24th December 2023 to 8th January 2024

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

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

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

Sure enough the rigging had failed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sailors’ plans are forever being rewritten.

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

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

1st to 24th December 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly BANG! 

BIG TROUBLE arrived on 24th December, Christmas Eve.

I’ll tell you more next time…..

12th September to 30th November 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bajada de La Virgen de Guadalupe | 2023

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

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

1st August to 11th September 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12th May to 31st July 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

21st April to 11th May 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly from here I’ll head on eastwards.

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.)

……. ………….. …………..

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.