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Glaciers, grinding West, gouged out
these valleys, rasping the brown sandstone,
and left, on the hard rock below –
the ruffled foreland –
this frieze of mountains, filed
on the blue air –
Stac Polly,
Cul Beag, Cul Mor, Suilven,
Canisp –
a frieze and
a litany.

Who owns this landscape?
Has owning anything to do with love?
For it and I have a love-affair, so nearly human..

Norman MacCaig

A Man in Assynt (excerpt)

Day 4
Today was the first morning I woke up and managed to turn over without invoking dizziness in nearly 6 weeks so I took that as a good sign.
We motored out the bay and pointed the bow towards the Skye Bridge. As we passed the ruins of a castle on a promintary at Kyleakin, I recalled visiting there three years ago with the Catalans and our dear wee grand daughter.
We’d mused about princesses and unicorns and the captain helped her climb up the walls to peep out the window. Time had flown so fast and now she was a big sister to another joy for us.
We carried on under the bridge, always a moment of breath holding as you slide through and safely out the other side, although there is plenty room and we turned to starboard and along the shoreline past Badicaul and the entrance to Loch Carron. It was windy though the low cloud hung over the Misty Isle and seemed settled there for a while. We chatted as we continued past Raasay then Rona and the visibility cleared enough to see over to Trotternish then Staffin. I contacted our youngest to see if he was guiding on Skye just to know if he were clambering along the dark brooding ridgeline of the Black Cuillin we could see way in the distance, but he was working further south on the Ben.

An interesting conversation was taking place over the VHF between a naval training base and other craft in the area. They were requesting a wide berth from their training ground. The captain had noticed earlier the depth suddenly shot up  and deduced we might have sailed over a submarine!

The wind direction and strength made our decision to keep going north while we could, so we sailed past Applecross, Sheildaig and made for Badachro. I recognised little settlements as we passed, Opinan, Port Henderson then Big Sands, places from childhood and fond memories of family holidays in these enchanting places. Gairloch came into view, a place known from teenage past when I stayed with a family as an au pair to two delightful little kids while their parents did their best to renovate the old house a family member had left them. I remembered loading up the wee ones in the pram and stuffing as many bags as possible of nappies, food, toys, blankets and towels then heading to the beach to make camp for the day, only returning when I thought the DIY work was done for the day. More recent times  involved the learning centre our college has there and collaboration with colleagues.

We turned deeper into the bay just as a “tender” to an enormous super yacht made it’s way past us, a deck on the back that slides further back to allow their helicopter to land then be lowered into the “garage” then roof slid back over!
Well I was content with my super yacht and felt more virtuous with our wind power driving us and solar and wind heating our water and cooking our dinners.
Stravaigin gently nosed her way into the pretty little bay that lay almost in a circular cove, houses and inns looking down on the boats all shapes and sizes swaying about on the rising tide.
I picked up a visitor mooring and we went through the usual end of passage routine of declothing, snacks, drinks and lying back admiring where we were.
I was pleasantly surprised at how far we’d come already in 4 days, it didn’t seem quite real.
We decided to load the bike bits into the dinghy and go ashore to rebuild them and suss the place out for an exploration tomorrow.
I wasn’t sure how the riding would go but will see.

A cool drink on the deck of the Badachro Inn and another horse box trailer selling woodside pizzas! We weren’t tempted though having the ultimate pizzas on demand from our ypungests fiancé and could not be surpassed!

Back onboard we decided on venison burgers for tea and make a plan for a day onshore tomorrow as there was no wind forecast and a day exploring would be fun.

The Legend of Saucy Mary

Legend claims that ‘Saucy’ Mary, a Norwegian Princess who married the Chief of Clan Mackinnon, collected this toll herself. A large portion of the clans’ income came through imposing a toll on passing ships. To avoid paying it would mean sailing around the far more treacherous Minch, known for its ferocious storms. The Clan Chief and his wife are said to have hung a chain across the straits from their home, Caisteal Maol in Kyleakin, to the mainland and demanded a hefty toll to be allowed through. Mary took it upon herself to collect the toll.  She would show gratitude for those who paid by flashing her bare chest as they sailed past, so the name ‘Saucy’ Mary came to be.

Day 3
A quick breakfast of homemade yogurt, berries and lovely sourdough toast that I’d picked up the weekend before from a fabulous honesty box on Mull, then outer clothing and boots on to lift the hook and head back out the bay to continue our northerly odyssey.
The wind was still in our favour so we decided to keep going up the coast and should make it up to the Kyles in good time to flow through with the tides.

We sailed past beautiful bays and inlets recalling times spent in each over the years. Passing Mallaig and Loch Nevis we  laughed as we remembered a canoe trip we’d made as teenagers in our aluminium canoe. We’d paddle Loch Morar and set out to postage over to Loch Nevis. This involved a very steep climb up and over a bealach carrying the canoe and all our camping kit plus our family collie trailing along too! I recall it being a real slog and probably a crazy idea but we were determined and made it, still talking to each other! We paddled up the loch to Camusrory to stay at Sourlies Bothy. The next day we had to do the same return journey but this time the wind was against us but as luck would have it, the local supply boat Spanish John was heading that way and offered us a lift. We gladly accepted and got a tow back up to Tarbet to make the same carrying back up and over. Well our adventures started young and we never really learned but I think these mad cap trips helped forge our relationship and instilled a real love of these wild places.

Knoydart passed by our starboard, the large humps of Ladhar Bheinn, Luinne Bheinn and sharper peak of Sgurr na Ciche recognisable on the skyline. I had such a fondness for this wild place, I’d climbed through its rough bounds with my late father, we’d made up stories about Loony Benny a character I’d created who lived on Luinne Bheinn. The captain had requested my hand in marriage from my father on a trip there and I’d stayed a whole summer there as a student, writing my dissertation on the concept of wilderness. That was a fabulous summer, I was adopted by the community and stayed firstly in the postman’s shed as he would not hear of me camping, then I was passed to a local family as their daughter was at the high school hostel in Mallaig so they had a spare room. He was a prawn fisherman and a delightful character, every night was a ceilidh and I helped care for their rosy checked baby when I wasn’t writing or tramping the hills. It was also then I fell in love with large hounds, they had a deer hound who was the most beautiful dog I’d ever seen, gentle and graceful but in the hill she could run like the wind!

Memories are precious and I loved bringing them back to mind as I sat in the cockpit, it felt a privilege to have the time to recollect and reminisce.

We reached Glenelg in good time and raced along, the wind behind us and tide with us. It narrows here and the tide brings up the nutrients and sealife as it pours through, we watched a huge flock of gulls feeding and seals darting about hunting for prey. Rounding the point and into Loch Alsh the tide released us and we could see the Skye Bridge ahead. We decided we’d had enough for one day and would anchor south of the bridge for the night in Loch na Beiste.

We sailed confidently into the bay, narrowing as it ended at a green wooded shore, a sheer waterfall emptying into the sea on our starboard.
I felt tired again after the disturbed night but revived after a cup of tea and ginger biscuit. It felt good to be north of the Argyll coastline, we were just round the corner from the Skye Bridge which acts as the gateway to the north coast and true western isles.
I sat, feet up in the cockpit reading and  writing until a figure caught my eye standing on the shore.  It seemed such a remote place to get to and I couldn’t see any tracks marked on the map but guessed he might be a local and knew the paths down to this wee bay, maybe like me, he feels the need to wander down from his house and just be there. He stayed a while just looking and wandering along the shore then slowly retreated back into the woods.
The air grew chillier and I went down below to put dinner together. The skipper had pre-prepared most of our meals so dinner was easy, reheat and pimp up.  We found some TV to watch before bedtime and although it was wet outside, it was a gentle rain so quieter and I hoped I was in for a more peaceful night.

Where the rocks of Ardnamurchan meet the rolling Gaelic Sea,

Where the reef-jawed whirlpools gnash their teeth and roar,

There’s a lass whose gaze is seaward, standing in the menhir’s lee

On fair Alba’s ever-westward-facing shore.

Marie Marshall

Day 2
We had invited our friends who live in Lochaline to join us for breakfast so while I took advantage of the little harbour’s large showers and hair dryers, the skipper volunteered to cook up bacon rolls and pots of good coffee.
A lovely catch up with our friends sharing stories of our growing families,  graduations, house disasters, travels, and future plans then we bid farewell and headed out from the sheltered loch to vere north again and up the sound, navigating other sailing boats and ferries.
I mused as we passed Tobermory then Glengorm, how different this aspect was from the previous weekend when I’d spent an enjoyable weekend on Mull with a friend. We had stood on the raised shoreline looking over the Sound and north toward the Small Isles, watching the tiny white oragami like sail boats flitting around and she had said “That’ll be you next week!”
Indeed it was and I felt very lucky indeed.

The Sound ends and opens out like the estuary of a large river, options for vessels to flow out in any direction. We were heading north and pointed the bow towards Ardnamurchan Point.
We had the winds behind us, which is a fairly rare occurrence so enjoyed a strong sail all the way on our route and into Loch Ceann Traigh and our first anchorage off Singing Sands. Once the hook was dropped, waterproofs discarded and boat shoes on, we sat back enjoying the view and enjoying some snacks and drinks.  It lasted a while before the showers came in. It was wet, very wet, so we hunkered down below and made dinner. The wind was blowing strong and steady and once in bed it was not such a peaceful night. The anchor alarm went off in the middle of the night, which is what its meant to do but getting back to sleep was problematic with the captain deep in snoring slumber beside me and the wind howling overhead. I retreated to the makeshift bunk in the saloon but the wind generator whirled constantly and Stornoway coastguard piped up frequently then the throaty engines of another vessel chugged nearby  so it was a challenge! However I woke early the next morning so realised I had fallen asleep and made bed tea for us, allowing us to come to gently.

“She set out across the sea,

When her ancestors whispered “come home.”

She thought “something’s waiting for me,”

And could feel it in her bones.”

Lily: ‘Find her in the Highlands’

I had a yearning to go north. Just head north with no real destination or timescale. A true stravaig. I loved the islands, I knew them like friends, we’d shared happy and sad times, I knew their secrets, their soft spots and charms. But the north, the far north felt like an old friend, childhood memories, places whose names read like poetry and each mention of them had allure and a beguiling call. I felt it was time I made my acquaintance again.

We were lucky to have an extended period of time off together, I had a long academic break and the captain had taken the boat off charter so we could spend some summer time together, a rare occurrence since starting the business. We discussed what we might do and using the boat ourselves was an option but I questioned was that not like a bus man’s holiday or indeed a captain’s holiday? He refuted this immediately and explained how much he’d love sharing his sea life with me, showing me the delights of our coastal home waters and even cook for me. It was a deal!

We calculated over two weeks to spend away, allowing time to get back and prepare for the little Catalan stravaigers to arrive for their annual journey back to their Celtic homeland, so we packed, planned and prepared.

The morning of departure I ferried the numerous bags down the slipway ready to load on to the boat once she was brought alongside. The food bags were many and heavy and I did wonder if we ate all this would we return carrying all this extra weight inside!! I also wondered as I handed the bags containing our bikes which had been dismantled and packed over the guard rails, if I would be more successful than my previous attempts to cycle.

I had recently been out of action with a very frustrating and debilitating condition affecting balance and although was well on the way to recovery, we decided just to set off and see how things go. I wasn’t sure how I’d be onboard never mind cycling but what’s the worse that could happen!

Long time he lay upon the sunny hill,
To his father’s house below securely bound.
Far off the silent, changing sound was still,
With the black islands lying thick around.

He saw each separate height, each vaguer hue,
Where the massed islands rolled in mist away,
And though all ran together in his view
He knew that unseen straits between them lay.

Often he wondered what new shores were there.
In thought he saw the still light on the sand,
The shallow water clear in tranquil air;
And walked through it in joy from strand to strand.

Over the sound a ship so slow would pass
That in the black hill’s gloom it seemed to lie
The evening sound was smooth like sunken glass,
And time seemed finished ere the ship passed by.

Grey tiny rocks slept round him where he lay,
Moveless as they, more still as evening came,
The grasses threw straight shadows far away,
And from the house his mother called his name

Childhood   Edwin Muir

The little arrow on the screen remained still, just off Ponta Delgada, pointing north east. I checked it every day and it still remained. I was home and dealing with the after math of Mum’s passing, lawyers, utilities, telephone, return of NHS aids, writing letters, cutting grass and patiently waiting for news. A little text appeared via satellite, “Stravaigin on passage. All well” Relief. I was not worried about the boat or crew, three yacht masters, a good strong boat and fair weather.  However they were way out in the Atlantic. They were having a ball. Poor Jan had left the boat in the Azores returning back to Slovakia for military duty, so just the three had made the second passage from Azores to Dublin but it was going well.

I booked a flight to Dublin, the final one, to meet up with them for the final sail home. The little twin propeller airplane trundled noisily off the runway and made the short flight from Glasgow to Dublin, landing after we had all had a cup of tea and lovely Sean, J’s old school friend was there to meet me. As the boat was not due in until that evening he insisted on taking me home to meet the family and wine and chat flowed as we caught up on our adventures since we last saw them, right at the start and met their lovely daughters Rosie and Kiera, and the dog who lay his head on my lap and gazed up at me hanging on every word. Suddenly Sean leapt up, having checked his Vessel Finder App and announced we had to go as the “boat was coming in!”

We bundled into his car, dropping the dog off at granny’s and we headed to Dún Laoghaire, kids and all. A quick pizza and then a march down to the marina just as I received a text announcing the arrival of Stravaigin, landfall after eight days at sea.

A beaming and slightly hairy, captain stood on the deck as we arrived, delighted at the crowd welcoming them to Ireland and without further ado, headed to the pub for a well-earned Guinness.

It was hoatching, Saturday night in Dún Laoghaire and everyone seemed to have fled Dublin and headed to the coast so after a quick drink, the crew were done and we wandered back to the boat so the captain could finally sleep in his bunk, stationary and with no watch to worry about. And his first mate beside him.

We spent a nice day the next day, after saying goodbye to Michael who was heading home which was only a couple of hours by train away, then cleaning up the boat a bit, refuelling, rewatering, restocking before treating ourselves to a fabulous brunch. We then headed out for a quieter drink in a local pub that evening rather than the huge franchise we had found the previous night. I did notice the rainbow flag in the window and the pink flamingo and unicorn ornaments adorning the bar, but the lads were oblivious, heads in phones catching up on news from home, sipping their manly pints. Time to go as the skies grew dark and as we left the heavens opened in a biblical torrent of torrential rain and we were socked to the skin within seconds. Nothing for it we waded home and literally stripped in the cockpit before dashing down below to dry off. I smiled to myself at dear Stuart, non plussed about decorum as he sat in his thermal underpants, sipping a hot coffee, steaming from head to toe.

Hunger nudged me awake and I smiled as I opened my eyes, quietly. No persistent alarm demanding me on deck to layer up and don red light torches along with life jacket, thermal hat and leather boots to protect my sleepy body from a chill I had not expected in the Mediterranean nights, I was relieved of watch duties as we had three aboard and I would gladly get up to feed us all at breakfast time. At first light we slipped out of the marina and headed north up the coast, a two day, one overnight passage to get to Islay or Jura depending on the weather and tides. It was strange having to factor in the tides again after a year almost of no tidal range but now they had quite an effect and we were keen to get beyond the NW corner of Ireland while the tide was with us.

It was a nice sail, a bit of motoring too but as we headed north the noticeable thing was the amount of marine life everywhere. The sea birds were constant as were dolphin, seals and porpoise. And jelly fish in their thousands, mostly the clear moon with their four purple rings but the occasional orangey brown, lion mane, some the size of dustbin lids, floated by. As the little white capped waves shooed us from behind like children’s’ hands shooing their chooks back to the barn, I could see the distinct dark silhouette of Jura ahead. We were goosewinged out, I’d like to say, gracefully like the Greylag honing in to its nesting site but we were more like Jemima Puddle Duck flouncing her wings occasionally as the wrong wind direction caught the edges of the sail, flapping noisily and regularly.

It was decided we would call in at Craighouse on Jura for the night and it was simply glorious as we sailed up past the Kintyre peninsula, Gigha and Islay, all silhouettes we knew well and a feeling of great pride and nostalgia came over us. It was beautiful. The sun was shining, the seas were blue and there were gannets, puffin, guillemot, terns, seals, gulls everywhere, little colourful fishing boats petered by and gave a friendly wave and the iconic black and red of the Cal-Mac ferries plying back and forth to the western islands made us right at home.

We took a mooring at Craighouse, a small fee if you eat at the hotel and we had been anticipating a feast of seafood at the restaurant as we dinghied ashore, rowing as the outboard had sprung a fuel leak. It was our 34^th wedding anniversary so I had contacted the restaurant to book a table and arrange a bottle of fizz to celebrate, along with Stuart it was a double celebration marking our arrival back in Scotland. The meal turned out to be a disappointment as the food was pretty poor however the view made up for it and we wandered along the shore after eating, soaking in the stunning sunset across the water, other yachts mirrored on the still waters, the cry of the oyster catcher making the perfect back tune to the scene. I felt so glad to be back in home waters, though it did not feel real. Stravaigin looked so comfortable sitting in the bay surrounded by mountains and green hillsides, I tried to imagine her against the pink rock of the Mediterranean and it seemed like a distant memory already.

Deciding to draw the inevitable end out a little, we anchored the final night in our local anchorage in Loch Spelve on Mull, literally chucking Stuart off the boat in the dinghy, as we flew by the mussel farm, to collect a bag from the honesty box and he re-joined us with his successful net bag bulging as we anchored at the far end of the bay, a place we had been regularly over the years. We indulged in moules mariniere, the best of the year so far, and watched a flock of geese both Canada and Greylag with little fuzzy goslings following along as they glided along the shore. It was significant how much wildlife there was since returning to Scottish waters and the lushness of the hillsides, resplendent in greens of bracken and ferns, low growing willows and birches, the purple of the early heathers and foxgloves and the yellow of iris and tormentil, painting a Monet type scene at every bay.

The final morning we weighed the anchor and headed over Oban Bay, not a ripple on the water surface nor a cloud in the sky, I stood on the deck at the bow and watched the blue water slip by, jelly fish appearing ghostly as we sailed past them and the sun’s rays piercing down a fair way before being swallowed up by the deep. Past Kerrera, past Lismore Light and Oban, the colourful buildings circling the bay and the ferries bustling in and out and we rounded the point at Ganavan into Dunstaffnage.

There and back again. Eleven months later and we were tied against the quay awaiting a berth as J’s mum and sister welcomed us back with bubbly and balloons much to the skipper’s embarrassment and joy. We were home.

Home is where the heart is and mine had sailed over the ocean and discovered new lands, new people, new experiences and cultures.  We returned to our wooden house in the forest by the sea loch and sitting in the lounge that evening looking out at the sea stretching out calmly from the bottom of the garden, I felt I had never really left home at all, I had been home all along.

Long Journey,

yet it was never too late

to crest the memories of yesterdays.

A voyage that was finished before

and here I am gazing beyond

through oriel windows once more.

An ocean wide stretched from afar

with a quill and vellum on my hand

I wrote these words and understand

life was never easy reaching its core

self must refine from silver to gold

dreams red as velvet, white as snow.

Pure as the heart of every little boy

moulded from a mother’s fervent love

brave, a father’s heritage in honour of.

Blessed by the gift from Nature

toiling day and night from my storm.

She never left me lonely, till all is won

I gazed back to the oceans and saw,

Someone familiar…

Could it be…

Land A Home,

it was a moment of spring.

I step the shore, my heart felt its beat

And Lo, my guardians caress on thee

for there is no sweeter victory

than the ones who truly loved me

From: Oceans Beyond Oriels    Nico Julleza

Push the boat out, compañeros,
push the boat out, whatever the sea.
Who says we cannot guide ourselves
through the boiling reefs, black as they are,
the enemy of us all makes sure of it!
Mariners, keep good watch always
for that last passage of blue water
we have heard of and long to reach
(no matter if we cannot, no matter!)
in our eighty-year-old timbers
leaky and patched as they are but sweet
well seasoned with the scent of woods
long perished, serviceable still
in unarrested pungency
of salt and blistering sunlight. Out,
push it all out into the unknown!
Unknown is best, it beckons best,
like distant ships in mist, or bells
clanging ruthless from stormy buoys

At Eighty Edwin Morgan

And so I found myself in the Azores, a place I never really thought about and certainly did not think I would ever go. I cheated a little and flew there after some time at home, the intention being to meet up with the boat and crew, spend a little time with the skipper before they would set off again and I would have some downtime to relax and heal a little.
I had overnighted in Lisbon on the way out, really convenient flights from Edinburgh and had booked a guesthouse within walking distance of the airport. I trundled my gold coloured trolley down the pavement, dressed smartly in my white linens and lime green jacket. I had decided to dress up for this wee trip, staying in an Airbnb near Ponta Delgada the main town on San Miguel the largest of the Azorean islands. I had also hired a car for the 5 days I would be there so the captain and I could explore a little. I felt quite pleased with myself and arrived at the guest house, big grin on my face and produced my booking document with a flair. The thin, grey coloured man stretched his neck like a tortoise from his extensive collar and peered at me from over his thin glasses.
“No check in until 2pm”
It was 11am.
“Ah, ok, well can I leave my bag and I’ll go for some lunch and return later? Is there somewhere nearby to eat?”
“Yes, leave bag”. He indicated a space behind the desk, without looking up. “Shops a long walk into town”
Ah well, ok, I wheeled the trolley in place and left, not relishing a “long walk into town”. Standing on the pavement of a busy main road and looked up and down the road with no sign of anything other than medical clinics. I wandered off downhill, a little hopelessly but soon found a pretty city park with mummies pushing prams and teenagers walking along with earphones in, screening out the sound of birds chattering in the trees and leaves rustling on their branches.
And there right inside the entrance to the park was a delightful bijou outdoor café, little mushroom stools and wooden tables, cool jazz music playing round the patio and a pretty Portuguese girl with long black dreadlocks and silver clips decorating her braids, wearing patchwork dungarees, smiling behind the counter.
I ordered a goat cheese salad and her own fresh lemonade and settled back to enjoy the next hour or two until I was allowed to check in.
It was like a scene from Fawlty Towers when I returned to the guest house. The same grey man looked up as soon as I arrived in the foyer, glanced at the clock which read 1400 on the dot and beamed at me:
“Ah Good afternoon Madam, would you like to check in now. I hope you found somewhere for lunch and you can sit in our garden if you like or use the pool. I will show you your room which I hope will be satisfactory?”
I looked at him not believing it was the same turtle man, I looked at the garden which bordered on to the duel carriageway and sported metal chairs and tables that were mostly rust, the pool that looked like a homemade job, raised on a platform and with most of the garden floating on top of it and politely declined the offer but yes I would like to see my room.
All was fine though it looked like a mansion from the days of the Czar, velvet brocade wallpaper, stair hand rails of ornate metal, silk flowers in large china vases and a chandelier that once had been clear glass but now yellow and dusty. My room was a box, decorated similarly but it had a terrace, overlooking the garden, great. It was fine for a quick overnight as my flight to the Azores was the next morning. I was a bit paranoid about getting up in time and although I set my phone alarm, I accepted the offer for a wake- up call too.
I was excited about flying to the Azores, over the Atlantic, the same ocean Stravaigin was sailing over, vast and blue. My phone alarm went off fine and I waited for the phone call alarm then there was banging on my door, I was a bit alarmed thinking there was some kind of problem until I heard the tortoise man, shouting,
“Time to get up!” Ah the alarm call, fair enough.
The flight out was fine and I even managed to grab a coffee and Pastel de Nata, my beloved custard tart, for the journey.
I sat looking out the window and reflected on the last week at home. Time spent sorting out some of Mum’s affairs, emptying her fridge, watering her house plants, cutting her grass with the same unreal feeling , like she was away on holiday, distant but not gone. Time spent with family, my youngest at home from University working at the local seafood shack to accrue, hopefully, some cash for the next academic year. A visit to the GP as I felt so run down and a virus was most likely the diagnosis. A visit to my work town to meet up with friends and colleagues and catch up on the college news, no different really to when I left but did leave me with a positive thought about my return and re-joining the bustle of education and learning. Time spent with the newly weds who came down to stay over and we visited the grave, it still did not feel like it was happening to me. And finally time spent with the skipper’s cousin and her family, a real tonic, much gossiping, catching up, Prosecco and warmth, before snuggling down in one of the wee girl’s relinquished beds amongst pink teddies, unicorns and paintings of ponies on the wall.
I realised we should be landing soon as we started our decent and the surface of the ocean got nearer, I still couldn’t see any land although I presumed there must be some down there! The sea got closer and closer and I actually sat up straight as it felt like the surface was a couple of feet below us when suddenly the ground appeared at the edge of a small cliff and our wheels touched it, screeched to a sideways halt like a hand brake turn and we were down! Think I prefer a boat.
And there he was, a tanned, lean captain sporting his shorts and suncap, beaming from ear to ear.
“Hello gorgeous!” he greeted me, nice to be back together again.
I collected our car and chauffeured him around this time, checking in at our little flat in a small coastal village, overlooking the sea, with a café underneath. Perfect.
We caught up with the news having been out of contact during his crossing, save the satellite texts once a day to check in on progress. It had been a great sail for them, strong winds, steady direction , good crew and banter. I was still glad I didnt go and so was J. It had allowed him to focus on the voyage and not worry about me and I really was not in strong form. The Slovakian Major had departed in the Azores, dubious as to whether it was a call of duty or the sea sickness he was unfortunately afflicted with. They had also rescued a French “Amel” stricken off the coast of San Miguel by a broken rudder and spent the last day towing the stressed couple back to port for repairs.
We headed out for dinner to a beach side bar and enjoyed the best fillet mignon I had had in a long time cooked on a hot stone slab, the Azores are famous for their cattle, both beef and diary, all cattle were grass fed and seemed to live an idyllic life. I felt ok about eating them.
It was a pretty idyllic place, a cross between Brazil and Cornwall, exotic and jungly along with neat hedges and green pasture. We enjoyed a breakfast of sweet golden pineapple, milky scones with creamy butter, Guava jam and Azorean tea grown in the many plantations here, then we headed off for a visit to the volcanic crater lakes and national parks. It was a lovely drive and we marvelled at the scenery, it really is a much overlooked place and so lush. The wanders round the bubbling pools of boiling mud remined us of Iceland earlier this year, the same geological origins but a lot warmer surroundings here! A visit also to the thermal pools in the river, very touristy though with dams creating artificial pools that groups of folks steeped in, parboiling themselves. We joined them for a while until we turned a sulphur yellow then headed for the village for the traditional meal of stew cooked in the fumaroles, followed by pineapple cream. It was a wonderful day and restful for J before heading out to sea the following day.
We used the car to stock up on fresh food for them then they sorted out a chaffed halyard, it seemed the spring installation of the radar was at fault, perhaps large bolts drilled in too far in the mast had caused it and was well spotted by Mike before the main sail would have collapsed down, not ideal when in the middle of the Atlantic! Stocked up, clean, fuelled up and down to three, they motored out the port and headed round the end of the island before pointing north for Ireland, where I hoped to meet up with them for the final voyage home. I watched them go, getting smaller as they edged towards the horizon, not sad or worried about them, but very proud.
Returning to my solo pad, I changed for the beach and took a picnic with me to a little sheltered cove to enjoy an afternoon of relaxing and sunbathing. I lay listening to the waves break on the shore sending occasional Valellas high and dry up on onto the beach accompanied this time by Portuguese Man-O-War. The children seemed to be well used to these stingers and relished finding sticks to pop their inflated bodies with, then twineing the blue tentacles round the stick and chasing each other with them. The more diligent parents scooped them up and put them in the bin so no one would get stung as the toxin is still live after the creature is dead. They were a beautiful colour, translucent pink and turquoise. A crowd of young teenagers appeared along from me, loud, full of energy and hormones. Shrieking girls in bikinis, boys relentlessly kicking a football, girls “accidentally” getting in the way and having to be removed by carrying them off, with more shrieks.
A group of young Azoreans spread their rush mats on the other side, deep tanned bodies decorated with picturesque tattoos and piercings, young women with long hair, one was sand coloured with dreadlocks, a sliver clip adorning each fuzzy strand, one with a headband holding her mane high on her head and the other raven black, long damp tendrils licking her shoulders and deep brown back. The aroma of cannabis floated over me and the musical lilt of their voices added their own playlist to the bohemian scene as they nestled into their respective men, muscled bodies toned by years of playing in the sea. Young lovers, what a place to be young and in love, what a place to be 56 and in love! The ocean stretched wide in front of me, green, pale green then grey then green, the skies darkened and the wind picked up, sending the tops of the breakers white and foamy, time to go before the weather changed too much. Folks picked up mats and towels shaking off the black volcanic sand and washed it off their feet at the beach showers before slipping on shoes and disappearing off the beach. There was a storm due, the reason Stravaigin had headed off to get ahead of it and use the edges to push her north. As I walked up the beach a kite surfer walked down, setting up his rig for an exhilarating ride on the waves, living the good life. It is always good weather for someone.
The next day was windy and cool so I explored the local area finding the Tea House along the road from my flat and went in the saloon type swing doors. It was a bit dark inside with a few elderly men at tables playing cards that looked up when I entered. A friendly faced woman behind the bar greeted me and promptly took me upstairs by means of a wooden ladder type starircase to a roof top garden, a beautiful little oasis with wooden gazebos and bursts of vibrant coloured beds of head high flowers and bushes.
She gave me a tea menu that was 6 pages long so I asked for a recommendation which she gave and then told me to stay up here to take my tea as it was nicer than down below and really women were not allowed in the male part. She told me the men talk about things women should not hear and sometime say bad words that would offend ladies.
I enjoyed my gentile, feminine time in the tea garden with Azorian tea and little bits of toast with pineapple jam while I wrote and browsed on my phone, wondering how the crew were fairing as I looked out at the large waves pounding on the rocks. All the energy built up travelling over the Atlantic and these lumps of volcanic rock the first thing to impeded their relentless march over the ocean.
I had never holidayed alone before, well not since a student and a week spent in Orkney (another healing time), so it felt odd but was quite therapeutic. Family called which was lovely to catch up on goings on at home and made me feel closer to home. It was strange being away still, still on our adventure but not on the boat. I suppose I was trying to grasp the dying vestiges of the trip, delaying coming back to reality but at the same tine keen to get back to family and a routine.
The evening was festive again with fireworks banging off constantly and the seemingly daily evening ritual of parading along the road with farm animals in carts or led by ropes, families hanging out the back of trucks singing and drinking, dancers with hoops of flags, music and a brass band. I watched them out my bedroom window but could not really work out what was happening, other than a celebration of Azorian life.
The following day was pleasant but my emotions were all over the place, I went from feeling strong and confident and making all sorts of mental plans, to feeling weak, tearful and vulnerable. I was ready to fly home and the next night found me back in my own bed, having done the whole journey from San Roque, Azores all the way to Argyll in a day. Stravaigin was surging her way northeast and it would take her 8 days to make landfall again. I wanted to be there to greet her.

“You have come to the seashore, neither searching for the rich nor the wise, desiring only that I should follow.

See my goods, my possessions; in my boat you find no power, no wealth.

Will you accept, then, my nets and labour?

 Take my hands and direct them.

Help me spend myself in seeking the lost, returning love for the love you gave me.

 As I drift on the waters, be the resting place of my restless heart, my life’s companion, my friend and refuge.

With your eyes set upon me, gently smiling, you have spoken my name

All I longed for I have found by the water, at your side, I will seek other shores.”

Adapted from Hymn 532.

All I longed for I have found by the water. All that I was looking for I found on the sea.

Here I was sat looking out at the rain pour down the walls and run off the palms, the sky hung low and grey over the island and the sea pounding on the rocky shore, metres from the little white house. The Azores. Way out in the Atlantic Ocean. On my own. Very alone. The silence was shattered violently every now and then by fireworks exploding over the green fields, randomly announcing the start or end of the local festival. The little birds chirped happily in the trees glad of the shelter from this storm passing over the archipelago.

I did not know what to think, how to think. Everything had changed and yet everything was the same. Life continued on.

Stravaigin was 370nm away from the islands by now carrying her crew of three, the captain, lovely soft Stuart and quiet Michael from Ireland and she was surging along at an average of 8knts towards Dublin , her next port of call. I had waved them off three days previously, their faces eager and full of expectations for the next passage, mine was bright to see them off then full of tears once they had let go the lines and turned the stern towards me, heading away to sea. I had sat on the wall and cried a little, not sad to see them go, not worried, not scared, not sad to be on my own, just sad. There was too much ending. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She was supposed to be at home, waiting for my return, waiting for my call to tell her all about the journey, waiting to welcome us back and hug me and make me feel like the most important person in the world, as she does. And she was gone. Gone.

I felt lost. Lost my compass bearing, my anchor, my waypoint, my guidance, my core.

It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. Yes she was 90 , many would think, well you must have thought she may leave at any time and in some ways yes I had forced myself to contemplate that but I dismissed it. Not wanting to let that thought in. She was fine, keeping well. Looked after, cared for and happy.

We had left the Balearics in early May and sailed further west to mainland Spain deciding to hop along the coast this time rather than the long continual passage that we had done last year. We had allowed a few days in Majorca as our youngest and his girlfriend were due to join us for a short break however he had been offered an excellent opportunity to attend an academic module being piloted in Finland, all expenses paid so we encouraged him to take it up, his patient and supportive partner doing the same, so we left earlier than planned to make the journey to Gibraltar in good time and get up to Catalonia for the preparations.

Cartagena was our next port of call, a beautiful and intriguing city, grand and with lovely architecture. It seemed old style Spain, proud and full of lovely bars and restaurants. We were booked into the Real Club Nautica which sounded very grand but was actually very affordable and the receptionist was the friendliest and most helpful lady, recommending places to visit and  things to do. We listened diligently but knew with only two nights there and our priorities as always were laundry, shopping, water and fuel, we wouldn’t manage any of these but we thanked her and took her maps and brochures. Yet another place to return to. I called Mum as always and told her all about the city and the journey down, she was interested and asked all her usual questions about the weather, was it busy? how as the food? was I ok? I had shared that I was getting a little tired of being away, something I was not vocal about with J, thinking it might bother him although he knew I was in some ways glad the journey was coming to its fruition, I love my home and missed being away from everyone.  I told her I would call her the next evening when we were at anchor, as the next day we would be out of reception. All was fine, she had visitors coming and the garden was looking lovely. She was glad I was nearer home and was looking forward to seeing me.

“Bye bye dear, bye bye.”

We were almost a day out of Cartagena, evening approaching when the storm hit, hard, the maelstrom flew around in circles holding me in the vortex, I held tight to the rail, sobbing. J held the wheel hard and pushed the engine full ahead. The waves picked us up and sent us streaming down the other side, the wind blew our voices away. The phone call had come. I was in a storm. I was lost at sea.

We managed to pull into a cove, horrid and swelly, full of mooring buoys and fishing boats but we could stop. Stop and deal. Stop and think. Stop.

I felt for J, helpless, all he could do was make a plan which he did, while I made the heart wrenching calls to our boys.

Everything seemed a blur, unreal. I felt angry, guilty, scared, gutted and wronged. And lost.

The wedding was next week, we all couldn’t wait to tell her all about it, show her the pictures, the videos, the bride’s dress, my ceremony speech, the gossip, share the love of the day. She had already decided she would not go, the whole thing would be too much for her and we had all supported her with this decision and she felt much happier in the security that we all agreed and would share everything with her once home. I was due home on the Monday after the wedding and couldn’t wait. She was so proud of everyone, her grandsons who would be groomsmen and groom, their beautiful girls at their sides. The stunning bride and us, Mum and Dad, a job well done.

Stravaigin carried her grief laden load along the coast to Almeria the next day, a place the captain had found and fortunately offered all we needed, a safe place to leave her and an airport to fly us home.

I don’t remember those days there and flying home, I believe we flew via London but I don’t recall. I remember arriving at Edinburgh and my first born standing by the car with a bunch of flowers and his strong arms outstretched. I collapsed into his arms.

The week passed in a sad routine of funeral preparations, choosing photographs, organising a piper, notifying people which stung every time. It still did not seem real. I had the oddest sense now and again of “I need to call Mum and tell her what’s happened!” I woke in the night, cold and my heart thumping thinking I’d had a nightmare then the sadness flooding in that it was real. My anchor held  me fast and kept me strong. Amongst this too were gaps of light and joy as we prepared for the wedding the weekend after the funeral.

Our son flew home from his stag do, kayaking in the Pyrenees for the funeral then back again to resume his preparations and I knew how hard it was for him.

I let the tiny bouquet of bog myrtle fall from my hand, tied in a red satin ribbon, a piece of the ribbon that would bind the young couples’ hands five days later in their handfasting ceremony, onto her coffin where she lay with my late brother, overlooked by the hill top where my late father’s ashes were scattered. Myrtle had been in her wedding bouquet and mine and my eldest son’s bride’s bouquet and I pulled a bit to take out to the Pyrenees for this new bride.

New beginnings, new life. She lives on in all of us.

Two days after the funeral we flew to Barcelona and became caught up in a wonderful whirl of preparations, dinners, wine, families, friends, flowers, talking and laughing. The wedding was deep in the heart of the Pallars, the Catalonian Pyrenees, the spring flowers were adorning the valley floors and the hillsides were a vibrant green. The rivers were full and flowing through the dissections of the mountain reigns and the white water rafters were accessorising the river sides with their colours and energy. We set to ferrying guests around, collecting booze from Andorra and sorting out the venues though everything was well prepared by the couple and her family. The day of the wedding was simply magical, everything they had wanted, planned for a year and a truly special for us and our family. The bride was ethereally beautiful, my son in tears of joy, my youngest piped her through the field by the river and my eldest stood proudly at his brother’s side. I conducted their chosen Celtic ceremony and sat while her uncle performed the ring exchange and rest of the ceremony and drunk it all in, committing it to memory that will last a lifetime. I often stood back throughout the day and as night worn on, casting my eye over the assembled crowd of families and friends, old and young and felt so calm and at peace that there was new life and new beginnings here, a lifetime of adventure ahead of them, surrounded by good people that will help to make their journey a safe and happy one.

We left the party at 4.30am feeling rather proud of ourselves and as I slipped in next to the captain, looking for his warmth on my chilled body, I fell asleep with smile on my face and gladness in my heart.

We left for Barcelona a couple of days later and spent a delightful night with our eldest and his wife who were taking advantage of the occasion to explore the city. He is such a sweet boy, folks at the wedding thought he was a Viking warlord but his large muscles and beard cover a tender heart and a gentle soul.  I adore him and his pretty wife who is his angel. Early next morning saw us on a plane back to Almeria and Stravaigin and we sat in the cockpit drinking tea with a look on our faces that read “What just happened?” We hardly had time to reflect and digest, when our first crew member Michael from Northern Ireland arrived and we set to showing him around and settling him in. A retired dentist with three children, a wife whose love is horses, as well as him of course! He was gentle and calm, I knew he’d fit in just grand. A day to restock and charge up, then we headed out the marina and along the coast, final destination for me, Gibraltar.

The next few days were smooth sailing, if a little light for the captain. We motored a lot to boost the speed which was necessary but tedious.

We tried our first anchorage along the coast but it was noisy with tourists and swelly so we went on a bit to another however when we dropped the hook, it kept going! A bit of a drama as the windlass seemed stuck, the anchor was neither up nor down so not holding, the swell and wind were pushing us to the stone breakwater wall and a rather large ferry was steaming in to the channel we were now halfway across! I took the helm and let the boys deal with the stuck anchor, having to winch it up manually with flaked out chain and ropes.  Finally the large metal hook appeared and we were free just in time as I slewed her round and headed for the marina. We were coming in whether they liked it or not however it was not a problem and we tied up alongside the outer quay, glad to be safe and secure. I made dinner but took mine ashore and sat on a bollard to eat on solid ground, the  events of the past couple of hours having rocked me in more ways then one. The next drama was the fresh water pump filter broke in two, for no apparent reason, so out came the Gorilla glue and a temporary fix was applied. All this happened as soon as Mike had arrived, I scoffed at the luck of the Irish! A peaceful night in Motril with a lovely shower, evening and morning, including my breakfast on the quayside too as the choppy berth was making me ill. I had not felt well since the day after the wedding, extreme fatigue, sore throat and headaches, I put it down to recent events and pushed on.

Benalmadena offered us the next berth, choosing to hop into these marinas as they were reasonably cheap, not the over inflated fees of the Costas we had been warned about, though we realised most yachties prefer the Marbellas and Benidorms where you pay to be seen. We finally saw the Rock looming out of the low coast and I felt a surge of pride as we realised we were back here at the mouth of the Mediterranean. The waters had changed along these last few nautical miles turning from blue to green and very confused with currents running in all directions. It gave us 2-3knts at one point. We pulled into Gib to refuel, our three person team now working well together, I liked Mike’s dry Irish humour and he seemed to be enjoying the trip. It boded well for the next big passage. Cheap dieseled up we sailed round the point to La Linea our Spanish port last year and got  a berth only a few spaces along from our original one. I smiled to myself when we saw “Matey’s” boat still there, his offers of cider and plum brandy still being woefully doled out to anyone who passed – although there were ladies clothes hanging out to dry on the rigging – could he have at last found a friend?

It was lovely being back, a feeling of knowing the place, popping over the border in an attempt to buy a charging cable for my phone but no luck so had to buy a cheap replacement phone. I‘m not really a techy person but these experiences teach you  that you need communications and it does become a big part of keeping in touch and connecting with the world. We made our escape from Blackpool-by-the-sea quickly back to the Spanish side and enjoyed a tasty dinner at the marina café. We spent a few days there, a big restock on fresh food for the crews’ voyage, three trolley loads and a drama over a taxi back to the boat which ended up resolved but the captain was in a dizzy sweat! I smoothed things over and sent him off while I rode back with the goods piled high in the back of the taxi and walked back to retrieve my bike, still chained to the lamppost at the supermarket. The glamour of yachting, oh yes. Our second crew member arrived, Jan from Slovakia, a young soldier, dad of two little kids and a very disciplined attitude, we unravelled him of that promptly as J poured him a rum and ran over the very laid back plan for the next few days.

Finally our dear Stuart from Islay arrived, off the late plane, trolley bag trundled behind him and a big hug. He had just finished a cycle sportive race of 100miles and was still high on achievement and hungry. He polished off a sword fish steak that would feed us all and sat back, hands behind his head and stated “Ah that was very good”

Everyone found their space on Stravaigin, we had rearranged and restowed things so they had bunks and storage and I spent the last night with them all.

My flight was not due til late morning but they had to get away at dawn to make the tide out The Straits so as the pink sun was rising and the Rock loomed large behind them, Stravaigin and her four crewmen nosed out the marina and headed due west. Next stop The Azores.

I sat for ages watching them go, not sad or worried. Just philosophical. I did not want to sail with them , it was too far, too long with a possible three weeks at sea and the winds were due to be strong, good sailing but not comfortable. I had done my Atlantic crossing, I was very proud of what I achieved and had enjoyed it but I did not want to repeat it just now. I was low and a little weak. I needed time to recover and build up strength. Over these past couple of weeks I had to keep going. Now I could stop. I had learnt that you need to look after yourself before you can look after anyone else and my family needed me. I needed to be strong for them. Yes I had lost my Mum but my boys had lost their beloved Granny and they were raw. Time to go home.

I sat on the airplane seat watching the Rock underneath me and gazing at the white triangle shapes out on the ocean and though there were sad thoughts, there was also happy ones and I felt a pang of desire to do it all again.

It really is such a beautiful world, so huge, vast and exciting with so many good people living in it. We must strive to be happy. If we have the luxury of living on this planet we need to grab the opportunity with both hands and hold tight but also be gentle with our world. High in the sky looking down it looks so small and fragile but from the surface of the seas, it looks infinite. We all deserve our place on it, we come and we go but the time we have on it we must treasure. It is our treasure trove with untold wonders and we must relish each discovery and finding. Perhaps the greatest treasure of all though, is finding ourselves. All I longed for I have found by the water. I found myself on the sea.

Hymn 532. My mother’s chosen hymn for her funeral, found after her passing, hand written, on June 14^th 2018. “Lord, you have come to the Seashore”

I started early, took my dog,
And visited the sea;
The mermaids in the basement
Came out to look at me.

And frigates in the upper floor
Extended hempen hands,
Presuming me to be a mouse
Aground, upon the sands.

But no man moved me till the tide
Went past my simple shoe,
And past my apron and my belt,
And past my bodice too,

And made as he would eat me up
As wholly as a dew
Upon a dandelion’s sleeve –
And then I started too.

And he – he followed close behind;
I felt his silver heel
Upon my ankle, – then my shoes
Would overflow with pearl.

Until we met the solid town,
No man he seemed to know;
And bowing with a mighty look
At me, the sea withdrew.

By the Sea Emily Dickinson

I felt him move beside me, the ritual of dressing, the toileting, the pull on of shoes, the red light flicking on in the galley. I pulled the quilt over me and rolled over. He kindly said he was happy taking her out and I should sleep on but after a few moments I felt awake and excited. I wanted to get up. I quickly dressed and appeared at the foot of the companion way.

“Oh hello you, I thought you would sleep on?”

“I wanted to get up and see us going out. Fancy a cup of tea?”

We sat in the cockpit, cradling a cup of tea, as we slid out the narrows between the islands, a current running and using the lights on land to guide us. It was very shallow here and we had to follow a narrow channel that was supposed to be marked by sector lights. We couldn’t see any but followed the chart and gradually Stravaigin flowed out the channel and into open waters.

“I’ll take the watch now” I said.

J happily accepted and headed down below to catch up on sleep and I settled down to keep watch and see us on our journey across this stretch of the Mediterranean. It would be a full day and night crossing and we hoped to be in Minorca by mid afternoon the following day. I was well suited up, the chill of the night still requiring an underlayer and full waterproofs on top. My hat was handy and I looked at my tanned hands peeping out of the long sleeves, they didn’t look like mine. I loved being out here on my own, I felt strong and competent. A small group of dolphins startled me as they leapt at the side of the boat, silver in the black night causing phosphorescence as they splashed.  The waters were odd, currents drifting and a lot of flotsam floating by. There was a mist lying on the surface too and with the blinking lights on the shore it looked surreal. I noticed what looked like foam in huge rafts floating by, then it looked like polystyrene blobs all clumped together. I couldn’t make it out. I was a bit concerned, what if it clogged the engine intake. I checked it and shone the big torch on it but still could not figure it out. It was endless, whiteish and blueish. I wanted to get the net and scoop some up but we were going around 6knts, too fast for that. And I was always concerned fiddling about on deck in the dark on my own so sat back and focused instead on the screen showing our progress and more importantly any shipping around. I loved watching the day grow from dark, no light to light just glowing on the horizon. The stars slowly faded, Venus clinging on and the moon paling as the light built from the east. The waters slowly changed colour or at least took colour as we surged onwards, the bow breaking the surface and parting the waves, sending wakes on either side. The blobs were still there not so much a solid raft but dots now. Everywhere the eye could see and for ever. The sun rose casting colour and definition to the sky and clouds, the dew on deck slowly dried back and the teak wood dried off to its pale brown colour. Bit by bit my layers came off, my hat lay under the pram hood, next my jacket and finally my dungarees until the sun was revealed in her full round and my legs appeared too and my brown bare feet, again not looking like mine. I had never been so suntanned.  I felt quite Bohemian.

I glanced down at the water again and could see now these little dots were transparent like bubbles, some tiny only a couple of centimetres, others bigger but still only 5-7 cm at most. They had minute sails and were angled across the wind, all in the same orientation. They were fascinating and so cute like little Disney creatures bobbing along, so dense I felt I could scoop my hand in and bring up a dozen at a time.

Vellelas “ By the wind sailors”,  tiny jellyfish-like polys which are related to the Portuguese Man O War, but are part of a specialised ocean surface community. Each individual is actually a colony, most are less than about 7 cm long. They were a deep blue in colour, but with a small stiff transparent “sail” that catches the wind and sails them over the surface of the sea, just like us.  I was fascinated by them and managed to get a good look at one as unfortunately I found one high and dry having been blown up on deck and could see the deep blue tentacles that hang down in the water and how they catch their prey, generally plankton. The body seemed to have no colour but the blue of the tentacles was so vibrant it stained the white deck.

Once J was awake I told him all about them and we stared at the wee dead one, amazed at the wonder of nature to have evolved such a thing. To sail!

The voyage was smooth, sun was out, not much shipping and unfortunately not much wind so we motor sailed a lot. I was not feeling too great, not seasick just not quite settled. It was noisy and every hour we felt poorer and resented the necessity of having to use the engine. Friends we had made who were cruising on to Greece and Turkey had no agenda, no deadline, no home to return to, so only sailed when there was wind staying at anchor enjoying the place until the winds changed, next time we thought, it’ll be good to do that.

The day wore on and we chatted and dozed and planned and listening to music and ate. Until the light began to fade again and the sun’s warmth slowly pulled back, causing a chill to shiver down my back.

The night watch would start soon so preparations are made. Red light torches, lifejackets and harnesses on, warm clothes and waterproofs ready, snacks in the centre cockpit table, book and glasses laid out for quiet spells. I was happy on night watch now. I was comfortable on my boat, I know how she works and am much more confident. I still need help to trim the sails but I know what should be done. I can take the foresail in and out. I can tighten and loosen the mainsail. I can start and stop the engine. I can operate the AIS and steer us out of harms way. I know when to wake the captain for advise. Yes I think I am a sailor now.

And still the Velellas continued to float by, on their way to who knows? Everywhere, all around in every direction, I marvelled at their numbers, the sea was covered in them and if this was this part of the Med then how far did they stretch? I realised the rafts of foam I had seen previously were swarms of them, pushed by the currents flowing through the straits and funnelling them together.

As day broke the next morning, we saw low lying Minorca ahead. It felt strange returning here and our visit last autumn seemed a lifetime away. Although it also felt good sailing along the familiar coastline, recalling the bar cut into the cliff side and the little coves. I remembered how I’d felt having to pass these by and feeling a bit miffed we couldn’t visit but now I knew how this works and anchoring means staying near the boat for safety, we’d seen too many near misses with yachts dragging anchor and other boats straying too near ones at anchor, you just need to stay aware and look after your vessel and home.

We pulled into a little anchorage once we had made it across to spend the night, before nipping round to the main town in the morning. We were tired after our two day passage so chilled out, fuelling up and watching our download films. We watched “Fish People” which seemed so apt lying in the cabin on the water surface watching these amazing folk who live their lives in the sea, beautifully filmed and narrated. Maybe we were sort of fish people too, living our lives by the rhythms of current, wind and wave.

Mahon welcomed us back with sunshine and bustle.  We got a lovey berth along the town quay and as soon as we tied up we had a good feel about this place. The marinara was welcoming and helpful, the neighbours smiling and the tourists looked happy and pleased with life. I was glad to be ashore and soon took myself off for a walk around the port and up onto the higher path that overlooks the town. Huge ferries and cruise ships were berthed further up the inlet and I marvelled at how they navigated this narrow channel. I sat on a bench back from the busy area in a quiet rather run down part of the backtown and watched the world from backstage when a youth appeared and asked some directions. I was immediately suspicious as I had my phone in my hand and my handbag at my side. I told him what I knew of the steps he was looking for “To meet with friends” but I felt tense. He was a little dishevelled and seemed nervous talking to me.  He went though some pleasantries like where I was from, what was I doing here and seemed genuinely impressed I was Scottish and had sailed here, he was a bit lost he said and couldn’t remember the place his friends had described and he had lost his phone so couldn’t call them. He soon went off in the direction I had given and I watched him as he went deciding I might go back down to the port side another way as it was quiet here with no one around when I saw a few other youths appear up the steps and he hugged one of the girls and clapped the back of the other lads, they grouped together laughing and chatting and walked past me deep in conversation, big smiles on their young faces. ”Jeez” I thought, I felt guilty at judging him, he could be one of my sons, a little lost, maybe the day after the night before scruffy and relieved now to have met up with his pals, I felt mindful not to judge everyone for the one isolated incident from Sicily. He had approached me and asked for help and I had given it. I hoped my own lads would do the same.

We spent a couple of days restocking, refuelling re-watering and fuelling up ourselves, it was delightful berthed right alongside the town quay as I could do my favourite thing, sit in the cockpit with all the cushions out, in the sun, with a coffee or glass of wine depending on the time of day – this seemed to mist over though as the trip continued on! And watch people going about their business. I watched the smart Minorcans with laptop bags under their arms purposefully stride along to the office for a meeting, the smart ladies meet up with friends for café con leche and the couples wander arm in arm perusing menu del dias not really interested in the food but relishing the love time together. And families with colourfully dressed tots, taking hands as they jumped up on the low wall and balanced their way along the top to “jump” down to applause of how brave they were. I was taking all this in one evening as dinner time was coming to an end, the sun was setting and folks were returning to their houses or hotel rooms when a young couple caught my eye. She was beautiful, slim, high heels and a scarlet red summer dress with flutted hem and shoe string straps, he had his pale blue going-out shirt and beige chinos. They were side by side and she was flicking her long blonde hair off her shoulders nonchalantly. As they came near the lovely little mermaid statue at then end of the wharf they stopped as many do to look at it and usually take photographs but he pulled back and stood looking at these two lovely ladies, then as she turned round, he dropped on one knee producing a little black box from his pocket.

It was a beautiful scene and I watched only long enough to see her hands come to her face and a smile that lit up the evening against the golden sunset, then I pulled back under the canopy not wanting to intrude on their moment, though they were oblivious to the world, starting an adventure of their own and creating their own world from now on. I smiled to myself and thought of my middle son whose wedding was fast approaching and couldn’t help think over the years as he had grown from a blue eyed smiling adorable kid to a fine young man about to be become a husband. My eldest already a husband of nearly 4 years, once a little, slightly shy boy who was nervous to ask for the tomato sauce in a restaurant and now filled every room he entered with his strong presence. And my youngest, known for his affectionate haplessness but had lived independently on the plains of Guyana, the Oman desert, the forest and lakes of Canada and the glaciers of Iceland. What had happened, where had these years gone, I still felt a young Mum but now my youngest was at university, a lovely girlfriend of his own, living in their flat in Glasgow. Yup, time to enjoy this time out, my brood were well fledged and thriving.

The next day was the day before the captains birthday and we had ordered him a Kindle so he could pass his time when on the long return passage across the eastern Atlantic but I wanted to get him a surprise too. I had come across a nice sailing shop on my wanders and seen a smart sailing jacket, bright and lightweight and like the posh sailor types were wearing around the marina so decided to get him one. He doesn’t really like getting clothes, none of my lads do, but when they do get something nice they appreciate it and enjoy looking good, so luckily he was up for this purchase. We went along and he was spoiled by the elderly Minorcan gentleman who fussed over him and suggested the right cut and colour until they settled on a bright orange wind proof jacket. It was very smart and cool looking and certainly better than the slighlty scruffy one he had worn continually over the past 10 months. Job done he set of for the yacht club office to do his downloads and get updated weather reports, leaving me to window shop the trendy boutiques of Mahon. Mistake! I had seen a really nice shop the day before with a collection of clothes that literally I could have bought everything, they were my style, cut, colour and size but there was one piece that stood out. A lime green, faux leather jacket, smart as new paint and had my name on it. I went in and the lady, my age and I got on famously. We chatted and I told her about the wedding, my soon to be Catalonian daughter in law and she was  a big Catalan fan, she know the Pallars and she had been to Scotland. Turned out her husband was a yacht master too and sailing instructor and she was a teacher but had this shop as her side hobby. When I told her what we were doing, she took my hand and said “You are living our dream” She told me she and her husband were planning to do a year off and sail in their boat to Turkey and Greece and maybe to Ukraine. We talked for ages and she insisted on calling her husband who appeared soon after to hear our tales and they looked at each other and said, in Spanish, “we have to do it”.

I bought the jacket and left with a big smile on my face thinking about the adventure they were about to embark on and desperate to call Mum and tell her all our news and about the jacket as it had her all over it. She was in great form and was delighted about the jacket, she loves hearing about my purchases! Definitely my mother’s daughter.

“Can’t wait to see it” she said.

“It’s the same colour as your Sicilian Furla bag, you’ll love it but its not leather, my spending budget can’t quite justify that”

“Och, its only money!” she stated.

Reluctantly we let the lines go the next morning and we motored out the channel, continuing west. We stopped the night in Calla de Caves where we had visited last year with its megalithic caves cut into the cliff sides. It was a bit choppy and with the winds funnelling around we had to be careful to make sure she was held secure on the hook. Every time that anchor went down, she hit home first time and held fast, it was so re-assuring and we were glad we had elected for this big heavy job. I dipped my feet in off the stern but the water was still so cold, I decided against a swim.

We headed for Calla Agulla round the bay from Alcudia on the east of Majorca and celebrated the captain’s birthday the next day in style. A lazy day for him and a busy one for me resulting in a tomahawk steak, roast potatoes, salad and a home made birthday cake. I had found a mix at the bottom of a locker and made it in a loaf tin decorated it with a tub of butter icing I also found and sprinkles! He was delighted and it was all delicious though I say so myself. He got lots of calls from his family and was left a little teary at the attention, stating he was a lucky man. We sat out after dinner admiring the view of the turquoise waters all around and the white beach curved in front of us and felt indeed  very lucky. How many people get a chance to do this, though we had worked so incredibly hard to afford it we had made the bold decision to do it. Sometimes the hardest part is making the decision, once its made, things fall into place as you now have a plan, not just a dream.  It is not all easy, there are highs and lows but you journey through them together. Life throws you curved balls from time to time and you just need to deal with them. Black holes appear that you never saw coming and you find yourself being sucked in, almost helpless. Until you reach out a hand and someone grabs it and says “I’ve got you”

I was finding out a lot about myself, I often described myself as unconfident, quiet, slightly scared but here I was almost a year in and  heard other people describe me in a different way, it didn’t sound like me at all. The captain has always been confident, bold and strong, not perfect by any matter but with a self assurance that exudes confidence in others and encourages you to give it a go. I had and look where it got me.

Time was moving on and the unfortunate side to this was we had a deadline, all be it a good one. The wedding was coming up and we had to be in Gibraltar  to leave the boat and fly up to Barcelona to help out, as planned the week before the wedding. We sailed on towards Ibiza, stopping overnight at at Cabrera, a little known island off the south coast of Majorca that is a national park and marine protected area. Another place we agreed deserved a longer visit in the future. Finally anchoring off Formentera at Es Pujols,  opposite Ibiza we had time to relax a  little and catch up with emails and messages. I was busy preparing the ceremony the couple had asked for and secretly preparing a surprise book of connections to the couple. It had seemed a good idea at the time but it was such hard work trying to collate all the contributions and make a book of them, most written in Catalan so translating them was tricky. I had endeavoured to learn the language before the wedding so I could chat to my daughter in law to be’s family and friends but it was harder that I first thought and I had no one to practise on. I accepted this may be a longer term goal.

Dawn saw us slide out the tight gap between Ibiza and Formentera and negotiate the space with fast ferries and other yachts bustling around. Glad to be out in open water again we relaxed a bit until we received a navigational warning.

“All ships, all ships, all ships, navigational warning in Bay of Ibiza, a white cow is adrift. I repeat a white cow is adrift”

We looked at each other, really?

One it was identified as white, not brown, black or Friesian.

It was a cow, not a bull.

It was adrift, so not under way or making progress.

Poor thing, I wondered if anyone was going to attempt to rescue it or was it a deceased white cow but then they may have refereed to it as a carcass? How did it become adrift had it slipped its “moo” – ring? Had its Anchor (Butter from green green grass” ) dragged. Or had it slipped into the sea while grazing near the shore – or tumbled off the back of a ship.

We’ll never know and never saw it. But we kept an eye out. J more interested in another tomahawk steak while I worried about the poor thing floating around.

A former crew member noted on our social media post regarding the incident later that day, there are highs and lows in adventure but perhaps the biggest fear is boredom, never a dull moment on this adventure!

Not so long ago, Palermo

was the richest city in the world.

Phoenician sails were sunset gold

across turquoise seas, Greeks  brought

dazzling marble, white as snow,

Romans green or purple phorphyry,

Moorish mathematicians mapped

the nights high-domed starry sky 

and Monreale Valley air was filled

with fragrances of flowering lemons

from the royal groves Boccaccio knew.

But most precious of all Palermo’s pearls

is time, memories the Muses cannot lose

nor countless Mediterranean waves erase.

Memoria by Patrick Hunt

And we were back in Italy. We pointed the bow into a choppy little anchorage nestled in a round cove, rocky coastline all around us. We struggled a bit to find a calmish anchor point as the seas were very confused, swell coming in to the cove, refracting round the horseshoe bay so we took Stravaigin is as much as we dare. Hook down and settled we took stock of where we were. Capo Testa was a stunning Sardinian spot. Rocky peninsulas and inlets formed from pink and cream granites with close growing, wind worn plants sheltering in the cracks and cuts. We were tired so relaxed for a while before deploying the dinghy and my training continued. It was choppy and bouncy but I managed to get us to shore safely and dry. The little beach was peppered with families and couples enjoying the sun and pink sand so we decided to join them and spread our towels finding a suitable back rest and relaxed.

It lasted 20 mins.

Let’s go for a walk I suggested as J fidgeted and rummaged about, not a fan of beach life. It was the better decision although as the coastline was simply stunning. How many more surprises can Sardinia offer, they just keep coming. The rock formations were amazing and coupled with the waves which had built considerably since our arrival, made for a spectacular scene as they pounded the rocks and spewed high into the air sending salty spray over the spectators. I recalled as a child being with our family on holiday in Durness and father, for some reason or other, decided to venture quite far out to the edge of the cliffs to see the huge waves surging in and exploding against the rock. There was a spout of sorts in the cliff edge that sent a jet of water sky high every now and again and he took it upon himself to stand astride it! I think I remember him wearing his kilt too.

He did return unscathed but Mum was not amused.

Luckily the captain did not copy this behaviour though did venture further out that anyone else as is his modus operando, a trait followed by most of our offspring too. I usually look away and hope it’ll end alright.

We wandered along to where the lighthouse stood strong and safely, I always get a comforting feeling when I see them, a symbol of safety and that someone has thought about us folk at sea and decided to take care of us. There were some very trendy cliffside bars with palm leaf roofs and white aproned staff, a bit too “Night Manager” for us so we followed the stone steps down the cliff to a rocky cove and found a tiny path that peeked its way along the shore to a little boat house with wrecked wooden fishing boats dragged high and dry into the caves in the rock. The path continued along through low growing shrubs that we had to stoop under to get through. J went ahead but stopped at a promontory and looked out to sea then back at me and smiled. I knew what he meant.

Back on board I made food for us quickly, the swell was not pleasant, so much so we decided to move a little further in as we had the depth and with the forecast, reckoned we’d be here a day or two to let the high winds pass. We did manage to creep her in and round the promontory a little which did settle her a bit and it was lovely sitting out in the cockpit enjoying a cool G&T, the only boat in the cove and drawing admiring looks from the beach goers.

The next day we decided to walk to the little town for some shopping so took the rucsacs and set off. It was a lovely walk along a trail that paralleled the road and led to the town, Santa Teresa Gallua, we built ourselves up for a nice lunch too so were glad to walk down the dusty road into the village to stop at the first café and have a good Italian macchiato. We’ll save ourselves for lunch. We walked to the first mini market, shut. Oh well another 10 mins to the next, shut. Ok, so there is one on the outskirts another 15 min walk so we hurried along checking our Google directions and found it just as they pulled the shutters down. Nada, nothing, zilch to be had in Santa Teres Gallua, nothing for it but walk back and see what we could find on the boat.

It was lovely to see Stravaigin  bobbing about in the bay as we crested the hill, she looked so proud in her white hull, blue stripes and St Andrews flag flying pronouncing her origins. The flag often drew glances and curiosity which we were happy to chat about if asked. We are proud Scots. We’ve sailed her from home and she feels very far away.

I was feeling far away, so once we had finally found a little café, right at the head of our bay we settled down to a plate of calamari and chilled wine and I called Mum. It was a delightful chat, our middle and fiancé were with her having come down to spend the day with her. He had made fish pie so they had enjoyed that, then they had taken her out for a little walk as it was sunny and warm, she could walk a little with her stick but they had her wheelchair so they could take her further  and show her the air field that she lives near, the beautiful shoreline of Lorn, the new extension to her neighbour’s house and finally a tour of her garden where everything was in full May bloom. She told them the names of each flower and plant and I smiled as no doubt they wouldn’t take in as I hadn’t but they would have nodded earnestly and engaged beautifully, as I do. They called us on the video phone and we sat, us in the garden of the café by the sea and them in her living room, her red lipstick and scarf echoing her brightness. And we chatted and laughed and caught up on news, she looked so happy and I was happy that she was well and my family were loving her and enjoying her as much as I do.

I slept sound that night but in the morning when the young couple sent me pictures from the day and I saw her in her wheelchair she looked so frail and little. Her eyes soft, clouded and smiling, her arm outstretched showing them something, her scarlet red jacket punching the scene with her being. I yearned to go home and be with her.

J knew I was getting homesick and we were on our way, not long now. It seemed a constant battle of emotions to stay and enjoy this experience, to live every moment, keep exploring and discovering. And the yearning to be at home, in my home, pop over to Mum’s and put the kettle on.

We left Capo Testa as soon as the weather calmed a little, it was a slightly tense exit from the cove as the waves pounded all around and we had to keep a straight line out the entrance but once onto the open sea she sailed well and we headed her round the coast, southeast across the large bay to Stintino, our next port of call.

This was a cute little place. The marina was basic but had a nice feel to it. We were berthed next to local boats but with a liveaboard English gent who appeared to take our lines and gave us a quick run down on the place. I love that cruisers do that, they know what you need to know and try to help you live your just a little easier.  Once settled in, hooked up to water and electricity, rubbish cleared and boat washed down we wandered ashore. It seemed easy to walk along the shore on the floating pontoons to access the village, we saw a group of teenagers amble along, their jostling and japing making me smile. They are no different the world over. Once at the end of the pontoon though it disappeared and there was no way ashore, we sighed and contemplated the long walk back and round the road way when the youths sprang to our aid and insisted we follow them. Well there was bit of a pantomime as one bold dare devil leapt ashore using one then two rocks as stepping stones and dug up a long plank from the sand that he promptly set across the rocks to just about reach the pontoon and indicated quite proudly that we should walk the plank. J of course managed fine and I looked a little hesitant. No problem, one took my hand and edged me across while the captain met me on the other side. Who says youths are ignorant trouble makers, these were delightful. It was obvious Stintino was yet another tuna port with paintings and posters proudly depicting the corralling and hunts. Each house in the town had a painting or mural of a villager who was a tuna hunter or a fisher man, it was lovely that they were so proud of their heritage and commemorated their heroes but on the other hand look where it had got them. None left. Though in talking to locals they say they fished sustainably, only taking enough for the village and a little to sell for a profit, it was when the huge tuna factory ships came from other countries, greedy and short sighted, the stocks were depleted.

Back at the boat, we sorted things out, cleaned and enjoyed a little down time. J was busying down below as he always does and I sat on deck enjoying a cup of tea and watching the world as I always do. There was a large, new, sleek Italian fire patrol boat moored alongside the dock, powerful and grey. It seemed there was trainees aboard as they were tying and untying ropes and warps. I nonchalantly watched them as the engine started and a few on deck prepared to cast her off, in the “springing off” technique we often use, from the bow. The engine roared and the ropes tightened and the waters around boiled as the props stirred them in a whirlpool. And she shot forward, full speed. The rope broke and she drove straight into the concrete dock, full speed! I looked, mouth open, not really believing what I was seeing. Much shouting and blue uniformed men pelting around on deck and a couple of marinaras running back and forth like a scene from “Carry on Sailor”. She proceeded to drive herself further into the concrete as bits of the wall crumbled off and then her stern rounded towards the rock break water, smoke and racket emanating from the engines. A pleasure cruise boat appeared from stage right, threw lines to the deck crew and pulled her off the dock side, just as the engine finally cut out. “Eh J, you might want to come up and see this?” It had all happened so quickly, all he saw was a large, sleek, new Italian fire patrol boat with a large dent in the bow and a concrete dock with a bite out of the side and chunks of rubble tumbling into the water.

Well the marinaras would have something to recount a hundred times down the bar that night with a hundred suggestions of what they think happened and what they should have done.

Time was moving on and so should we, so we reluctantly took our leave of Stintino and made the short hop across to Isola Piana to spend the night and be ready for our departure from Sardinia and crossing over to The Balearics. Everything seemed to be getting so real now, we were actually nearing the end of this amazing journey. We anchored in a pleasant bay, a couple of small day boats around, likely to move off as the sun went down. We dinghied ashore and walked round the coast, it was wild and not really with a path so we picked our way through scrub and scratched our ankles on thorns to reach the other side with a view of Spiaggia Della Palosa, renowned as the most beautiful beach in Sardinia. Well as we approached over the rise we could here the pumping tunes and see the jet skis raze around on the admittedly stunning turquoise waters. It was a shallow bay, too shallow for us but I was quite glad as it seemed full of the beautiful people in motor boats and being there just to be seen. We turned our backs on the scene and happily picked our way over to the opposite side facing Isola Asinara, a nature reserve. No habitation though I believe there had been a jail, what is it with jails on these idyllic islands, I think if I were a criminal, I’d be quite happy with a sentence here!

Sitting on a warm rock contemplating my good fortune not to be imprisoned here but here by choice I looked down and saw a small tortoise fumbling his way along the scrubby ground. He looked very cute, wee legs and tail and blinking eyes. I’d never seen a wild tortoise before. I filmed him for a while deciding to send the video to J’s little cousins thinking they might be tickled to see a wild tortoise. They were adorable wee girls and we had this pretence thing going on of Captain J and Auntie E living life on the ocean wave, mermaids waving to us from wave washed rocks, dolphins clicking at us from the tops of breakers and pirates brandishing cutlasses from wooden ships, the Jolly Rodger flying. They had come with us the day we had renamed our vessel performing the ceremony with King Neptune’s blessing and they had been spellbound so I guess the reputation had just stuck. I liked it, little people should have magic, mystery and imaginations fired.

We dinghied back aboard and settled down for an early night, at dawn, well pre-dawn we were off, back across to Minorca. Heading west.

I am the fire that burns your skin

I am the water that kills your thirst.

The castle, its tower I am,

The sword that guards the treasure

You, the air that I breathe,

And the light of the moon on the sea

The throat that I long to wet

Which I fear drowning in love.

And which desires will you give me?

You say, “Just look at my treasure,

it will be yours, it will be yours.

“Tuyo” Rodrigo Amarante: Theme Tune to Narcos

Arriving for the first time on Corsica was a bit strange as still felt like Italy. We anchored in a picturesque bay on Ille Cavallo, a private island owned by a consortium of wealthy Italians who had built an exclusive development of villas on it and welcomed us with a sign basically saying “Private Keep Out!” Well there was no one about other than the workmen doing the winter maintenance on the houses and gardeners tidying up the gardens, this included some JCB’s trundling back and forth with huge palms trees, a strange sight of tree tops bobbing along the skyline! We stepped over the private sign and wandered around this luxury housing scheme. It was very tasteful and some of the houses looked like little Hobbit homes with curved roofs and rounded windows. That evening we were woken by the strangest noises I’ve ever heard, sounded like elves! Still no idea what it was but it went on for ages so I concluded it may be some sort of sea bird or toad courtship call. Well it is spring!

The sail round the coast the next day was brisk and the entrance to Bonifacio is stunning and very unexpectant. It is a line of high cliffs like an impenetrable barrier until you see the small lighthouse on a promontory which marks the gap in the cliffs then you basically make a sharp turn and head straight for the cliffs as the narrow entrance reveals itself. It is quite a spectacle sailing in through the channel with high cliffs on both sides, the fort staring down at you and the pretty port all huddled at the end of the channel. There was a side channel where we could have taken mooring lines and hung off the rock cliff but it would mean us being out of the town and I quite fancied seeing the port and being amongst the bustle. It was a bit of a stressful arrival at the marina, so much so I shut myself in the toilet and gave a Van Gogh’s silent scream but once it had all calmed down we went ashore and wandered round the small port and up to the Haute Ville with spectacular views down to the seas we had just sailed over. It’s then it hits you how hard we have been working, these seas are big, the waves huge, the winds strong and it is no wonder it takes a lot out of us, more than we realise. We have been on the go for months, constant calculations whether it is routes to take, water usage, meals to make, energy to burn, diesel to use, anchorage to head for, money to budget for never mind keeping a check on things at home which are not always smooth. We try to take an unsaid check in on each other now and then as we both feel stresses rising and strains on our relationship but we diffuse the rising tensions and make that effort to soothe and relax. Coming to this French island has been a desire for a very long time, since we were teenagers. I am not sure what its draw was for us but probably the fact it was French and we were big fans at the time as Brittany was the first place we travelled to together, the first time I had been aboard in fact, other than my summer in the US as a nanny the summer before we met, the fact it had mountains and I guess a bit of the rebel Corse appealed to us with similar separatist alliances. However it had never happened for various reasons so to be finally standing on Corsican soil, drinking a Café au Lait and eating the best baguette bread, we were a bit overawed. A bit emotional.

We treated ourselves to Soup de Poisson our firm favourite and something we had forgotten all about until we saw it on the menu blackboard of the restaurant beside our pontoon and agreed the next treat for tomorrow would be Moules et Frites! It was good to refresh the batteries and stay still for a couple of nights, I even managed a nice shower and hair wash, dressing up in some decent clothes other than sailing gear and enjoyed the pavement café culture for a short while. It didn’t last too long though as we needed to do some repairs and J had to climb the mast to replace bulbs in the anchor and steaming lights. This involves me belaying him which I quite like doing and gives me a sneaky chance to wonder how it would be if I tied the rope off and left him dangling there for a while! Anyhow, I behaved myself and we got the jobs done, safely then made ready for heading off, the usual water and fresh food topped up.

The sail up to Propriano was tough, a lot of beating in which is demanding and tiring , there was a big swell too so we decided to stop earlier than we originally planned and stay at this smaller port rather than Ajaccio as it seemed cheaper at the marina and we could hire a car from there to go explore the interior. It was a wise decision as it was a lovely wee town with a good marina and plenty facilities and the car hire was very cheap. We booked the berth ahead for four nights at E150 plus the car hire for three days at £75 and arrived at the marina, contacted them to ask where we should berth but they spoke po English so luckily our French kicked just as the engine conked out! I rapidly got on the radio to them to tell them this and ask for marinara help as we were now in the marina basin with a short turning circle and full of other yachts tied up while J tired to restart it. No help was available so I got ready to fend us off any boats we drifted near while J repeatedly tried to restart, this involved a lot of blue language both Scots and French abut seemed to do the trick as she coughed into action just enough to reverse us into our spot and tie on the mooring lines. Phewff, it’s never easy.

The engine had been faltering a little over the last couple of days, a thing it had never done since we bought the boat three years ago., so this was worrying. We had to go and collect the hired car before the place shut so we scurried over to the marina office to check in and it soon became very evident we were not in Italy anymore, two females who had no clue or interest in boats that talked to each other as they processed our documents with barely looking at us and blowing cigarette smoke in our faces, scruffy hair, dishevelled clothes, quite the opposite of the stylish and charming Italians. It was pouring with rain so we kept our sailing wet gear on and walked round the bay to find the car hire place, it turned out to be in a car showroom and the staff there were quite the opposite, really friendly and helpful and then the lady walked us out to the car park to show us the car. Hello!!! A black and white sporty job, fully automatic, shiny alloys and all the dashboard tech. The skipper was delighted and so was I, as we drove it back to the marina to carry out a rapid pack up for the next three days in the mountains. As I packed and prepared dinner, J tackled the engine problem. It seemed there was no diesel getting to the engine so he replaced the fuel filter, this had been done in MDR but he concluded it may be blocked. It started ok and we ran it for a while with no falters so hoped that was the end of it. It had taken three hours, a lot of mess and a lot of diesel fumes but the job was done and we sat down to a nice meal followed by my lemon ricotta cheesecake which was a triumph. A good team we concluded.

The next morning after a nice chat with our neighbour, a French gentleman in blue and white striped top, moustache and a tiny bulldog that he transported in the back pannier of his motor bike to his boat, we tidied up the boat and made it ready to be left for three days. It was a big job after all the engine workings but finally left the pontoon with bags packed, rucsacs with walking boots, bags of rubbish, bags of food and bottles of wine so we could save on eating out, dive air tank to be refilled and smiles on faces as we headed off for a mini adventure in the high hills. The drive was amazing, through thick Corsican pine forests then along narrow roads with death defying drops on the side up to Corte almost in the middle of the island. It seemed a little like a high Aviemore, full of campsites, outdoor shops and activity providers. The start of our chosen walk was only a few miles from here however the road to it was without doubt the scariest though most beautiful road I have ever been on. It was single track and resembled the road up to Steall Falls in Glen Nevis but it went on for an hour up and along the side of steep river gorge with rock cliffs and natural sculptures that were stunning. The road wound past a series of blind bends and under overhanging rock boulders, sneaked round the edge of towering pine roots and over bridges with no barriers and gushing snow melt water surging underneath. I was so glad when it reached the end at a remote dirt carpark at a refugio. We donned our boots, cagoules, rucsacs and hats and set off up the mountain track. It was a spectacular walk, tiny winding track that lead up though pine forest then out onto scrub and scree and over patchy snow fields before a steep ascent over rocky outcrops and slabs, some bolted with metal chains and ladders for access and finally topping out over a bealach to an iced over lochan. It was all white all around, the cloud so low and passing over it shrouded you in a total white out for a few minutes til the mountain winds blow if from your face and revealed a peaky landscape that was very reminiscent of Patagonia and Torres del Paine. And not a soul there, all to ourselves as we sat on a boulder and ate the bread and cheese we had brought. Blimey was it only this morning I had awoken in the cabin, diesel fumes making me nauseous, frantic packing, Damon Hill driving and now here I was sitting on a high mountain ridge, mist dampening my face, black crows soaring overhead no doubt waiting for the crumbs.

We made our way back down eventually, slowly, reluctantly, there seemed so much more to explore and enjoy but we were exhausted and the day was wearing on.

We found our Airbnb on the outskirts of Corte, after a series of detective like clues that Sherlock Ormiston deduced and succeeded in finding the key under a pine cone in the cupboard to the right of the third door of the second floor of the building! However it was a pleasant if quirky flat (the Christmas tree was still up!) all to ourselves and I revelled in having a kitchen to cook in, a stationary bed to sleep in, a washing machine to clean all the diesely clothes and then.., OMG .., a bath! As soon as dinner was dispatched, it was run to the brim and filled with half a bottle of the shower gel I had brought and I sank into it with a bliss ,that was, well bliss.

I made dinner while J attempted to open a bottle of wine without a corkscrew but with much muttering about “How could it be a French apartment with no corkscrew!” He did eventually manage, determination winning out, but not after involving many old Scout’s tricks  with door hinges, knives, hot water, string, heels of shoes but oh the joy in his face when it finally succumbed! Adding to the delightful evening was a Facetime call from our youngest at Granny’s house and she was in raptures that she could see us while talking to us. Things we take for granted but to her it seemed like magic and it was a tonic to see her face light up, we promised to do more of this as it is easy if any of the young ones are around at her house.

The next day after cleaning up, leaving it better than we found it, we got the feeling this young couple had received our last minute booking and literally cleared out to a friend’s for the night as all their stuff was lying around including wet laundry, we headed east to do another of the Top 10 Hikes in Corsica I had researched. It was only a few miles away as the crow flies but it took 2 hours as we had to drive through the centre of the spectacular mountain range, tops and gullies still etched out in snow. We parked up at Col de Bavella, a high point on a ridge that the wind shrieked through. The walk took us through more beautiful mature pine woods and over pretty mountain streams and finally led to rocky outcrops on the ridge line that involved some minor scrambling.  To reach the famous feature Tombe de Coeur you had to climb down a small but steep rock step and I got bit freaked. I am used to do these things but my nerve went and I left the captain to go higher and peer through the imposing hole ion the rock that he said literally led to a sheer drop in a cliff face so I was glad I didn’t go! Bit of a frosty return walk as I felt bit humiliated and pressured, understandably ‘s patience is running thin as I know he is tired but I felt clumsy, old and stupid. However once back at the sporty car and a nice coffee at a wee village café we were friends again as we arrived at Casabianca this night’s Airbnb, again only booked the day before. We were hesitant as it was £18 for the night but as always decided it is only a bed for the night. Well, Quelle Surprise, without doubt the best Airbnb we have stayed in ever, period. Jules, a delightful fellow who lived two doors along, showed us in to his newly refurbished pied a terre, small with just a bedroom, shower room and kitchen diner but it was exquisite with so much attention to detail even J wandered round saying Wow regularly. The views over the Corsican hills and rolling fields were enchanting as we hung over the metal railing on the bedroom window. It was in the middle of nowhere, not even a café or bar but we had brought all our food so knocked up a nice meal and then had a big treat of watching TV in bed, accessorised by the warm mood and colour changing lighting!

The next day we reluctantly left as could easily have stayed a week at this treasure of a place but I knew J was concerned about the engine problems so we needed to get back and investigate everything was ok. Not after a morning visit to nearby thermal baths though which were pleasant but nothing like the Icelandic ones. We arrived back in Propriano and used the car to do a big supermarket shop then we set to with the diesel issue. J reckoned it was dirty diesel and decided to do a full change and clean. This involved him going to a nearby chandler/DIY store and buying fuel tanks, submersive pumps, tubing etc. I was sent out  to buy tights. Now I thought this would be a easy task. I giggled to myself as I remembered our first trip to Paris as teenagers and J wanted to buy me pretty French underwear, we found a suitable shop and I tired to explain what I wanted in my poor French at the time. The shop assistant finally got it and stated “Ah Oui, le long socks!!” well yes I guess they were and I felt quite the sophisticated lady in my “long socks” parading the Champs Elyse’s with a very happy fiancé! Anyway , the “long sock” fuel filter mission was impossible and I came back failed. We had to return the car so scooted back to the supermarket where I finally found some cheap tights and then we walked back to the boat to begin the huge smelly and dirty task of emptying 120l of diesel, filtering through the tights, treating it with biocide and replacing it. J had taken off the filling pipe too, cleaned the overflow valve and checked the fuel level instrument as well as pipes that lead to the engine. The fuel was indeed dirty and the intake pipe blocked with what looked like felt. It took hours and so much leaks, so much mopping up and degreasing, I felt sick and headachy. Poor J was worse as he had to suck out some diesel and was literally lying in puddles of it a times. Finally, it was done and after showers I headed out to get a pizza as I couldn’t face cooking.

We checked it in the morning and was still a leak so more repairs and fumes and mess until finally it seemed solved. I stood on the deck for a while clearing my head and getting fresh air as I glanced down to the water and couldn’t believe my eyes as a school of around 150 barracuda about a meter each in length glided by, occasionally flashing on their sides and showing a silver side with back chevrons and long slick jaws! We finally left Propriano with a slick of diesel after us and motored smoothly along the coast for a few hours to a calm anchorage where I prepared a lovely meal of Corscian lamb and all the trimmings but couldn’t eat it. I broke down and took to bed feeling awful. The immersion in diesel fumes,  lack of sleep, blocked sinuses, emotional instability all collided and I had to opt out for a night. Unfortunately my malaise lasted a couple of days, think it was a virus as I had no energy and felt worn out. We headed up to the Bay of Calvi with beautiful coastline, it looks like a chunk of the Alps has been carved out and dropped in the sea with these towering peaks covered in snow and hillsides that plunge down to the sea. My eldest called for a chat and it was such a tonic, we talked for ages about his work up in Speyside, he told me funny incidences with his work mates and plans for the future. He is  a great lad, honest, loyal, strong and a real individual. I laughed as he told me a recent incident on his contract when a large boulder had become dislodged somehow and had rolled down the hill and landed on the A9, luckily to no harm. However as site manager and senior geologist he was sent to investigate. It seemed unlikely it was the site work going on that had dislodged it but he told me he spent hours trailing up and down the Slochd summit looking for likely holes from whence the boulder had come. Now it was Easter weekend so the fact that a boulder had mysteriously rolled down a hill, leaving a hole or cave, I said he should look for a bearded man in his early 30’s wearing a long robe and palms outstretched! We have the same silly sense of humour.

The spring weather is improving but still such cold wind and the water is cold, phone calls back home told us the weather there was great and folks were sitting out in their gardens and hitting the beaches! It is also still a bit unpredictable and the sail round the coastline to Centuri kicked off a bit and I was glad to finally reach the anchorage. We dingied ashore for a wander but on the way a tiny songbird flew frantically around the dinghy until I noticed a mob of seagulls after it. Poor thing it didn’t stand a chance as more joined the chase and it disappeared as the gang dispersed. Ah well I suppose the gulls have chicks to feed too. We sat on the rocks and watched three young spearfishermen don their clobber and set off flopping around the rocky coves, I was concerned they might spear each other as seemed so close. It was lovely being able to pull off a few sprigs of fresh wild rosemary, as I am never very successful at growing it at home and I decided to do roast potatoes with them for tea.

After a restless night when I got up and wrote a “To Do” list as there seemed to be so much on my mind we sailed on to Isola Caprai where we dropped the anchor in a really cliffy cove with the sea slopping all around us. There were a few other boats there too but as the day wore on they left as alone. We took the plunge but the water is still so cold it really was a plunge and were quickly back onboard for a hot water rinse. That night we talked a few things through, we were tired and seemed to be on the go the whole time. It was intense and I felt a lot of family things building up that I wanted to deal with. I wondered if that is why not many adults do mature gap years as there are so many people depending on you as you have built up a network over the years and become part of something. As a young person you dont have those responsibilities and it easier to do things more for yourself and go off travelling for a year to fulfil your own desires. So we decided to head to Elba and spend a few days down time there.

Easter Sunday dawned after a noisy night with the chain rattling over the rocks beneath us and with no chocolate eggs I decided to make a mix of Scottish and Italian fry up which was a feast, including fried bread. We needed the energy though as the sail to Elba was a good six hours and unfortunately we had to motor quite a bit which is noisy and expensive though got us to Portoferraria in better time. There were moorings available so we hooked one up along with a few other boats , mostly German, in the wide bay just round from the town itself.

Some much needed days were spent dealing with personal admin, my hair roots needed attention, J got a hair cut though is trialing growing a beard to complete the salty sea dog look! Emails, downloading, writing, family matters etc were all ticked off and I felt much better. Elba was a delight, back to Italian culture so the coffee was amazing, cheaper meals and groceries and so stylish. We found a fabulous wee taverna off the tourist port side and enjoyed a nice meal of tuna, swordfish, anchovies and octopus for a reasonable price including Elba wine which was delicious. I had dressed up a bit, put on some make up and jewellery and hauled out some nice clothes from the locker so with my clean hair felt quite civilized wandering round the town. However all that changed as we dingied back as the wind had picked up and the waves were against as  I powered through them back to the boat as a big wave broke ahead of the bow just as the wind picked it up and hurled it straight over me just like the “Chewing the Fat – Lighthouse Keeper” sketch. I was drenched!

We sat out the stormy weather in the bay for three days, constant rain squalls, low cloud and strong winds that made the boat so noisy at night we slept in the lounge but managed to get a lot of personal things done and my stress levels lowered. Finally the weather broke and we were able to leave after calling in to the port to get water. While J filled the tanks I was sent to the marina office to pay the five euros and on the way back I decided to get a couple of takeaway Café Macchiatos, our last decent coffee before we hit Sardinia again. I popped into a delightful little tearoom carved into the fortified walls of the town and ordered two to go while I used the loos. When I returned the deliciously flamboyant barista, with a mop of curly hair like Marc Bolan tied in a  silk bandana at this forehead, had made the cutest tray of coffee I think I’ve  ever seen. There were two tiny, floral china cups on saucers with gold rims, a miniature silver teaspoon on each, two crystal sherry glasses with chilled water, a fresh flower held on the rim with a minature silver clothes peg and two linen napkins! I felt awful when I asked if he had no takeaway cups explaining my husband was on a  boat and was going to take them to him.

“Oh no worries, just take” he said his eyes twinkling and smiling like a coy teenager. I tried to explain I couldn’t really carry the tray down the quayside so I drank one and took the other cup at his insistence saying I’d come back with it. He sang away to himself as he refilled the coffee machine’s water reservoir, and sighed to me that his machine is always thirsty for water as he is for love! I loved him! I took the captain his coffee and returned the china cup to the gentle man and he winked at me as he took it, saying something about looking after my man and the passion that would ensue!

Elba was lovely, the huge fort standing over the town where Napoleon was exiled but now was a museum and full of galleries and shops. I had been watching the series Narcos in the evenings and I mused at how the main character in it had built himself a castle or fort as a self-elected prison and furnished it with luxuries, I wondered if Bonaparte had similar comforts in his castle.

It was a blustery sail round to Fetovaia where we anchored for the night ready for a dawn departure back to Corsica, deciding it was better to do a long run down the east coast as there were little if any anchorages, so we left at 12 and I was on watch by 2am. It was not a comfortable passage, there were a lot of other ships initially and I got panicky about the huge cargo vessels that were on track to come a bit close but things eventually settled down and we arrived at San Cipriano late in the afternoon. It was our last night in French waters and we heard on the news that Notre Damme in Paris had been badly damaged in a fire. This was sad news but the reaction that followed was interesting. The French government immediately pledged millions to restore it a which caused an outcry amongst environmentalist who questioned why immediate funds and action were not funneled to prevent the destruction of nature’s cathedrals. It was very thought provoking. We see the damage to the environment daily, especially marine, as we live on it. The plastics that float by on the surface, the beaches with plastic washed up and the land with rubbish tips overflowing.  It did seem that priorities were wrong. It was awful of course the church had been damaged but it can be rebuilt, unlike the rain forests and coral reefs, the glaciers and wild places that we all worship and that feed our souls.