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.

13th September to 12th November 2022,

Exeter, England to Porto Santo, Portugal

I’ve not been feeling inclined to write for a while. Haven’t felt inspired. There didn’t seem to be much to say.

But, in case you have wondered what happened to Henrietta, here’s a brief update. Plus, it’s a good thing if I pause awhile and think of what has happened. It’s not as if life has been totally empty and on hold.

Henrietta left Exeter Canal (SW England) mid-September, accompanied by me and a more-or-less lovely lady, Kimberly, from Florida (the wonders of crew by internet).

It would be nice to tell you that I simply jumped on board, cast off mooring lines and my bad shorebound lifestyle and picked up the wholesome life of a liveaboard sailor. I might have said that I used to do pretty much nothing on land except moan about the state of British decay and behave like a fully-fledged old grumpy whereas now I’m a new man bursting with good humour and fresh salty air. Not true.

In truth it hasn’t been like that at all. Apart from the fact that I didn’t do nothing on land its really been a case of swapping one set of pretty bad habits (the things I do as a landlubber) for another set of pretty bad habits (the things I do as a live aboard sailor). 

Bad habits in a house include watching rubbish on telly, eating excessive loads of cheese, drinking a long way over the limit, biting my fingernails and sleepless nights pondering the nature of Britain’s woes. At sea, bad habits include chronic idleness, daydreaming, looking at waves, singing to dolphins and gannets, listening to Spotify, cursing Brexit and eating sweets, and continuing the sleepless nights but with a different set of preoccupations.

Adjusting from one set of bad habits to another takes a few weeks or months. I’m still in the uncomfortable transition zone, a mild maritime purgatory, where I’m a bit lost, don’t know what I’m doing on a boat, make lots of mistakes (couldn’t even get out of a windy marina without cocking it up and being ignominiously towed out backwards!), injure bits of my body I’d forgotten about and adjust to sleep deprivation, queasiness and ceaseless movement.

To get back to the sailing, after leaving Exeter, we popped in to nearby Dartmouth for final bits of new rigging (NB anything to do with sailing boats costs a bomb in Britain, with reliability and quality optional extras – avoid if you can), then sailed over to Northern Spain.

It was the nicest of several Biscay Bay crossings I’ve done: four days of sunshine, moonshine and good winds, stronger near the end, but altogether joyful.

We dabbled in and out of the Spanish Rias, anchored off scenic little islands, took a bus from the pretty village of Muros and milled around with the billions of latter day ‘tourist pilgrims’ who nowadays flock to Santiago de Compostela, feeling happily dwarfed and soothed by the magnificent architecture (and not in the least bit spiritual). 

and took a bus to Santiago

Then, on to Vigo, and thence down the Portuguese coast to Viana do Castelo from where I enjoy a day trip to Porto, ticking off yet more of the tourist checklist. And a few days later, from the coastal town of Cascais, enjoy another trip to fascinating, historic and hilly Lisbon – an easy train ride from super swanky Cascais (where, sign of the times, anything a sailor needs such as chandlery or sailmaker has been displaced by worthless shops selling Rolex watches, high-end fashion and perfume).

This coastline now has some orcas who’ve taken to ramming small sailing boats, in several cases destroying rudders, even, I’ve been told, sinking one unlucky boat.

Why orcas do this is for now a marine mystery, but it does add to the anxieties of coastal sailing trips. Orcas are beautiful, highly intelligent and deservedly protected, but whether for play or war, they have been causing troubles for many sailors. No one really knows what to do. I just crossed my fingers and whispered nice things into the night sky, and all was fine.

By this stage the lady Kimberly from Florida (who works) had been exchanged for a delightful damsel, Merle from Hamburg (who doesn’t, for now). The former introduces me to the trials of internet working on a little boat. The latter is a gorgeous treat who introduces me, among many other things, to the fine cuisine of a dedicated vegan – sadly she was with me just two weeks.

And so once more I’ve found myself in charge of only my own destiny. I’m happy – most of the time.

Today, I wobble gently in the twinkling waters of Porto Santo’s little harbour. Porto Santo, in case you haven’t been here, is Madeira’s minuscule neighbour, some 40 miles away. It suits me with its friendly, polite and gentle residents, small mountain peaks and very low key tourism. There are fine sandy beaches and lots of hilly walks; warm winter sunshine too. 

I meet a good assortment of friendly fellow sailors, am more gregarious than ever on land, and slowly, very slowly, get a bit stronger, more barmy, and more wrinkly and happier. It’s a good sort of lifestyle for incurable nomads, people like me, who don’t much care for camels or campervans, and love being close to Mother Nature.

As is often the case, I haven’t a clue where I’m going next, but I guess will gradually move on to the Canary Islands. (I’ve not been spending all those weeks with Duolingo Spanish for nothing.)

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And now for something completely different.

Here’s something that’s been on my mind for a long while: Brexit. Don’t groan, don’t look the other way, don’t have a heart attack, and don’t do anything silly.

And if you are sick and tired of all things Brexit, read no further. Stop right now.

I bring it up, not because it’s a big event in global affairs. Compared to wars, climate change, poverty and such horrors Brexit seems irrelevant. I bring it up because blue water sailing is an international pastime – at least international among most affluent maritime nations, and now I’m in Europe my sailor friends are predominantly from EU countries. I’m asked why Britain left – as if we were all mad. Our decision is seen as equivalent to that of America electing Trump. And as holders of UK passports we are liable to time limits on how long we stay.

I know “the British People” voted to leave the EU. (We’re reminded of the British People’s wishes ad nauseam. [In fact it was well under one third of the population who voted to leave].)

BUT, big BUT, please can someone in the know remind me of the benefits of Brexit. All you folk who voted ‘leave’, many I dare say with daily experiences of EU cost and harm, or with current experiences of the ‘huge benefits’ promised, or buying and cherishing the Telegraph, the Daily Express or other such organs of selective wisdom and halfhearted truth, remind me. I can pass it on whenever I’m asked.

What are or will be or might be the benefits? (And before you mention abstract notions of freedom, sovereignty, independence, opportunity, please think hard and explain precisely what you mean.)

And if your considered response is that it’s ‘early days’ or ‘it may take a while’, please, oh please, tell me how long I must wait. Or must my children wait? (And of course I do not deny the EU has troubles.)

And if you are of a more serious-minded disposition and want to drag me through the reasoned beliefs and your convictions that elevate or benefit an independent little Britain in a globe of giants, please educate me.

I am desperately sad and often pretty angry at being a non-EU European. Now’s your chance to tell me why it’s such a good thing to have self-expelled Britain, why I got it wrong, why you’re right, and why I must open my eyes or be patient for the benefits. 

OR please may you have the good grace or humility to consider you might, you just might have got it wrong.

26th July 2022

After a spell on land – eight months in fact – it’s hard to decide whether to sail again or stay ashore. To sail or not to sail?

It is not so much a question of whether to sail again (I have done and certainly shall do more) as whether to be a normal and proper part-time sailor, like most folk (with smaller boat for local trips) or an improper full-time liveaboard sailor (with beloved Henrietta for longer overseas travels). I am lucky I suppose to have a choice.

Life on land through the past winter and spring has been pretty good to me: a home in a fine English city, wonderful family, a few good friends, an unchallenging routine, and an expanding waistline – all this in a country that’s free of major conflict, starvation, and serious oppression – albeit with a government that embarrasses me, policies that offend me and national self-image that seems woefully and extraordinarily misguided. (Wouldn’t blogs be dull without the odd opinion?)

But such matters are of little interest to others.

So I’ll move on to another trivial question.

Whether to continue writing this blog once more or simply keep my rambles to myself?

On the one hand blogs are self-indulgent, often a tedious rambling account of where I go, whom I meet and what I eat plus some ill-conceived opinionated drivel, and they’re rather time-consuming for both you and me.

On the other hand they may be informative, interesting and emotive. I guess it’s for the reader to judge. If you want to read, then do (and my tiny group of ‘followers’ does seem to want to); or, if you don’t want to read, then don’t (unless you really have nothing better to do).

So here we are, Henrietta and I together once more, bobbing at anchor in the Isles of Scilly – one of my favourite local destinations. I’m just back from the pub, in a good and tipsy mood, receptive to the delights of gulls and cormorants, enjoying the sounds of wind in rigging, clear blue sea and a setting sun.

It’s been a trial run from her winter berth on Exeter Canal, to see if boat and I still work ok. I reckon we both work all right, although nothing seems to be going very smoothly! I’d forgotten how uncomfortable and tricky sailing can be.

Boat (dear Henrietta) has Electrical Problems. They, the electrics, are, as they say, up the spout, with alarms going off as bits fail and instruments go wonky, sending an assortment of beeps and squeaks to tell me what I don’t want to know. This electric stuff was one thing that our sailing forebears didn’t have to trouble with (though the downside was they never knew exactly where they were and they had to ‘swing the lead’ to see how deep it was). On reflection I can see there were a few advantages in the sailing days before chartplotters and AIS and radar and echo sounder and GPS, and radio. Not many though.

I have muscle problems, balance irregularities and gastrointestinal woes. I.e. muscles seem to have disappeared under the winter delights of good cheese and chocolate biscuits and mashed potato. And sea legs have transposed into grade A flab and queasiness. Heaven forbid, I’ve almost been sick.

The bright point was setting forth and frolicking about on some of England’s hottest days ever. I didn’t need my thermal underwear.

And to finish this briefly (a few weeks later), I sailed for a few weeks along England’s gorgeous southwestern coastlines of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset and Hampshire (Isles of Scilly to Solent) fixing Henrietta’s delicate bits and redeveloping muscles and sea legs, meeting old friends, and finding new ones, and remembering how demanding and how rewarding life at sea can be. I’ve managed to avoid marinas on the south coast. (Nowadays you have to win the lottery or rob banks if you want to stay overnight in them.)

Henrietta has just been lifted out of the water so we can fix more bits. The mast has to come down too. Rigger has made suggestions tantamount to a death sentence. I have yet to decide where or when to go next. Will let you know – probably.

July to October 2021

9th November

In July, in a little boatyard in Totnes, a few miles upriver from Dartmouth (England), Henrietta was hauled out of the water (she needed some work). I went to live in my house (I needed some work).

 It felt very strange to live in a house. Too strange.

And so, after a few weeks seeing friends and family, I got back on my boat and went back to sea. Just for a while, for some end-of-season sailing – into autumn at least.

It was a mixed few weeks of late-summer English sailing: the novelty of fog, wildly varying wind and weather, gales and calms, warm sunshine and merciless rainfall. But the sea remained warm for swimming and blackberries were bountiful. We flittered east to Cowes and back west to Falmouth once more, before coming to rest a few days ago on the Exeter Canal just a few miles from home.

I was delighted to sail again with old friend Andrew, and to meet sister and cousins. And delighted too to sail again with Laura (last seen as crew in Sumatra and Jakarta), this time accompanied by Hendrik; and meet again Thom (last seen off the north Australian coast on his circumnavigation with little yacht Fathom). Then, once home, meet again Jenny and Simon (Fenicia, last seen in Dominica) and Nigel (Juliet, last seen in Portugal).

Ah! the wonderful joy of friends. On land I have few; at sea, many.

Landlubbing now In my house, front door has replaced companionway, bed replaced berth, hot shower in lieu of seawater swim, easy stroll to shop instead of dinghy or kayak ride ashore. All the trappings of normal urban life: traffic noise, council tax, limitless news gloom, unwanted emails, chronic parochialism, sensational headlines, unending junk mail and so on.

Nonetheless, when living on land, it is undeniably good to enjoy a hot shower (even a bubble bath, even a very bubbly bath), plus easy access to shops, reliable communications, unlimited electricity and gas, a big bouncy bed, a washing machine and television. But such things are just cotton wool and padding. They crush one’s vitality. They simply seem to muffle the essence of life. 

And whilst it’s true that life on a small boat has elements of discomfort, confinement and inconvenience, plus travelling bureaucracy and endless chores, the awful truth is that for now I feel more at home, more fulfilled, happier and probably healthier on my little boat. When afloat I feel aware, liberated, interested and thoughtful in a way that eludes me with dirt-dwelling, shore-bound life. My comfort zone at sea may often be sleep-deprived, challenging and awkward, but it’s preferable to a comfort zone of risk-limited absurdity, day-to-day trivia and a sense of entrapment.

I’m reminded that at sea I love the closeness of nature and constant awareness of being alive. I know the phase of the moon and every subtle shift of wind and waves. I’m acutely aware of the presence of boundless universe, the warmth of the sun, the harsh power of strong winds, the beauty of clouds and majesty of ocean swell. The joy of seeing birds as they dive and swoop and soar, or just bob peacefully upon the waves; the never-ending delight of dolphins leaping at one’s side; sometimes a whale, and, in warmer waters, the scatty glistening flight of flying fish. A raw rocky coastline, distant clusters of human habitation, the overarching sky and infinite variety of clouds.

It’s only in the great outdoors that we are aware of such things. And nowhere has more of the ‘great outdoors’ than the world’s oceans.

For the past six years of sailing I have felt happiness and fulfilment far outweigh ennui and melancholia. On land for now the reverse is sometimes sadly true. It probably wouldn’t be the same for you. Almost certainly not.

Could be I’m just a freak, a compulsive waterborne nomad. And I am quick to point out that I really do have absolutely nothing to complain about on land, that I live in England’s most enchanting county (Devon), in the country’s best small city (Exeter), in what is perhaps the most civilised continent in the world (Europe), have wonderful neighbours on a friendly street, and do enjoy beautiful local countryside and the easy pleasures of television.

It would be a gross generalisation and simplification to suggest people thrive on a modicum of discomfort and risk, but I suspect that though the human quest for seemingly unlimited and costly comfort, and risk-free life may give us longer lives, bigger bums and fairer skins, it is for the most part really very silly – just another manifestation of Homo Sapiens gone barmy.

But that’s enough of my ramblings! I hear my friends telling me to shut up, and to stay well away from such stuff.

Here are a few photos from the last months of sailing in England.

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Here are a few dry facts and figures from the past six years of active sailing with the long suffering and invincible Henrietta.

Year 1 (2015/16): Atlantic Circuit 11,830 nautical miles.

Years 2 – 6 (2016 – 2021) Circumnavigation 45,280 nautical miles.

In total about 2,200 days at sea, 57,100 miles, 720 anchorages, seven ocean crossings, lots of countries (which I’ve not yet added up), many many islands (again, not added up). 

I’ve encountered more than 300 boats and their 630+ sailors (I know because I wrote down all boats’ and people’s names). And met hundreds of others in the many places I’ve stopped.

You have given me pleasure, interest and some confidence in our planet’s future.

Thank you for all your friendliness, help and companionship.

16th February to 20th April 2021

I’ve been here in Martinique for two months now. But before I tell you of life in Martinique, here’s a quick postscript for Saint Helena – that tiny isolated island of some 4,300 inhabitants in the South Atlantic, where Henrietta was not to linger and I was not allowed to land.

Skip the next few paragraphs if you want to read only of Martinique.

I did at first write rather a lot about Saint Helena, several pages in fact. I’ve deleted it. It’s best not to upset too many people. In any case no one really wants to read too much horrible stuff (that’s what the newspapers give you). 

The British Overseas Territories are a formidable topic for study, Saint Helena is just one of those Overseas Territories. So, prudence being the better part of valour (is that what people say?), I’ll spare you the the first draft. 

The good news is that Saint Helena reopened to visiting yachts at the start of April. 

The sad news is that in having looked more closely at the island’s recent history, decision-making and funding, I seem to have uncovered a can of worms, several cans in fact. I hesitate before telling you…….actually I shan’t tell you much. If interested, you can find out more and ask your own questions.

One of two matters worth a look is the new airport. At best it is an amazing project completed despite its complexity, at worst it’s a serious “embarrassment” and a ”fiasco” – according to the UK Public Accounts Committee (Airport Report )

The other matter is Lord Michael Ashcroft, a keen advocate and lobbyist for Saint Helena. He might be wealthy philanthropic angel or self-serving villain, or simply one of those rather powerful misguided missiles. It all depends. He’s perhaps all three. In any case his influence and involvement with the island is interesting. (Lord Ashcroft) (Ashcroft on St Helena Covid )

As for British funding for Saint Helena, for 2020/21 the UK taxpayer pays “up to £34.3 million”, around £8,000 per inhabitant. 

Cost of the airport to the UK taxpayer “up to April 2016” was £238.9 million (over £55,000 per inhabitant). Further work on the airport is ongoing. I’m waiting for a further reply from FCDO (UK Foreign Office).

That’s enough about Saint Helena….moving on to Martinique………

First I’d like to sing my praises for the French. Just look at what they’ve come up with.

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After the Eiffel Tower there’s camembert, good wine, exotic underwear, Tour de France, Pasteur, Flaubert, fine perfume, the guillotine ……You’d perhaps consider the French to be creative, inventive, cultured, sexy and adventurous. But you’d not think of the French as particularly sensible; well I wouldn’t. They’re often charming, generous, adventurous, outspoken and beautiful…but not notably rational.

Yet, when it comes to the tiny little business of how to treat long distance cruising sailors in the time of Covid, France, at least outside mainland France, is one of the world’s most reasonable and considerate of nations.

If you’ve been isolated at sea for an extended time (and you’re still alive), the odds on your being a carrier of the bug are virtually non-existent. This is understood by the French – in Réunion and Martinique anyway (the two French island territories I have visited in the past few months). I have been allowed to come here, to stay, do boat repairs, go shopping, walking, swimming and subject to local rules, carry on with life. Good sense prevails. They’ve not forgotten the importance of liberté.

There’re not many places where decisions are so sane. The list of countries that have treated long-distance yachting folk as insufferable and unwanted is surprisingly long – countries which you’d normally think of as sensible. I shan’t name them. But I shan’t forget them.

It’s always good to reconsider our preconceptions.

Countries that are accepting yachts must be benefitting financially from the business we bring. Certainly in Martinique and Réunion (and in Cape Town) boatyards are busy, and skilled workers are fully booked up.

Martinique is French territory. This delightful Caribbean island let me in. I needed to do repairs, and after six weeks at sea needed food and water. They check papers and passport to confirm where I’ve been, ask if I feel well, then I’m free. As I say, I’ve been here two months.

Given that movement around the Caribbean islands is now troublesome (though perfectly possible) with ever-changing rules and restrictions (plus spells in quarantine, testing costs etc), I’ve taken the easy option and stayed in Martinique, sailing all over the place, while fattening up on good bread, cheese and wine, and making more effort to learn more French.

Time passes fast and easily enough. Among the hundreds of boaters anchored in the main anchorage of St Anne are some of those wonderful and indispensable human organisers who arrange small social events, activities and self-help. We’re an international crowd, understandably dominated by the French and, as always with the cruising community, overwhelmingly friendly, good humoured and supportive.

To help keep moderately sane and fit, and to fight-the-flab, I join others for aquarobics (they call it ‘noodling’, the long tube of colourful plastic being a noodle – a frite in French). And often walk a few miles along the coast or up a mountain, kayak ashore for shopping or a meal, go snorkelling and attend occasional mini- parties.

But busy anchorages are not really my cup of tea, so I’ve spent most of the time, a few weeks, sailing slowly around Martinique stopping wherever looks sheltered and pretty, exploring lesser known, out-of-the-way places.

It is a mountainous volcanic island, three times the size of the Isle of Wight (Southern England). This ‘island of flowers’ is pleasingly spectacular with towering peaks, fine forests and exquisite beaches. Coral and fish life is poor alas, though turtles and rays are plentiful; and there are many pelicans, frigate birds and other sea birds.

The highest peak here, Mount Pelée, is a bit higher than Britain’s highest mountain, 1,397 metres. It’s a volcano which exploded in 1902 and was the most deadly volcanic eruption of the 20th century – the entire town of St Pierre (which was then the capital) was destroyed; nearly 30,000 people were killed (the sole survivor a prisoner in his heavy stone-walled cell); and the ships anchored offshore were sunk (now popular dive sites).

There are dozens of anchorages up the sheltered west coast, most with a few boats bobbing about. The capital, Fort-de-France, a thriving and colourful hub of activity (somewhat suppressed by global bug), a very active sailing school at Schoelcher giving hours of entertainment. My favourite stop, Anne Couleuvre, a so-called ‘day anchorage’, a bit rolly (overnight just me) and at the start of an especially beautiful forest walk in one of several Nature Reserves. And there are many peaceful anchorages along the east coast too, nestling behind the reefs which give protection from the Atlantic swell.

Recently further restrictions have been introduced. Even small gatherings are no longer allowed, cafes and so on only give takeaways, many shops have shut.

So in a few days I’ll head for the Azores. It is another big hop, about 2,300 miles, perhaps two or three weeks’ sailing. It’s what thousands of sailors have been doing for a very long time. It’s roughly what I did myself a few years ago.