18th June to 2nd July 2026

And so from the Scilly Islands in the west I sailed a very leisurely fortnight to my home in Exeter. To be precise, I sailed about 150 miles stopping at my favourite anchorages in Cornwall and Devon to the river Exe and, early one calm and gorgeous morning, on through the lock gates to the Exeter Canal –  and then walked the final few miles to my house. 

My youngest ever crew, Clara, who’d last sailed with me from Senegal to Cabo Verde many months ago, joined for the final few days. She’d just walked the Coast Path from Penzance to Cawsand in record breaking time – carrying a rucksack that was almost as heavy as her. Oh! For the stamina and strength of youth.

Henrietta has covered over 10,000 miles since she was last home in England. She needs some maintenance. Actually she needs some very extensive and intensive tender loving care. But for now and once I can work the engine (for the last day I couldn’t engage forward gear except in the engine room!), I’ll potter around the English Channel to take advantage of some utterly wonderful summer warmth and sunshine. Very intensive TLC must wait till winter.

Ponta Delgada, Azores to St Mary’s, Scilly, UK

4th to 17th June 2026

This was another slow and frustrating sort of passage: fickle winds, calms, sails flopping, flapping and cracking to start with; then abrupt change to rough and tumble sort of weather. Of my nine Atlantic crossings this was certainly the most tiresome. The weather has been so unpredictable that the various forecasting models have often been stumped and plain wrong.

Either I’ve outgrown solo ocean sailing or 2026 will go down in history as the year when climate change became irreversible and very seriously troublesome for us all, and maybe both. Instead of the normal nine days, the trip took nearly 12. It’s only 1,200 miles.

If you’re an anxious sort of person then there are lots of things to be anxious about when you go sailing over oceans. I shan’t begin to draw up a full list but, to start with, there is your boat to worry about: rigging might break, stopcocks fail, electric failures and fire, sails to be shredded, keels to fall off (and I now learn, a Russian frigate!). Then there’s the ocean and weather: storms and squalls, calms, lightning strikes, fog, collisions with ships, fishing boats, old containers, tree trunks and whatever, a whale to upend you, an orca to sink you. And finally there’s you: accidents to break your bones, sickness, fatigue, lunacy and worse – much worse. 

See what I mean? A little boat on a big ocean becomes a minefield of anxieties; heaps of things to worry about. And that’s before you even start to consider really major anxieties like climate change, wars, pandemics and so on, let alone if it’s time to change your shirt or cut your fingernails. I don’t think I’m a particularly anxious individual but …..

On this trip the one concern which upset my calmness the most was fog. Fog lasted on and off for four days as I approached the shipping lanes and fishing grounds west of the English Channel (and it’s foggy as I write this in the Scilly Islands). Wet, all pervading fog that reduced visibility, brought a chill to the air, blocked out sunshine (needed to charge batteries) and left me exhausted. As soon as I started to think it was getting clearer, back came the oppressive all- encompassing cloak of fog, fog and denser fog. 

I sailed nervously in a white wet cocoon of fog. For, though I have radar and AIS to help see others (and help them see me), I feel doubly vulnerable and was constantly checking and peering into the gloom around me. It was a wretched sort of experience, though even then there was a memorable bright spell when a pair of pilot whales and then a pod of bottlenosed dolphins shared time in our murky little world. We chatted about the horrid weather.

A dove joined me for a while. I offered him muesli, bread, rice and water but after a day he left and I guess drowned. They are land birds often swept away by strong winds.

Apart from storms driving vessels onto dangerous shores, fog must be the next most hazardous natural force on the seas. 

Among the many dreadful maritime disasters caused as a result of fog, it was the Scilly Naval Disaster of 1707, when ships of Admiral Shovell’s fleet crashed into rocks near here killing 2,000 sailors, that led to the Longitude Act and thence to the development of an accurate chronometer for more accurate navigation. We now take accurate GPS navigation for granted but sometimes it’s worthwhile navigating without it. You learn how tricky things can be with poor visibility.

In 1875 in dense foggy conditions, S.S. Schiller the so called “Victorian Titanic”, hit rocks west of the Scilly Islands killing 311 passengers and crew. Many are buried in a local graveyard.

And more recently, it was collisions in fog in the Dover Straits that led to the creation of the world’s first ship Traffic Separation Scheme in 1967. Though initially voluntary its rules were tightened following catastrophic collisions in 1971. Two tankers collided and exploded, and two further ships then sank after hitting the wreck before there was time to mark it.

Fog is a real menace.

It has been a real delight to wander the verdant lanes and paths of St Mary’s. The countryside is beautiful, utterly intoxicating. Henrietta will not move till skies are brighter.

St Pierre, Martinique to San Miguel, Azores

May to 3rd June 2026

If you were a fish swimming in a straight line you’d find it was about 2,300 miles from Martinique in the Caribbean to the Azores island of San Miguel.  But if you’re a sailing boat that hates running its engine it’s a good bit further because you follow a giant curve first going northwards a thousand miles before turning eastwards. That way you have the best chance of having helpful winds. In theory it’s straightforward. 

Unfortunately the weather doesn’t stick to simple theories and, however sophisticated and amazing modern computer forecasts maybe, is always pretty unpredictable. This year the winds were very mischievous indeed. Henrietta didn’t much like it; nor did I. First there were twelve days of calm and light winds when sails flopped and slapped, and I sweated a lot with heat and frustration. For four days I took all sails down and just drifted. That was followed by uncomfortable choppy ocean and either near gale force winds or spells of wallowing around like a stunned heavyweight boxer. Days became exhausting as sails needed frequent adjustment: forever reefing, spinnaker pole up and down, gybing etc. Sleeplessness is inevitable on such trips. 

This year, with such unsettled conditions, the trip took a full week longer than in the past. Also, during a memorably rough evening when waves were big and I was tired, I hove to to get some rest and cook a meal, we were rolling mightily and, as I laboured over the stove, enjoying the drama of scenting exotic spices and a wild night in mid Atlantic, I heard the angry roar of a giant breaking wave heading for Henrietta. 

I hung on tight (you learn to recognise what’s coming next from noise and motion). Thundering wave crashed violently into Henrietta with a heavy thump and, as people say, all hell broke loose: Henrietta was flung on her side like a wrestler being tossed to the floor. In the galley the range of the cooker’s gimbals was far exceeded, and a saucepan of simmering chickpea, vegetable and coconut milk curry (one of my favourites) went flying – in fact it seemed to explode. And the huge rogue wave which overwhelmed the gimbals also broke the starboard dodger from its lashing, leaving it flogging with the noise of a dangerous battlefield.

What can you do when crying won’t help?

First, cut torn dodger free and put away for repair another day; then back to the curry. Oh dear me, what a mess. You would not believe the range of destruction that can be wrought by airborne curry. It even splashed the ceiling about a metre above it, (though at impact I guess the ceiling was alongside and not above it at all). What, I asked myself, could be worse, what might create more havoc than a gigantic curry explosion? Well, maybe spaghetti bolognaise or a creamy lasagne would be messier. But, to look on the bright side, there was a spoonful of curry left in the pan. Things could have been worse. I ate digestive biscuits that evening.

To add to the woes of this trip, sargasso weed extended much further east than in the past and in dislodging it from the Hydrovane rudder the end of the boat hook was lost.

So, in a state of troubled exhausted contemplation, I asked the inevitable question, “Why do it?” “Why do we do things that are sometimes very uncomfortable, potentially dangerous and certainly exhausting?” Here’s a quick answer.

Ok, so we all have to do some things, both things we can’t easily control like breathing and things we can control like eating. Then there are things we ought to do like housework, brushing our teeth and exercising. 

Then there are things we like to do, even love to do. These are the things we neither have to do nor ought to do, but do because we suppose we want to do for pleasure, fulfilment, interest or satisfaction. Obvious like activities such as lying on a comfortable bed or eating nice chocolate apply to most adults, but other activities are less clear. With sailing boisterous oceans it is much less clear why we like it – and, strangely, a lot of us do like it and indeed do it in increasing numbers.

Some people love playing rugby, riding horses, climbing icy mountains or playing golf. Others ballroom dancing, watching soap operas or shopping. We don’t usually ask why. Though all of those might make me feel rather uncomfortable.

I like sailing. (And having been fairly hopeless in most other aspects of life, it’s nice to find I’m adequately capable as a sailor). I like the opportunity and challenge of moving independently wherever I want on the planet with just weather and a little boat.  I like to experience the huge range of emotions that come with an ocean passage, from exhaustion through anxieties and challenges to a predominant feeling of exhilaration and joy. I love to watch marine life: a visit from dolphins, an occasional whale, soaring shearwaters, pretty little white tropic birds, gallant petrels and many more, the scatty flights of flying fish, bioluminescence twinkling under starlit nights. I value the feeling of exhilaration that comes with moving over the waves without engine, just the power of unsullied nature pushing you along. Above all I like to appreciate my insignificance in the vastness of time and space, and value these periods of freedom when I see that the most rewarding experiences really need very little from the material world we’ve created.

I guess that’s more or less it, at least for now. Somewhere there’ll be a library of PhD dissertations on the topic of human motivation; one day I might have a look.

So, I reached San Miguel in the Azores after 26 days. It wasn’t my planned destination of Terceira, but didn’t want to enter Angra do Heroismo on Terceira, at nighttime during a gale. That’s never a good idea.

For a few days I shall enjoy the delights of Ponta Delgada and countryside walks and the much needed cleaning, repairing, washing, resting, chatting, eating and walking. Then restock and head for England – about 1,200 miles away.

16th February to 21st April 2026

Before I sail back east across the Atlantic, back to Europe, I’ll tell you a bit about the East Caribbean and roughly how I’ve spent some of the past few weeks.

Lots of sailing, swimming, snorkelling and sweating, with brain turning to mush on account of overheated enervating days and silly amounts of rum. That’s more or less it. 

There have been periods of intense sociability, new and old friends along the way, and spells of peacefulness and solitude; large crowded busy anchorages followed by peaceful isolation in tiny coves. Maybe that doesn’t sound too bad if you’ve just emerged from a soggy and chilly winter in Britain or elsewhere in Northern Europe or America, your body pale and recently layered in thermals and waterproofs? But sailing in the Caribbean is not really my idea of ‘living the dream’ (Goodness knows what that may be).

Arrival in Martinique back in early February coincided with Carnaval, every day and some nights a riot of colour and noise, wild processions and excited participants. It’s a treat to experience such enthusiasm and creativity. Though I wasn’t in the capital, Fort de France, where the most exotic and ear-shattering events take place, there was noise all over the island. Lots of rum too. Back on earth, Henrietta’s genoa was repaired and I revisited favourite places from earlier stays (I’ve been here several times, many months in total.)

From Martinique I followed a time-honoured popular route northwards through the island nations of: Dominica (a land of lush forests, waterfalls and rainbows, plus multi-flavoured rum); Guadaloupe, including stays at its islands of Les Saintes and Marie Galante (historic forts, snorkelling, French tourism, plus rhum agricole); Antigua (super yachts and hyper super yachts, and lots of yachts, plus rum tots with thanks to the Royal Navy Tot Club); Sint Eustatius or Statia (Dutch architecture, happy folk and not a drop of local rum); and then back south via Montserrat, Les Saintes, Dominica and Martinique yet again. Nearly a thousand miles altogether.

The photos show snapshots from these places.

But, as readers may know, whilst appreciating my escape from a cold overcast European winter, I’m not a big fan of the Eastern Caribbean – even though I know lots of folk who love it. I look forward to resuming life in Europe. Why is it I wonder that despite the Caribbean sunshine, fine anchorages, varied scenery, excellent sailing winds, clean clear sea, beautiful picture postcard beaches, and challenging treks, why do I feel vaguely uncomfortable, a bit uneasy? There must be more to my discomfort than just finding it rather too hot.

Here, it’s a higgledy piggledy world of small countries permanently inhabited with some lovely friendly folk, overwhelmingly the descendants of 17th and 18th century slaves and a scattering of wealthy outsiders and others, visited in the winter by swarms of us lot, predominantly a relatively well heeled bunch of amiable wrinklies from Europe and North America (with apologies to those who are neither well heeled nor wrinkly). In strict terms of person numbers, of course visiting yacht sailors are vastly outnumbered by cruise ship passengers and regular airborne tourists (also well heeled and wrinkly), but most yacht crews stay much longer, see a lot more and spend more. (At one extreme, Antigua receives nearly a million cruise ship passengers a year (the country’s population is less than 100,000), and an estimated 50,000 people on 13,000 yachts. Apparently cruise passengers contribute $70 -100M to the economy, yachties $20-60M +. That’s per year, and together with hotel guests, is the mainstay of the economy in Antigua, one of the better-off independent countries.)

Some of us boat owners (though not me) could perhaps buy entire countries with the small change from our vast capitalist enterprises (NB. most islands are not for sale!). The superyachts in Antigua for example, seemed extremely big and shiny ten years ago; yet now they seem far grander, shinier and more numerous, a reflection of the increasing stupendous wealth of the super rich.

Such amazing craft are often beautiful, a joy to see under sail and a credit to designers and crew. To give you some idea, just the maintenance of a J Class yacht (there was a fine specimen in English Harbour, Antigua) costs over £3 million a year, not including the cost of maintaining its exceedingly smart tender. And ‘Black Pearl’, at anchor when I passed by, pictured above, is an extreme example but she is thought to have cost over £300 million. (The original oligarch owner died of covid alas, family allegedly still squabbling over it.) There are hundreds of millions being splashed out to keep them afloat and shining –  a hobby and ultimate status symbol for billionaires only. Yet a stone’s throw away, there is poverty, homesteads with peeling paint, rotting timber and inadequate roofs, roads are deeply extensively potholed and litter is scattered everywhere.

 Am I naïve or have us human beings gone completely mad!

The economies of many independent countries in the eastern Caribbean are almost wholly dependent on visiting tourists, the wealthier the better. These countries are I suppose the ‘beneficiaries’ of ‘trickle down economics’. If, like Dominica, your economy mainly relies on agriculture, bananas for example, then your people stay relatively poor.

I suspect part of the reason I enjoyed the tiny island of Sint Eustatius (a part of the Dutch Caribbean) so much is that it receives very few tourists and no cruise ships. Everyone seemed happy, helpful and friendly. Of course, the Dutch government helps fund it! Likewise the French government pours many  many millions of euros into the economies of Martinique and Guadeloupe. 

At this point I’ll stop. I’d written a lot more – but know I’m neither economist nor politician. So I’ve deleted it! Suffice to say, I know how fortunate and privileged I am; I’m simply uncomfortable with such extreme and gross wealth disparities. Over reliance on tourism doesn’t make for secure independence. Charity and generosity only go so far. Perhaps my discomfort in some of the Caribbean is as much to do with unfair political structures as it is to do with the heat, some absurd bureaucracy and petty crime.

I’ve enjoyed my days here, have met lots of extraordinary and friendly people and loved the natural worlds of mountains, jungles and sea. But it seems unlikely that I shall return.

When the weather looks more settled in the North Atlantic and rigging repairs are completed, hopefully next week, I’ll head for Europe.

Mindelo, Cape Verde, to St Anne, Martinique

19th January to 15th February 2026

Mindelo marina is much enlarged since I last visited over ten years ago, at least twice as big. The boom in long distance sailing means it’s pretty full. The office is more efficient and bar a lot busier. The city is scarcely recognisable. It’s cleaner, more touristy and full of cars. 

There are many more boat hitchhikers too, mostly youngsters bright and willing, looking for sailing trips to the Caribbean or Brazil. Most are doubtless interesting, lively, friendly and adventurous, often with an environmentalist aversion to aeroplanes.

There were dozens of such hitchhikers in the Canary Islands too. I trifled with the thought of picking up some company (and enjoyed being with mermaids as described in previous post) but, having now crossed oceans many times on my own, I decided not. I don’t like people all that much (just joking!); especially confined in close inescapable company for up to three weeks, together with all the anxieties and responsibilities that go with keeping them safe, nourished and happy!

Nowadays Mindelo has big cruise ships too. This monster, Cunard’s ‘Queen Anne’, over 1,000ft long and resembling a Soviet-era apartment block, was in port as I left, it’s 3,000 odd passengers ambling and shuffling the streets. 

I’ve now crossed the Atlantic seven times on my own, four times from east to west, three heading back to England from west to east.

Now isn’t the time to explain why I prefer being alone on oceans. Just accept that I find it’s the only way to feel truly connected with nature, with life, with the planet; and as a teeny weeny happy organism in timeless space. 

This crossing was a typical Trade Wind mix of rough and smooth, turbulent and windy to start, rolly and gentle along bits, some squalls. A handful of ships and one other sailing boat were all I saw. Chartplotter finally gave up the ghost (it had started to go wonky in Senegal) so I couldn’t see AIS targets (for non-sailors, AIS shows you vessels that are often well beyond visible distance). It took 16 days to reach Martinique. The genoa is torn, chartplotter useless and a few bits need fixing. 

You cannot do such a journey in a small boat without thinking of the Atlantic Slave Trade.The most gruesome part of this triangular trade route was certainly the westbound Atlantic slave transport crossing from Africa. No one knows how many perished, but every mile of the ocean floor will be scattered with the bones of those who died. It’s a terrible thought.

In the ten years I’ve sailed this bit of sea, there has been a big increase in the amount of sargasso weed and, this year, a big decline in the numbers of flying fish. (The weed is troublesome as it gets caught on Hydrovane rudder and it’s a precarious business going to the stern to clear it with a boat hook – several times each day and night).

I’ve had an informative discussion with ChatGPT about the weed/fish business. It  seems there has been a vast increase in Sargassum growth and it’s distribution has shifted from the area of Sargasso Sea which I learnt about in 1950s geography lessons. Weed can now cover big swathes of tropical and subtropical ocean. Flying fish numbers have declined too. Causes are not clear and as ever in the world of science, especially marine biology, more studies are needed.

There are several very good reasons for sailing to Martinique. Firstly, the French who run the place have the world’s most user-friendly yacht clearance/immigration set-up. No traipsing from one bureaucratic office to another, no grumpy officialdom, no exploitive permits or visas, just a few minutes on your phone (or their computers), a smile and €5 and you’re in! 

Secondly, there are lots of chandleries, experts and yachtie folk. So I already have a new chartplotter, sail being repaired and some welding done.

And though it costs a bomb, you can buy the same sort of goodies as you’ll find in France; good coffee too.

There are of course literally hundreds of sailing boats all over the place. Is this the busiest anchorage in the world? Oh! There’s Carnaval too. Pictures another time. 

1st December 2025 to 18th January 2026

(NB Pictures are a bit out of order – to be sorted)

To bring you up to date as briefly as possible I shan’t try to fill in details of the past several weeks. A broad brush sketch will have to do, just an outline.

So, I left La Gomera with three new crew members, young, lively and fun loving women from Spain and Germany who strived to keep their spirits high – my spirits too. They’ve hiked and talked and laughed and swam, and always looked forward to a hot shower. They have taught me much and, in turn, learnt some of the rudiments of sailing in the Atlantic.

After waving and clapping the Transatlantic rowers on their way (they set off from San Sebastián de La Gomera each year for the 2,500 mile journey to Antigua), and some mountain walks in beloved La Gomera we sailed on to El Hierro.

El Hierro is small and the most southerly of the Canary Islands. I’d not visited before. We stayed a few days, enough to gain some feel for the place.

Each of the Canary Islands has its own features, distinctive in its landscapes, architecture, peculiarities and, it seems to me, its people. 

El Hierro is especially mountainous and feels, and is, more rugged, empty and remote than elsewhere, perhaps people are poorer too. The mermaids walked further and higher than me. The bits I covered at about 1,000 metres high in winter were reminiscent of patches of Dartmoor or parts of arable Wales in summer, with dry stone walls, grazing cattle, a few horses, a few bars with convivial farmers. Cloud shrouded the higher lands and boulders were strewn hither and thither.

It’s a place to visit for longer than a week, perhaps another time.

After fond farewells to the few fellow sailors we’d met in the half empty marina at La Estaca, we sailed on south to Senegal.

Why Senegal? I had no pressing reason to visit. It’s not a country I knew anything about (except that having been a French colony it’s French-speaking – I hardly speak any French). I didn’t know anyone who had been there. It’s not even on the way to anywhere I wanted to go.

But you need to try new places, at least I do. Without new experiences, new people, new food, new challenges, life can grow stale. Your blessed comfort zone becomes just a bit too comfortable, and perhaps you grow complacent, plump and weary. I think I do. Hence a visit to Senegal seemed a good idea.

It was about 800 miles south from the Canaries to Dakar, Senegal’s capital, and my crew’s first experience of several overnights at sea. Spirits were dampened, smiles faded and a few stomachs heaved, but everyone whatever their discomfort loves tropical starlit nights, sparkling luminescence and the company of dolphins.

Nighttime arrival in Dakar six days later was pretty stressful: numerous small fishing boats, unlit big moored trawlers (apparently they are confiscated Chinese boats), anchored ships and assorted obstacles take anxiety to new heights. It was a relief to finally drop anchor. 

First day in any new country is usually taken up with immigration, customs, a bank, a new SIM card and assorted bureaucratic stuff. In Dakar, a busy, dusty, litter-strewn city of well over 3 million very friendly, helpful folk it does take a while. By sunset, crew have had a shower, and by next day, we feel pretty much at home, have found our way to the train station and tasted the local coffee. 

If you’re a sailor reading this, I can recommend the CVD (Dakar’s so-called yacht club) as the world’s best place to buy courtesy flags, any flag in fact. (Its other facilities are rudimentary. )

I have a truly gorgeous new red ensign, made to order. It’s so lovely that I’m reluctant to use it. 

Don’t remember how long we stayed in Dakar, but we visited thriving Gorre Island, an early French slave trading base and now an overcrowded tourist attraction approached on overcrowded ferries (it does have a good interesting slavery museum – also overcrowded!). And we were there for New Year’s Eve, girls to Reggae dance all night, me to watch fireworks, read a book and go to bed.

It’s soon time to leave Daker and move on, South along Senegal’s low lying coastline to the Sine-Saloum Delta, another UNESCO World Heritage site that I’d never heard of.

AI succinctly describes it as “a vast wetland of mangroves, mudflats, and islands…….renowned for its rich diversity, especially birds, and unique cultural landscapes featuring ancient shell mounds and fishing villages….abundant wildlife like flamingos, dolphins, and monkeys.”

We saw and heard all of the above; it’s nowhere like anywhere I’ve ever been, and in its special way feels magical.

A few pirogues (the colourful local boats used for fishing and passenger transport) whizz past with friendly waves.

AI doesn’t alas mention the poorly charted waterways (‘bolongs’) where you have a high chance of running aground if you happen to be sailing without detailed local knowledge. Henrietta experienced her first fully fledged, on-her-ear grounding – the first I’ve ever achieved. 

I’d managed this uncomfortably near a spring tide high water, so at least we had plenty of time to wander around our very own sandbank. 

Thankfully, very thankfully, with anchor from the stern and earlier soundings, we were floating again by midnight. Phew!

This is meant to be a summary blog – you may imagine how long the full story might take –  so I’ll skip much of the next week, when we meandered through more ‘bolongs’, landed on little deserted islands, and stopped at the memorable riverside town of Toubacouta. 

From Toubakoute a wonderful, fascinating and supremely helpful Bouba (a French educated mechanical engineer, who, when not in Toubacouta, works in Lausanne to keep Swiss railways running their impeccable timetables) took us to the Gambia border to enable passport stamping for our exit from Senegal. Bouba I should add is one of those amazing people whom you occasionally encounter in far flung corners of the planet whose life is well worthy of a fabulous biography.

Another dozen miles down the river Bandiala and a night, and romantic bonfire party for the crew, anchored along the way, before we get back to the Atlantic.

After an hour stuck on the river’s unmarked bar it was over an hour till we were finally away past anchored ships awaiting pilotage into Gambia, and out into the ocean.

Next stop, a few days and five hundred miles from Senegal was Mindelo in Cape Verde, where I hurriedly write this.

The brief spell here has been busy with shopping, chatting to fellow sailors, wandering the streets, all the usual stuff! My crew of three wonderful young Europeans must move on for more adventures; tomorrow Henrietta and I will probably head for the Caribbean. 

4th June to 30th November 2025

Here are a few ideas for reusing those old shoes and clothes — and even the odd kitchen appliance. My favourite is the wooden telegraph pole hung with shoes arranged as makeshift bird nests. I’m not sure the birds agree though; when I passed last week only one shoe seemed to be occupied.

I’m back once again on the heavenly little island of La Gomera. Regular readers already know it’s my favourite of all the Canary Islands, so I won’t repeat its many charms and delights.

As usual, I seem to be extending my stay — either unwilling or just too lazy to abandon the easiness of life in this very comfortable comfort zone: the bars and shops I know, the bakeries and market stall holders who recognise me, the familiar streets and houses, even the buses and their drivers.

It’s been several months since I last wrote, so here’s a quick update.

Summer at home in England, mainly Exeter, was wonderful — so wonderful that I can almost imagine settling back in England one day, even if the winters are long, dark, and damp, and motor cars clutter every available space on streets and roads. It was especially good to spend more time with family and friends. Picking blackberries is a joy, too. Plus country walks and seaside picnics.

And whatever others may say, English cheeses remain the best in the world. Likewise the BBC.

But by late September England had grown too chilly, and I returned to the Canaries, the warm sunshine — and Henrietta.

Here she is after her summer holiday in the boatyard, freshly antifouled and polished, waiting to be relaunched in Tazacorte, La Palma.

From La Palma, it was a brisk, bouncy 50-mile sail southeast to La Gomera — enough to make muscles ache and stomach go queasy. Since then, Henrietta has been dozing in the marina here in San Sebastián.

There have been visits from Armelle (La Parisienne) and my middle son, Tom. Here we are trundling along the island’s hiking trails. I know most of the paths but, true to form, still manage to get lost too often.

Still, I’ve decided that too long in a comfort zone eventually stops being comfortable. Diehard nomads can never settle for long.

It’ll soon be time to move on — probably.

But first I’d like to watch the start of the Transatlantic Rowing Race, which this year has its biggest ever entry. Here are the 43 rowing boats waiting to be launched. Crews then have nearly 3,000 miles to row to reach Antigua in the Caribbean.

It’s been ten years since Henrietta came into my life. Apart from brief spells on land, she’s been my floating home all that time. Together we’ve visited countless wonderful places, met amazing people, and sailed some 85,000 miles, including two Atlantic Circuits, one circumnavigation and other bits and pieces.

She may be ten years older, 25 not 15, and I may be too, 75 not 65. But whereas she has lots of new bits to keep her youthful and strong (everything from sails and rigging to ropes and batteries and much more), I’m still the original model, no new bits, just slightly worn out old bits. Recent sailing in the boisterous conditions that occur around the Canary Islands has been testing!

This is to say, I don’t plan to stop sailing just yet but I am going to try a summer in England living in a house. Henrietta can rest in Tazacorte boatyard on the island of La Palma. She’s not spent three months out of the water before.

Britain is not nearly as dreadful as the media like to tell us; though I’ve felt compelled to write letters to my M.P. about its tacit support for the orange headed monster across the sea, and lack of condemnation for the cruel, ruthless and dishonest leaders in Israel, Sudan, Russia and elsewhere.

But, away from global horrors and just so you know what has been going on….from a few weeks in England with the delights of children and friends to see, plus Devon, Sheffield, spring flowers and country walks, I returned to Tenerife for more sailing and mountain walking. Then on to La Gomera, for more spring flowers and ever-wonderful mountain walks. 

And for spring flowers on La Gomera…….

Now, on the island of La Palma, there’s a space in Tazacorte boatyard where Henrietta may rest awhile. With help from fellow live-aboard, Rian, she came out of the water this morning.

1st January to 15th March 2025

I’ve just flown back to sunny, very chilly England, and trips by plane are fresh in my mind.

I have to tell you that flying is a pretty dreadful way to travel!

After at least an hour’s delay in a crowded terminal you’re squeezed into a plastic and aluminium tube with lots of assorted others, breathing processed recycled bug-infested air. You feel your feet swell and your ears pop; and perhaps drink the world’s most overpriced and revolting coffee, and ponder the nagging guilt from your inexcusable contribution to global meltdown. 

Of course flying is fast and easy, but if you’re at all like me, you do anxiously look forward to getting your feet on the ground once more.

Despite its horrors, did you know that at any one time, well over a million of us are whizzing through the skies. Add to that the countless millions of others clogging airports – meeting, greeting, queuing and cursing – and it’s clear that a big chunk of humanity is swallowed up in the loathsome business of air travel.

I’d not been on a plane for several years and had almost forgotten how horrid it was. In future I’ll try to stick to my sailing boat.

But that’s enough of that. Flying is an unavoidable part of 21st century life.

Before the flight home, the start of 2025 passed happily enough – very happily in fact.  A few weeks in the much-loved island of La Gomera with another visit from two wonderful sons; walking, talking, playing, swimming. 

Although I’m blessed (or perhaps cursed) with an unquenchable nomadic spirit, an almost constant urge to move on, I do appreciate the joys of staying put in one place for a while. In La Gomera, it’s wonderful to know local people, recognise regular visitors, and feel at home in local shops, on the beaches and along the many mountain paths that weave through the island’s magnificent rocky ravines and craggy peaks. 

Over the past ten years, I’ve spent more time in La Gomera than anywhere else on earth. What a thought. If I were Spanish, I think I’d live here.

With most of Henrietta’s repairs completed – sails, rigging, bimini, spray hood and electrics – it was time to move on to Tenerife for welding and other tricky bits that were beyond my rudimentary abilities. But, really, I doubt anyone wants to read about endless boat maintenance, so I’ll skip to something far more exciting – Tenerife at carnival time.

Carnival is all about noise and colour – lots of both. And quite a bit of drink, too. The noise comes from several big stages set up with some of the world’s most advanced amplifiers and speaker systems. To get full advantage of the work that goes into setting up the stages, lights and noise systems, they blast out music much of the day and almost all the night – every night. (The noise, I should tell you, is the sort that thumps you in the chest and reduces your brain cells to mush.)

Well past the age of all-night revelry I’ve spent a couple of weeks lying in bed awake at 3 a.m. wondering if it’s finally time to invest in earplugs. I don’t get earplugs. Instead I tell myself to stop being so silly and appreciate my free front row ticket to a fabulous range of Canarian music culture.

Oh! There’s also a funfair about a hundred metres from Santa Cruz marina. True to the theme of noise and colour, it’s full of thrills, colourful flashing lights and a chorus of the shrieks of overexcited youngsters. Action includes lots of gravity-defying whirly machines that can fling you, drop you, toss you and spin you – anything really to make you scream. Whatever happened to beautiful horses gently circling a carousel? Or winning a goldfish by tossing a little hoop over a stick?

Carnival concludes (except for the funfair) with a dazzling fireworks display – a final explosion of noise and colour. And by this stage, I’ve come to love it all.

There are many fine mountain walks in Tenerife, so, together with local interests in Santa Cruz – museums, auditorium, parks – and extensive bus services, I’ve begun to find my way around the peaks of the Anaga Rural Park. 

25th November 2024 to 1st January 2025

From Lanzarote there was a pleasing overnight sail to Gran Canaria before cruising on to Tenerife, a gentle few days to end November.

But now, writing this at the start of another year, 2025, means I pause and reflect on the past year. 

For so many around the world, 2024 was a terrible year of struggle and suffering – especially you must think of those in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Mayotte and countless other troubled places; you have to appreciate your own privileged extreme good fortune. If you’re reading this you are alive, probably safe, well fed, housed and generally unthreatened. 

For me, on Henrietta, the year gave just over 10,000 miles of great pleasure and adventure, a few frustrations and troubles – the highs and lows of sailing life. Meeting old friends and new, visiting well-known old haunts and finding new ones. Another extended Atlantic Circuit, cruising the English Channel, a two month rest in Exeter Canal and train trips to friends in Continental Europe.

Early December, Tenerife…..

Now, I find myself back in La Gomera, my favourite Canary Island. This is just a short post as I’m still recovering from a long mountain walk yesterday and from noisy New Year festivities last night.

It’s been a joy to have wonderful visits from my two elder sons, Johnny and Tom; walks and meals with fellow West Country sailor, Nigel; a sail and brisk mountain walk with lovely Laura and her mother, Yvonne; and, as ever, boat maintenance work and extensive solitary walks in the mountains.

Spare a thought for the trans Atlantic rowers who left La Gomera well before Christmas and are now about half way to Antigua.