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.

10th to 24th November 2024

If you sail between Madeira and the Canaries, you may come across a remote rocky outcrop, the Selvagem Islands (Savage Islands).

These islands form the southernmost part of Portugal. They are a well protected Nature Reserve but, with a  permit from Portuguese authorities, you can visit the larger one, Selvagem Grande, and if weather all right, can anchor in a rocky bay, and radio for permission to go ashore.

So, after a brisk and choppy overnight sail for the 170 miles from Madeira, I did visit Selvagem Grande, and dropped anchor on a sunny afternoon off the two concrete blocks that are home for the few temporary residents.

There were five people there: two policemen, two rangers, and a research student, all very interesting and friendly. 

One of the policemen, a young man from Lisbon, had the biggest biceps I’ve ever seen. Made Arnold Schwarzenegger look like a stick insect. It would have taken ages for the tattoo artist to get around such arms.

The rangers, at least the one who showed us round, had a truly vast understanding of everything about the history, geography and natural history of the area; there was no question he wasn’t confident in answering. And the young student from Lisbon University was researching the love lives of, I think, the Madeiran storm petrel. The gps-tagged birds she was watching hadn’t all returned to their nests within her three week stay, so she had to stay another three weeks – that being the time between each visit of the supply boat.

Next morning, just as the ranger was about to take me for a walk (you can’t go on your own), two more sailing boats appeared:- One, a charter yacht with ten Poles, the other a charter yacht with three or four Austrians. So, by the time their papers and passports are checked, it’s another couple of hours before we finally set off for our guided tour, by then a pretty big group. 

It was wonderful. 

I shan’t be dull with a long description of all we saw and learnt, but here’s the link to relevant pages of Wikipedia , if you want more.

From Selvagem Grande it was another fine overnight sail to the island of La Graciosa, a Nature Reserve just north of Lanzarote in the Canary Islands. 

There are hundreds of people here, dozens of bars and restaurants, small supermarkets and holiday accommodation. Tourists arrive on frequent ferry services from Lanzarote.

A fleet of Landrovers cruise and bump along the unpaved roads, clouds of dust in their wake. And energetic cyclists on rented mountain bikes pant and sweat on the few designated sandy tracks.

The whole place is dusty brown and arid, the two small towns having the feel of early settler places in the  American Midwest. Not really my cup of tea, so after a couple of nights, it’s time to move on south to Lanzarote.

You’ve probably been to Lanzarote (about three million visitors arrive every year) or live here (nearly ten thousand Britons do), so I shan’t say much about it. It’s about 30 miles top to bottom, with a series of desiccated brown grey volcanic mountains, long dormant volcanoes, along its spine. The only greenery comes from straggly cactus and a few palms.

I’d wondered why all the houses are white – so asked. The answer is that a famous artist from the island, Cesar Manrique, decided it. After making a name for himself as a distinguished artist in New York, he returned to Lanzarote in the 1960s, renewed a childhood friendship with the island’s president, and set out his architectural and planning visions for development. Cesar must have been an influential fellow.

Lanzarote is certainly distinctive, with almost entirely low rise, brilliant white buildings, and pleasing imaginative meandering walkways in the many pedestrian areas. It’s much more upmarket than the tourist slum developments of Southern Tenerife. Plus, in Lanzarote you wouldn’t have to agonise over what colour to paint your house; you are not allowed anything except white.

Here in the Rubicon marina area, there’s an abundance of good quality bars and restaurants so, as I teeter on the brink of overindulged alcoholism, I know it’s time to go back to the beautiful simplicity of life at anchor and lots more snorkelling.

Soon it’ll be time to head for the western Canary Islands that I love. I’m expecting important visitors.

25th September to 9th November 2024

Galicia covers the northwest corner of Spain. It’s different from the better known and more touristy areas of the Mediterranean coast. Tourists here are mainly Spanish who wish to escape the heat of high summer further south, and latter day pilgrims on their ways to Santiago de Compostela, plus passing sailors such as me, usually heading south from Northern Europe’s chilly winters.

In my view it’s the most attractive part of the Iberian peninsula. There is a series of rias (big bays) backed by wooded mountains which offer protection from whatever may be going on in the offshore Atlantic. There are lots of unspoilt sandy beaches and pretty Galician villages. The coastline is a mass of impressive cliffs and rocky outcrops, including Spain’s Cape Finisterre. There are offshore islands too, in a well protected nature reserve.

Half the population speaks Galician, half Spanish. And if you like to eat shellfish and octopus, this is where you’ll find them; more are eaten here than anywhere else. For me, alas, it’s all a bit yuk.

The sea between rias was rough, but I thought that would discourage the orcas who’ve recently been playing uncomfortable games with yachts in the area. You can see dreadful damage to rudders on many yachts in local boatyards.

As I sailed out of Ria de Muros, Henrietta received a radio call from Finisterre Coastguard. Oh no! my immediate reaction was I was being called up for infringing some rule – illegal immigration, bad navigation perhaps, or skinny dipping. But no, a small fishing boat had capsized nearby – it was pretty rolly outside the sheltered Ria. Two persons were clinging to the upturned hull, could I go and assist?

Initially I couldn’t see them (it’s hard to spot a small boat in a big swell) but, given a position, I spotted them. Quickly down with the sails and motor over to their precarious situation a few metres from a jumble of rocks and crashing waves. As I reach them and shout that I can pick them up if they jump in the sea, the Muros lifeboat roars up in a fine display of power and spray. Phew! I’m waved away. Coastguard thanks me and I’m on my way once more.

A bit further south in the wonderful boatyard at Xufre in Ria Arousa, Henrietta had her annual onshore checkup and new makeup applied (polish, anodes, antifouling and new shaft seal). 

The boatyard is a sociable spot, particularly popular with Irish sailors, so plenty of good company. Apparently there’s some historic Celtic connection (Galicians play bagpipes) and many Irish boats spend the whole summer just cruising this area. They make excellent companions.

In early autumn Galicia is also often very wet. It rained nearly every day I was there and after a busy fortnight I was ready to leave.

Five days and nearly 700 miles over the ocean, often rough and with crossing the busy shipping routes from English Channel to Med. and Suez, South Africa or South America, it was rather tiring. 

A dream, then, to arrive in the little island of Porto Santo, near Madeira. It’s my fourth visit. It gets busier with more yachts every year.

Porto Santo is the low key, peaceful and ever-so-charming little sister of Madeira.

Like lots of places, it claims historical connections with Columbus, and he did indeed stop here before his transatlantic voyages to the Caribbean. There’s an informative little museum to fill in detail. Though I’ve recently read that DNA analyses and so on, suggest he was from Spain, not Genoa in Italy.

Next stops were in Madeira. Millions of visitors have come to this island and continue to come here, and have no doubt enjoyed the wonderful mountain scenery, striking coastline, and maybe a noisy nightclub, as well as the quiet polite courtesy of the people.

I like it a lot.

But the forecast wind is looking good for sailing on towards the Canaries, so it’s time to leave.