Chicken Run

Posted on June 1, 2016 by yachtlyra

Monday morning saw us heading off to the Capitanerie to extend our stay till Friday. The man on duty checked the computer and said it would be no problem and extended the life of our key fob. Up in the office is an amazing pair of binoculars, dated 1934, made of brass and clearly once mounted in a very grand ship. We looked through them at a kite surfer riding the waves beyond the breakwater. On our way back we stopped for coffee at the Indian Glacier bar and watched the dogs go by. John checked the news on his phone and found that Mars is due to be exceedingly close tonight, so we resolved to dig our own binoculars out and have a look.

Later that morning we set out with an empty gas bottle in John’s backpack looking for a refill. We headed for the shipyard first only to be directed back to the supermarket and there just inside the entrance next to the toys and picnic sets were the gas cylinders. John hung around the entrance while I went into the shop for bread, then we took one new bottle to the till and they scanned it and exchanged it for our old one. Flushed with our success we walked back past the butchers and the aroma of rotisserie chicken stopped us in our tracks. It was too good to resist again, I went in to ask for one. There was a counter serving hot food to take away. A massive dish of paella, trays of various stews, dauphinous potatoes, a sort of hot foodstuffs deli, where one could buy a home cooked meal to take home and tuck right in. It certainly kicks ready meals into the long grass.p1160823

We carried our chicken home, torturing innocent passers by with the smell. Back on Lyra John put the gas bottle in place before carving the chicken as I put together a salad and cut the bread. Then we had a sumptuous roast chicken dinner and still have half to eat cold tomorrow.

When evening came the sky was clear. We used my phone app to find Mars and then had a look through the binoculars. At our level of magnification the closeness expressed itself as brightness and we persuaded ourselves it was on the pink side. We also had a look at Jupiter and Saturn and a general nosey round the sky. Even with lots of ground light here the stars were amazing through the binoculars, so we are planning to do more star gazing.

 

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John at Le Grande Bleu

Posted on June 1, 2016 by yachtlyra

The drum roll of thunder woke us both in the early hours. We lay watching as lightning flares shone through the gaps in the blinds, counting the seconds till the thunder rumbled round drowning out the sound of pouring rain. It went on for a couple of hours, so we were glad not to have to move on again and John cooked a relaxed breakfast of tomatoes on toast to finish off the last of our fresh supplies. Afterwards we dug out our chic red shopping trolley and headed off to the supermarket, hoping it would be open on Sunday. Reader it was wonderful. Immaculate, beautifully presented and so well organized, with the more fragile fresh stuff at the end not the beginning. There was a cheese counter to stop traffic. It sold everything we could have wished for and we soon had filled our hopper. Right outside the supermarket was a covered stall selling fresh fish on ice, a fruit stall and a butchers shop with an outside grill selling rotisserie chickens. The smell of them was overpowering and there was a long queue. We promised ourselves a return visit. On our way back we stopped in at a chandlers and enquired about gas, but they were waiting for a delivery. They did have a very smart logbook, in French with different nautical illustrations across each double page spread. As we have only six pages left in our log we bought it and headed back to Lyra with our stash. After unpacking it was back on shore for a coffee, sat outside looking out at the boats before we went for a walk along the seafront.

The Grande Motte is much more attractive than it seems from the photos in our pilot book. In the photographs and on our approach the marina seemed dominated by triangular high-rise apartment blocks, like a Legoland Valley of the Kings. Once you are walking amongst them you see the blocks are individually styled, with different balcony shapes forming patterns across the face of the blocks to yield a dynamic quality to the whole. The blinds for each building are in shades of the same colour to give coherence to each block and there are trees and shrubby garden areas throughout. It seems to be a sort of garden city in the sky. The sea front is equally well thought out, the long beach being split into coves with curved stone breakwaters and artificial reefs, so on Sunday the sea fanned in gently on a series of rippling curves. It was ideal for children and there was a big soft play area with giant Nemo and Asterix figures to climb into and slide down. After walking along looking out to sea, we wandered back perusing the restaurants. One seemed very bustling and a queue had formed at its’ entrance. As we debated whether or not to join it a couple at the front was turned away, presumably for not having a reservation. We moved on. It was hard to decide, the wind blew in from the sea and there were dark clouds overhead, but the interiors of the restaurants seemed cramped.

Eventually we decided to try a place with stylish striped chair cushions called Le Grande Bleu. The interior was spacious and the outside sheltered from the main wind. We wandered in. John asked a passing waiter if there was a table and he nodded, but hurried away. I noticed a couple of dressed up looking ladies standing by a ledger and suggested we wait behind them. Sure enough a harassed looking man in a checked shirt came up, checked their names against a heavily annotated list in his hand and squired them off to a table. We stood and after a moment he returned. I have impressed upon John the value of making some attempt at French as a form of politeness. He resolutely still addresses people in his most gently spoken, polite English, which may have impressed a northern girl like me, but cuts no ice here, especially with the chaps. John explained we wanted a table for two but did not have a reservation. Our host took a big breath, “You have no reservation! You do not speak French! You wish to eat in my restaurant…” loudly expostulated, arms shrugging wildly. I racked my brains for the French for yesterday and opened my mouth to try to explain that we had just arrived and that his restaurant was most beautiful. My mouth stayed open, but no sound came out and Monsieur shut up like a clam. John had thrown an arm around the man’s shoulders and clamped him to his side in an enthusiastic one-armed hug. John grinned from one of us to the other. Still smiling he released our host, who recovered himself and said he had no tables inside but we could chose between a couple outside and led the way. He assured us it would not rain till well after lunch, we sat down and he left us for the waiting staff to cope with. Not only was he right about the rain, the sun came out. As the weather improved people who had booked and been allocated a table inside were clearly electing to eat out and we could see our man here there and everywhere with his piece of paper and biro trying to work out how many free seats he had to offer. Not an easy job even without disconcerting Englishmen. He clearly held nothing against us and came up to ask if we wanted more shade and extended an awning over us. He made sure to come to my side to enquire.

The food was excellent. John had fish soup and I had salmon three ways, then he had pork and I squid, good but very garlicky, people must have been able to smell me coming a mile off. We finished with a layered chocolate patisserie for John and a lovely raspberry gazpacho for me before coffee. If the weather keeps us here next Sunday we will make sure to book.

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Pole Dancing with the help of a much Younger Woman

Posted on June 1, 2016 by yachtlyra

We made another early start to arrive before the wind was due to come up, particularly as we keep having to moor dependant on the kindness of strangers for help. So far the welcome we have received at French marinas has been on a par with the one Will Smith gave the alien in Independence Day. Today though this has all changed, thank goodness.

We dragged ourselves up at six and I had lots of time to put away the fenders as we puttered out of the long marina. After scrutinizing the pilot book John had decided to make for La Grande Motte, rather than another huge marina and when he put in a call to them they even had a button to press if you wished to speak English. This seemed very encouraging and he booked for three nights. The sea state was similar to yesterday, but the visibility not so good. We could smell, but not see the shore. First the scent of lavender wafted across on the early morning breeze and then came the smell of wood smoke. After our smoking engine from two years ago this was a bit concerning and John ventured below to look in the engine room, to confirm it was coming from the shore not ourselves. Other than that the trip was uneventful and the marina came into view at around eleven. In the distance we could see a few motor cruisers were out in the bay and two sailboats going across our path in opposite directions. They were going so slowly in the slight wind that it just looked as though they had fallen out and were sulking with one another. We seem to either have no wind, too much wind or wind from the wrong direction and true to form by the time we reached the approach the wind was coming up to force three, just when we didn’t want it.

On entering the marina we saw a long but low pontoon serviced the reception. We needed to approach on the starboard side, which does not have a fender step. It is a while since I have had to ‘hop’ down such a distance and I was not looking forward to it. I held the center rope, sat sidesaddle on Lyra’s flank and hoped for the best. John’s first approach was too tentative, so he came away and tried again further along. I suddenly felt I needed both hands so hurled the line onto the pontoon and myself after it. The landing was ok, I fastened the line to a cleat and grabbed the bowline and put it round another cleat before the wind could catch the prow and take it out. John came up and took the line back from me to fasten it and then adjusted the middle to slip as I put the stern line on and passed him that back too. All in all it had gone rather well. John set off with the paperwork and I hauled myself back onboard in a most undignified manner and waited. Things were about to take a turn for the worse.

As I sat watching a small motor launch approached the pontoon behind me. A middle-aged man was sprawled awkwardly across its’ front holding a line and shouting instructions to whoever was steering. They were travelling at quite a lick and I could not see how he was going to be able to jump off and stop the boat before the metal anchor ploughed into our stern. I bolted from my seat and jumped the drop to the pontoon on pure adrenalin, then hurried down the pontoon to take the line before they reached us. Gratefully he threw me the line. All of it, both ends, and the boat carried on coming towards me. Horrified I fastened one end to the pontoon and by this time he was close enough for me to pass him the other back and he looped it on a cleat. The boat was still heading towards Lyra and I exclaimed and pointed and dragged in on the line all at the same time. To give him credit he scuttled across the front of his boat pretty snappily, sat on the bow and fended off with both feet. I fastened the line in more tightly, so the front could not move forward, reasoning that I could let it back out once they were safely on. The little man scrambled back to the side and took a mass of white chord from a woman inside the cockpit. She thanked me in very crisp English and I was relieved to see she was hanging on to a loop at the end of this line. There was also a huge black man on board at the wheel, but at this point I think he was just holding onto it with both hands rather than steering. My accomplice hurled the bundle of line at me and I failed to catch any of it. We both apologized as he gathered it back in and tried again. By this time the stern had drifted  off, pivoting around the bow and the line fell into the water. I had visions of the wind spinning them right round and their stern clunking Lyra. On the third attempt I caught the line, we both pulled in on it and the boat came back alongside. I tied my end on further down the pontoon and by then the little man had emerged onto the back of his boat with the other end with the loop. He then struggled to reach round the side of his stern to catch a small cleat there. I reached across and helped him and then went forward to loosen the bowline so they sat properly alongside resting on their two little fenders. There was now a comfortable gap between them and us. They all thanked me again and I said no problem, remembering to smile.

Rather than labour back up onto Lyra in full view I stood leaning against her. I could hear the three of them discussing the landing, how they needed to have been more prepared and that it had been lucky I was there. It had not felt very lucky to me. The little man came past with his jacket, shrugging on his cool, he thanked me again in accented English and headed off into the reception. It was just as well I had not climbed back up onto our deck for a small yacht now approached with a man who looked like Buffalo Bill at the stern, aiming at the space in front of us. There was nobody else about so I went forward to take his lines. Thankfully he knew exactly what he was doing and would have managed well enough without me. His lines were on ready fed back to the center, so that as the bow approached I could lift the front rope from the guardrail and tie it loosely to the pontoon before taking his stern line from him and fastening that on too. He thanked me in French and I said you’re welcome in English and left him to sort out how he wanted the lines. As the pontoon was now full I heaved myself back onto Lyra and sat down praying John arrived back before our neighbour astern. My prayers were not answered. The little Frenchman came wandering back and I steeled myself for what might come next. “Shall we have a glass of wine?” he asked his companions brightly as he climbed aboard and I gave silent thanks, though heaven knows what they would be like after a drink.

I have never been so happy to see John coming back. He climbed onboard with the words, “It’s poles, but we’ll have help.” Help duly arrived in the form of an attractive young woman standing in a small tender. What is more she spoke English and said if I passed her one front line she would do that if I could do the other. She also asked John if we were all right astern and he said yes. I had put both stern lines on and assumed that after looping the front on she would scoot off in the tender and come ashore to take the stern lines. I was busy tying loops in the two front lines and feeding them down either side. John told me to take my time. This is code for don’t make a mistake. There was no way he was going to keep this young woman waiting and sure enough, by the time I had finished he had already taken off the midline and we were drifting out. I let go the stern and we were off. Fortunately she asked us to wait for the tripper boat, a huge catamaran to pass before we set off across the marina, so I had time to reposition the fenders and raise them up. We followed her to a gap between two large poles and she stood in her launch holding onto the top of one. As John reversed in, I dragged the line that side as far down Lyra as it would reach and stretched to pass it to her. Her knuckles on the post were white and she was at full stretch reaching for the line, balanced on the seat of her tender. I recognized the grim expression on her face as the one I often wear when docking. It looked better on her. As her fingers closed on the line she looked relieved. I hurried off round the other side to drop the loop onto the starboard pole and carried on astern. By this time we were coming alongside another boat and a worried looking man was out on its’ side ready to fend us off with his boat hook. I was quite concerned myself. It had suddenly become clear to me that there was no way our assistant was going to be able to come ashore to take the lines, she was still doing her bit with the pole. I was going to somehow have to clamber over the guard rails at the back, swing round the passerelle and jump onto the pontoon taking one stern line with me before worrying about the other.

Relief came in the form of the anxious man’s wife, who came steadily off their boat and stood to take my line. She exuded calm. I threw her the line and caught it when she threw it back. I made it fast and called to John that the line was on only to look across and see him taking the other line back from the same lady. It is always a bit disconcerting to see him out from behind the wheel, when I think he’s steering the boat. He asked me to take over from him while he went forward to sort out the front. I think the young woman in the tender was still holding us on there. With a bit of pulling and tying we were there and I breathed a sigh of relief. We thanked the marinera and the couple next door, who were very pleasant about it. The lady asked if we had come from Spain. It was tempting to let them think we had just arrived exhausted from across the Gulf of Leon, but I had to admit that we had been in France some time and had just forgotten to change our courtesy flag. John immediately set about putting that right and we raised the tricolor. He has been humming strains from Les Mis ever since.

So today we have received a warm welcome here and a lot of help and have given aid to others. I am ready for a lie down in a darkened room.

 

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All Tied Up at the Cap d’Age

Posted on June 1, 2016 by yachtlyra

The text I should have sent the girls on our arrival was “all tied up at Cap d’Adge,” but spelling has never been my strong suit and we had had another challenging experience docking. Katie immediately responded with the suggestion it should be the title of our memoirs. The “all tied up” was a reference to the cat’s cradle of lines we have woven around Lyra to hold her to the tiny pontoon on which she currently sits. We have been on such small pontoons before, but not since San Vicente and we have often joked that we only ventured there in blissful ignorance at the time. Moreover this particular pontoon is held in place by a length of blue rope, strung from point to stem, a fact we discovered when John undid said rope to clear the way for our stern line. The whole thing slewed sideways until the bulk of Lyra steadied it. John promptly hauled on the rope, brought the pontoon back into place and retied the it. How did we end up in this state? Well.

We started early when the air was still and managed to escape from between the poles by casting off the stern lines and motoring forward slowly so I could use my hook a duck skills to lift the front lines off one at a time. The ropes were surprisingly heavy on the end of the boat hook, but I managed both sides and John steered us out with just the fenders catching one of the poles. It was a tricky piece of maneuvering I would not care to do in a side wind. Looking around, the other poles where boats are tied permanently were well padded to protect the sides of said boats. It is remiss of St Cyprien to put people in such stark berths and to have no cladding on the reception quay, so we would not recommend stopping there. The poles provide a very secure holding, with the added bonus of one not having to drag a mucky lazy line around, but are a bit of a pig for two people to manage alone.

Once out of harbour, the sea was oily smooth and there was very little wind. Above us icy mare’s tails chased across the clear blue sky, but the horizon ahead was lost in haze and the shore shrouded in mist. This is an eerie experience at the top of the windiest part of the Med and we had our fingers crossed it would last as forecast. John put one of his playlists on to break the monotony of the engine noise. The weather is due to break after tomorrow, when some high winds and thunderstorms are forecast. We could not decide whether to stay in the big marina at Cap D’Adge once we arrived or to press on to the huge one at Port Carmargue, so decided to reserve for one night with the possibility of an extension and then think again. In deference to the French lunch hours we aimed to arrive just after two. On arrival the reception quay was much shorter than we had expected from looking in our pilot book. It was a stone dock, like a thrust stage with the reception at the front and the fuel dock along the far side. Against the near side a large orange coastguard vessel was tied between the quay and a large rusty buoy, which stuck out behind it restricting the approach. As we needed fuel we headed for the fuel pumps. John nosed in and I managed to climb off and secure the middle and stern, then an elderly French man came out and secured a line to the second middle cleat, so we had no need to attach the bow line. He smiled at me. John told him how much fuel we needed and he told us the price. We both nodded and our man passed John the nozzle and watched as John filled us up. Gathering my best polite French I asked if we could stay there, while John walked round the corner and booked us in. He was very sweet. He smiled and nodded. He said no; explaining he had to keep the fuel dock clear as boats could come in at any time. Given the marina has almost two thousand berths and the dock would only have taken us and another boat our size we could see his point and smiled and nodded back. He and John disappeared into the office to settle up. I plotted that another time I would keep my mouth shut, let John wander off and go and sit below waiting. Anyway we backed out, round the corner and approached the arrivals dock. This was much smaller than the fuel dock. They probably reason that it doesn’t need to be any bigger, because in spite of the large number of berths there are only twenty allocated to visitors. On the second attempt John managed to come steeply in between the rusty buoy and the end of the quay and turn sharply at the last minute, so I could climb off. In order not to go into the restricted fuel side we had to hang over the back of the quay, blocking in the coastguard vessel. No marinera appeared to offer help. In Spain they always come out even if it’s as soon as you’ve finished. John headed inside with the paperwork and I sorted out the lines and fenders for a stern to mooring, hoping there would be no poles.

Some time later John came back with a plan of the marina. It was not poles. It would be a pontoon even, but there were no marineras to assist. John had been offered either a berth right outside the reception on one of the pontoons in the harbour mouth or one further in. Thinking of the weather to come John opted for the one further in. The receptionist had circled an area on the map. John had asked which number berth we had been allocated there. The girl had looked puzzled and said she usually just sent people down there and they chose an empty space. We set off, me moving fenders about and John trying to make sense of the map. The marina is so big they run boat trips round it, proudly boasting an eight kilometer round trip. We passed the island of the fishermen and negotiated the entrance into the inner sanctum. We crawled along looking for a berth along one side of the allocated pontoon. I stood at the prow to see better. They were short pontoons of the springboard type that are such a joy to jump down onto. There were three spaces and across each one the boat next door had draped a line, making it impossible for someone to come in alongside. This is naughty, but people do it to make themselves more secure next to an empty space. Usually the marineras ask them to move the line when they want to bring a boat in. Sadly in this huge marina there are apparently no such staff. John could see spaces on the other side, so we backed up and went down this. The pontoons were even smaller, but there was one with a double space so we went for it. It was so small John reversed in or we would not have been able to climb off, as it did not come half way on Lyra. I was crouched to jump when a man came over and offered to take our lines and did a marvelous job of tying them on and passing them back one at a time. I thanked him in French and, as he looked puzzled in English. “You’re welcome” he said to the English with a slightly German accent and hurried on his way before I found him another line to tie. Lyra was slightly skewed in the space, so John tried moving the blue rope and we realized why this pontoon was free. Reluctantly we too took a line across the remaining gap to hold Lyra squarer. In fairness only a jet ski could have fitted in there we are so much wider than the allocated boat width here. Lyra is the most stable thing here making the decision to move on tomorrow a no brainer.

We had our evening meal ashore at a restaurant full of Dutch speakers, La Taverne. The proprietor spoke fluent English, but I think he was either Dutch or German. One of the specialties listed was pig’s cheeks with red cabbage and as it was offered on the set menu that is what I ordered. It came with sliced, fried potatoes and was redolent of Christmas. The ham was worthy of Beaty my grandma’s cooking. I told him this and he seemed very pleased, gave us his card, which boasted home cooking (Kuche wie zu Hause, so German then) and asked us to come again. We regretfully explained that we had to move on. If you manage to tie up in Cap d’Adge I thoroughly recommend it.

 

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Farewell to Catalonia

Posted on May 27, 2016 by yachtlyra

Nous sommes en Francais. We crossed over the border at eleven forty five this morning after retracing the route of our boat trip and then turning the corner and heading for St Cyprien. I already feel nostalgic about Spain. We have done most of our sailing in Lyra there and have travelled along much of her coastline. It has been really beautiful from Galicia and the lovely Rias to party going Andaluciathe and hardworking Catalonia. We have enjoyed our forays inland to visit a variety of historic cities. The coastline along the Costas has often surprised us with its’ beauty. The people have almost invariably been friendly, helpful and welcoming. Charming in their efforts to compensate for our lack of Spanish. Now we are going boldly with our school French, picked up sometime last century and in the Captain’s case promptly discarded.

We set off at just after seven and have discovered the purpose of the seven o’clock siren. As we were sat on deck eating our breakfast fruit John noticed the fishing fleet assembling beyond the marina wall. They were circling each other and shuffling like dinghies at the start of a race, ranging themselves against an invisible line in the water till the siren sounded and they were off engines roaring. All shapes and sizes of boat hitting the throttle at the same time, heading purposefully in the same direction bound by to some hitherto unheard of etiquette. John realized what they were up to and we held back so as not to be in the way again. Another Najad was setting off too. We had noticed her further along the sea wall; it is not often we spot another one. We waved to each other as they passed by, to pull up at the fuel dock.

It was a straightforward motor into a weak north wind, paging out the hours. John spotted a couple of sharks close to his side of the boat after we had rounded the point. One gazed back at him with a blank eye. An hour or so later he spotted a fin to starboard, which I also saw. They look nothing like dolphins, no dark undulating back just a single sharp fin cutting the surface, in each case a lone one. John thought they looked about four feet long, not quite jaws then. Low cloud lay draped over the hills and the sea was smooth and glassy. A few other boats were out taking advantage of the weather window to make passage, we could just make them out in the haze ahead and turned on the radar just to be on the safe side until our approach to St Cyprien.

After consulting the pilot book we expected fuel to be on the welcome quay, so I readied the ropes and fenders along the port side. On entering the marina John could not see any fuel pumps, but after casting an eye around decided to just pull up on the welcome quay and sort out the paperwork. The quay is stone, quite rough with not a single fender or tyre along it’s length. We knew French sailors distained putting fenders along their sides, but had not expected the fixed moorings to be similarly denuded. I was in for another even greater shock when John came back after registering. We had been allocated a space, which involved passing between a pair of poles, tying on to both, one on either side and then taking ropes ashore. What was more the marineras would not be available till two, French lunch hour being as long, but earlier than Spanish lunch hour and apparently with no cover at all.

John said we might as well give it a go and unhooked the passerelle so I could more easily jump from the stern. First I had to channel Annie Oakley and lasso the poles with the bow lines. I tied big loops in the end of each line and John insisted I fasten them to the front cleats so the ropes would not fall in the water. He began to reverse and I made ready the stern lines. “Are you ready?” he asked, when clearly I was at the wrong end of the boat. I ran to the front, shouldered one loop and held open the other. Ready. “I think you’ll be better doing it from amidships as we pass through” he called. Fool of a Took, I should have known that the number of times we come into pontoons and I have to work the ropes from the middle. It is the widest bit of the boat and so comes closest to things. I ran the ropes down the side one at a time and of course I had tied them off too short and had to undo them, run down the side with the loop and then back to tie on again. I only managed to retie one before we were there, so I wound the other round the cleat ran down the starboard side with the loop and hoped. My efforts to hook the starboard pole failed miserably, but we were pushed close to the pole to port, so I ran across the deck and dropped that one on. Back on the starboard John had come to help, but we were now too far away. He went back to the wheel and used the bow thruster. Up came the pole again and I missed twice before finally managing to get the wretched thing on. Then I ran back to the bow to fasten the other end properly. John must have thought I’d gone mad and called down that I needed to be ready with the stern lines. Back down the length of the boats, pick up the windward line and clamber gingerly down the stern regarding the approaching stone quay. This one did have a couple of old tires to protect the stern and I had the ball fender floating behind us. Then fortune favoured us. A man on a bicycle stopped and offered to take our lines. He fastened the port line and then I climbed off with the starboard. I thanked him in my best French and he smiled and nodded as he climbed back on his bike. John tightened up the pole lines and Lyra was strung between poles and shore, with me on said shore. John had to wrestle the passerelle back on by himself and then we were set.

Later that afternoon the other Najad arrived here and spent a time circling looking for somewhere to land, so its not just us that is foxed by the French system. Afterwards John reflected we should probably have used the boathook. Another thing that becomes self evident as soon as someone says it. We will be ready next time, which will probably be in the morning if this weather holds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dipping a Toe in the Water

Posted on May 27, 2016 by yachtlyra

Today we finally made it to the beach. We cleaned the boat inside and out first and when there were no more jobs to be done set off with some water and our books to the little beach below the Fort. There were a few other sunbathers and a couple of lady swimmers. John went down to check the water temperature, but was back before I had managed to divest myself of shorts and sandals. Too cold, maybe we could paddle later. I fear middle age is setting in. We settled down on our mat leaning against a handy boulder with our books. After a pleasant hour or so the wind was beginning to cover us in a fine layer of silt. We dusted ourselves off and ventured back to the sea for the promised paddle. After five minutes just standing John announced he was losing all feeling in his toes and headed back. I wandered up and down a bit, thought about going in, thought about how very cold it was and that coming out to have sand blown on me when I was wet would not be much fun and followed John back to the bag. “If we go now we could get changed in time to go for lunch” he said. I am easily persuaded.P1160731

 

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Cadaques

Posted on May 27, 2016 by yachtlyra

Today was fine, but Lyra still tossed about a bit. Not so fiercely as yesterday, but with the forecast of worse to come. I suggested the beach while it was still fine. John suggested a boat trip to Cadaques, a harbour at the end of this piece of coast we had thought we were walking to on our various hikes. We settled for the boat trip, a useful rekey for our next sail. By the time we found the ticket booth the morning trip had left so we hung around town and had lunch ahead of the three o’clock sailing. Even though we were committed to a boat trip neither of us fancied waiting on our own boat. You may have guessed that I have now become a lady who lunches. We have been won over by the lunchtime fixed price menus here. For under fifteen Euros they offer a choice of three starters, mains and deserts, bread, water and a beverage of choice, wine beer or coffee. Today we found a place with a garden off the main street. It looked idyllic and we sat in the shade of a wisteria close to the back door, trying not to attract the attention of the flies. The food was good, but all was not well in the kitchen. Raised voices or rather voice denoted a Catalan Gordon Ramsey at work. Our waiter dithered about with plates of food he had forgotten where to serve, brought us sparkling water when we asked for still and brought John the wrong starter. We rolled with it. The water was pleasant and John waded through a plate of unwanted chicken wings. Then the water came up full of apologies, brought us John’s broad beans with mint and insisted they were on the house. We shared them and actually they were the best part of the meal. As we finished our main course the kitchen caught fire. Great flames licked towards the window opposite and the room was illuminated in an orange glow, which fortunately subsided. Our waiter did not appear for some time, but seemed none the worse for wear. The chef had gone quiet. We passed over desert, but risked coffees. By the time we paid it was time to head for the stone jetty where the tripper boat picked up.

A rambling queue had formed round a couple of anglers. The boat arrived at full speed heading straight for the middle, obviously from the same school as Captain Nemo II. Instead of a couple of burly chaps in the bows this had two slight girls, who tossed the ropes ashore and inveigle the waiting public to loop them onto the metal bollards. Everyone just stood looking at one another, so John was preparing to step into the breech when one of the fishermen did the honours. They lowered a metal gangplank on the end of a step ladder and we all embarked. Given the wind chill factor we decided to sit inside and put up with the clamour of the engine and the salt sprayed windows. As we set off round the point it became apparent that on our walks we had been skirting beneath some big hotels before we had come to the pretty scattered houses of Canyelles. It also dawned on us that it was as well we had stopped when we did. The footpath petered out after Canyelles Grosses, the coastline much wilder and Cadaques a long way away. On the way there the boat dipped its’ nose into a cavern and one of the girls took a photograph of the two of us. Before we arrived at Cadaques she presented us with a print in a wallet. Even though we were reduced to silhouettes it was not tempting to buy the copy, but she was very understanding.

Cadaques lies at the head of a wide bay and boats on moorings and buoys were scattered all around. We were told to brace ourselves and after a couple of futile nosing ins the Captain took a run up the beach. The gangplank just cleared the high water line and we all threaded off for an hour and a half ashore. It is a very pretty spot, full of artists’ studios and artisan galleries. There is a statue to Salvador Dali, who managed to both be born and die nearby. A large pottery built into the cliffs tempted John to buy a sky blue bowl and jug. They had plates depicting the points of the compass, but naming the winds that hark from that direction, eight different named winds, no wonder we are struggling to move on. After an hours exploring we settled down to a beer overlooking the harbour and our ride home sitting on a buoy. At around five twenty he came back in, took his run up and the girls clanged the gangplank down. On we all went. For the journey back they had further entertainment, a competition to win a bottle of Cava by trying to take the longest uninterrupted drink from one of those spouted Spanish flasks. They had a roll of kitchen paper on hand to mop up the competitors, which was just as well as it was a bumpy ride back. We smiled and shook our heads. A young girl opposite us reached a count of twenty four and won the bottle. She and most of the rest of the passengers disembarked at the stop at the far end of Roses from the marina. We had not ventured as far as this as the high rise blocks leading onto the marshland did not look very appealing. The looked positively desolate at close quarters, though they are more attractive at night when they are lit up. It was a relief not to be the only passengers wanting to be dropped off in the middle of the harbour. Finally we approached our stop. With no helpful fishermen or prospective customers to catch the ropes one of the girls lowered the gangplank part way as the other ran down it and leapt for the rocky shore, where she took the ropes and her friend lowered the plank the rest of the way for us to use. Not sure they take part in many risk assessments here. Anyway it was a good trip and we know just how far it is to the point and I am very glad John is waiting for a decent weather window to set off.

 

 

 

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The Fort at Last

Posted on May 26, 2016 by yachtlyra

Saturday was a rough old night, we were tossed to sleep in a gigantic cradle and I was awoken at seven by the fishermen’s siren. Why they should want to be going out is beyond me. John slept through it, so I dozed along next to him. Half an hour later there were voices on the seaward side and the roar of a bow thruster. Still John slept. Then came a sideways jolt as we were buffeted by another boat. John was up and out the companionway. He came slowly back and said a boat had come in, a couple on their own like us, and the marineras had done a great job of bringing them in alongside using an inflatable to push the bow against the wind. He made a cup of tea and said he was feeling rough. I sat up to drink it and soon realized why. It is possible to feel seasick in harbour. By the time we were up and dressed neither of us could face breakfast, so we headed to shore. Most of the cafes were not yet serving, but I had an idea where we were heading. We had stopped once for a shudderingly strong coffee at one of the places with ranks of tables set outside overlooking the sea. John had looked through the menu, which a big plastic wallet full of laminated colour photographs, at which one could point. John had fancied a plateful of bacon and eggs. He was obviously feeling better. This time we ventured inside away from the wind. I looked through the menu. All sorts of things were jumbled together, but the smallest thing I could find was a chunk of tortilla with half a raw tomato. I could not face it, so ordered what looked like a smaller version of John’s breakfast, one egg and a couple smaller bacon rashers. It was rather a sunbleached image and when it came turned out to be escallops of pork, egg and chips. They had put me an extra piece of pork on for good measure, no doubt impressed by my constitution. At that moment in time I had my doubts, but felt I could not waste the food having ordered it. I like pork, but this was an effort and John helped me out, though I must say egg and chips for breakfast was surprisingly good. Set up for the day we headed off to try the fort again.

Success. We climbed the steps and the gates were open allowing us to climb a lot more steps, well over a hundred. Between the sets of steps the ground sloped up. To lay siege to this fort one would need to be fit, and possibly not to have just eaten a plateful of pork, egg and chips. We marauded slowly, pausing every so often to recover our breath, admiring the already impressive views. The Fort loomed above us, an irregular pointy structure with inward leaning walls made from a mixture of worn stone sections and smooth concrete. We assumed the concrete had arrived around the time of the Second World War as it had the look of wartime bunkers on the English coast. Eventually we reached the base and wound round to be greeted Renault five parked on a concrete platform offering a panoramic view of Roses. How it managed to reach that point was unclear. There were more steps up into the entrance, which suddenly looked very modern and businesslike with heavy glass doors on chrome hinges.

We paid at the large desk and were given a guide sheet in various languages out of which we teased the English bits. There was also a brochure in Spanish explaining the exhibition of photographs they were currently showing. We started with the photographs, which were views of the Costa Brava taken in the early thirties. We could just about make out the dates and places. They were full of the atmosphere of a world about to disappear. The places were unrecognizable, but for a few strong geologic features and a more ruined version of the Fort we stood in. Sturdy ladies posed against lanteen rigged fishing boats, children in oversized clothes gawked at the camera and gnarled men grinned over their cigarettes. Lorette La Mar was just a series of beach huts on the strand and made me think of Margery and Douglas, who we met in India in the eighties. At the time they were both seventy and Margery had warned me not to name my hoped for baby after any of the places in India. They had honeymooned in Spain and she had nearly called their daughter Sally after the pretty little fishing village where they had stayed. When she thought of how Lorette Le Mar was now she was glad. I wondered if this was the Lorette she had been so taken with and still think it a pretty name.

John handed back the paper about the exhibition and we started on the Fort. It turned out to be a prototype, built using the latest techniques, given the shape of a four-point star and sloping sides. Putting a fifth point around the entrance to protect it had later modified this. Last of all came God in the form of a higher level with a chapel on the back point. The concrete was very modern, put there as part of a massive effort to conserve the structure, with the idea of showing the original form, but making the modern additions obvious.img_2589 It allowed the reconstruction of the various interior levels, but leaves the place feeling entombed. It put me in mind of a Dr Who set, where the Dr and his plucky assistant find the walls of a futuristic alien city, when they are supposed to have time travelled to the Middle Ages. I considered writing the blog post from this point of view, but decided I would make a rubbish plucky assistant, glued to the Drs side, never venturing off on my own to court bizarre peril, and an even worse wimpy Doctor,

“Quick! Allons y back to the Tardis Plucky, it’s currently disguising itself as a black Renault 5.” And so forth.

Scripts to the effect will be considered for publication, though I am afraid to report out adventure consisted of just wandereding round the various dampish rooms, peering over at the giddying views afforded by the terraces and the latrines and making use of the very clean toilets. We encountered an English family with two small boys, a few French people and a German couple. No Daleks, but then they might have struggled with quite so many steps, I don’t buy into that nonsense that they float. I guess if Brexit carries the day we will be the aliens.

 

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The Next Bay

Posted on May 25, 2016 by yachtlyra

Enthused by our first walk we were up early to venture further. As it was Saturday we headed up to the Fort again. It was still shut. We should have read the notice more carefully; it is only open from ten on Sunday on Saturday they start at three. Undeterred we set off along the footpath round the coast. It was familiar territory now and we soon reached Canyaelles. This time we made it past the restaurant on the beach skirted another that hung above the footpath around the corner and made it into the next bay.

This is called Grande Canyelles Grosses, though it is smaller and much less developed than Canyelles. We sat for a while looking out over it all before walking down onto the beach. Along the front was a large restaurant connected to some beachfront apartments with cerise bougainvilleas romping up the balconies. In the center of the bay was another restaurant fronted by a series of low round tables under thatched parasols. Needles to say we ventured no further.

As we sipped our beers John Google translated the menu. Most of the daily specials involved a particular fish, Corvina, which was described as having firm white flesh. When it came to lunchtime we decided to share the fresh fried fish and a goat’s cheese salad. The salad came first, served artistically in a curled red lettuce leaf, the cheese encrusted with toasted hazelnuts. Then came the platter of fish and seafood. Surprisingly the fish turned out to be a fearsome looking shark like creature presented curled round on itself clutching its own tail with spiky teeth. It was not something I would have picked from the fishmonger’s slab. There was one each. Once the head and tail came off, helpfully as one unit, it seemed less formidable and turned out to taste very good. I hope we don’t come across their relatives swimming. I hope to do some swimming soon, the beaches are perfect, but John keeps muttering about cold water and preferring to look at the beach from the bar.

 

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A Lovely Day

Posted on May 25, 2016 by yachtlyra

Today was a glorious day, one of the kind that makes you glad to be voyaging the high seas, able to visit such lovely places. It did not start well. We made our way round the bay away from town and climbed a lot of steps to the Fort entrance. It was shut. At this time of year it only opens at weekends. There were some good views from the car park and then we wandered off to look at the little lighthouse just down from the Fort.

There has obviously been a garden here at some point and a very fragrant blush rose was climbing through a cactus. A set of intriguing narrow steps led down the side of the lighthouse towards the shore. Down we went. The steps led to a concrete walkway that threaded round the shoreline with views to the surf pounding the rocks below. We set out along it. Wildflowers covered the slopes all around, some familiar from our time in Galicia, but here the giant cactus and agaves punctuated the swathes. The rocks abounded, above us huge stone faces fissured with plants, below boulders around which turquoise water sparkled, set off by the dark blue of the deeper water further out. We could have been walking the Cornish coastal path, but with the scent of aromatic herbs hanging in the warm air. Some of the cacti were flowering, large bowls of orange and yellow petals around a crowded boss of stamens and the succulents draped over the rocks were studded with hot pink daisies. As we trekked along each bay below us looked more inviting than the last, with tiny coves scooped under the track. The boulders would have made for an interesting scramble down.

Eventually we turned a corner and a larger bay spread before us with a wide sandy beach complete with a couple of beachfront restaurants and a large white building with Hotel Canyelles written in big blue letters above it. Walking down onto the front we planned to carry on along our path, which we could exiting from the far corner. To reach it we passed alongside a restaurant sitting actually on the sand and decided to pause for a drink. It was one of those pauses that led on to lunch.

It was just too pleasant, finally to be sitting in some sunshine and watching the world go by. Or rather watching some of it go to and fro and the rest of it sprawl in the sun. A woman in a straw hat lugged a basket from lounger to blanket offering massages. She obviously knew her business and we watched as she kneaded a woman’s calves and feet. It looked a pretty full on, but probably felt great afterwards and she moved from job to job. Just in front of us was a large clear space of sand, kept that way by a small boy of two or three playing football with his Dad. He cut an amusing figure in his baseball cap and sunglasses. He would steady the ball, look at his Dad, take a few steps back, look again, take a run up and whack the ball with his left foot. Sometimes he missed and went sailing straight over the top in a flurry of sand. Usually he made good contact and his Dad trapped the ball and sent it back to him. He tired of the game before Dad did and headed off to a mound of sand just in front of the sea. A straw hat with teddy bear ears was waggling about in the hole and as our hero arrived a head emerged. Little sister. After flicking the football temptingly a few times Dad reluctantly headed across to join them and was given the unenviable task of taking the occupant of the hole over to the tap to sluice her down. Big brother went along to help while Mum, who had been sat nearby unfolded a magazine. She just about found her page when the dripping baby arrived back to be swathed in a toweling poncho. At this point our food began to arrive and my focus turned from beach to plate.P1160716

We feasted on locally caught prawns, garlicky with lots of buttery juices to mop up with crusty bread. Then came fish, mine grilled, John’s baked in a white sauce with potatoes. It was all so good we allowed ourselves to be tempted by desert, but that was a mistake as the puddings were shop bought Brule and squirty cream. As we were eating them we noticed a change in the weather as the wind came up and the beach began to clear. The family I had been watching earlier headed to the restaurant and the table next to us. The waiter stacked the wicker chairs to make high chairs and padded the one for the baby with cushions. At the sight of her jar of food she became a tiny tyrant and wailed between mouthfuls as Mum plied the spoon in and out. Once fed though she looked round wide eyed. Her brother ate penne pasta, spearing a piece at a time with his fork and eating daintily, managing not to touch the hot plate. All in all the were exemplary, but it took me back to how full on looking after small children is a how little you taste your own food. Our coffee arrived and was very good. By the time we finished it seemed too late to venture into the next bay, so we saved that and headed back. The return journey seemed quicker, as they often do, but was still very beautiful, but by this time the wind was churning the water round the rocks to a milky azure and out in the bay the white horses tumbled.P1160749

That evening was a solemn moment as we opened the last tin of Heinz baked beans for tea, but they did make a good end to a perfect day.

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