Madeira

23rd Nov to 4th Dec

Our spell on Madeira is nearly over. I’ll head southeast to the Canaries soon and Anna went to England yesterday.

It’s been a mainly happy stay on this magical island with ever-friendly and helpful Portuguese/Madeiran people, varied lush mountainous scenery, good wine – and lots and lots of tunnels.

I’d heard of Madeira wine, but never the tunnels. The faster roads seem to spend half their time underground with successive long sections of fine sinuous subterranean tubes; and the “levada” walks include dozens of narrow dark low wet tunnels,between a dozen metres and a kilometre long. Enough about tunnels; the island is thoroughly well burrowed.

Leaving Porto Santo astern

Scenic Quinto Do Lorde marina

“Levadas”, the small irrigation channels that meander along precipitous mountainsides, are a well-known feature of Madeira. (If you’ve been here you know that already) With a career spent briefly in the world of irrigation, I can only marvel at the scale and ingenuity of the Madeira irrigation schemes: built mainly from the 16th century on, the “levadas” run for nearly 2,000km, countless men died in their construction which often involved lowering workers down mountainsides in wicker baskets to blast a route through the rock and, as mentioned, include dozens of long mountain tunnels. Nowadays, many of the canals are well maintained and run alongside near-level contour paths used by the numerous walkers who tramp back and forth through the mountain flora – always dripping wet for our stay on the island. (Madeira’s walkers are, it seems, predominantly fit  lean amiable and focussed Germans.) Some walking photos below….

Lunch stop

Start of stroll to summit

Typical popular walk

Funchal Market

So, we walked lots of “levada” routes and, on the only day when clouds lifted from the top peaks, we joined a throng of fellow walkers to clamber to the highest point – and on a bit, where the throng thinned out, and we ate our sandwiches in mountain peace.

It so happened that Christmas lights were switched on on 1st December. And we ambled through the streets of Funchal savouring the gentle warmth and good-natured hospitality of residents, feeling as content as happy children. Giant Father Christmas and pretty elves do that.

More Christmas lights pictures:

Yesterday, Anna and I bade farewell with heartache and went our separate ways.

Porto Santo

2nd to 19th November

From Cascais, near Lisbon, to Porto Santo is nearly 500 miles. After my first premature departure (when I’d left but turned back a few hours later in face of not-quite-forecast headwinds and seas), Henrietta and I finally rolled across this patch of ocean, under just the poled-out genoa, in less than four days, anchoring in the dark off a beach with thundering surf. Next fine morning the ferry from Madeira passed by and I upped anchor and followed it into port.

Company on the sail over…..

Reflecting aimlessly on the sail over, it occurred to me again that open ocean sailing sometimes seems to induce a sense of overwhelming insignificance and listless melancholia, especially, I find, when feeling slightly queasy. It’s a kind of hollow alternative reality – and may of course just be simple incipient madness. Most of us at sea are all too well aware of our fragility on a little boat in a vast empty mighty ocean, but sometimes you look up skywards on a black moonless night and recognise that all humanity on planet earth is pretty insignificant too. Our tiny planet seems so fragile, wobbling round our fairly average star, the sun, in that endless dark ocean of stars. Even the so-called supermoon did nothing but magnify the sense of us being a mere speck of humankind on a tiny planet in a mere speck of a solar system. But we can’t grapple with infinity right now. Plus you may have mounting excitement at the prospect of Christmas. I don’t want to spoil it. But if we could organise such a thing, I’d send Messrs Trump, Farage and acolytes on a little sailing boat for a few days ego-deflation in the Atlantic. A prerequisite to high political office.

What of Porto Santo? In case you didn’t know, it’s a little island near Madeira. I’ve malingered here for nearly two weeks now. It’s one of those small, peaceful, friendly, low-key places that suit me. Pop. about 5,000, with some prominent mini-mountains, retired volcanoes, (1,000 to 1,500ft), and a perfect golden sandy beach about four miles long. One small town, scattered homesteads, a few rural bars and some local touristy settlements – mostly deserted now the summer is over. Here are some random pictures…..

I’ve trekked up almost every mini-mountain, walked or cycled nearly every road or dusty track, plus swum/bodysurfed a few times.  I should be quite fit. But I’m also pretty lazy and I drink too much, so I’m not.

The marina (one and a half pontoons with wobbly little fingers) is laid-back, multi-lingual and sociable. A few boats come and go each day: passage-making sailing boats and some amateurish local fishermen.

Little marina

Many hours’ art from visiting sailors

Hundreds of yachts’ signature artwork

Passage-makers come from most corners of Europe, dominated by the ever-adventurous French. They include some of the smaller scruffier boats and prettiest women of our continent. Indeed, I’d say Porto Santo marina has probably the prettiest boat sailors I’ve ever seen anywhere: not just French (we expect them to be pretty) but English, German, Czech, Estonian, Dutch et al. A charming and exquisite assortment of European delight. The sort of thing that makes hopeless wrinkly old men sigh wistfully and daydream pathetically. But where else can I socialise with fascinating talented thoughtful worldwise young, and not-so-young, travellers? Incidentally, the sailing community is well-balanced and sane (and very pretty) compared with some of the handful of non-Portuguese visitors, I’ve encountered. Exhibit A: a middle-aged but retired Bulgarian chef, adamant the world economic system is on the verge of complete collapse (you first heard it here; it’ll happen before Christmas according to his unquestionably correct thinking – derived from long hours gazing at a candle); and Exhibit B, a serious lanky ‘night-shift taxi driver’ from Kiel who’s come here to exercise his muskles…and more. He seems to know too much about NATO strategy. Not many dull moments!

All in all, you’ll see why I’ve stayed so long. Though, the fact that marina fees encourage longer stays and that I’m not due to meet Anna in Madeira till next week, have given added reasons to stay on.

Muros (Spain) to Lisbon

12th to 31st October

It’s been a busy couple of weeks: sail down coast of Iberian peninsular from top of Spain to Lisbon with a few brief stops; leave Henrietta in a Lisbon marina; fly to England for a few days; come back with Anna; touristy whizz round Lisbon……

To add a bit of colour and some photos, it has been wonderful – mostly. Sailing the 250-odd miles down the coast in a bit of a hurry (as I had air tickets booked) meant some overnight sailing and short stops and not nearly enough time to explore, but you can’t have everything. I did spend a night anchored off Isla Ons (“beach is favoured by nudists” – but chilly so not a soul in sight). Then, a night at sea, one in Fig. de Foz and another brief halt alongside a wet wobbly seagull-pooped pontoon in Nazaire.

And I got to Lisbon with a day to spare and Easyjetted off to Bristol and Devon. Wonderful to see George (son no.3), find legs ok for a brisk walk with friends in Dartmoor, paint brushes ok for a couple of days’ house decorating, wallet ok for shopping for new underwear and Marmite (subsequently confiscated by airport security)…and other stuff.

Anna and I then flew back to Lisbon to rejoin Henrietta and indulge in some high intensity Lisbon sightseeing and move to Cascais, a well-heeled and established tourist hot-spot on the coast nearby. Here are some photos of Cascais….

Lisbon is a truly fabulous and fascinating city with civilised, courteous, friendly population; countless exquisite streets, heavenly coffee and fine functional public transport. And, even if we seemed to be almost the only tourists not indulging in obsessive selfie pics, I think it’s a thoroughly attractive and all-round gorgeous place – even better photographed without us in the foreground. Personally and for what it’s worth, my ratings would give Lisbon an 8 out of 10 (cf. Paris and Venice 9/10, Amsterdam 8,  Prague 7, Barcelona 6, Madrid and Berlin 5, Sydney -3, Los Angeles -2,000). If you have nothing to watch on telly, discuss with your spouse or someone, how you’d rate the places you’ve visited. Here are some touristy photos of Lisbon…

England to Spain

…to 11th October

As Britain slowly makes its tortured tortuous exit from the EU, Henrietta and I make a swift silent simple exit from England. We left from a sunny windswept Lymington pontoon one afternoon in early October – out past the Needles at the end of the Isle of Wight, and away.

It really was simple to leave: filled water tanks, fresh bread and milk loaded, toss off the ropes and we’re away. (There are some old newspapers aboard somewhere so I can read yet more of our collective Brexitosis saga should I be really desperate.) But it’s always exhilerating to think we could go anywhere in the world.

Three and a half months of English summer was a delightful spell, personally, and I did appreciate the beauty of verdant countryside, comfort of security, and general friendliness of normal folk, the cheapness of life’s essentials like food and clothes, efficiency of transport etc. (albeit a bit of a horror show on the public political front, but we shan’t go there – Brexitosis says it all). I wonder sometimes why I’m driven to leave. Friends and family, I shall miss. But then a cold wet autumn day and darkness drawing in, remind me that summer is a fleeting affair.

Final few weeks in England were busy, sailing west to Falmouth, then east to the Solent, seeing kith and kin along the way, fixing bits of Henrietta and me….Here are some photos…

Blink of history: then (1950s) and….

…now

Tom and Kim, near Brighton

..

Johnny (with hat) and Roz (Poole Hbr)

Then, with an unusual period of easterly winds, sometimes a bit strong, we set forth, west down the Channel, round the top left corner of France, and across the boisterous and charcoal grey seas of Biscay, to Spain. Nearly 700 miles non-stop in five days.

Now we’re in Muros, a pretty Galician town, nestled in a tranquil Spanish Ria.

And today I took a bus ride to Santiago de Compostela, to rub shoulders with fellow tourists. Some of them are walkers who’ve tramped a long way to get there.

…..

….

Streets of Santiago….

The walking pilgrims are mainly late middle-aged with giant rucksacks and walking sticks (poles, I mean). The men sometimes have grey beards and look earnest and honest. I admire them. Non-walking tourists and pilgrims are bulkier and outnumber the admirable few. A huge number want to ‘hug the apostle’ in the cathedral (my Spanish is limited, but I think this is what the sign said), and they join a long slow-moving queue. I don’t want to ‘hug the apostle’, so go in through a side door, and spend ages in a nearby cathedral museum instead. (There’s no beating Catholic art when it comes to advanced soul-wrenching suffering, with its endless depictions of arrows, nails, thorns, blood, anguish and pale-faced wretchedness. Even poor Virgin Mary doesn’t look too happy with her new baby. To lighten matters I always try to find a cheery face among the anguished – but it’s hard.)

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Anyhow, here are a few words from Henrietta:

I’m pretty happy to be dancing over the waves again. Wish I didn’t have this unsightly red kayak on my foredeck though (it’s M’s bargain toy from Southampton Boat Show!); and I wish M hadn’t mucked it up when leaving that Lymington pontoon and I picked up a dreadful scratch on my newly polished hull, from a metal plate protruding from the pontoon. Ouch, it hurt!

I’m glad to say that M’s spirits have picked up a bit now we’ve been away a few days. To start with he was a rather gloomy old grump, groaning with bruised bits of body and sore hands, sloppy sea legs and all round queasiness. I reckon he’d forgotten how uncomfortable life at sea can be: constant rolling, lurching, bobbing, splashed with chilly spray, slapped with cold winds, fingers numbed, muscles aching and not nearly enough sleep.

Basically, he needs to remember his good fortune in venturing forth with me. After all, he could be slobbing on the sofa in front of the telly, or dozing under a cosy duvet, or drinking draught beer in a squalid pub, or sitting in a traffic jam – like most sensible dirt-dwellers. As it is, he’s out and about usually enjoying himself and fresh air, and meeting lots of lovely people.

Here are some pictures of boats I passed last week (or they passed me):

Tanker boat (friendly and gave weather forecast)

“Waverley” overtook me at dusk

Fisherboat in Biscay

Afloat Again

9th September

I’ll tell you a little secret: Henrietta is 16 boat years old. That’s 32 in human years. She’s in her prime, beautiful, lithe and bursting with zest. I’m well over double her age, so well past my prime, zest less obvious. Henrietta can probably do somersaults and dance daintily almost anywhere. I can’t – and probably never could.

Sailing west (way back in July) from the Solent with George, we visited some of my favourite south coast haunts – pictures below:

Yesterday, in early September, was relaunch day (after a few weeks in Baltic Wharf Boatyard, Totnes). With one day of easterly wind, I sailed 14 hours west to Falmouth and, though Henrietta did dance daintily, I really felt tired, achey and a bit decrepit as I carefully anchored in pitch black darkness up a West Country creek. But that’s enough about aches et al; this is just an update on what’s going on with good ship H and skipper M.

Henrietta has some new bits and pieces. If you’re interested, that’s VHF radio, anchor, new batteries, some more stripey cushion covers and a TV and printer and yoghurt maker (thank you, Nigel)…plus a glimmering shiney polished hull and brand new antifouling. (Can’t think that I’ll get round to fitting the TV but it’s sitting there in a remote locker in Amazon’s delivery cardboard box).

I have done a lot of eating and drinking and shopping, and, more important, it’s been an unaccustomed treat to see lots of friends and family, visit London, Cambridge and Berlin plus watchRio Olympic prowess and read newspapers. (A few photos here to summarise)

The ‘plan’, for what it’s worth, is to have experts in Falmouth fix some snags (rigging and SSB), then sail east to Solent (boatshow and sociability), then west to Devon (hospital stuff), then, all being well, south to sunshine, before it gets too cold in northern Europe.

(Photos below: – Relaunch and sailing west, misty down river Dart, exit Dartmouth, Eddystone LH, fine playful dolphins en route……..)

South Coast, England

20th June to 5th July

Route Azores to Exeter

When you return to your home country after a spell away, first impressions count. My impressions of my home country  were that it is very affluent, tidy, organised and generally friendly and often beautiful, with a population of industrious efficient good-natured people, huge numbers of whom are constantly on the phone. Such is the nature of generalisations. As ever, I am out of touch with the majority. I know little of northern cities or right wing zealots. I’m privileged to meet mainly sane and moderate sailors.

A few weeks ago I knew one reason for returning to England was to vote in the EU referendum because I knew I’d be cross and sad if the other side won and I’d not had a teeny weeny say in trying to stop it. Deary me, even though I did place a cross to remain, I still find I am cross and sad, very sad, with the outcome. I don’t even take comfort from thinking the Brexit crowds will have to stop whinging about Brussels, or bureaucracy or immigration.They won’t.

I shan’t dwell on the EU business too much as millions of excellent professional writers have filled the column inches (and miles) with their own analyses. It does occur to me though that in voting to leave, the nation has behaved like a cigarette smoker who knows it’s very very silly to smoke and may lead to fatal cancer, and certainly ill health, and yet, despite knowing the consequences has an uncontrolled death wish. He smokes just as he votes; it’s bad for him, but he can’t help it. You can take the analogy quite a long way. Some people don’t seem to believe the ill health that will come about; and there are cases of people who even think smoking is healthy (remember the Marlborough ads?). And don’t forget there are the greedy tobacco companies like Gove Chokers Inc. whose vile vested interests try to tell us that smoking is actually a very good idea if only we’d listen and buy his brand. And then, us older folk, a majority of whom voted to smoke, are tainting the air and good health of the younger generation, a majority of whom voted for fresh air. …but this analogy has gone too far….

It’s all too depressing to contemplate for long. I am of course seriously fortunate in being afloat on a sailing boat. In theory I can distance myself from the nonsensical arena of British politics. But I like Radio 4 and cannot resist reading the newspapers.

Gig rowing practice

Kingswear

Familiar places like Needles, IoW

Anna on watch again

Fowey

However, moving on….as I type this, there’s the beautifully sweet sound of terns squeaking as they dive and fish around my anchorage – off Newtown, IoW. A cool English summer dawn had me up early, revelling in the fresh calm clear morning light. (This is in sharp contrast to the busy throngs that were out and about for the Round the Island Race on Saturday.) From Falmouth, I’d sailed east to the Hamble in the Solent, where I’d booked to attend a radio course. Overnight stops and short day sails, stopping in familiar haunts: Fowey, Dartmouth, Weymouth, Swanage, Lymington and now, off Newtown. It’s been really good to see friends along the way, and enjoy the company of Anna and, now George on board. (I’m back in Lymington to upload this lot.)

It’s just over a year since I bought Henrietta. We’ve sailed over 12,000 miles together, visited 23 countries and 46 islands. There’s now some maintenance needed for both of us. We’re heading back to Devon to get on with it, and delight in that county’s beauty and charm. (Small comfort that Exeter and Totnes – the two places for Henrietta and me – voted in.)

If you’ve followed Henrietta’s little adventure over the past ten months, thank you. Like lots of solitary people, I quite enjoy scribbling away. With few people to talk to, it’s a way of sharing experiences. It’s also a way of venting thoughts that otherwise are liable to fester and go mouldy. Even worse than barnacles on Henrietta’s bottom would be mould in my brain.

Terceira to Cornwall

6th to 17th June

After a bus trip to Praia on the island of Terceira (when it poured with rain all day but still looked pretty – though not nearly as fine as Angra), I left next day, bound for Britain. Nine and a half days later, just after midnight, I rounded the Lizard and reached Falmouth.

Falmouth was packed with boats. It’s Classics Weekend – meaning dozens and dozens of beautiful old sailing boats all over the place, but impossible in darkness to find a spot to stop – and so I meandered in moonlight a few miles upstream to a calm anchorage in Channal’s Creek, overlooked by National Trust’s Trelissick House, and then in the peaceful early hours enjoyed a giant glass of Antiguan rum.

French catamaran overtakes me on the way

…and there’s a ‘low’ over Britain

It had been a varied ocean voyage from the Azores with busy days and nights, almost continuously (or so it seemed) reefing/unreefing/altering course. Mainsail clew tore off its webbing straps when half way, so, until managing a crude repair, I sailed with only the genoa for almost 500 miles.

For me, ocean voyages are far too long. In fact, anything more than a day trip of about 40 miles is too long. I’d rather have a good night’s sleep, have an early morning and leisurely pot of tea, see if the weather looks cheery and, if so, set sail along a pretty coastline with sunshine and birdlife for a few daylight hours, reach a calm and secure anchorage, have another pot of tea, later watch sunset with fresh food and a glass of plonk, then go to bed. In short, I don’t like the dark; human beings are meant to be asleep at night when it’s dark, not hauling in sails and watching out for ships. But the world wasn’t made that way, so before long I’ll have to do more of these long ocean trips.

After a weekend in Truro and Falmouth, it’s as if I’ve never been away. People I meet in Cornwall are as delightful as those I’ve met anywhere. Fine food is good, varied, cheap and plentiful. Scenery and wildlife is wonderful. And, since arrival here has coincided with both Classics Weekend and a shanty-singing festival, the streets and pubs of Falmouth are fun and busy, and chocabloc with hairy sea salty folk and lusty bearded singers, and beautiful women’s choirs too and quality buskers. Anna came and joined me in Truro so it’s been a treat to have company and shared experience once more. (In case you’re interested, first experience was Wetherspoons, Truro, for fish and chips and pint of Doombar – it really is as if I’ve not been away!)

Falmouth is busy

with shanty singing and…

…classics..

Flores, Faial, Sao Jorge, Terceira

25th May to 6th June

Images from Azores….

Walk on Sao Jorge…

The Azores islands are lovely: people civilised, warm, friendly and welcoming; countryside fresh green and bursting with early summer zest; interests abound in walks, history, buildings and people. I’ve visited four of the islands; there are five others for another time.

Flores, my first landfall, was charming and I loved walking on sunlit rural roads with hydrangea, wild rose, sweet pea, canna lilies and more adding colour to the hedgerows, listening to tuneful birdsong, and feeling solid ground beneath my feet.  With a gaggle of well-kitted German walkers I enjoyed a delightful cliff walk a mile or two from the marina – but blow me, marinised leg muscles feel mighty stiff afterwards.

Then a bus ride to the capital, Santa Cruz, which has a modern and fascinating whale museum (making use of the defunct whale factory) – and not a lot else  (you mustn’t get too excited by the term ‘capital’).  It’s not a good port for yachts and we’re told not to go there (see photo below).

Whaling boat in museum (tubs have 700 metres of rope for harpooned whale)

Alas! Even Flores’s  little marina suffers from wave surge with NNEasterly swell and Henrietta’s strain and discomfort shortened my visit; four of us yachts leaving earlier than hoped for for the sail 130 miles east to Horta. (The islands are well spaced.)

Horta, on the island of Faial, is one of the world’s busiest yacht transit centres. Apparently around 1,300 boats call in each year. I reckon a large part of the 1,300 were there at the same time as me. The place seems to have become the key Atlantic sailors’ cross-roads with all manner of yacht from almost everywhere. Constant movements, bustle and excited shouts as friends recognise one another. There were no free berths for Henrietta and the anchorage was crowded, so after a troubled spell rafted alongside others next to a quay, I didn’t stay long. But it was a shame to move on so soon as Horta, the town, was beautiful: lots of charm and colour, good shops, marvellous cafes and bars and more. And I met up with several others whom I’d met earlier in the year.

The day I left Horta was very windy and very wet, but much more comfortable for me on Henrietta than running the Azores Trail Run, one of those super-arduous mountain marathons from a cloud-swept caldeira, which was taking place on Faial that same day. (I later met a sinewy Swedish/German couple who’d taken part.)

Next stop  after Horta was Vila das Velas on Sao Jorge (Sao has an accent I can’t do on laptop) where Jose manages a little marina. Jose, like all the staff I meet, is helpful, charming and knowledgeable – even coming out in cold torrential horizontal rain as I arrived, to help me tie up. Spent several days here as it’s friendly, has good walks etc. Hired a car to see more of the place than buses allow.

I left the island of Sao Jorge after a week and sailed next to Terceira, the third biggest Azorean island, just glimpsing the Azores’s highest mountain (and Portugal’s too), Pico, as I headed for Angra do Heroismo (its inhabitants had bravely resisted the Spanish invaders a few hundred years ago and were later given the title ‘Heroes’ – indeed the island was the only bit of Portugal that was not conquered) .

Most of the town (city really) of Angra is now well-deserved UNESCO heritage stuff —-full of really fabulous buildings, decorous stone cobbled streets and exquisite public gardens….one of the most marvellous places I’ve ever seen…and I don’t use the word ‘fabulous’ lightly….though I acknowledge perhaps its beauty is magnified by way of contrast with the architectural deserts of Eastern Caribbean.

Two particular things hereabouts remind me of my age. One is whaling; amazing to think it was big business in many places, including Azores, till 1980s, when nowadays it seems so barbaric and so unthinkable to kill magnificent whales (unless you’re primitive or Japanese, I suppose). The other is being reminded of the recent colonial wars that Portugal fought in 1960/70s; with many little Azorean settlements having a memorial for the young who died fighting in Angola, Mozambique or Timor (and I can remember hitching a lift myself with a lorry full of Portuguese troups in Mozambique as recently as 1974 – maybe it’s not recent anymore!)  Had we been Portuguese, we’d probably have been conscripted.

……at this point I realise I’m just wittering on…not of much interest to anyone except me…(The photos scattered in this post try to show more)

Without the detail, next stop, all being well, will be Scilly Isles or Cornwall (1,200 miles). Just waiting now for a patch of better weather….Meanwhile it’s been good to have the company of Alex and John on a handsome yacht, Free Spirit, and others heading for Europe too. They told me of this tourada (a sort of sociable bullfight in the streets of Angra), picture below.

But before I go, I’ll just say that the sharp contrast of Europe’s western islands with the islands further south and west across the Atlantic (Bermuda, Caribbean) makes me truly grateful for my good fortune in belonging on the European side. And whilst the British Isles are my home, and I like them well enough, I know they are merely a part of many European islands, each with their own distinctive histories, cultures, interests, problems and delights,  but each insignificant in the wider world. I’ll aim to be back in Britain in time to vote. (It would make me very cross and sad were the ‘other side’ to win, had I not had my one teeny weeny say in trying to stop it.)

And on a less important note, I’ve now owned Henrietta for exactly one year. Nearly 11,000 miles sailed since then, and I cannot think how many different anchorages and islands and countries. Perhaps I’ll add them up one day.

Bermuda to Flores, Azores
5th to 24th May

BVI to Azores track

One of the Bermuda radio stations asked the question, “Is Bermuda still boring?”. It seems there had been some concern that people might think so. Personally, I think the answer’s ‘no’. When I was a tiresome child, my mother would often say that it’s only the boring who are ever bored. While usually true, in Bermuda I found the trick was to think of yourself as inhabiting a kind of pastel Legoland.
The best thing about the place was certainly the friendly helpfulness of local people. Almost everyone went way beyond normal courtesy in wanting to help. The rest of Bermuda was pleasant enough. As I said, I just felt I was in a sort of pale imitation of Legoland: neat tidy buildings were pink, powder blue and cream (rather than bright Lego red, blue and yellow), and people smiled and were black, white and brown; there were clear labels like ‘Bank’ and ‘Bar’ on symmetrical buildings. There were yellow sandy beaches and very little litter, and even the uniform palm trees, fronds blowing in harmony, might have come from a Danish drawing board. Of course I shouldn’t judge. I was there for less than five days. It rained hard for two of them.
I was anchored up a creek in St George’s Harbour, a big natural harbour with the World Heritage St George on one side. It’s the second town and when the sun shone and cruise ships were in, it was busy with tourists crawling past neatly painted old buildings and perusing high quality nick-nack shops. When it rained it was empty and I went for a super soggy walk around the top end of Bermuda, buffeted by gale and horizontal rain, all a bit reminiscent of some childhood summer holidays in Lyme Regis – which coincidentally is twinned with St George’s.

The capital of Bermuda is Hamilton. It oozes wealth and complacency and alcohol. I visited by bus a couple of times hoping to find something out of the ordinary. But there isn’t much that I found: big smart shops with enough posh wristwatches to garland everyone a few times over, big square colonial buildings, lots of bars with pretty much wall-to-wall ‘happy hours’ and herds of motor scooters. This place makes its money with insurance and reinsurance, and other mysterious forms of money-making paper-pushing, so what was I expecting? I cut short my second visit to Hamilton as the rain was unremitting and two shops in a row had said goodbye with the cheery bastard English phrase, “Have a good one”. (Am I the only one who feels grumpy when this is said too often?)
Then later, as I rowed out to my anchorage a big man on the jetty near his big house shouted in tax-exile American that I was anchored among moorings with big chains that I’d probably snarled. “You won’t be able to get your anchor up; you’ll have to cut the chain, lose the anchor. No way will you be able to get free…..blah blah”. I said I hadn’t wanted to pick up a private mooring in case an owner came along (most were not being used), and he said something along the lines of “Quite right, they’re private”. To save you any more of this, I’ll just say that there are a lot of these dog-in-the-manger moorings in the area, unused but effectively making it difficult to anchor. My anchor was fine by the way.

To end on a brighter note, I’ll restate that with the one exception of ‘big man with big house’, people were delightful. I was given lifts without asking; people took me to show me round; bus drivers smiled and helped; shopkeepers were out-of-the-way friendly. But I left. Yachtie rush-hour for Bermuda was starting nd whereas there were ten yachts as I arrived, there must have been over thirty by the time I left.

Oh! I should also tell you too that I met a lovely young couple on a huge catamaran, Ocean Swift, which he, not as young as she, had built. They came aboard Henrietta for a meal and told me of working in Antarctica, where he’d built those amazing hut things that rise on their legs as the snow builds up, and in Falkland Islands and places where you and I shan’t ever go. They’d cruised at high speed all over Scotland and Ireland too, so we shared memories and opinions of the wondrous British Isles. Anyway, their catamaran was 44 ft of streamlined fibreglass (he’d even made the moulds for the hulls) and it cruised at about 15-20 knots. Another of the extraordinarily talented people you come across who you sense could fix anything anywhere with whatever was to hand. I said as we parted that our paths might not cross again for a while. They go too fast.

Sailing out of Bermuda is not like sailing out of most places. You cannot quickly leave their border surveillance system. They have the most amazingly powerful VHF transmitter, radar and AIS detection network I have ever come across, and it’s not until you’ve sailed over 200 miles that you cease hearing their broadcasts and inquisition of approaching boats. (But even with all their powerful equipment and 24 hour staffing, many boats seem to sail in and out not answering radio calls . It does I suppose show how very difficult it is to control your maritime borders – whatever the wishful thinking of Brexit xenophobes.)
And then I sailed east across the Atlantic. It’s about 1,800 miles to the Azores, and not as straightforward as westward sailing in the Trade Winds further south that had taken us the other way to the Caribbean. This time I aimed for an undulating path eastwards, between eastbound gales to the north and calms to the south, which is pretty much what sailors have always done.

Nowadays I have a radio and try to download and interpret weather faxes. In the old days, sailor folk looked at clouds. So I did that too, and coupled with a brilliant book on weather forecasting, reckon I can see what’s coming – in the next few hours anyway. In summary, there’s been a bit of everything in the spectrum of ocean sailing: some sail-flapping calm, wallowing without steerage, fine spirit-lifting reaches, spray sparkling beats and several hard rough days.

Rough days culminated in two days and nights when wind never dropped below Force 7 and was mainly F8/9. I knew I was too far north but I was nearly there and unprepared to sail the wrong way for 200 miles completely to avoid the storm. As you may know, one of the great delights of sailing is the contrast from a day of brisk wind and choppy sea to an evening in a calm sheltered pretty anchorage. Nowhere have I felt this contrast more acutely than on reaching, yesterday, the charming tiny friendly marina in Flores after two days and nights of very rough testing sailing.

After a few days of gales the North Atlantic grows very wild, and though my pictures cannot capture the sheer magnificent panorama of massive breaking ocean waves, I can say I was overawed. It’s best not to think about it too much – the ocean waves are too massively powerful and magnificent, and sometimes threatening – but I spent much of the time below in bed reading books, washboards in and everything tight closed, as waves crashed around and for a while we maintained over six knots with no sails up at all. Henrietta probably hasn’t enjoyed it any more than me, but she’s behaved beautifully. Apart from some frayed rope and torn dodger and a few bruises, nothing has failed.

Anyhow, I’m now moored at Flores in the far west Azores, 15 days after leaving Bermuda. Goodness, I love Europe! This little bit of it, the furthest west of the Continent, is fresh tidy honest friendly. The tap water tastes nice, bread is not sweetened and red wine is less than two euros a bottle. The marina captain’s mother does my washing (for a fee) and there’s a shower (albeit cold water). After 12 hours sleep I’m fresh, have friendly French and Norwegian neighbours, and am off to explore.

Virgin Islands to Bermuda

25th April to 5th May

Video doesn’t show the lightning as it was….but it shows it isn’t always sunny!

Henrietta can write this post. I’m tired.

H: Yes, M seems a bit listless and subdued, generally rather frazzled I think. He groans and grunts sometimes too, which I consider a clear and pathetic sign of old age and minor injury.  Can’t really see why he makes such a fuss though. He’s lucky to be sailing with me, and the sun has been shining most of the time and he’s been sitting and lying about a lot reading and eating. If he wasn’t pottering about with me, enjoying the fresh air and magnificent ocean, he’d be fretting about the British weather and dirt-dwelling anxieties like the EU referendum or rubbish on telly. Better for him to be at sea, I reckon.

Anyway, once again I’ve done the really hard work of sailing us north – 850 miles north from the British Virgin Isles.

For some reason, M thought Bermuda was close to the Caribbean, just up the road as it were, a kind of geological afterthought to the Caribbean. So it was quite a surprise to see they’re so far apart, not apparently linked geologically in any way; indeed with some ocean chasms over 7,000 metres deep in between. To put it another way, Bermuda from Virgin Islands is half way to Canada, or in a European context, the equivalent of crossing the Bay of Biscay from Land’s End twice. (Enough geography for one day, but it goes to show how unrealistic we are about distances once we are away from our home patch. Here’s a quiz question for British pubs: To the nearest 50 miles, how many miles is it from Barbuda – near Antigua – to Bermuda?)

The start of our trip was fine until the first evening, then fine again till the third evening. On the first and third evenings there were some very alarming thunderstorms. I know M was really scared. If I had human feelings I’d have been scared too. The thing was, these storms were huge and covered the whole horizon with near constant lightning flashes and continuous rumbling and roaring and growling. M suffered a sort of sensory overload: the sight of wild lightning over white-crested waves, endless electric flashing in blue white slashing sizzlers down to the sea and brightening the dark clouds overhead; the sounds of fast sailing splashing coupled with roaring and cracking; and the feel of massed raindrops and hot electrified air on naked skin – all this magnified ten times with the arrival of darkness. M was below trying to distract his fears by washing up dishes when a harsh and deafening crack and flash blinded the sky, an explosion right with us. I cannot believe I was hit and know I wasn’t but, whatever, the windvane electrics have stopped working. (M guesses a cut-out in the transducer has been triggered by proximity of shock. M himself was just a bit shakey. Were he not teetotal at sea, he’d have had a stiff drink to calm his nerves.Instead, he put more clothes on; I think he thinks if you’re going to be struck by lightning, it would be more dignified to be properly dressed. Human beings!)

However rare the occurrence of direct lightning strikes, it does not lessen the sense of powerlessness and, whereas sailors can plan and work to lessen the dangers of storms and ships and fog and rocks, there is almost nothing a boat can do to escape the risk of lightning. Us boats, we just cross our fingers – or we would if we could.

After the thunderstorms there was very little wind and what there was was from ahead; and  we wallowed around a lot with sails flipping and flopping; very frustrating times. M has a bit of an aversion to the engine; me too – bad vibes; and also there wasn’t enough diesel for more than two days of engine. So wallowing around it was. We looked at clouds, downloaded some weather charts, tacked this way and that, wallowed a  bit more. And I know that for a while M thought of abandoning Bermuda and going straight to the Azores nearly 2,000 miles away (but he didn’t fancy up to three weeks with half a cabbage and one carrot to eat, then tinned stuff and lentils.)

After eight days we got to Bermuda.

Back to M……

Bermuda seems wealthy. The little town of St George’s, where we cleared in, is immaculate with smart pale-painted colonial style buildings, and bevvies of cruise ship wrinklies wandering hither and thither, and a smattering of ocean sailors (though probably less than ten, as I’m here before most). It’s another UNESCO World Heritage Site and, more useful for me, the local supermarket has Waitrose tea bags.

If you happen to sail this way, I should tell you that Bermuda monitors its coasts with big-brotherly diligence. I was called on VHF  when at least 20 miles away (told I was being tracked on radar and AIS). I gave them lots of details – even the number of EPIRB (something that took a lot of hunting down as it’s a 16 digit hexadecimal that I don’t carry in my head). Planning to arrive at first light I was asked to delay to let cruise ship through. Anyhow I’ve been such a fine model of maritime good behaviour that the traffic control folk have been helping me ever since: telling me to turn round when they saw I was going the wrong way for customs dock, then suggesting this little narrow creek behind Smith’s Island for sheltered anchorage in the coming gales.

There are some very smart and discreet houses for neighbours, only the sounds of barking guard dogs, and drone of ride-on lawn mowers (and sometimes a jet doing things at the airport nearby). I think we’ll be here a few days as the forecast is not promising. Too early to have seen much of Bermuda, anyway. I’ll head off now to be a wrinkly tourist myself.

OOOHHH! Cockroach bulletin no.2 – None seen. Bait traps all over the place.

EThe answer to that pub quiz question: 900.