following, showing on our radar but without AIS, who on hearing our horn,
scrambled for whistles and a vuvuzela to make a reply. The wind failed to co-operate and, apart from
a 10 minute experiment with sails, we motored all the way to Audierne, to be
greeted by a very efficient attendant who directed us alongside a large Bavaria
yacht who was there for the season.
Audierne is a very pleasant spot, with a nice balance of traditional
fishing village and tourist necessities.
Forecast of strong winds kept us in for 2 nights though, once again, we
could have coped with the actual weather with no problem.
We left Audierne at 0830 on the 15th and at 0915
with a following F 2-3 set cruising chute and genoa wing-on wing for a run
along the coast. As we passed Ile de
Groix, we encountered a yacht race, with contestants coming from both sides. Being effectively on port tack and on a dead
run, it was our duty to give way to all comers, which made for an ‘interesting’
10 minutes which could have been eased by snuffing the ‘chute in advance. Lesson learned. We have a rule of thumb that if our water
speed is less than 6 knots (except close hauled) we have insufficient sail up;
more than 8 knots and we have too much, though it is interesting how frequently
our peak speed for the day is nearer 9 than 8.
This afternoon we were bowling along at 8-9 knots when a larger gust
built taking us to 11. Instant decision
to snuff the chute and, instead, put up the stay sail. This, with the genoa gave us a much more
comfortable 7 – 8 knots. We anchored in
the Anse de Stole at Lomener, further out than we would have wished, because
all the best area is covered in moorings.
At first we rolled a bit in the swell but, as the wind veered to North.
This quietened and we had a comfortable night.
Dinghy ashore in the morning for our daily bread, then light
winds took us south to Belle Isle sometime under ‘chute, sometimes
motoring. There are many small inlets on
the southern coast where, with local knowledge, one can anchor. We opted for the safer option of the large
bay at Port Herlin. There is one smaller
bay off this with room for about 3 yachts.
As we arrived there were 2 already there. We dropped sail and headed towards it to see
if there was room. As we did so, a small
French yacht under sail cut across us.
OK. We will go for the big
bay. SFR tacked and chased us across,
glared at us as we laid our anchor then pointedly sailed round us before heading
off and spending another 20 minutes choosing a spot for himself. All done
under sail, so presumably he was disgusted at our wham, bam, thank you ma’am
method of dropping anchor, tidying up and breaking out the wine and nibbles.
Monday was another
day of light winds and we drifted slowly east.
Destination was Port Morin on the north west of the Isle of Normoutier. This is a drying harbour but the pilot book
suggested that there was sufficient depth just outside for us to anchor. The chart disagreed, so we approached with
caution and a careful check of present height of tide versus next low
water. Chart was correct. We would still have 50cms beneath us but that
is not enough where there may be a swell, so we headed back towards the outer
bank and found a spot with another 1.5 meters.
Elsie was rather doubtful as the outer bank was submerged and, looking
to the west, whence the current wind was blowing, the next bit of shelter was
New York. In fact, it was very calm and
another comfortable night.
In the morning, the tide being higher, we motored the mile
or so back to the entrance and used the dinghy to fetch our daily bread then,
once more under light airs, drifted down to the Port Joinville on the Ile de
Yeu. This is a famously picturesque
harbour and, it being my birthday, we were looking forward to a quiet stroll
and a nice meal ashore. It turned out
that every other yachtsman in the area had the same idea. We were herded into the marina and warned
that someone would be rafting up to us.
This turned out to be an understatement.
Every berth was rafted 4 deep and there were 6 yachts astern of us. It was fortunate that we were not planning an
early departure! The waterfront was
similarly crowded and the only restaurant we liked the look of was both packed
and highly priced so it was back on board for my cooking again.
Sunset at Port Joinville
The wind was forecast to be calm in the morning but useable
in the afternoon, so we had a leisurely start, watching the mass of boats
untangle themselves and depart through the narrow harbour entrance where, for
reasons that escape me, the ferries must arrive and depart at high speed. Given the local penchant for entering and
leaving port with full sail up, even if motoring, it was a good spectator
sport. We left at 11:45, before the
day’s influx started and had a pleasant sail down the coast. The plan was to anchor off the North East side
if Ile du Re, but the wind was dying and to make it before nightfall, we would
have had to motor 15 miles, so we turned to port and went into Bourgenay
marina. There was a local market in full
swing, mostly the same tat that you would find anywhere, but a few interesting
stalls. I was at least able to replace
the pair of sunglasses which had been mangled during a sail change the previous
week.
Elsie Writes:
A new Perspective on
Life
Well, here I am
drifting towards another French island, sitting under the binimi (sunshade to
you land lovers) and contemplating life. It’s Lionel’s birthday today, quite a
significant birthday, so as a treat I’m taking him out for a meal tonight. It
should be tuna steaks as the island we are being wafted towards is the French
capital of tuna but since we bought two steaks earlier in the week and it took
us two days to eat them, I don’t think so.
Back to my
contemplation. A lot has happened in the last six months, a lot has happened
since we bought Ruby almost two years ago. Some very good some very bad but no
one can say life has been boring. We made the final decision to set sail into
the sunset about two months ago after proving that we could live with each
other in such a confined space and we could handle Ruby in most weather
conditions. It is actually a very well balanced partnership. I am the cautious
one, “what’s the weather going to be in three day’s time……., I think we should
reef, NOW!!!!!” Lionel is the gung-ho one, “let’s go and do it……., the wind
isn’t that bad” Believe it or not you need a little bit of both on a yacht.
With my attitude we would have missed some of the most wonder close haul
sailing imaginable and with his we would probably be dead or lying in a
hospital bed….only kidding darling!!!
Anyway, after the
decision was made Ruby needed work done to make HER ready for this epic
journey. Lionel chose Rhu in Helensburgh for this to be done as it had good
travel links to Aberdeen and everyone was there who we needed. So, with my
heart in my mouth I watched Ruby being lifted ashore and put on stands. She
looked so alien on dry land, out of her environment but the work had to be
done. Lionel has already written about the joys and frustrations of boatyards.
I kept well away as I have not got Lionel’s diplomacy or patience. Eventually
we just took the hit and motored away. The idea was to go to Belfast to see the
tall ships then cruise round the west coast of Ireland. At the end of July we
were heading home to see everyone then back for a couple of weeks then back
home to pack up. Complicated eh? The tall ships weekend was wonderful and I
couldn’t get over the hospitality of the Irish. Everywhere we went we found
nothing was too much trouble for them. The Irish put on a grand display and I
am sure most spectators went home appreciating their hospitality. The west
coast of Ireland is challenging sailing at the best of times. We met a crew in
Port Rush who had turned back after Donegal. Their comment was there was no
good restaurants or pubs after there, little did they know. On the Atlantic
coast of Ireland, if the wind blows from the South it rains, if it blows from
the North it doesn’t rain so much, or so it seemed to us. I think we sailed in
most weather conditions, and even motored in a Force 8, where I kept on
repeating to myself, “please let the wind stop” I was rather scared to say the
least but challenges like that will make a man of me yet.
Now some phrases out of
the pilot book and what they actually mean in Ireland.
Water on the pier –
it’s been raining again
Some swell – tie
yourself to the bed if you want any sleep
The entrance is
challenging – don’t even try it in any sort of wind
I can safely say
without fear of contradiction, that Ireland is a very wet place. We got stuck
in Dingle for four days, parked beside a 100 foot super yacht which slightly
dwarfed Ruby. The “crew” went round every morning adjusting the mooring lines.
They used the “bow thruster” to do this, much to Lionel’s annoyance. Ruby sails
like a dream in all weathers and at every point of sail but she is a bas…d to
try to manoeuvre in a confined space. A bow thruster would make this so much
easier. It’s on the wish list but like so many things we have to decide what is
essential and what is just another toy. For the four days in Dingle it rained
for three of them and blew a hoully for the other one but still the tourists
came to see Fergie, the trained dolphin, and eat ice cream. The second day we
went ashore for supplies and found an ironmongers who sold the size of camping
gas we needed. There was two counters, the ironmongers and the bar, yes a bar
serving drinks. It would have been rude not to have a pint so we bought our
drinks and wandered into the back shop which had some comfy chairs and a TV
showing the Open at St Andrews. That was a very pleasant afternoon, supping
pints and watching some very good golf.
Once we got out if
Dingle and set sail again the weather improved and we made good time and
distance getting into the swing of this cruising malarkey. Going round the
Fastnet Rock was a sober moment reminding us of the dangers of sailing. I
listened to a documentary about that fateful race recently and some of the
survivors were still choked up talking about it. Into Baltimore we went, mixing
with the big boys now. This is one of the first land falls sailors use on their
crossing from America. Some of these boats have serious kit on them – wind
turbines, solar panels, wind steering and more sails than you can shake a stick
at. That’ll be us some day……….maybe.
Lionel had booked
airline tickets from Dublin to Aberdeen so we made a decision that we would
stop in Cork and travel from there by bus to Dublin. Another thing no one
explained to me before I set off on this adventure was that on an Atlantic
coast all the big towns and cities are up rivers to get away from the wind and
swell. Cork is seven miles up a river. There are two marinas on the way and a
pontoon in the centre of the city. Lionel had arranged to leave Ruby at
Monkstown Marina. The owner, James, seemed a very accommodating person and we
were not wrong with that assumption. We had a night in hand so we decided to
sail up to the city centre pontoon and see Cork. It is a beautiful city. The
English market was very impressive with every type of fresh food available.
Even the night life was entertaining. We managed to find a quiet local pub
showing some football. Settling down to watch the match, the bar man asked us
where we came from. The craic was good and he ended up telling us his life
story. We noticed two of the locals seemed to have very weak bladders, running
to the toilet every five minutes and they seemed to find every remark made by
the barman hilarious. They left half an hour later and that just left us, the
barman and a man/woman. Eventually he/she stood up and said his/her goodnights.
At this point the barman started to laugh and explained that the two locals
couldn’t finish their drinks for laughing at him/her. We just thought he /she
was another local and took it in our stride that it was the usual Wednesday
night custom in that particular bar. And we’re the country bumpkins!!!!
Next day we motored
into Monkstown marina and met the most charming helpful Irish man yet, James.
We arranged to leave Ruby there for two weeks and arranged for his friend to do
some electrical work – cockpit speakers and a new charger for the batteries.
Once again we got his life story, he worked in the oil industry in Scotland for
a number of years so Lionel and he had a common bond. He was having many
problems setting up the marina and he brought over the draft plan to show us.
It looked wonderful but according to him The Government were not interested. It
would be a shame if the area was not developed into a centre for sailing and
James is the perfect person to do it.
Anyway, next morning
we waved Ruby goodbye and got a lift, a bus, an aeroplane and another bus back
home. The decision was made at Dublin airport that this was the last trip home
and it was time to cast of and head for sunnier climes. It was costing too much
to travel back and forward. So, the next two weeks were frantically spent in
packing up, selling and arranging storage for all our worldly belongings. I
think the local charity shops did very well. A shipping container was placed
down at Plunkie (my family home). We packed everything that was left into a van
and with a chorus of “My old man said follow the van” we headed to Fife, where
we unpacked everything then packed it again into the container. Thank you Zak
for being such a fantastic help over the last week on dry land and Davie and
Jane for putting us up for our last night.
And that’s how I have
ended up floating around the Bay of Biscay with no fixed abode, no car and no
job. Have we done the right thing? Only time will tell. Are we enjoying
ourselves? Oh yes. And anyway, I’ve worked out that at sea is the perfect place
to commit a murder – “I don’t know what happened officer, I finished my watch
at midnight, I said goodnight and when I came back up at 4am he was
gone”!!!!!!!!!
The following 2 days had a good forecast and we decided to
make a long hop down the coast. It meant
bypassing La Rochelle, Ruby’s home town but it seemed that if we didn’t take
this opportunity we would be faced with several day’s motoring past fairly
uninteresting coastline. So, a day-nighter.
Out at 10:00 into a promising ESE’ly wind. The promise was unfulfilled and by 11:00 we
were motoring and continued to do so until 17:30. A light northerly then allowed us to sail,
under main and chute, at 4 knots increasing to 6 by 2300. Discretion made us substitute the genoa for
the chute overnight and we were able to continue like that for a further 12
hours. Again we kept 4 hour watches with
me on the midnight to 4 watch. Our rule
of thumb for this leg was that if we could not keep a ground speed of 3 knots,
we would motor and the late morning and early afternoon of the 21st
were spent alternately motoring and sailing as the wind died and revived. We arrived off Capbreton at 15:30: low
water. Not good, as there was little
room for error in a shallow and winding entrance. We slowed down, so that at least we were on a
rising tide and proceeded very gingerly, to the obvious irritation of a local
fisherman who steamed past shouting ‘follow me’ (or I think that’s what he
said) and showed me the way in.
Capbreton is another touristy town. Alright, but it failed
to capture us, apart from the fish market.
Each fishing boat has its own stall and you just know that this is as
fresh as you can get. We bought some
bonito steaks and some oysters the next morning. That done we set off for the short trip down
to Socoa / Saint-Jean-Du-Luz, broad reaching under chute and main and so just
turning the bottom corner of the bay of Biscay.
We anchored in the bay, close to Socoa, laying 2 anchors as the holding
is reputedly questionable and the wind was forecast to increase to F5 overnight. Dinghy’d ashore and were finally
captivated. Picturesque old town, lovely
food shops, fine looking houses on the hill and pelota being played in an open
stadium. Best of all, Ruby lying to
anchor in a sunlit bay.
Hubris. The last
thing I wrote that evening was: Oysters and fresh fish for supper, followed by
a thunder and lightning show with a storm in the hills to the south. Who could ask for more?
Nemesis. We
normally bring the outboard engine
back from the dinghy at the end of the day but, as I was going to pop ashore
for bread in the morning, we decided to leave it in. The wind was supposed to be no more than 18 knots
so it should sit quite comfortably, especially as, with 2 anchors out, we
should be ranging less than usual. There
was, in fact, a violent squall in the small hours. Our schedule for the day was quite tight, as
40 knot winds were forecast for the following night and our chosen ‘safe haven’,
Zumaia, has a shallow entrance and I wanted to be arriving with at least half
tide. With the squall in the night, I
decided that there was likely to be a heavy swell and we should forego fresh bread
and just head off. As I was making
coffee, prior to bringing the outboard, then the dinghy, on board, there was a
wail from the cockpit: “The dinghy’s
gone”. Elsie doesn’t joke about things
like that and, sure enough, we were alone.
Picking up anchor took longer than usual as, of course, there was a
second one to be pulled in by hand but we cracked on with it and 20 minutes
later we were heading downwind and scouring the shore through binoculars,
hoping against hope that Rubette had washed up somewhere safe. Back and forth we went with only one possible
sighting and that might be a rock or the remains of a wrecked dinghy. This was serious. Not only the cost of replacements, but the inconvenience
meantime of having no way of getting ashore from an anchorage. Our last option was to go into the small
marina at St Jean, report the loss and hope that Rubette would be found or at
least the police would give me sufficient paperwork to support an insurance
claim. Out with fenders and mooring
lines and in we went. Elsie set off
along the shore, to check our possible sighting, while I tidied up and went to
the marina office. The attendant was
sorry for my loss; if the dinghy should appear on the beach, he would be
informed and, in turn, inform me.
Catharsis. I had noticed some policiers municipale
on my way up and located their office.
They took me outside and had a quick word with a man sweeping the quay. The man turned to me. A small boat?
Lost this morning? That one, by
any chance? And sure enough, there she was, tied to the back of the customs
launch 10 metres away. All was present
and correct, and no-one seemed to want anything to do with the matter so we
scolded her for her wayward behaviour, loaded her on board and left.
It was by now too late to even consider sailing round to
Zumaia, if we were to arrive at half tide, 1500. So it was a motor in light airs but heavy
swell along the coast, ceremonially changing the courtesy ensign from French to
Spanish as we crossed the border. The
entrance proved to be no problem and, indeed, the locals were coming home, in
similar sized boats, right on low water.
In, fuelled and safely moored to sit out the storm. Which never
arrived. Although the shelter was so
good, it may have been bad outside and we just didn’t know. As we had paid for 2 nights, we decided to
make the best of our stay and do some shopping, laundry etc. Easier said than done on a Sunday afternoon
in Spain. Twenty places to buy a beer;
several to buy sweeties but fresh veg? Not a chance. Enquiries at the tourist information
suggested that the nearest laundrette was 10 miles away by bus. In the morning, we asked at the marina. No problem.
Laundry round the back. 3 Euros
for washer; 2 for dryer. I suggested
that we might need more than one load, but he did not wish to understand, so we
got out best deal yet: 5 euros for 10 days clothing and bedding. Food shopping was also a success though not,
alas, clothing (I’m not paying E110 for a pair of shorts) or Spanish sim for
Elsie’s phone (couldn’t find one that wouldn’t expire in a month). We also tried to stock up on culture, by
visiting the local museum where there are pictures by Goya and El Greco, but it
didn’t open that day so we did the nature walk instead.
Zumaia
Tuesday, round to Bilbao (which Elsie calls Bill Bailey –
cue chorus of “won’t you come home Bilbao, won’t you come home?), some sailing;
some motoring. Our usual weather guide,
Wind guru, was proving very unreliable on this coast, as were the local forecasts. It seemed to be ‘suck it and see’ with even
land / sea breezes unpredictable. There
is a large sunken breakwater on the eastern approach to Bilbao. The locals seemed to be happy to sail across
it but near low water, and with a big swell, we went round the end and followed
the charted traffic pattern to the southern end of the bay, to the apparent
confusion of everyone else from yachts to fishermen and harbour tugs. The published anchorage is filled with
moorings but we managed to find a quiet spot to drop the hook. Quiet until the party boat arrived, pumping
out “Cheerleader” at 120 dBs.
Guggenheim, Bilbao.
Wednesday, culture day.
Dinghy ashore; metro to centre and to Guggenheim museum. Building lives up to the hype and contents
not bad either. Cultured out by 3, we
thought of doing a little shopping but as everywhere was shut until 4:30,
metro’d back. An unforecast breeze had
sprung up and we decided to sail out to the next small harbour, Castro
Urdales. Did my bit for Anglo-French
relations by arriving, picking my spot, dropping on the run and handbrake
turning to a stop, without noticing a small yacht doing a run in from amongst
the moorings to drop his anchor. He gave
us a dirty look, dropped his hook, realised it was misplaced, picked it up by
hand and re-laid it. Elsie suggested
that I apologised but, as the French wine we had been given in Capbreton and we
now opened turned out to be more useful as a varnish stripper, I remained
aloof.
Thursday, to Santander in what was forecast to be NW’ly F3-4
but turned out to be light and variable. I could see lee wave clouds in the sky
and conjectured that this was what was affecting the surface winds. Early afternoon, motoring with full main up,
for stability, I saw wind on the surface ahead and prepared to sail. When it arrived, it turned out to be a SE’ly
6-7, presumably the lee wave hitting the surface. Genoa away and 3 reefs in the main then motor
closer to the coast to get a lee making about 5 knots. Over a period of about 10 seconds, this
decreased to less than one knot. Not good.
There had been no fishing floats and there was no sign of anything dragging
but we must have caught something. We stopped and went astern. On resuming, we
achieved normal speed so, whatever it was, it was no more. Motored to Santander, anchored next to a
tourist beach and got the SCUBA gear out to check the undersides, but nothing
seen. Re-positioned to a quieter
anchorage for the night and, anticipating an early start, were turning in when
Elsie muttered “cant he park any closer?” I looked out and, about 10 feet away
was another yacht, facing the opposite direction. “He’s not parked”, I said. “So why is he swimming?” And, sure enough, the owner was at the stern,
pushing on the rudder. I am still at a
loss to understand this. He presumably had an engine. There were certainly sails. He had a dingy with oars, which would certainly
have acted as a better tug than a swimming man and an anchor at the bow if it
all became a bit much. Strange folk,
sailors.
An early start on Friday as between Santander and Gijon
there was only one harbour that gave shelter from the, ever present, northerly
swell and, with Spring tides, the anchorage was just too shallow for
comfort. So – a trip of 80 miles. Up at 4; under way at 04:40 with a ground
rule of motoring unless we could achieve a ground speed of 5 knots under sail.
We had full main up, for stability and for a lot of the day had a following 5-7
knot wind, meaning zero apparent, so the sail was slapping from side to
side. Being fed up with this we put it
away, commenting that we could expect no change in the wind until we did. Sure enough, 30 minutes later, the wind
picked up to 12 knots, so out with the Genoa on a dead run at 4 knots. OK, breaking the ground rule of 5 knots or
not at all but we only had 10 miles to go.
We could probably have got the extra knot with the cruising chute but we
were both tired and, with our current run of luck, setting it would have either
killed the wind or whistled up a gale.
The downside of the wind picking up was that it was blowing into our
selected anchorage, so into the Marina.
Nice and comfy with the bonus that Elsie took the long way round the
following morning looking for bread, so finding a clothes shop where I could
buy a pair of shorts for E20.
Late start on Saturday as there was hardly any wind and we
were just going 10 miles up the coast to Luanco where, we were promised by the
pilot book, we could anchor inside the harbour.
Not so: chased out by marina staff who wanted us to pay for a
berth. Outside to a promising spot, only
to be pipped to it by a motor cruiser.
He left at 7 so we nipped in and, once the wind had steadied for the
night, were comfortable enough.
Light airs again on Sunday, but we managed 22 miles to
Cudillero, albeit with a bit of motoring.
Moored to fore-and-aft bouys. Bit
of a struggle as the last occupant seemed to have tied the mooring ropes in
knots, but ended up reasonably square, unlike a late arrival, who couldn’t seem
to find a matching pair. As he was
mooring in a thunderstorm, our hearts bled so much, we even considered lending
a hand, but there seemed no point in getting any wetter than we already were,
having been ashore, stopped for an ice-cream and then got caught by the start
of the storm. A very pretty village,
full of tourists but go 200 meters up the hill and the poverty shows
through.
Cudillero
My turn for bread on Monday, walking through a 300 meter
tunnel to get to the shops (shore area only supports bars, restaurants and
souvenier shops). Again light airs and
after 20 miles tried a couple of anchorages but the, ever present, northerly
swell made them untenable to headed into Luarca harbour for another variation
on the mooring theme. One puts a
bow-line onto a bouy then runs a stern line to the harbour wall. All a bit hard work for Elsie, who prefers
the simplicity of dropping the anchor but, after about an hour of playing we
managed to be secure with 2 lines at each end.
So we come to the end of August, having started our nomadic
life and achieving 1091 miles by the log and 965 over the ground. Since we know where we want to be at end of
September, Oporto (aprox. 275 miles) and October, Funchal (aprox. 670 miles),
we should be able to slow down a bit now and enjoy some of the scenery.
