To Sitges

Posted on May 9, 2016 by cathyharnett

Our next port of call was Sitges, a seaside resort John had visited when he worked for Holiday Chemicals nearly thirty years ago. It was a short trip and the wind was forecast to die down around eleven am and then remain none existent, so we planned to set off around eleven thirty and have an easy motor to arrive just after lunch break at four, an easy pootle along the coast.

P1160178As we were ready by eleven and the wind was pretty quiet we set off. It was as well we did so. The wind was light and the sea state smooth for about the first hour, then the wind began to build and the sea state followed suite, till by one the wind was blowing force five and the sea state would have been classed as slight. It is important at this point to remember that sea states are classified according to their effect on super tankers. We would not wish to be out in sea state rough, moderate is deeply unpleasant and slight can cover a multitude of sins, depending on which direction you are going and whether or not the wind is going the same way as the waves. Fortunately we were heading the same way as both the wind and sea, a fact I was made particularly aware of on the occasions we had to bear off course to allow another vessel to go by. Everything seemed to want to cross us, fishing boats, motor boats, cargo ships and other yachts. Then outside Sitges appeared an obstacle course of lobster pots. We fought our way through and it became clear there would not be much room for maneuver inside the harbour, so I fastened the stern lines on outside, where I could sit on the deck riding the toss to do so. As John headed into the entrance and smoother water I inched down the deck with fenders and the front line. John called to say set the fenders high as we would go alongside the fuel quay, which was a huge relief, as I was not looking forward to the big jump down to the waiting pontoon. I was too busy to fully appreciate John’s handling through the lively seas of the entrance or to see the other boats tossing about on the very full waiting pontoon. As it was I had no time to set a fender on the front before John ferry glided into the fuel quay. On the second coast in I managed to jump off and secure the middle line on tight, run forward to secure the bow and then leg it to the stern in time for John to throw me that line to pull in to keep the nose well out. We took a breath. Around us the wind was whistling in the rigging and even in the harbour the water was choppy. It was still only three thirty and lunch here runs from two to four. We decide to stay where we were and wait until someone came along to move us on.

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There is nothing like being on the fuel quay for service. We had barely made our decision and a chap came out to see what we wanted and then send us off to a berth just behind the entrance. In fairness to all those waiting on the pontoon we had phoned ahead and booked, but I think it was being in front of the fuel pumps, even though we were well along at the far end, that made them sort us out so quickly. I set a fender on the front and some on the starboard side and then we were off, reversing round to the berth at the end of number nine pontoon, opposite the office. Neither of us expected it to go as smoothly as it did and although we were on the end, Lyra was too firmly tethered to sway about. The lines did creak and complain a bit though, so that nigh we decamped to the bows for a more peaceful nights sleep.

 

 

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A Blustery Day

Posted on May 9, 2016 by cathyharnett

The bars and restaurants of the marina at Tarragona were constructed in a more upbeat economic climate and the designers probably envisioned restaurants operating with marina side extensions across the road creating a buzz as waiters crossed the traffic and people ate out looking over the assembled yachts. Now the surroundings have all the charm of a run down shopping precinct. No water side tables tempt the boat owners to linger and there is little to attract anyone across the railway tracks from the town. The only two bars still open are a belly-dancing restaurant and a go go dancing disco, each with appropriate images painted on the windows. They sit side by side, so perhaps their survival rests on the same girls shedding their veils in one and then running round the back to don lycra catsuits. Or maybe dancing girls are recession proof. Either way the clubs do not lift the ambience of the place. Yachts of our size were moved to the newly built marina to leave the old harbour free for superyachts. We had a wander along the front to see what we were missing.

To begin with we joined the cyclists and joggers out keeping fit along the harbour wall. Walking was easy on a sprung surface and there were distance markers every five hundred meters. Feral cats sunbathed on the concrete blocks on the seaward side. After a kilometer we turned back. A couple came towards us with a black cat walking to heel. As we passed the grouped moggies they had obviously all just been fed and were quietly eating following an agreed pecking order. We could not decide if the black cat belonged to the couple or if they regularly fed the strays and it was an opportunist. P1160171Once back to the road we made for the superyachts. There were four of them, docked in a huge harbour, three side by side facing us on the far side and one huge glass swathed structure with a nose like a 747 draped alongside. We walked along its length. It was hard to imagine any of them belonging to an individual, they were like mini cruise liners. The dock was not much more elevated than our own marina. Most of it was empty. At one end were the fishing fleet and all along the dock side where we were walking were long stone buildings that looked like old fish bartering halls. They seemed to be given over to bars and museums. In one they had apparently rebuilt the Titanic. The current fishmarket was surrounded by mesh fencing as men dug up the pavement with pneumatic drills. Beyond this were the fish restaurants, some very smart looking. John fancied eating in one and we thought we could come back for lunch, as they eat dinner so late here. In the meantime we head off up the hill and bought bread and saffron coloured chicken pies from a nice baker and then were seduced by the patisseries of a shop a little further along and went in for coffee. It was Sunday and in both the bakery and the patisserie people were coming in to buy treats to take out. We surmised they were off out to lunch and taking gifts for their hosts. Then we noticed the number of fancy cakes with MARE written in icing and surmised it was Catalan Mother’s Day. John bought me a cake to have with my coffee. We headed back to Lyra with our shopping and the forecast wind was tossing her about enough to worry John, so we put on extra lines and stayed on board to keep an eye on her. We ate our little pies with some salad for lunch and discovered that what we had bought as bread rolls were actually hollow, a sort of globular cheesy pitta, which we enjoyed filled with salad.

In the evening we headed back to the fish restaurants to find that most of them were closed. Obviously lunch is the meal on Mother’s Day. One place was open, sandwiched between bars. It was only nine o’clock so most of the people were drinking, but the tables were set so we sat ourselves down. The proprietor was a large man with a wonderfully resonant deep voice. He passed us the menus and a waiter took a drinks order. John asked for a large beer and I ordered a white wine “de la cassa”. John’s beer arrived in a large iced tankard and a label less bottle of white wine with a plastic stopper in the top was plonked in front of me. It reminded me of British Steel coach trips, when drinks were handed out in six packs. We ordered a shared starter of baby broad beans with squid and croquettes and I was about to order a mixed seafood main to also share, when our host told me that was what we should have and that would be enough. And with that off he went and brought us bread, olives and dips. The food was very good, which was just as well as our host was not a man to take no for an answer and insisted we clear each plate, proffering any item left behind to John with a nod of the head before he took it away. The beans were disconcertingly black from the squid ink, but tasted great and the seafood platter boasted some delicious pieces of fish along with excellent mussels and some intricately fretted shellfish I had previously only regarded as ornamental. The meat had to be winkled out with a wooden stick and looked a bit snail like, but I manned up and rose to the challenge. John let me. As we ate the tables alongside filled up with groups of older men, who clearly knew the patron and there was a lot of hand shaking and banter. It is a good job we are not planning an early start tomorrow.

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City of Human Towers and Mythic Beasts

Posted on May 3, 2016 by cathyharnett

Tarragona is a lovely city in which history sits cheek by jowl with the present, sometimes erupting out of the pavements or hiding round the corner of a shopping square and sometimes spilling out onto the streets in traditional pageants and festivals.

The old town sits on top of the cliff overlooking the marina. To get there we either had to come out of the marina precinct, cross under the railway tracks and climb a steep hill. This is what we did the first time, repetitively overtaking the same two gentlemen out for a stroll, who kept passing us when we stopped to consult our map. On our way back however we discovered the escalators, which we then headed for. This may sound like a cop out, but the streets are impressively steep and we could have taken the “Tran”, a road based mini tourist train if we had been able to work out where to buy tickets that did not involve first climbing the hill. Tran, escalators and steep hill all culminate in a wide boulevard, along which trees line a wide central pedestrian walkway with traffic on both sides, then normal pavement with cafes and shops. At one end of this boulevard is a statue celebrating the human towers for which the region is renown. If we had been here on St Georges Day there would have been tower building events along with the libraries and the roses. It seems as though they will stand on each others shoulders here at the drop of a hat. P1110923P1110926P1110927At the other end the concourse ends with a cliff terrace. When we first arrived on the terrace groups of teenage girls in leotards were clustered with their entourages chattering, dithering and in a couple of cases striking poses. We seem to have just missed some sort of display. When we made our way to the edge we could see the marina far below us on the left and the Roman arena to the right with the train tracks threading between them. This was not the top of the hill, above us was the old town, which has mediaeval and modern buildings with Roman intrusions.

We had passed through Tarragona on our way home back in October and had visited the amphitheater then. Our visit had coincided with that of a school party, a large one, probably an entire year group of junior school children organized into classes. When we arrived and paid our entry fee there had been no sign of them. As we emerged from the relatively small antechamber, which would probably have been very informative had we been able to read either Catalan or its’ Spanish translation, we could hear the massed chattering and looking up saw them being sorted into phalanxes, prior to the march to the entrance. It looked as though this could take some time, but nonetheless we felt speed was of the essence. We toured the arena exploring its various archways and levels, looking round at the views and imagining it all back in the day with a self-conscious urgency.

We had reached the upper level when the waters broke, down the first group came, only to be enclosed by afore mentioned display room. As they all had work sheets to fill in this held them up a treat and we were able to finish our tour and walk back out passed the straining hoards of their waiting classmates before any emerged into the arena below. We carried on up the slopes through some pretty gardens and peered over the edge as children finally fanned out joyously into the amphitheater below. John predicted gladiatorial battles breaking out, but such was the power of the worksheet combined with the glower of formidable ladies, that no such anarchy broke out. From our vantage point high above it all looked good clean fun. We then headed up into the old town and wandered through the narrow streets, where they were holding a festival of Tapas. Groups with booklets were going into the restaurants on some kind of culinary pub crawl and we struggled at first to find somewhere to let us eat a whole meal. Eventually John spotted a rather smart cellar tucked away down a side street, where the waiter tucked us round a corner beside a glass capped well, where we ate a splendid diner glancing down into the illuminated depths.

On this visit we decided the amphitheater would seem tame after our previous experience and headed straight up into the old town via the smart streets of the shopping center. We knew we were entering the old part when we turned a corner and came face to face with the backstage stables of the Roman circus. As we continued to climb we looked back to see a mural on the adjacent building, mapping the history of the area. Our climb turned a picturesque corner, where a restaurant spilled out onto the pavement all pink pot plants in white metal buckets. We then headed up to the Cathedral with its gothic façade set off by the steeply stepped street in front of it. To either side the buildings were mediaeval and rather lovely, though one was cloaked in scaffolding and the other marred by a large plastic bar sign. We climbed up to the Cathedral, but it was shut. Two rather grand wedding cars were parked outside with waiting chauffeurs, goodness knows how they came up there. We surmised the closure was due to a rather splendid wedding and explored up round the side of the building instead and found the back of the Cathedral to be the same combination of mellow stones and pantile roofs as the buildings either side. There was a pretty small garden with a fountain and a young woman had set up her easel to paint. Having seen as much as we could we retraced our steps to the pretty restaurant we had spotted on the corner.

We had planned just a light lunch, but one look at the menu put paid to that, even though it was entirely in Catalan.The retaurant is called the Cucafera, a reference to another of Tarragona’s festivals when papier-mache models of mythical beasts roam the streets. This particular beast is a sort of fat fire breathing crocodile, it could be a dragon, but in papier-mache it comes out looking like a fat fire breathing crocodile, with maybe a trace of dachshund. Given the reference to fire I chose something baked in the oven, aubergine topped with melted cheese, while John opted for penne in spicy tomato sauce. This all sounds healthily vegetarian, but a layer of rather delicious bolognaise was hidden between the aubergine and the cheese, so veggies beware. To start we shared a tomato and mozzarella salad and an exquisite plate of squid in sauce so good I mopped it up with lettuce from the salad, when we had finished the bread. Neither of us could face desert, but we had café solos and were glad it was downhill all the way back. Dinner was a run round the table on Lyra.

The weather forecast is for stronger winds than we would care to face tomorrow so we plan to have a walk along the front and gawp at the super yachts.

 

 

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To Tarragona

Posted on May 2, 2016 by cathyharnett

The sail, or to be more precise motor to Tarragona was long and uneventful. We set off early and the limestone cliffs of Sant Carles were turned pink by the rosy glow from the rising sun. There was no wind at all, so we were able to just let go most of the lines before John reversed out smoothly as I slipped the stern line. There was plenty of time for me to go round stowing the fenders and coiling the ropes before we even reached the channel markers. In fact it took us a good two hours to go round the head of the lagoon and come back level with our Z Pontoon berth out on the open sea. At first the sea was dead calm, but then the wind came up a bit from the north raising a chop, which became more pronounced as we drew near to the point at which the River Ebro reaches the sea, after being diverted through all the dikes and paddy fields. The wind was directly ahead, so no use at all for sailing, so we motored on. Lyra was being slowed by a current coming out of the river and sweeping along the sand bar it is forming, but eventually we reached the point at which we could set course for Tarragona. Here we received a boost from the river and the sea calmed down again as the wind dropped. It was a straight course across the bay and we settled down for the four-hour trip, taking turns to keep watch for lobsterpots and other craft. Nearing Tarragona I spotted ripples in the water beneath a flurry of seabirds. I called John and we watched our first dolphins of the season, though there was not much to see beyond the fluid dark backs circling low, as they were fishing and not interested in coming over for a look at us.

True to form as we came nearer to the point of having to park the wind started to build. What was worse was that it had swung completely round to the south, from which direction it would be pushing sea into the harbour and acting as a crosswind during maneuvers inside it. Our approach seemed to take forever. We passed a number of large cargo ships at anchor outside Tarragona and one that turned out to be moving, but which passed well ahead of us. Several fishing boats also passed us on their way in, trailing seagulls. Eventually we arrived outside the marina entrance. We waited for another yacht to turn to wind and take in his sails, before watching how he approached the entrance. Then I wobbled about putting out lines and fenders while John held us in the shelter of the harbour entrance. Once we were ready we headed in John trying to radio ahead in between a lively conversation in Spanish on Channel 9. The entrance was narrow and kinked, so we were glad not to meet anyone coming the other way. Once John managed to make contact the marina office was very efficient and sent us straight to our berth along the harbour wall. A marinera met us there, John reversed in and we handled all the lines pretty well. The marinera was helpful and pleasant and we were relieved to have the first berthing under our belts with no anxious moments.

After John had settled with the office we headed off into town, which is quite a climb.

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Goodbye to Sant Carles

Posted on May 1, 2016 by cathyharnett

The life raft and flares arrived back more or less on time yesterday, so we are all set for the off tomorrow, when the weather is due to improve. Today is dismal, windy with big threatening clouds and perishing cold. We headed off into Sant Carles in our waterproofs and jumpers to settle up with Roberto. He would not take anything from us, as they had not managed to solve the hex of the generator, but shook our hands and wished us well. As the rain was still holding off we wandered through the main square. It was sad to say goodbye to it on such a dull, cold day. All the coifed ladies were carrying their umbrellas. We went for our last coffee. Everyone was sitting inside the awning in their coats and the fairground lights that illuminate it of an evening were on. On our way back we bought bread from the nice bread lady and a piece of her plum slice to share as we shelter on board. Now there are just the towels to launder and the spare keys to pick up from the office. We hope to manage both these tasks before the black cloud, which has engulfed the mountains and is moving in across the town reaches us. Soon it will be goodbye to Z pontoon, to our neighbours on Cloud 9, Shilling and Evelyn B to the perpetually unmanned Fifty Fifty, Miss Reykjavik, Endless Summer and Notorious of Poole and the various other boats whose crews we are on nodding terms with. Of course if the bad weather lingers we will still be here tomorrow, but hopefully we will be well on our way to Tarragona.

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Runners, Riders and Those Who Sit in Bars

Posted on April 25, 2016 by cathyharnett

On Sunday we fancied a walk and so headed into town after finishing a few chores. We planned to promenade along the front, but as we left the marina we could see throngs of numbered runners threading their way in and out of the El Nautico marina yard. As we reached the highway a police car blocked the road and we were passed by cyclists whizzing by on very slick looking machines. We followed their route on the pavement and at one point passed a woman and a small boy yelling encouragement to a determinedly pedaling dad. He managed to lift his hand briefly and grin an acknowledgement before he was past, the woman risking life and limb to snap him on her phone. As we walked on we were first passed by the woman and child, jogging in the cyclists wake, and then found them at a barrier poised to watch the runners. From the logos on the official vests we realized the cyclists must come in from thrashing round the paddy fields of the delta, trade in their bikes and then set off running along a convoluted route round the docks, out along the prom and then back for a final round of the marina. We arrived at the finish just in time for the winning man to come in, high fiving the official and crossing the line in just over four hours to tumultuous applause.

This was no small local event, the runners easily numbering in double figures. Even the spectators looked amazingly fit. People must have come in from miles around to produce so many honed young people in the middle of Sant Carles. Undeterred the local senior citizens were out in their Sunday best for their customary stroll along the front. We stood for a while just past a watering station watching the runners go by, hurling half empty water bottles at the bin. A young man was trying to retrieve rolling bottles before they could trip someone, whilst shepherding sedate groups of promenaders across the race. It looked a thankless job. Rather than add to his misery we decided to give up on our own idea of walking along the front and headed back up into town to sit in the square with a couple of cold beers.

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St Georges Day

Posted on April 23, 2016 by cathyharnett

Finally this morning the sky was blue and the sun sailed up into it. We headed up into Sant Carles for gas and groceries. After a discussion about which to go for first we headed to the gas chandlers. There were no lights on and to all intents and purposes it looked closed, but we tried the door and it opened. The shop was the same eclectic mix of goods stowed in covetable ancient cupboards. The same old guy served us and swapped us back our ratty old gas bottle. John lowered the rusting hulk carefully into the back pack. As last year we then went up to the square for a coffee.

Saturday morning and the place was buzzing, or rather singing, music was blasting out from speakers up in the trees. We only just managed to find an outside table at our usual café. Around the square were set a number of market stalls and as we sat waiting to order we noticed that most of the groups of people walking by were carrying roses, single red ones wrapped in cellophane with an ear or two of corn. The flowers were ties with ribbon in the colour of the Catalan flag and the variety of ages carrying often several bundles suggested they were more than just a late Spanish Valentines day. Then our coffees arrived with complimentary red heart shaped biscuits on the saucers. Perhaps romance was in the air. After our coffees we investigated.

The stalls were all selling roses for between three and four Euros each along with various handicrafts and lots of quite new looking books. The money was going to support various groups and charities manning the stalls. John bought me a rose from a posse of teenage baton twirlers. Then we saw a sign about Sant Jordi and a display from the primary school where a cloaked crusader guarded two Friesian cows made from an assortment of cardboard cartons with pink balloon udders. No damsel and no dragon, but this was our very own Saint George.

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We headed back to the supermarket and Spar too had a large bucket of red roses bound up with wheat. No discernable charity was involved with these and they were a mere two Euros each. Back at the marina a consultation with Google reveals George is also the patron saint of Catalonia, libraries and lovers. Over here his day is celebrated by the exchanging of books and roses. We are not sure if the ear of wheat is a local tradition because the first crop has just been taken in before they flood the paddy fields for the rice. I should in fairness have given John a book, though he would have been hard pressed to read it as they were all in Catalan. From on board Lyra we hear a barrage of fireworks sound at midday and resolve to head up into town tonight to see if there are any more celebrations to come. This would also avoid the crowds in the marina where a regatta is due in.

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On With The Usual Suspects

Posted on April 23, 2016 by cathyharnett

We are back on board and it is rough under canvas again. April showers spatter the boat and we dodge in and out doing the usual jobs when the rain stops along with seemingly all the other boat crews here. When it rains the mountains disappear and all is grey and cold. We could be in Scotland. The Captain has pared down some of the pre sail tests, the anchor trial was just a case of checking the chain winds in and out and the outboard trial consisted of charging the battery. The engine started, but the generator predictably did not. Off we went to see Roberto, who assured us they had started it with jump leads. Unfortunately when he came back out the engineer could not repeat the trick and they have sent for a new relay. We have spent more time mending the generator than we have actually spent running it. There has been the usual round of cleaning and polishing and if tomorrow is fine we will do laundry. Such is the glamorous life we lead in the run up to the next voyage, a daunting prospect of three countries in as many months. Up the Costa Brava, into France along the Carmargue, the Cote d’Azure and the Riviera, possibly missing Monaco, which looks a bit hectic even in the ancient photos in the pilot book, and then down Italy. We must press on to get there by July or we will run the contrary high season perils of expensive and full to bursting marinas. The low season perils are strong winds and heavy seas. At this stage it is always very scary, but our mood usually picks up once we set off. This will not be till Thursday at the earliest since our life raft has been taken away to be serviced and is not due back till Wednesday. In the meantime we are trying to make the most of our last days in Sant Carles, which has been a window on the real Spain, such a lovely place, and one we will look back on with great fondness.

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Home James

Posted on April 23, 2016 by cathyharnett

After the family had been out we were dogged by the spirit of anticlimax and decided to head for home. This is not a quick business in a yacht of course and with the forecast still for northerlies we decided to head back to Denia and up round the coast, rather than hitting straight out for the Coubrettes, which are open to the north. This was just as well, since we had an appalling crossing. I was ill despite my tablet and the lumpy seas brought the boat speed down so the crossing took all day. That said we then made rapid progress up the coast back to Sant Carles, moving on every day. Denia to Valencia was a fine day when we were able to sail and then motor sail, with just a shot of drama when the furling mechanism for the foresail failed and John had to furl the sail by hand and tie it up. In Valencia we miraculously found the two nuts from the mechanism on the deck, so may be able to fix it. No time now though, next day Valencia to Burriana Nova under engine with the sail tied up. We were there with no further excitement by one o’clock and John mended the furler. Fingers crossed, one leg to go. Next morning we set out at s soon as it was light and arrived on our own pontoon at four thirty after filling up with fuel. Mischief managed for another season, but for a little light cleaning and securing the lines for winter.

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Cala LLonga

Posted on April 23, 2016 by cathyharnett

The following morning the weather had settled down and we motored through the busy narrow gap between Ibiza and Esplalmador, with what seemed like every ferry that travelled the route coming towards us as we did so. We passed Ibiza Town and where plane after plane flew in past the fort on the hill. We were heading for Santa Eulalia, where John had negotiated a berth inside the marina, but on the way hoped to make a lunch stop at Cala Llonga.

We had stayed in beachfront apartments at Cala Llonga with my parents and brother for a week in October the year before I had Emma. At that time there were three hotels, one either side of the bay and one up the hill further inland, our small block of apartments, a grocery shop, two bars and a small restaurant up an unlit road out of town. The meeting of three roads in the center of town was turned into a roundabout by dint of embedding a faded plastic beer crate, at the union. This also served as the bus station. It was a glorious holiday full of sunshine and happiness mainly spent on the long golden beach either laid out in front of the string of turquoise umbrellas or swimming in the cold clear water looking down through a mask at the riot of fish below. Occasionally I would gasp and splutter at the sight of a large white creature looming into view fathoms beneath me, only to realise it was my brother Dave, pointing at something on the sea bed, prodding it into animation if I failed to see it. After one singular failure on my part he erupted to the surface with a small, brown octopus twining round his hand, roared with laugher at my reaction before diving to put the creature back. One day Dave, John and I hired a pedallo and ventured far out beyond the headlands, where the water was too deep and blue to look into, the umbrellas tiny in our wake and the noise of the beach fading to nothing in the sound of the sea. Now there we were in Lyra slipping between the same steep headlands, with a sprinkling of pedallos heading out to greet us. Time slipped and touched fingers. The bay had not changed much, certainly not when viewed from the water. There was the long row of parasols dipping in the breeze, shiny and turquoise as a Disney princess’s gown marking the line of the long golden beach littered with figures. There on the right were the Del Mar apartments with the rickety wooden jetty threading out in front for the passenger ferries to dock. A new swish looking hotel had appeared on the left and a few more villas climbed the steep sides of the bay, but the scene was much as I remembered it. We anchored behind another yacht and swam from the stern. The water was still cold, but we were too deep to see the fish.

After our swim as we ate lunch on the deck Johnsey asked if we had imagined then coming back in our own boat. The answer was no. The yachts out at anchor would have seemed as alien as spacecraft, we had no thought then of ever owning a boat. We hoped for a baby and failing that planned to go walking in South America the following summer. Life has taken us further than we could possibly have imagined. Brimming with nostalgia we weighed anchor and motored on round to Santa Eulalia.

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