Such Stuff heads south...

Just a reminder of how this whole adventure started - back in May/June 2006:-

SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON....

As I sat alone aboard Such Stuff at Chateaulin, up the River Aulne, the Shakespearian quotation whence comes her name, and which adorns the bulkhead, caught my eye..

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep..

My dream was rapidly becoming a nightmare, and I wanted to wake up... Prospero seemed to be hurling every tempest in his power at me.
Not that Chateaulin isn’t a delightful place, but the rain was horizontal and forecast to remain that way for the coming week. The next day I was supposed to be setting out across Biscay en route for Sardinia.
My two crew were on their way to me and others had booked flights and trains to various parts of the Iberian peninsula over the next six weeks with the prospect of sailing in the sunshine. It was not looking good.
It had all begun with the combination of a desire for a base in the Med to escape the British winter and the chance discovery, following a cheap flight two years previously, of Alghero – a characterful old town on Sardinia’s west coast affording access to some fabulous cruising grounds.. At rather short notice I had decided to sail there.
The start of the trip had been a dream – a brisk cross-channel in a westerly 3-4 and delightful evenings in l’Aberwrac’h and l’Aberildut. But Mark, my first crew, had flown home from Brest taking the weather with him.
My late decision had made it tricky to find the two experienced crew my insurers required for Biscay. Kevin was free for a week while Hugh had booked his flight back from Santiago for the following Friday. The crossing to La Coruna would take around three days, so to give him a reasonable chance of catching it we had to leave by Tuesday at the latest. Though it was only Saturday there was no suggestion of less than a force 7 or a direction other than southwest for the foreseeable future.
Determined to make a start we set off down river – 2½ miles to Port Launay for a meal out. Sunday, the intended day of departure, saw the Plymouth-Santander ferry hit by a freak 40 foot wave in Biscay causing extensive damage and injury to passengers. We opted for the trip back to Chateaulin where shore-power offered hot showers!
On Monday we set off and got to the end of the river, but no further in the F7 headwind. On Tuesday we made it to Camaret early, fuelled up and, though the forecast was still for 5-6, decided to take a look round the headland. But it was still not the conditions to be starting a major passage - we turned round. And then, suddenly, Hugh was lying in the cockpit unable to move for the pain in his back. It looked horribly like a slipped disk. Back in Camaret a doctor diagnosed a simple muscular spasm but nevertheless advised no more than gentle exercise for the next few days. Crossing Biscay in a gale seemed to fall outside that brief! I began desperately phoning friends ..
By Wednesday morning Hugh’s back was responding to pain-killers and the weather forecast, too, was on the road to recovery. There was a clear 3-day window starting on the Thursday and it might be possible starting today.. Hugh had changed his flight to the Saturday, but was anxious to be back that day for an important party. If we went today he could get that flight.. We decided to give it a go and motorsailed to the Raz de Sein in a perfectly reasonable 3-4 SW. Although for now we could not fetch our destination, it was set to veer over the next 48 hours as we progressed south. We were in high spirits...

But 2 hours later the seas had built considerably and there was a new forecast – an overnight front threatening SW7. Hugh had been sick and Kevin was not feeling that bright. With heavy hearts we bore away, albeit on to an exhilarating broad reach, and by nightfall we were in Benodet, just as the threatened front arrived. We were slightly further from La Coruna than we had been at the Raz.
Thursday morning dawned grey, miserable and still windy. I was in despair. We had run out of time. It was now going to be tight even for Kevin to get his flight. None of my attempts to find new crew had borne fruit and even the delivery crews I had contacted could not help me until the following week. How could I expect Hugh, after such a miserable time yesterday, and still with a dodgy back, to sacrifice his party for three more days of misery...?
But the forecast was now offering the window we had been waiting for all week. I was desperate to make progress, but had run out of options and the whole enterprise was now in doubt. Sailing round Biscay, which I could do short- or even single-handed, would take a week at least. And for the first few days the distance to La Coruna would increase. The only other alternative was to sail across short-handed and uninsured.
Hugh saw my predicament – my long face. The party was a major do thrown by his best friend, and a long-standing engagement. But he agreed to forego it, although there was a flight from Santander on Saturday afternoon...
The weather remained murky and uninviting. I realised that with all the problems I had almost lost the will to go. But I could find nothing in any forecast to cause alarm. We would be sailing into high pressure and the only risk was likely to be of excessive engine use. The wind was still SW, but it was down to 3-4. It was now or never, and around 4.30pm we set off into calm seas and a good breeze, if poor visibility. All seemed well.
Two hours later we hit thick fog. Turning back again was too awful to contemplate, so, profoundly glad of the recently-fitted radar, we powered through the darkness and murk at 6+ knots, hard on the wind and glued to the magic glowing screen.
Though the fog persisted most of the way across, the passage proved delightful, with intervals of sunshine, calm seas all the way, even dolphins to lift our spirits. The only fly in the ointment was the suggestion of gales building in south Fitzroy…..
But if we headed for Gijon instead of La Coruna we would avoid those and, by taking over 60 miles off the passage, get Kevin comfortably on his flight and give Hugh a sporting chance of that one from Santander... It meant doing two sides of a triangle, but under the circumstances it had to be the right decision. Suddenly, for the first time in over a week, I realised I was enjoying myself.
The peace of the next afternoon was broken by a sudden excess of buzzing and lack of accurate steering on the part of the autopilot. This was rather alarming - the prospect of 20 hours full-time hand-steering covered by just three of us was not a welcome one. However, emptying an eggcupful of water from the control box (presumably a memento of Brittany’s rain) then drying it in front of the heating vent soon had it back in control.
By nightfall we were motoring, still through fog, but comfortably on schedule for Gijon, and around 9 on a bright, if misty, Saturday morning Spain hove into view. By 11 we were moored and by 5 past Hugh was on his way to a bus for Santander. After lunch Kevin too had to go – his flight was next morning and we were over 100 miles from Santiago – he would have to spend the night there.
I was in Spain. The dream was at last back on course. And I heard from Hugh that he got to his party.
However, I was on my own 120 miles east of La Coruna where my new crew were due the day after tomorrow and the forecast was still for strong winds…. but at least they would be behind me.
Next morning I set off early into a perfect NE 3 accompanied by louring clouds. By 12 the skies were clearing, and I was bowling along on a dead run, goose-winged with full sails and a poled-out genny.
But, in what I soon discovered to be a regular pattern in those waters, with the sunshine came the wind. Force 3 increased to 5 and continued to rise. I was having the ride of my life, but rapidly approaching the limit of the autopilot’s ability to cope. Unless I wanted to stay on the helm for the next 10 hours I had to shorten sail, somehow.
Just in time I managed to roll away the genny, dump the pole and the main, and then unroll the genny again to create a much safer and more controllable rig which still gave 6 knots plus. And I was free to make lunch, do my emails and generally get on with life while the autopilot coped admirably.
It was a long day – 88 miles in 14 hours - but the reward was my first Ria. Vivero looked stunning in the evening light though I was almost too tired to enjoy it.
Next morning, with those NE winds forecast up to 7, I set off early in trepidation, and was further disconcerted by a fisherman on his way in shaking his head and making gestures along the lines of ‘it’s rough as hell out there..’!
In the event the day proved a repeat of the previous one – louring clouds and light winds followed by sunshine and half a gale. But today prudence prevailed rig-wise – genny only from the start – which was just as well as by the time I rounded Cabo Prior on the final run into La Coruna it was blowing that 7 and Such Stuff was surfing at up to 10 knots! I was very grateful to round the long harbour wall where my new crew, brother Steve and partner Richard, waved a warm welcome.
I was not sorry to hear that the northeasterlies were forecast to reach gale force over the next couple of days. It gave us a perfect excuse to take time off sailing and go sightseeing in La Coruna and the beautiful old city of Santiago de Compostela.
The sun was now out and staying out.. and suddenly everything seemed different. For the first time I felt like I was on a holiday not a delivery trip. Prospero could put the wild waters in all the roar he wanted, I wasn’t coming out till he’d allayed them!
A week ago this had seemed unimaginable and my dream of sailing Such Stuff to Sardinia within 7 weeks looked impossible. But now the delivery was behind me – at least the first part – and it was time to start the holiday. After our two sight-seeing days the northeasterlies moderated, though we still had F6 to blow us round the dauntingly-named Costa da Morte to the Ria de Camarinas. But by evening all was quiet and we spent a peaceful night at anchor followed by a couple of days passing the forbidding Cape Finisterre and exploring the Rias de Muros and Arosa in light winds or flat calm. We fell into the daily pattern of three or four hours sailing followed by a swim stop, then into the harbour or anchorage for the night.

These inlets merit more time than we had – they offer fabulous, sheltered sailing. The towns and villages, though not particularly picturesque, are utterly Galician and not given over to tourism, though offering all the facilities for a yacht needs.

But there were still 1300 miles to go, so from Bayona it had to be full-time sailing again. Or rather, for the most part, motoring in the very light winds, which was fine by me as neither of my crew was an experienced yachtsman. At the end of a 30-hour passage we had an alarming moment when the autopilot had its second headache of the trip. As we disengaged it to avoid one of the myriad lobster pots the mechanism jammed the steering. The emergency tiller was deployed for the 1st time in the boat’s 16 years while I removed the wheel and dismantled the autopilot assembly. Fortunately it was nothing more sinister than a loose screw, and all was soon reassembled and working again.

10 hours the following day brought us a truly majestic approach up the River Tagus – the perfect way to visit Lisbon, so steeped in maritime history. The Torre de Belem greeted us followed by the Statue of the Discoveries, celebrating the achievements of that city’s nautical pioneers. This imposing edifice dwarfed our little ship moored beneath it just as the achievements of those it celebrates do ours. An all too brief day and a half of sightseeing and an evening listening to haunting and evocative Fado music completed a memorable visit.

In the Algarve another crew change. Paul replaced Steve for a rather dull and frustrating week across the Bahia de Cadiz, weatherbound by headwinds and awaiting a replacement fridge. But the compensation was the sense of a trip through the pages of a history book – the whiff of singed King of Spain’s beard off Cadiz, the roar of cannon and grapeshot off Cabo Trafalgar.

And as we glimpsed Morocco on our way into Gibraltar we really felt as though we had sailed to another world, only to be whisked straight back home next day as we shopped in Morrisons! Here we enjoyed another day of sightseeing, and the company of new friends on the Rock, the engaging Barbary Apes, and on board - Tim replaced Paul. Moored in Marina Bay it was simply a matter of watching his flight land on the runway next door, then walking the quarter mile to the terminal to meet him..!

But the delays had put us three days behind schedule. Rich had a flight booked from Palma, still 400 miles distant, in six days time. I wanted so much for this to be a holiday for Rich, who enjoys sun and sight-seeing more than sailing, but once again it was feeling like a delivery trip. The dilemma.. do we day-sail in order to enjoy good nights’ sleep? Or do overnights in order to cover the miles and still have time to enjoy the places we visit?

The compromise we found was that if we did do overnights then we sailed all next day too. Arriving in the morning offers the worst of both worlds – a bad night’s sleep followed by a day when everyone is too tired to enjoy sightseeing. At least whilst at sea one can catch up on sleep as required without missing anything.

Two more thirty-hour trips got us to the Balearics, almost entirely under motor. But they were hugely enlivened by several dolphin visits, one lasting an hour, as well as pilot whales and turtles.

Our one stop-over, a little resort called San Jose just up from Almeria, had the major drawback of not offering drinking water, and 12 hours short of Formentera we ran the tanks dry.

So we were not pleased to find both marinas in Puerto de Sabina full and unwilling even to allow us in to fill up. This was the first real taste of Med. sailing and it was not an encouraging start. Was this to be the pattern of the coming months I planned to spend here..? Was the whole project ill-conceived? As I frantically phoned round to get a berth in Ibiza for the next night, and for Palma the night after I began to fear so. Although it was not yet July there was not a berth to be found. We finished up in Ibiza anchored, in company with a dozen or so others, around a set of buoys saying ‘no anchoring’, then in Puerto El Arenal, a very pleasant marina, but set in a ghastly tourist resort just up from Palma de Mallorca.

But Richard’s last evening with us was spent in the old town of Campanet being wined and dined by one of his oldest and dearest friends who now lives there with her partner. Enjoying the hospitality of resident friends instead of the tourist honeypots was the perfect antidote to our recent experience.

The Balearics was intended to be another leisurely part of the voyage but there were still over 300 miles to go, only a week to cover them and now just two of us. I was starting to feel the strain of skippering, of being the only person aboard for most of the trip since Biscay with any real sailing or boat maintenance experience. I was tired and craved the chance to discuss tactics with a knowledgeable crew, and was therefore glad that Tim, my one remaining crew, was a keen yachtsman.

The quickest way from Palma to Alghero is south and east about Mallorca and Menorca – but that way lie the tourist resorts. The spectacular scenery lies the other way. So westwards we went – upping the miles again, but rewarded by exquisite Santa Ponsa, the Dragonera passage, the mountain ranges of western Mallorca, Puerto de Soller, with a quaint tram up to the town in its spectacular mountain setting, equally spectacular Es Calobra – the anchorage off Torrente de Pareis which was as remarkable for the number of bodies squeezed on to its tiny beach as for the stunning gorge, forbidding Cabo Formentor and the gentle relief of Pollensa offering shelter once round it. It was the right decision to come this way. There were few other boats, and always space in the harbours.

The first Menorcan stop was to be Ciudadela on the west coast, thirty odd miles from our mooring under Punta de la Avanzada. But on arrival we were greeted by a young lady in a uniform and a fast dory with a yellow flashing light who informed us in no uncertain terms that the port was closed. Our questions ‘Why?’ ‘How long for?’ and ‘Where else can we go?’ were tersely answered with ‘It’s dangerous’ ‘Don’t know’ and ‘Don’t know’, though she did eventually suggest somewhere down the coast approached via a fixed bridge with an air draft of 10m – not much use to a 36-footer.

The only other place offering reasonable shelter seemed to be Puerto de Addaya, the other side of the island. A phone call confirmed they had space and so off we set on another 4-hour trip, not what we were looking for with six already behind us, but the reward was one of the prettiest moorings we found on the whole trip in a land-locked inlet. Though the new village springing up on the hillside above, and betraying its clientele with offers of ‘fish, chips and mushy peas’ is short on appeal, the port is delightful, quiet and friendly.

The next day the local paper showed graphically why we had been refused entry to Ciudadela. On the front cover were pictures of wrecked boats in the town – the result of a ‘resaca’ – a tidal phenomenon to which that port is vulnerable. The sea level rises anything from 1.5 to 4 metres for 10 minutes or so then falls again. Suddenly our uniformed young lady seemed to be a friend after all. And the other good news was that for the first time in 7 weeks we were ahead of schedule!

So we enjoyed a lazy day, breaking the 10-mile trip to Mahon with a swim off a spectacular beach, then another in Mahon before the last hurdle – 190 miles to Alghero.. I felt curiously nervous. Though the forecast was good and the boat in good shape it was as if something was bound to go wrong – it had all gone too well of late... It was likely to be a long motor - had I changed the oil enough? Serviced the stern gland? Was the fuel filter in need of attention? I was feeling the boat’s tiredness after more than 2,000 miles, the majority under engine. Or maybe it was just my tiredness.

But it was a smooth, uneventful, ultimately dull motoring passage. And we were in Sardinia – bang on schedule. Next day we were able at last to enjoy the chance to sail and not care how slowly we were going. We found a beach, anchored then sailed back to harbour. I began to relax, to feel that I had made the right decision, that this corner of Sardinia offers the right mix of good sailing, fabulous scenery and a characterful town which, though it has its tourists, remains essentially Sardinian.

Tim flew home next morning and suddenly I was alone. The anti-climax set in. Wonderful as it was to be relieved of the pressure to move on, it was all over. Such Stuff was just another boat amongst hundreds in the harbour. But her skipper’s dreams had been made reality. Prospero had abjured his rough magic. And that night, like every night on board, the day’s little bit of life was rounded with the most magnificent sleep.