11th February to 18th April 2024

After reaching Martinique in mid-February, Henrietta had some more rigging surgery.

One day there’ll be an epilogue to bore you with the tale of her expensive and enfuriating sufferings (my sufferings too!). Meanwhile and in future I’ll avoid all rigging bits that come from Stalok – whatever other folk may tell me of this company’s sound pedigree. (For non-sailors among my readers I’ll add that Stalok make, among other things, bits and pieces of high-price stainless steel that are meant to hold the mast up.)

Since then we’ve sailed and slopped around a few of the islands in the East Caribbean. ‘We’ has included crew members, Christine and Sonja, a pair of fine cooks who’ve tried delicately to curb my more manly traits, and who’ve added new dimensions to my usual solitary world. On occasion I’ve been quite gregarious and sociable, and have talked to dozens of fascinating folk – as is the way while cruising around popular parts of the high seas.

Clouding my mind (apart from the glum sadness and frustration that comes with global news), I’ve been trying to fathom what it is that makes me feel so underwhelmed by this supposed sailing Mecca of the East Caribbean. What is it that curbs my enthusiasm, and  dampens my joy? Why do tens of thousands love it so much while I remain guarded in my judgement? (And don’t think I don’t know how lucky I am to be here.)

I’m quick to acknowledge the Caribbean’s finer points. It’s hot and sunny with good sailing breeze at a time of year when most of northern Europe and North America is grey, wet or cold and probably all three, so if you’re from these places (and sailors overwhelmingly are), there can be no climatic reason to doubt its delights. Who doesn’t want to swap their icy feet and soggy grey European winter for tropical sunshine and a swim in the sea?

Furthermore the scenery is fine with high hills and volcanic peaks swathed in greenery, waterfalls here and there, plenty of birds, colourful homesteads and sandy beaches. Water is clean and in gorgeous shades of blue that range from deep dark cobalt to delicate aquamarine, sometimes inhabited by coral reefs, colourful fishes and gentle turtles. Local people are at best helpful, very friendly and welcoming, and at worst, merely disinterested.

Given all this, what on earth troubles me? The problem probably lies in me. Just another seriously grumpy old man. Don’t let me dissuade you from sailing here. Like most others, you’ll probably love it. I think I do most of the time!

But, to quickly hit you with some less rosey news, most of the popular anchorages are crowded; officialdom can be heavyweight and costly (hands up Antigua); food prices seem extraordinarily high and quality extraordinarily low; you might need to lock up your goodies (dinghies, outboards etc) and it’s best if you are untroubled by displays of stupendous wealth alongside dismal poverty (or even moderate wealth, such as us lot, alongside some sad dereliction).

But most blogs are filled with excited tales of fabulous places and fascinating people, alongside photos of yummy meals, exotic scenery and ‘sailors having fun’, so I’ll move on and tell you where we’ve been and some of what we’ve done.

Some photos are thanks to Sonja, who’s good at taking them

Via a few of Martinique’s prettier anchorages, we headed north to neighbouring Dominica. It’s perhaps the least spoiled and most scenic of the Windward Isles: waterfalls, silvery beaches, high mountains, sulphur springs and luxuriant vegetation.

Next stop, Montserrat, an island I’d not yet visited. It had been devastated by a volcanic eruption in 1997 and the capital, Plymouth, was buried in ash. Half the island’s population was forced to leave.

Christine, with an Irish passport and penchant for parties, pointed out we could get to Montserrat for St Patrick’s Day. For some (not very sound) reason – which I knew but have forgotten – Montserrat enjoys a St Patrick public holiday and celebrates with carnival, a multitude of festivities, lots of food and quite a bit of drink*. Here are some photos. Furthermore there was a lovely young Irish couple anchored nearby. We were invited to drink and nibble with them, and every other person at anchor nearby – not many.

Oh! I’ve got that wrong. After Dominica we went to Guadeloupe before Montserrat, then back to Guadeloupe and north again to Antigua, then south,  again to  Guadalupe, Dominica once more, and now Martinique. You can understand why I might get things wrong. Rum doesn’t help – but tastes nice.

It’s now time to think about sailing back to Europe and England. I’ll go and buy some onions and bananas, wait for a more helpful weather forecast, and sail on to the Azores (about three or four weeks away.)

* For more about Montserrat and the Irish connection read here

1st to 10th February 2024

Though I enjoyed the weeks spent in Suriname, I was happy to leave the swirling and filthy river anchorage with its hungry mosquitoes and howling monkeys and head for the open sea once more. Next stop Tobago.

There’s a very helpful ocean current to speed the trip from Suriname to Tobago. It’s a voyage of about 480 miles and could readily be sailed in under three days; but being nervous about the state of Henrietta’s rigging (because, though new toggles were fitted, I’d found broken wire strands in upper rigging), I’d allowed nearly four days. In an effort to slow down and arrive both in daylight and avoiding immigration’s high overtime charges, Henrietta ended up with just a scrap of genoa for most of the voyage.

On the way and in the middle of the second night I ran into an offshore oil/gas production area, the Liza Field. It’s about 150 miles off the coast of Guyana and was not marked on my chart. Lights and boats are everywhere. It is extraordinary to come across these vast brightly lit, floating oil rigs that somehow stay almost stationery while extracting the goods.

The particular rig/vessel I get close to, before a warning tug calls me on the radio and asks me to alter course ( “you must stay away 2 miles”, I was told but was already less than one). This one, Liza Destiny, seems to be nearly 350 metres long. It’s lit more brightly than the Blackpool illuminations, with flame billowing at the top of a mighty tower, and a fleet of auxiliary vessels scurrying about doing their stuff.

There’s a surreal sense of doom with all this ugly human activity beneath a fine dark starlit night sky. But, oh how we need our oil; how we love our motor cars, our cheap air travel and all the comforts that we suppose we need.

I was so intrigued with this unmarked oil field that I’ve since looked up the Liza Field on the internet. It’s quite new. Liza Destiny, I read, is anchored in a water depth of 1,525 metres! That’s an awful lot of chain. (Us little yachts, think anchoring in anything over 20 metres is getting a bit deep) Liza Destiny was originally built in 1999 as a Very Large Crude Carrier named Tina, but was converted in a Singapore shipyard in 2018. Nowadays it can extract 140,000 barrels of oil a day.

And on the subject, I’d like to add that mankind does seem to get away with all manner of dreadful activities when a long way out of sight of land, especially in the middle of our oceans. Oil rigs, squid fishing, krill hunting, offshore wind (not as ‘clean’ as you’re led to believe) and ocean dumping, to name a few I’ve come across. 

On a brighter note, sweeping into Man of War Bay, in the north of Tobago, just after dawn I nearly collide with a giant leatherback turtle. We pass scarcely two metres apart, but he or she seems unconcerned and just raises a placid head as if to say ‘hello’ and greet me (or maybe it’s just to say “oh go away, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep!”. There are frigate birds and a few pelicans soaring overhead and, together with the dense green forest that cloaks the cliffs, this little arrival town of Charlotteville seems enchanting.

It takes many hours to go through arrival clearance formalities. There’s a power cut and the immigration computer doesn’t work. Nor does the ATM, so no money to pay for the visa; and no local wifi either so no way of downloading the essentials of life on land. Sailors learn restraint and patience as key virtues of liveaboard life!

It doesn’t take long to appreciate that I like Tobago a lot, at least the little bit I’ve seen.

Everyone seems exceedingly laid back. Even immigration and customs staff, who are two ladies rather in the style of Mma Ramotswe of McCall Smith’s No.1 Ladies Detective Agency novels, are strict with the rules but pretty good-natured in applying them. Fishermen (who practice line fishing with long bamboo poles swept to each side of their small high powered craft) wave and smile. Their boats have wonderful names painted in large colourful letters: “Rebellious”, “Black Face”, and my favourite, “Joyous Vibes”.

There’s a contingent of Dutch sailors, also arrived from Suriname. As ever it’s good to find familiar faces and share local information. Wifi available for a nominal fee in the local library (air conditioning too); delicious veggie ‘roti’ from the stall where a thin and elderly Rastafarian serves with a friendly smile. (I think he and I might be the oldest men in the place!); a few ok spots for snorkelling.

After a few days walking, swimming, talking and dozing, it’s time to leave and find somewhere with the skills to make new rigging and try to sort electric troubles (again!). I spend my last night along the Tobago coast, past Bloody Bay, in Englishman’s Bay. (Place names here are evocative of many colonial tussles.)

It’s too rough to land but Englishman’s Bay is a gem of Tobago beauty, a perfect tropical bay. Waves crash onto a clean golden beach that’s backed with a haphazard line of coconut palms. Behind that the dark green forest clings to cliffs and hillsides, with a few local homes or tourist places nestled among the trees.

Next stop Martinique. In harsh contrast to Tobago it’s packed with thousands upon thousands of yachts, charter catamarans and whizzy water toys of all sorts.

Even in the few years I’ve been visiting this island I guess boat numbers have doubled. It seems true of most of the East Caribbean islands too: over crowded, overpriced and overrated.

On the plus side, it is hot and sunny with good sailing winds and, at least in Martinique, there are technical skills to get your boat going again. And the French overseas have mastered the art of immigration formalities too: one sheet of paper, three minutes and €3, and you’re in! Lessons here perhaps for all immigration authorities who deal with sailing boats?

9th to 31st January 2024

The most delightful thing about Suriname is its happily mixed population. In a world where racial, religious and political divisions seem to abound, it’s heartening to find a place where mixing and harmonious coexistence is the norm. (A few local people may tell you otherwise but to a visitor it is heartening.)

Suriname may be the smallest sovereign country in South America and be very sparsely populated (population about 600,000 and under 4 people per square km, compares with England having over 400 people per square km ), but it is home to people of many different origins: American Indian people (Carib and Arawak) who were here long before Europeans arrived, slaves brought in from West Africa by Dutch and British colonist, indentured workers from India and Indonesia, plus Chinese, a sprinkling of Europeans, Brazilians, Haitians and more. 

You will come across a fine old cathedral, Hindu temples, mosques and a synagogue; and the traditional beliefs of jungle dwellers (mainly those who escaped the brutality of slavery) are alive and well. Radio stations offer music from all corners of the earth.

To fill the days whilst waiting for new parts to arrive (to fix the rigging) I’ve visited Paramaribo, the capital, a few times, and spent several days on a jungle tour, as well as countless hours malingering at the little swimming pool and bar.

You don’t swim in the river hereabouts as it’s oxtail soup brown, muddy with strong tidal currents, and sewage, complete trees, even a fridge and other assorted debris swirling around, plus some piranhas.

Paramaribo (bet it’s one of those world capitals you’ve never heard of), is a UNESCO heritage city, at least the inner part is. Not in the way Rome or Dubrovnik are, but it seems because economic development has been so limited that Paramaribo streets haven’t changed a lot since the 16th and 17th centuries. Fine old timber buildings are still standing, some well maintained, others looking a bit lacklustre and unloved; handsome nonetheless.

Jungle trip was a happy interlude. With a mixed band of fellow sailors from Netherlands, Spain and Norway, we packed small backpacks, whizzed along a highway a few hours in a minibus, then whizzed upriver a few more hours (impressively skilful navigation through rocks and up rapids) in local boat to our ‘resort’ of huts, from where we had guided jungle walks, village visits, river swimming.

In theory we should now be able to survive in the jungle (though I wouldn’t have a chance).

We were told for example how to find water-bearing palms, leaves for health (stomach, head, ‘good for the man’, etc), wild plants for food, bugs or creatures to avoid. There’s a lot to learn. I just loved being surrounded by so much untarnished tropical rainforest.

Then joy!

Yesterday, my package of rigging bits turned up.

Today, with the help of fellow sailors, I fitted them.

Tomorrow I’ll probably leave.

24th December 2023 to 8th January 2024

I don’t want to tell an over-dramatic tale of blood, sweat, tears and pain when there’s so much real suffering in the world. After all, unlike those who suffer because of forces far outside their control, we go sailing because we want to, we like it (lots of other reasons too). It’s normally a safe, adventurous and interesting pastime, with lots of pretty uneventful boredom and occasional bouts of excitement, even a bit of suffering, along the way. For most long distance sailors there’s always choices of where to go, when to stop and how to live. We don’t have to do it.

We shouldn’t make too much fuss when plans go awry. Accidents happen. The unexpected is always around the corner.

In this little tale of the ‘unexpected-around-the-corner’, mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve, mid-Atlantic, sailing south under full main and genoa, and about a hundred miles north of the equator, I heard a sudden very loud resounding bang. Henrietta shook. Immediately I suspected the rigging had failed. I was up and adrenaline-charged in an instant.

Sure enough the rigging had failed. 

The port main shroud (V1), the most important of all, was flailing around and upper mast flexing in a horrifying and truly alarming way. Such wild movements could not go on for long. I anticipated the mast would snap in a few seconds; quickly thinking where the bolt cutters were, should I have to cut away rigging to escape serious damage. Were there time to pause and think about it, I’d have felt very frightened.

Quickly, very quickly, I lowered the sails and altered course to try and reduce the wild rolling motion. But as all ocean sailors know, there’s always a swell and you cannot escape rolling. The upper mast was bending back and forth, and side to side in a dreadful way with every passing swell. How much longer before all came crashing down? 

Next step I go forward to inspect the cause more closely and try to secure the flaying shroud with cord, all the while expecting the mast would snap, and just hoping the debris might miss my head. 

The shroud wire wasn’t damaged. The deck plate was fine. The screw between the two was intact. Trouble was the stainless steel toggle between screw and deck had snapped. A chunk of solid stainless steel had broken away. Damn it, I’d had the entire rig replaced at huge cost less than 18 months ago. I’d checked it before leaving La Gomera. Rigging was the last thing I expected to fail.

(I know all this will make little sense and be rather dull to non-sailors. Suffice to say, rigging on any sailing boat is the most important feature – by far. Without it, mid ocean you are in deep trouble. Without rigging, a boat is like man without skeleton, a useless lifeless blob.)

At this stage, I don’t much like to recall the hours of work, the anxiety, the pain and the rest. It’s a source of hurt and future nightmares. But after five hours difficult work, damaged hand, lots of blood and advanced sunburn and as darkness fell on Christmas Eve, I was adjusting to new reality: Wallowing with damaged rig, mid-Atlantic, about 1,000 miles from nearest land.

Using a fitting from less important shroud (starboard aft lower, should you ask) and with botch job to secure that with shackles and dyneema, I thought I’d done enough to hang on to the mast a bit longer. I would drift and wallow through the night, rest and try to sleep. In the morning, Christmas morning, I would decide what to do.

Of course, I didn’t sleep much. Like a child awaiting the visit from Father Christmas, I was restless. But instead of wondering what Christmas gifts might be there at dawn, as Henrietta rolled through the night I was simply trusting the mast would still be there at dawn. Weighing options for the future too.

I couldn’t beat back north over 900 miles into Northeast Trade Winds to Cape Verde. Nearest place was Northern Brazil. Recife was less than a thousand miles, Salvador a bit further. But I thought neither was likely to have riggers and, if spares were needed, it would take ages and Brazilian import duty is heavy. More importantly it would involve more upwind sailing for several days, putting more stress on the rig – a very bad idea.

In the end I decided on Surinam. It’s further than Brazil, about 1,600 miles from where I was, but mainly downwind westwards sailing, and, once out of the doldrums, shouldn’t have extremes of wind or sea – just inevitable rolling and an occasional squall. Hopefully I’d find a rigger or fellow sailor to help, or, if fixing things myself, would be able to get spares.

On Christmas morning I spent a few more hours trying to improve my temporary repairs. And then, oh joy! A large pod of dolphins came to visit and say Happy Christmas. They lifted my spirits, as they always do, but this time it was a doubly welcome visit – as if they knew what anxieties filled my mind. They wanted to help. It was a really wonderful and welcome Christmas gift. The most thrilling silver lining to a very dark cloud. Thank goodness for dolphins.

And that’s the end of that little tale of drama.

By way of postscript I can say that though I’m disappointed not to have sailed to the far south of South America (after all, most serious sailors want to go there, and I’d been reading so much about Patagonia; and had new life raft, new EPIRB, satellite communications, flares etc. that I knew Argentine authorities require), and I was getting along – slowly – with learning Brazilian Portuguese, in case I stopped there.

The journey west to Surinam took a further 14 days. Thanks to the wonderful pilot charts assembled by James Clarke it’s easy enough to find a route north of the Doldrums but south of an adverse equatorial current. But it didn’t take away the ever-present anxiety of faulty rig constantly challenged with relentless Atlantic swell, nor the presence of poorly lit little fishing boats scattered along the last few hundred miles.

Now the mast is still up there. Henrietta is afloat. I’ve experienced the most troublesome sailing episode of my life. And I never knew it was possible to feel so exhausted.

Sailors’ plans are forever being rewritten.

For now I’m secure and content on a mooring upriver in Surinam. Noisy howler monkeys bellow from mangrove-lined shore at dawn and dusk, and lots of birds dash back and forth catching insects. There’s a new country to explore, people to meet, creatures great and small. Plus rigging to fix – somehow.

For now, any sailing confidence I may once have had has nose-dived.

1st to 24th December 2023

Reluctantly I left La Gomera in early December. I don’t know why I left. Why exchange the comforts of living securely among friends in a beautiful place, why swap for the uncomfortable, sleepless realities and hazards of more ocean sailing? La Gomera has so much that I love: warm hearted people, familiar friendly places, fine beaches, pretty villages and of course those amazing mountain walks.The Atlantic Ocean fills me with awe and trepidation, and though I’ve now crossed it alone several times, I know it to be majestic and beautiful but also sometimes alarming, always exhausting.

No one ordered me to leave. Just some infernal demonic personal driver told me to move and make life more difficult than it need be! As John Masefield put it, “I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky….” I suppose.

Thought I should go to South America this time. I’d not sailed there before. Nothing beats the excitement and challenges of completely new destinations. All South American countries had been closed when I passed that way en route from South Africa to the Caribbean during pandemic restrictions in early 2021.

So, to get me on my way from the Canaries I sailed south a few hundred miles to the Cape Verde islands. Being far enough south to have pretty reliable Trade Winds, Cape Verde is well placed for deciding where to go next. I’d been here eight years earlier on my first sail to the Caribbean. I’d especially loved wonderful music and the youthful exuberance of the place.

Cape Verde is one of Africa’s friendliest and easiest countries; and its Portuguese colonial heritage is evident in language and bits of architecture. It seems still to have a foot in Europe. The archipelago was uninhabited till first visited by Portuguese explorer navigators in the fifteenth century. It subsequently became a hub in the slave trade routes from West Africa, and over three million slaves passed through on their horrendous journeys to Brazil, and later to the Caribbean.

Nowadays smiling friendly people help make it an increasingly popular tourist destination. It seems better off than it was when I first visited; more bars and restaurants and souvenir shops. Music is still central to life; high-quality, high-volume sound systems insist we tap our feet and roll our hips. The dogs are still mostly khaki-coloured mongrels though; they pant and scratch in the tropical dust, but they do seem better fed than in days gone by.

After brief visits to the Cape Verde islands of Sal and Boa Vista, and with some fresh cabbages, I sailed on southwards. I had my exit paperwork with next port of call given as Montevideo. (When completing exit paperwork it was the only place I could think of in Uruguay. Though even then I doubted if I’d get that far in one hop. I’d probably stop somewhere in Brazil for fresh food.)

In case you wondered ‘why Uruguay?’, the reason is that my outline plan suggested heading for the River Plate (a base for seeing Buenos Aires and Montevideo and more of Argentina & Uruguay). Once there I would have a choice: either turn left, South to Patagonia and Chile for the end of the summer when conditions are favourable, or turn right, North to Brazil, Guyanas, Surinam etc.. during the south’s early winter months when winds are supposed to be more helpful.

The first few days sailing south out of Cape Verde were not pleasant. Wind was fine, though too strong for comfort. Sea a bit confused. Progress was good, covering around 150 miles a day.

But visibility was awful. Fine sand from the Sahara filled the air and coated everything in fine light brown grit. All ropes, hatches, winches, cabin surfaces turned a reddish brown. The rigging was covered, and everything felt grubby and gritty. While I knew that many beautiful beaches in Canaries and Cape Verde owe their existence to thousands upon thousands of years of wind-blown Sahara sand, I had not expected it to be so dense for so long in the few days I was around. By now I was over 600 miles from the Sahara Desert, and still felt Henrietta was carrying a lot of desert to South America.

Sand and dust! I could see little more than a mile. It was like sailing in sea mist or big city smog; the horizon uncomfortably close. Heaven forbid if there were any little fishing vessel that I’d miss if I went below to cook or doze. Anxiety levels ran high. And the dust was so thick that it limited the sunlight reaching my all-important solar panels, so not enough battery power. 

But, enough of this, it was just another sailing experience that I’d not had before. I was really looking forward to rain to wash away the grime. There’re bound to be heavy rain squalls once I get nearer the equator and into the doldrums, I thought.

Sure enough, just north of the equator lightning filled the sky, wind howled and heavy rain gushed down, we roared through the night. Henrietta and I had a thorough wash! An hour later it was calm, super hot wallowing calm. Typical ITCZ (Doldrum) weather. And so it continued for another day or two, rain, wind, rolling calm, intense heat, lightning. It was pretty tiring.

Suddenly BANG! 

BIG TROUBLE arrived on 24th December, Christmas Eve.

I’ll tell you more next time…..

12th September to 30th November 2023

Galicia,Spain-Porto Santo-La Palma-La Gomera-Cabo Verde

Had I not kept a diary it might have been hard to recall what has happened in recent months. Days and weeks slip quickly easily by.

Every morning I waken to blue skies and warm sunshine, Henrietta bobbing gently or rolling wildly beneath me, knowing how very lucky I am to have a boat, love sailing, have health, family and friends and be far from the world’s horrifying wars and immeasurable suffering. Us liveaboard sailors are truly blessed with good fortune. We know how lucky we are.

Without a self-indulgent description of every place, person and activity seen, met and done, I’ll just say I’ve flitted through familiar islands, met dozens of fine and fascinating people, and enjoyed many invigorating mountain walks and soothing seaside swims.

First stop after mainland Spain, the island of Porto Santo (a small Portuguese island near Madeira), for a haircut. This little island is home to the world’s best hairdresser.

I’m a fairly scruffy, balding, grey-haired English pensioner. Yet, despite this, she deals with every wayward bit of fluff and whisker with all the delicacy, diligence and skill of a brain surgeon.

It’s well worth a two hundred mile detour to get smartened up in Porto Santo; and it’s an utterly charming spot anyway. (But, I ask myself, why on earth would you be interested in when and where I have a haircut? It’s not the sort of thing that normal well-balanced people talk about. Draw your own conclusions.)

Then, on south once more for a quick stop in the Canary Island of La Palma. I’d hoped to lure a Dutch friend to sail with me……but couldn’t.

On next to La Gomera, which, if you’ve followed my earlier travels, you will know is my favourite of all the Canary Islands.

This year in La Gomera there’s a once-in-five-year festival. Our Lady of Guadalupe, or Virgin of Guadalupe, (at least her image) comes out of her remote chapel in the north of La Gomera for a grand tour of the island, starting with a boat ride to the capital, San Sebastián, and continuing for the next few weeks around different towns and villages.

This may sound like a bit of trivial Catholic tradition, but it is not trivial at all. It is a huge event. A flotilla of boats escorts her to the local beach, where thousands of islanders and visitors are waiting to see her safely ashore.

The atmosphere is super-excited with awe and anticipation; helicopter flies overhead; television crews capture key moments (YouTube from Canaries TV below is long – skim through if you want!)

Bajada de La Virgen de Guadalupe | 2023

That was in October. Since then, I’ve had son George to stay, lots more wonderful walks in this gorgeous island and an uncharacteristically sociable couple of months (and another haircut).

In the next few days, I’ll sail south to Cabo Verde. It would be too easy to spend many more months here!

1st August to 11th September 2023

Little over a month ago, at the start of August, England was wet and windy.

In a summer of uncharacteristic weather extremes, lurching from record breaking heatwaves to wretched chilly wetness, Henrietta swung wildly at anchor in Cornwall’s beautiful Helford River. I was waiting for a few days of calmer seas to sail across the Bay of Biscay to Spain.

At last there was a forecast for a couple of days respite before yet another gale came through. I lifted the anchor and left. It was still a bit rough but, as ever, it was exhilarating to be skipping over the waves once more.

The gale I thought I’d escape was then upgraded and expanded, and christened Storm Antoni. It was too late to turn back. I hurried south hoping to get away – but couldn’t go fast enough.

And so it was a very rough crossing, easily the roughest of the several Biscay crossings done to date. Perhaps I was a bit frightened, something normally only reserved for lightning, and I was exhausted. Trouble was I felt sick, again not normal in my sailing travels. Add to this, that the wind on the second night backed and strengthened, forcing me across the busy lanes of shipping heading to and from North European ports.

Yet, it was a quick passage lasting a mere three days for 460 miles; roughest Biscay crossing yet, fastest yet. The sun came out as I swept into Ria Camariñas in Northwest Spain, and lowered the anchor at a familiar spot. In a few short minutes mood lifts from a state of exhausted anxiety to pure joy, blessed relief and plain old happiness.

These wild swings of mood are a characteristic of this sailor’s liveaboard life. The normal cycles of emotional state, cheerfulness and grey gloominess, seem to be exaggerated by the challenges and rewards of life at sea. From utter despair when equipment fails, the sea is violent and rain is relentless you can be elevated a few hours later to serene pleasure with sunshine, a dolphin’s playfulness and cormorants with wings outstretched on nearby rock.

(There’s a special place in hell for those who write books, magazine articles and tales that dwell only on the positives of liveaboard sailing life! It isn’t all sunshine, golden sunsets and smiling contentment you know.)

After a few days of walks and shoreside comforts, I sailed on south, visiting familiar anchorages on my way to a boatyard I’d heard of. Henrietta needed repairs and routine maintenance.

Xufre (the language in Galicia is rather different from Spanish – I think it’s pronounced a bit like Zufre) on the island of Arousa in a Ria of the same name, was delightful. The boatyard was spacious, a huge slab of concrete dominated by a giant travel lift, a tower crane, and shed about 25 metres high, managed by the charming, fascinating, ever-helpful Nito, and his team of happy workers.

Security is provided by three of these German Shepherds that wander around like wolves, but seem to be the friendliest and most gentle of dogs.

Their names are Bao, Beque and Brisa. They often tell me they feel hungry, and feature on the boatyard’s unusual burgee below!

Boatyard prices were I reckon half those of southern England. Furthermore you could stay on your boat, something now denied in most UK yards.

(For those with an interest in such things, works included rebuild of diesel injector pump, bypass of leaking holding tank, full engine service, cleaning out contaminated diesel tank, some welding, thorough polish, antifouling, anodes replaced, etc.)

Whilst there, England were playing Spain in the women’s football World Cup final so I went to the local seafront bar to watch, curious to see local people’s attitudes. Not much interest it seemed, though people did start watching near the end when it was clear Spain would win. But I couldn’t help wondering at the contrast with the near hysteria that accompanies such events in any of Britain’s nations.

After more than three weeks at Xufre it was good to get going again yesterday. Life on a boat in a boatyard is not a good way to live, even with many friendly sailors around and the delight of cheery workers.

I’m happy to bob at anchor again, enjoy swimming and sunshine, and wait for wind to blow us south once more.

12th May to 31st July 2023

Right now, life in England seems pretty good. I know it’s raining, windy and a bit chilly. (July’s been a bit grey after the wonders of a fabulous early summer.)

But the alternative to staying here in the rain is a long slog southwards across the Bay of Biscay, beating into rough seas, lots more rain and relentless southwesterlies. So I’m staying put in the calm and exquisitely beautiful, tree lined creeks of Falmouth Harbour and the Helford river.

Tempting as it is to head off for warm sunshine, and Spanish and Portuguese hospitality, I’ve grown too soft for the rigours of a hostile Biscay. I’ll wait for better wind forecasts. We are very privileged to have the choice of not only where to go, but also when to sail there. A life without plans, routines or timetable – not many anyway.

Meanwhile I can fill you in on bits and pieces of Henrietta’s English summer, the highs and lows, the joys and perils.

Late May and June were hot, the hottest on record – bliss. Plenty of gentle northerly winds opened anchorages usually too hazardous for overnight stops. I shall never tire of exploring little visited coves and backwaters, where, despite the hoards of yachts that now sail along the coastline, few are happy with rolly nights beneath rocky cliffs. I love these little-visited places with their gulls and cormorants, gannets and terns, with cliff top paths and friendly hikers.

Henrietta never got further east than Lyme Regis. (If you don’t know England’s geography, that’s less than halfway along the south coast.) The well known populous spots along the coasts of Dorset and Hampshire can wait for another day.

There was a long list of boaty bits to buy, and repairs to carry out – even longer than usual. And of course I wanted to see family and friends.

Shopping is easy (especially with sister and friend in Exeter as postmistresses), and most repairs are now done. I can fix quite a lot myself. Good reliable professional help is hard to find and very difficult to pin down. Everybody wants the straightforward lucrative jobs, not the tricky stuff. So there seems to be a tendency in the boat trade to give false start dates and empty promises.

To compound the trouble with south coast maintenance and boating in general, marinas are extremely expensive, boatyards burdensome with rules, regulations and high charges, and usually crowded. 

All is not lost: everyone remains friendly! Countryside is gorgeous.

But, alas, my homeland is a land where high costs and ‘mañana’ rule the day. I’ve pulled out nearly all my hair, and will go and find somewhere else in Europe for lift out and more difficult boat maintenance.

With a month moored in Exeter Canal I was able to visit children, siblings and a few friends, and among many other things, enjoy the beer of the Turf Hotel (an excellent pub, its hotel status a relic of history). Given that I’ll not have Henrietta lifted out in England, the canal’s fresh water was an easy way to get rid of the saltwater weeds and bugs that dwelt on Henrietta’s bottom.

To close this quickly I’ll just say that I’m fond of England and value its countryside, admire many of its citizens and a few of its institutions (well, the BBC and libraries, and uuuhm…). But I’m embarrassed by, even ashamed of, too much: by its unrepresentative politics, its gossip-laden red top newspapers and its advanced state of self delusion.

I’m well aware of how very fortunate we are to live on our sailing boats with opportunities to go almost anywhere we choose. I’m excited now at the prospect of visiting distant and fascinating lands. Roll on some better weather!

21st April to 11th May 2023

Henrietta and I left the Canary Island of La Palma, bound for England, before the end of April. It’s about 1,600 miles, four hours by aeroplane, maybe two weeks or so by Henrietta. I thought perhaps we’d stop in the Azores on the way.

I’d decide later whether to stop, but several sailors had told me of a small island called Santa Maria, one of the Azores archipelago that I’d never visited, so it was tempting. (In the end I did stop, see later.)

There’s little wind to start with but we slop along northwards at about two knots basking in hot sunshine. I’m always loathe to start the engine – dirty, smelly, brutish beast.

A few days out and a flying hitchhiker joins us. He’s a fragile and exhausted looking little fellow. As a  bird spotter of limited talent, I can’t identify it. He’s probably blown far from his home and friends, and seems a bit lost. Surely not, do birds ever get lost I wonder?

After a few hours he grows accustomed to life on board and joins me in the cabin, resting quietly as I cook an evening meal. He’s not interested in the food I offer: crumbs of bread, finely chopped grape, boiled rice and vegetables. I name him Blip, not sure why.

Blip stays the night, sleeping over the bunk next to me, head lying peacefully over his back. The next morning he seems stronger, more alert, and when I look up from my book an hour later, he’s gone. We’re over 200 miles from the nearest land and he doesn’t seem very sure of himself, so I’m a bit concerned. Sure enough, like one of Noah’s doves, he flies back after half an hour, aware that there’s no land or friend within range. He seems stronger than a day ago and goes for a few short flights.

Another day and night passes, but Blip doesn’t seem to have an appetite, whatever I offer. So I’ve decided to take him to the Azores where he’ll perhaps find a new family and food he can enjoy. It seems a good reason to go to the Azores.

But the next morning, despite everything, he lies awkwardly on his side on the saloon berth. He’s dead. Not even a twitch of life. I feel very sad, he was an easy companion.

(Today, writing a fortnight later, bird watchers in St Agnes tell me Blip was a House Martin. He’d have been migrating from sub-Sahara Africa to Northern Europe. Blown off course or with poorly navigation he would have been hungry and tired, and as an insect eater, no wonder he didn’t fancy the food I offered.)

A couple of days later (and after more rain than I’ve seen in the past four months) I reach Santa Maria, the southernmost of the Azores islands, described as “The Sunshine Island of the Azores”. On arrival the sun does indeed shine once more. Formalities are soon done; the marina at this early stage of the season is pretty empty. 

The Azores (Portuguese) are a mere 500 miles north of the Canary Islands (Spanish). That much latitude makes a big difference to climate. High season in the Canaries is winter; in the Azores it’s summer. Before May few visitors are around. It is delightful. Streets are clean and fresh, countryside green and fertile, flowers bright with colour. Portuguese people are almost invariably calm, friendly, helpful and generous; here even more so.

I enjoy a few coastal walks. A deserted museum with chatty curator. Lots of coffee, beer and usual boaty anecdotes with fellow sailors. The whole island is less than ten miles long, scattered with small hamlets of freshly painted houses and pots of flowers. Total population 6,000.

After a week it’s time to move on. With a deadline for getting to England I’m not inclined to re-visit the other islands of the Azores, not this time. 

From Santa Maria it’s another 1,200 miles to southwest England, perhaps ten days or so. And, since forecasts that far ahead are unreliable in the North Atlantic, I just left, reasoning that there was bound to be a bit of bad weather somewhere along the way. Just go. Otherwise you sit around for ages waiting for that perfect moment – which never arrives – especially in early May.

In the event, weather gods were pretty amenable; my luck held, and it was a good brisk sail. Though it was hard to adjust to chilly weather, too much strong wind, big swell and two days of steady grey relentless rain, we reached the Scilly Isles in eight days.

Now I’m anchored at the little Scilly island of St Agnes. In a month or two it’ll be chockablock with anchored yachts, but now Henrietta is alone. This morning I find a fine cold day made fabulous with a rainbow and the screeching of overexcited oystercatchers. There are busy shag and excited guillemots diving for their breakfast too.

Slowly from here I’ll head on eastwards.