To Denia

Posted on June 25, 2015 by yachtlyra

The crossing to Denia is the shortest distance from the Islands to the mainland. Even so it is fifty odd miles and we were up and off early. We could have been earlier still, but delayed to refuel, when the pumps opened at nine and then gave up on the idea as it was windy and there was another boat ahead of us.

Once out of the shelter of the harbour wall it was very windy and beyond the bay the sea came at us in meter high waves with the wind blowing straight on the nose, as we turned onto our course. Going against the swell slowed us right down to below five knots. Even going straight there under engine it was going to be a long, long day. And I was feeling sick as a dog, despite having given my tablet plenty of time to take effect. I lay on the deck useless, unless John needed me to keep an eye out if he needed to go below. Each time he returned I sank back down gratefully. Having to go below myself was a cause for dread. All in all it was a very grim day and we were both heartily glad to arrive.

Our last arrival in Denia had been somewhat fraught. There had been a mistake somewhere along the line and we had been allocated too small a berth. John had managed to reverse into it, but it was touch and go, literally, whether we would catch the bottom, so we had to move. As we did the wind had nearly blown us onto the concrete pier at the end of a pontoon, John just managed to shimmy round it with the bow thruster. Then we had to repeat the reversing tying up process. At the end of our travails the marinera had been extremely apologetic and they had only charged us for the smaller berth. This time it was the same marinera. We remembered him, he looks a bit like Dave Allen, the Irish comedian and has the same slightly troubled facial expression. We think he remembered us and did not look thrilled by the prospect of renewing our acquaintance. Fortunately this berthing went smoothly, we seemed to do all the right things in more or less the right order. All three of us were glad to have it under our belts for this year and he retired thankfully with a wave.

P1130980We wobbled ashore for a welcome beer at the nearest bar, after which we felt too tired to go out and I went straight to bed.

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At Leisure

Posted on June 25, 2015 by yachtlyra

Now we are tourists for a few days, so today we headed for the beach. Not the main beach with its hawkers and palm readers, but the smaller one round the headland past Mambo. We packed our towels, a couple of paperbacks and a few euros in a sealable plastic bag, shouldered our mats and were off. Hopeful young folk handed us initialed tickets offering free drinks or discounts at the various sunset bars we passed, not the one that looks like a cave with a door on, we must be too far over the hill for them to waste paper on us. People were sunbathing on the flat rocks above the beach and when we were closer we could see why. The beach itself is not small, but was covered in ranks of empty sunbeds, no one wanted to pay for. Some sun worshippers were filling in the space around the loungers on skewed towels and others lay on a deck area above the beach or on the aforementioned rocks. There were no swimmers. In fairness it did not look terribly inviting, the sea was surging in with troubled ripples and access to the water from the rocks treacherous. After a brief consultation we decided to carry on round the rough coastal footpath to the tiny beach we had seen near the aquarium.

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Boat Caves

The beach was not as far as we remembered, but was just as lovely. We clambered down the steps at the side, skirted the men sat outside their cave with doors on and headed to the far corner to lay our mats out along the shaded edge. The cave seemed to be an old boathouse as there were metal tracks running from it into the sea. The wooden doors were propped open and three men sat on fold up chairs in the entrance chatting. They could have been surveying their allotments rather than the sea. Behind them stood a blackened half oil drum on legs, which was clearly a barbecue. In the middle of the little cove a Spanish lady was topping up her tan and after a while a young man came and paddled at the edge of the sea. The sea was much calmer here, protected by the wing of cliff, housing the aquarium. A group of boys arrived and jumped and dived from the opposite cliff, having a great time. Still our paddler was not tempted and climbed past us to sit on the rocks. We sunbathed and read before venturing in for a swim, we assumed the young man on the rocks had been deterred by the sharp stones underwater so kept our shoes on. Swimming in plastic shoes is awkward, but the water was lovely and we enjoyed ourselves. Then one of the old guys stood up and called out to us in Spanish. Neither of us had any idea what he was saying, but John thought he could be warning us about jellyfish. John had suffered a nasty sting in Mallorca one year and was not anxious for a replay, so we let discretion be the better part of valor and waded back out to dry off. By this time there was no shade to be had, so after drying we decided to head back. By this time the three amigos had lit the grill and it was giving off fragrant charcoal scents, but we would have fried waiting for the coals to reach cooking temperature. We eased past and retraced our steps, calling in at Mango for a cold bottle of Alhambra beer. Ah, memories of the Alhambra.

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Return to San Antoni

Posted on June 23, 2015 by yachtlyra

Today the sea was as different again, even though the wind was still blowing between forces three and four. We planned to go round the bottom of the island back to San Antoni, which was a fair distance, so we set off early. Just as Lara’s taxi driver had predicted, the wind was heading us as we travelled clockwise round the island, but we were keen to see a new stretch of coast, so we tacked. And tacked ad nauseum. We had what John classed a perfect sail and what I considered a repetitive trawl back and forth looking at first the horizon and then the same few rocks.

Lyra was bowling along making eight knots, hauled over at a steady forty- degree angle. Out to sea a fishing boat was pottering at two knots in the direction we needed to go. It was at first a pain having to make short tacks to avoid him, but then he overtook us and we could make a long swoop behind him. The GPS forecast it would take us four and a half hours to reach our next waypoint, which was the shortest leg of our journey to San Antoni. We were crossing the entrance to the big harbour of Ibiza Town. This was not a place I wanted to hang around on account of the constant stream of big fast ferries plying in and out from all directions. Also it is just the other side of the gap in the islands, through which every boat wanting a fast passage around the south of Ibiza has to cut. I wanted this stretch quickly behind us before relaxing and enjoying the sail up the south east coastline, with the wind on the beam. John was of the opinion that a fast beat to hand was worth more than the promise of a reach round the corner. After a long beat out towards the open horizon we turned to head back towards the hubbub. I had expected another close encounter with our fisherman, but he had turned and was heading back home. The rumble of thunder, yes thunder, may have put him off. Thunderheads were building over the land and it was becoming quite dark overhead. The GPS recalculated it would take an hour and twenty minutes to reach our waypoint. Quite how it does this is beyond me. The time difference on changing direction is too big to be based on the closest distance between two points, but not big enough to take a route around the entire globe and come back to our waypoint. Either way it was depressing. On we forged, John enthusiastically tweaking the sails to reach maximum performance, me increasingly sullen as we headed towards the storm clouds.

On our next tack John was disappointed we would still fall short of the waypoint. My expectations had never been so high, but my spirits rose when he glumly concluded we would have to pull in the foresail and turn the engine on. Of course as soon as we headed for the gap everybody and their grandmothers was trying to cross it at the same time. A big yacht with black sails insisted on sailing through, cutting everyone else up in the process, knowing we all had to give way to him. Plonker.

Once through the gap the weather as if by magic was completely different. The skies were blue and the wind dropped. Given the lack of wind, we carried on under engine. We would have had to motor anyway to make up time, but I felt a bit bad that I had been so grumpy about the sailing,

I had not realized there would be no wind on this side of the island. It did not seem to take long at all till we were approaching Vedra. The Bali Hai island looked much lumpier and less alluring from the south, clearly not its’ best side. As we rounded it I kept an eye out for the Captain Nemo II, as by now it was mid afternoon, time the catamaran was underway, trailing the Ritz eating seagull. There was no sign of Nemo either on the water or the AIS screen, maybe they were dallying in the grotto or up close to one of the beaches. Now we were covering territory made familiar by our boat trip, but Lyra has too big a keel for the shallower passage between the rocks, so our course took the long way round and into San Antoni Bay. It looked welcomingly familiar, freckled with wind surfers and sailing dinghies, the two big kites of the Parasenders sailing the sky. A few yachts were anchored behind the shelterbelt of the rocks and a couple more were heading in at the same time. We were a bit nervous about catching a Para-sender on the mast, but the speedboats trawling them wove out past us without an upward glance.

This time there was only one marinera out to meet us and he could not decide where he wanted us to go, rifling through his paperwork and calling across asking us the name of the boat. John feels we should have the name put on the boom to make it easier for them. Finally he beckoned us round onto an inside berth, just as three charter boats were arriving and milling about waiting to be told where to go. John threaded his way through them and reversed in, we danced the stern to mooring polka with one another and are now set for the next couple of days. At this time of year they would only accept a booking of two nights or more. We headed off to the bar, where the waiter remembered us, which was nice if slightly worrying.

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Eventually to Santa Eulalia

Posted on June 22, 2015 by yachtlyra

Our last night at Cabrera was distinctly rocky and as we set out the sea was pushing us along till we were surfing meter high waves. Such a sea state is considered to be moderate, but the standard is set for super tankers, which as we know can be mistaken for islands. I considered it rough and my stomach agreed with me, in spite of my having ingested the tablet in plenty of time. Our original plan had been to head back to Andraitx for a few days before making the crossing to Portinax on Ibiza, but after checking the weather John decided we would be wise to make the crossing sooner rather than later. It was probably not quite soon enough. We were making for Cala Vicente, which would have shelter from the forecast northerlies, which Portinax does not afford. The sea we were meeting was from the east, pushing us along nicely, but it turned into turbulent chaos after a while and John decided to make for the harbour at Santa Eulalia. He phoned ahead and they had a berth, so we turned and the waves slapped at us for the rest of the day. All in all it was a thoroughly unpleasant time. Many times in the past few days we have bemoaned the fact that Lara had to go back so soon, but this was one experience she would not have enjoyed. Mind you she is a better sailor than me and would have been more help to John.

 

So here we are back outside the harbour stern to, too worn out to walk into town and too queasy to cook. We plan to head over to the bar across the harbour for a Sydney Burger when it’s a bit cooler.

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Isla Cabrera

Posted on June 22, 2015 by yachtlyra

Finally we agreed with our pilot book about somewhere. The Cabrera Islands are a little bit of heaven and our stay on them idyllic. The aquatic life was not much in evidence and the seagull that insisted on perching on the dinghy did not look a rare specimen, though John said it would be if it crapped on the boat. We took the dinghy out for its first proper use and the outboard performed with demure competence. There are only a couple of allowed landing places on the main Island and there are possibly unexploded land mines on the smaller ones, but we toured round the whole bay and did the Cantina run. It turns out there is a small regiment of soldiers garrisoned here and the Cantina was originally set up to cater for them. It serves good homemade tapas well as drinks and has a shaded veranda overlooking the lagoon. It is an easy place to lose track of time. During our time there we saw nothing of any soldiers, but the park wardens and the Guardia of Seville were constantly in and out. There are also reportedly some research scientists working on the Islands, counting the wild life. We counted a fair few lizards ourselves, all black and quite large. Three lived around the veranda in the bar, a couple, including one with a splendid yellow rest, lived on the footpath up to the castle and three, including one with no tail, lived in the castle walls. We made our survey on a climb up to the castle and subsequent revival in the bar.

The walk up to the castle was our first venture ashore. After breakfast that morning John inflated the dinghy, sat in it and assembled the electric outboard and then I locked up and teetered down from the stern to join him. I let go the rope and we were off. Quietly. I snapped away at Lyra, at anchor in the bay with the ruins above her. When we landed a man took our line and waited till I clambered off onto the quay, with as much grace as I could muster, and tied us to a rusty ring. John joined me with the starter magnet round his wrist and we surveyed the dinghy. It looked safe enough, bobbing about by the steps, so we set off up the footpath to the castle. Later, when we returned, it had made rather a lot of friends and we had to crawl back into it from the quay, rather than being able to pull it round to the steps and deftly hop in. Perhaps deft is a touch ambitious, but as we had no chance to find out any differently I am sticking to it.

The walk to the castle was not  long, but was steep and, even though early in the day, hot. We paused at intervals to catch a breath and cool off. At one point we watched a big yacht come into the bay and steer towards the small beach beyond the jetty. John said it looked as if he was planning to anchor there, which is utterly forbidden. As I turned to question John about why he thought this, there was a roar of engine and a grumble of car parts and the Guardia of Seville Land Rover crested the rise and came lurching by, Dukes of Hazard style. The Rover had clearly done the trip a few too many times and was the worse for it, but down it went, kicking up dust, breaks squealing ahead of known pot holes, making hell for leather for the quay. Clearly they too thought “he” was planning to anchor. Or maybe not, once they arrived all went quiet. Maybe it was just coffee break. But then, Oh yes, the warden’s dun coloured wagon, even more battered than the Landrover, puthered off along the dirt track leading round the bay, heading towards the yacht. The van hooted wildly as it crested the nearest bend to the boat, which backed off, away into the bay. We carried on climbing. At our next pause we were surprised to notice the big yacht had returned to the position off the beach. Back came the van, from the opposite direction this time and with another van in support. The first driver stopped, climbed out and shouted at the yacht, which moved away again. As this was happening a tripper boat arrived at the jetty and a shed load of folk disembarked and headed towards our footpath. We had a good start, but would have to be quick if we wanted to explore the castle alone. Off we set, lizards scattering in our wake.

It was worth the climb, even though the castle was mostly a ruin overgrown with fragrant herbs. We walked round the thick outside walls until we reached a small dark room, then up a narrow spiral staircase inside it into the gloom. At one point it was unpleasantly claustrophobic, but then we were out onto the battlements in the sunshine and the views on all sides were superb. It is the sort of spot they drape clutches of supermodels around to great effect. Not having a supermodel to hand, I took a few snaps of Lyra down below us and we waited for the oncoming trippers to pop out of the rabbit hole before winding back down it and out of the castle. The lizards reluctantly shuffled out of our way again and we set off back down to the Cantina ahead of the rush. As we looked down we saw the rebel yacht once more hanging around the beach. This time a rib headed out to it from the jetty, setting the impressive wake of a warden who had told them twice and will brook no further nonsense. By the time we reached the bar yacht and rib were gone and all was peaceful. We sat in a corner with ice cold beers watching the world go by, with the lizards running over our feet.

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Of Buoys and Boys

Posted on June 19, 2015 by yachtlyra

The Cabrera, or goat, island is part of a little eruption of islands and rocks just south of Mallorca only thirty or so miles from El Arenal. It is a nature reserve and a haven for fish, dolphin, seabirds and even whales. One of the taxi drivers in Palma had told us his son, a fisherman, had seen orca the previous week, not good news for the fish immediately vamoose. We kept a look out but saw nothing except another boats and a few gulls. The buoy we had booked did not become available till six, so we had a relaxed start, setting off around eleven and refueling before setting out. The wind was up, so we hoisted the sails just outside harbour and beat across Palma Bay, tacking to avoid other sailboats. At our second waypoint we were able to set sail for Cabrera.

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At around two there came a low booming sound. It took us a few minutes to identify the sound of thunder over the land to port. The thunderheads were building over Mallorca, but our wind dropped and we had to turn the engine on and motor sail for a while. At around three the islands became visible, smudges of shadow on the horizon ahead. The wind came up a bit, so we turned off the engine and enjoyed the peace, as we were making four knots and not anxious to arrive too soon. We managed to time our arrival for just after five, which was when those on the buoys the previous evening were supposed to have vacated. We furled up the sails and puttered in to a big natural harbour under the guard of a ruined castle.

Once inside it was easy to spot the yellow buoys we needed to tie to. There were several boats already there, but a number of free buoys, so John chose one and rounded to come to it from downwind. I balanced at the bow, gripping the boat hook and pointing with like Britannia, so John could judge where the buoy lay in the water. Either I did not point so well or the Bimini being up spoilt his view, because the buoy came up on the port side and our usual take is to starboard. I caught the pick up buoy on the port side, but my line was tied to the cleat on that side, strung round the anchor and free at the wrong end. Fortunately John quickly came up and held onto the buoy rope so I could unfasten the line and thread it through the metal hoop to form the bridle. We let it go, fastened off both ends of our line and then made like Australians again.

It is an idyllic spot, with just a few buildings and a jetty at the bottom of the hill beneath the castle and some houses scattered at points along the dirt road round the island. It looked very much as though there was a beach bar, an unexpected delight. Our mooring was directly below the castle a few buoys away from the landing area. Closer into the jetty were white buoys for smaller craft. Most of these were empty. On the other side of us, the more open aspect of the bay, were orange buoys for larger boats, this being midweek not many of these buoys were taken. The peace of the harbor was slightly disrupted by the buzzing about of folk in dinghies, touring the water or heading for the jetty. They are in for a surprise tomorrow, when we set out with our stealth electric outboard.

A few boats arrived after us and we watched how they performed with the buoys. A group of half a dozen German twentysomethings motored straight past the buoy, picked it up from the swim platform at the back and had a line from the bow to thread through it. Then they simply walked alongside with the buoy gathering up line as the boat carried on till the buoy was at the front and they tied it off. They made it look very straightforward. Afterwards they took turns throwing one another in the water and squealing about it. We too were tempted for a swim. It was cold, but we were much less keen to draw attention to ourselves and loured ourselves from the swim ladder quietly. Once in the water was lovely and there were no visible fish, so Lara would have approved. Once we had swum enough we climbed out, sat drying off and watched one of the German lads strike out for shore, doing a powerful front crawl. He made no attempt to come back and later in the evening we saw the other five paddle across in their dinghy. They were very low in the water and we speculated as to whether there was room in it for six, if they were taking him some clothes and if he would have to swim back. We did not fancy having a drink over there and having to find our way back in the dark and cook, so we stayed onboard. The steaks we had planned on eating were frozen solid, the fridge setting may have been knocked, or it could just have been that it always works better when the engine has been on. I made aubergine parmagianni instead, with feta rather than Parmesan cheese on top and though I say it myself it was rather good.

We opened a bottle of red wine and sat on deck with a glass afterwards looking at the stars and watching the parade of dinghies cross back to their respective boats. One scuttled across silently, a dark Nessie hump sliding across the grey of the water as if on a wire, either they too had an electric outboard or the wind was taking the noise away from us. Mind you, we heard plenty of noise as the German boys came back, even though they were paddling. Unlike some older but less wise drinkers they had lit the anchor light prior to setting out, but did not appear to have a torch to find their way past the other boats. Someone on the shore was shining a powerful beam out across the water to guide them. John and I were caught in the dazzle of this searchlight, but at least it meant we did not have unexpected guests arriving at the stern. The shore light went out and they were on their own, we could hear them murmuring and plopping around looking for their yacht. Being parents we worried about them. Then they obviously found their boat, there was quiet cheering and clambering sounds, then more throwing one another in the water and yelping. We listened, but all the noises were happy ones, so we relaxed and went to bed.

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Go to Jail, Go Directly to Jail!

Posted on June 19, 2015 by yachtlyra

We should have been leaving El Arenal today, sailing off the Cabrera Islands, just off the coast of Mallorca. The Cabreras are part of a nature reserve and it is forbidden to even visit them without a permit. To stay there we have to apply for a permit and book a buoy to tie on to, anchoring being a complete no no. John applied online, filled out copious forms and entered his credit card details. We heard nothing back, but then it was the weekend, so we decided to wait. John checked his e-mail on Monday morning and still nothing. He phoned them up. Apparently the website sometimes drops the final screen. He should try again; there should be an instant acknowledgment. He did and there was. The buoys for tonight had all gone, so we are booked in for Tuesday and Wednesday. It seemed silly to move just for the sake of it, so we decided to go back into Palma and look round the castle, Castillo de Bellver, a rare circular castle on a hill to the north of town. Off we trotted to the taxi rank, which was beginning to seem like a personal service. John asked for Castillo de Bellver in his best Spanish and we were off on our own Bouzas style adventure.

Out along the road to Palma through the froth of pink bushes and the broken windmills and then, on the outskirts of town, off at a roundabout and into a side road. We pulled up at what looked like the back of a retail park, lots of high brick walls, topped with barbed wire, impersonal and deserted. We started shaking our heads and neither of us moved to leave the car. John asked again for the Castillo, the castle and, after an awkward moment, realization dawned on the face of our taxi driver. He apologized for his lack of English, held his wrists together and explained carcel was jail. He had brought us to the main prison. We all laughed. Just as well we hadn’t left the car, I don’t expect it’s the easiest place to pick up another ride. Back into town we went, with our driver still apologizing into the rear view mirror. It’s probably a bit mortifying to have mistaken a couple of tourists for prison visitors or worse. He announced that it was a set fare to the castle, five Euros less than was currently on the meter. This was very decent of him since we had not come very far out of the way. This time he took us through the city center and up into tree lined streets, which looked much more promising. The houses petered out and we spiraled up through the woods to the walls of a proper El Cid castle.P1130787

There were magnificent views over the city to the sea in one direction and across to wooded hillsides in the opposite one. The castle is a two- storey stone circle set on a square-ish walled foundation, with round towers in each of the corners of the square, one tower being of much greater height accessed only via an arched bridge from the second storey of the main circle. There is a moat between the outer square wall and the rest of the structure, which we entered over a wooden drawbridge.

Once inside the windows into the central courtyard were much larger and more ornate with an elaborately arched walkway all around on the second level. We went into various rooms with models explaining the history of Mallorca and then went upstairs where some of the rooms housed an art exhibition.

This turned out to be a collection of bookplates, something of an art form in Spain aimed at those with personal libraries. The collector was an artist himself with the pen name Xam and I had a marvelous time looking round the various prints till the lights began to go out. At first we thought they must be on some sort of timer to preserve the works and pottered off into the next room, which contained an oil painting of James I in his Viking crown. A man shut the door to the outside on me waving me away saying Vamoose. Apparently the castle was closing for siesta. We quickly backtracked through the rooms and made a break for the stairs up onto the battlements. From here we looked round at the views and down at the caretaker closing doors and shooing people out below.

Finally he caught up with us and we had to make our way down and out with the remaining stragglers before the castle turned out to be a jail after all.

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Alone Again

Posted on June 19, 2015 by yachtlyra

We had ordered a taxi to go the short distance to the airport, but it did not arrive, so we walked to the rank and fortunately one was there. It was so sad watching Lara head off through security with her back -pack. We were quite subdued afterwards and spent the day by and in the pool. The mermaid was there again, this time with snorkel and mask and Dad. No armbands. John had a conversation with the Dad, who has been teaching her to swim since she was two. It turns out they are Swedish, she is four and they are having a summer in the Med before she starts school if his work allows. We hope they can have this special summer together.

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Palma and the Bookshop of Requirement

Posted on June 19, 2015 by yachtlyra

There is a taxi rank conveniently situated just outside the El Aranal marina. Usually there is a single taxi waiting there, sometimes two, so heading out for a day in nearby Palma was easy. The journey is along fast dual carriageways, lined with bushes of pink oleanders. There are picturesque ruins of windmills, used in the past to bring water up from the rock underground and before very long the outskirts of Mallorca’s capital. We asked to be dropped off at the Cathedral. There was already a queue for entry. We sat and had breakfast in a café overlooking it. By the time we had finished the line had gone, but we decided to start with the Palace anyway.

First we wandered round the gardens. A shaded green lake in what once was part of the moat, with soaring stone arches and a family of swans, the usual hedges and fountains, but interspersed with street sellers and caricature artists. One chap was doing a marvelous job on a not so young couple, a bearded man cuddling a curly haired blonde, both smiling manically. Lara and I decided the artist was working from excellent caricature material. After that we paid for entry into the Palace. It must still be used by the Spanish Royal Family, because the high tech security scanner was way overboard for the collection of sea chests and tapestries on show in the suite of rooms we had access to. There were some first- rate house plants acting as threads through a set of interconnected rooms, originally one large hall, with big wooden pieces of furniture, portraits of the dead kings and an odd looking ancient crown in a glass case. Perhaps the crown was the reason for the scanner; it had a serpent or swan rising from the front and was rather Viking in appearance. It featured in a number of the oil paintings depicting the surrender of the Moors to the first King James, on whose head it was shown. Eventually we emerged onto a parapet. This had some interesting beds of giant cactus and sweeping panoramic views of the bay. Back inside we carried on up and came into what had once been the top of the great hall below, but had been converted into a second storey by laying a floor, rather like an unsympathetic barn conversion, the original sweeping arched roof of the great hall been made into a truncated ceiling to the upstairs rooms. From here we headed back to the central courtyard down a sweeping stone staircase flanked with gigantic pots full of sprouting spider plants. In the courtyard men were at work dismantling a stage and seating from what looked to have been a concert or play. We had a look round the integral chapel and then made our way out.

Lara favoured having a look round the Moorish quarter rather than a tour of the Cathedral, so we armed ourselves with ice creams and set off into the warren of streets.

Every so often we had to squeeze round a horse and cart, trying to drum up trade for a carriage ride through the streets. When these opened up there were a number of Belle Époque town houses flanking the larger squares, with old plane trees providing shade. The narrow streets of shops led off between the squares and down one we found The English Bookshop. Its’ proprietor was stood in the doorway taking the air, as well he might as inside the smell of old paper and damp was overwhelming. He had to shuffle to one side to let us enter, the place was so crammed with bookshelves, piles of books on the floor, on chairs, on every available surface, interspersed with framed pictures, dusty bottles of wine and piles of old newspapers. He urged us to carry on in as the shop ranged over three stories. It was hard to work out which one we were on; there were random short flights of stairs, all stacked with books and an obstacle course of wooden steps ladders and odd objects. The books were arranged into genres in which authors were listed alphabetically, but it was hard to realize the order. I found a bookshelf of old penguin classics and looked for an early copy of Women in Love for my friend Jan, but DH Lawrence was in short supply. Lara disappeared into the cellar, where I found her looking through old Bournemouth newspapers and copies of the Daily Mail, showing the funeral cortege of King George IV. There was a room full of tin soldiers, lined up in battalions in glass display cases. These were not for sale. It was actually very hard to decide whether some things were for sale or not and the vendor complained bitterly to John that people thought it was a museum to look round. It did have a rather Hogwarts feel.

I worried I could lose Lara forever if I did not keep track of her. John could not take the claustrophobic atmosphere any longer and escaped into the street, so I am afraid that, as he had all the money, we looked round and came out without buying anything either. It was good to be back outside and we sat under the trees in one of the squares to have lunch; salads for John and myself, meatballs and chips for Lara. Then we wandered down to the harbour to peruse the boats and check out the marina. Naturally.

That evening we had a special meal with cava, in Sirens, the restaurant of the old people, as it was Lara’s last evening. Her time with us this year seems to have flown so quickly. Too quickly, but we hope to come back out for her birthday in September.

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From the Sublime to Al Arenal

Posted on June 19, 2015 by yachtlyra

Given the choice we would love to have stayed in Andraitx much longer, but John had had to book our next stop weeks in advance to be sure of being near to the airport for Lara’s flight home, so we had to move on. Before doing she and I had a lovely morning by the pool and a swim.

P1130677Then we set out, wended our way through boats hanging round the fuel dock, avoided the strung out dinghies of the sea school, and hoisted the sails. At first the wind was light, but it picked up as we crossed Palma Bay and by the time we came into El Arenal it was blowing a hooley. Thank goodness for Lara dealing with the lines. John reversed in perfectly allowing for the wind, but everything happened very quickly after that and he could not leave the wheel, so I had to race off with the lazy line and leave her to manage the ropes at the back. Once we were tied on the marinera came aboard and helped me tighten the lazy line, or more accurately he took it from me and pulled hard on it before tying it off. He was relentlessly cheerful throughout, but we were glad when it was all done and later pleased the rather po -faced Swiss couple on the huge catamaran next to us had not been aboard throughout. We found ourselves on what they called the quay of hope. Quite what we are to hope for is not sure, possibly a swift end if the fuel dock six meters away goes up. The quay of hope surrounds the shipyard with the fuel pumps at its’ pinnacle. It is a busy shipyard. In fairness there is little shouting goes on, it would be pointless given the cacophony of sound coming from the equipment. There is the high- pitched whoop whoop of the little forklift truck plying its trade, the louder siren of the boat lift, the grinding motors of polishing machines and the whirling of high powered fans, blowing air into shrink wrapped boats. It starts at eight am, slightly later on Sunday.

We abandoned ship and went for a drink to the club restaurant and bar. This was much nicer, well in the marina proper with its lush planting and next to a sparkling swimming pool even bigger than the one in Andraitx. The pool deck is raised so there are views across the town with the longest beach on the island, the area nearest us being shaded by staggered palm trees. Lovely. We were served by a tall waiter with floppy brill-creamed hair and a mildly harassed look, who was in constant motion covering a huge area, inside and out, restaurant and bar. He plonked our drinks down with the firmness of a job done, as he turned on his heel and set off at speed to another table some distance away. Lara and I then went for our second, very refreshing swim of the day. Doggy paddling about in the pool with us was a small girl decked out in floatation devices, with her Mum walking up and down the poolside watching her. She did not progress far, but happily pottered up and down a alongside the edge completely absorbed. She lasted longer than Lara and myself, who climbed out and lay on sunloungers to dry off. We could both recall a small Lara being much the same, me delaying my entry into the water, because she always wanted to stay in so long. Lara now told me this never did me any good as she regarded the swim with me watching over her as merely an endurance test before I came in with her and the real fun began. Our current little mermaid was still wiggling away when we had dried off and set out for our showers. She was still in there when we passed later on our way into town to explore and find somewhere to eat.

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The town turned out to be disappointing. The marina was obviously situated at the posh end and the further along the long beach we walked, the less enticing it seemed. The beach was on one side of the road and a ribbon development of tacky looking shops and bars was on the other. The beach itself should have been spectacular, but the crowds of sun worshippers had vacated to leave a carpet of litter, mainly large plastic bottles. By morning these had been cleaned up, though some obviously are taken by the tide as we had noticed floating plastic on our sail over and wrongly attributed it to the ferries. The contents of the bottles no doubt contributed to the inebriation of various groups of tourists weaving along the promenade. Mainly German, so we did not have to suffer the shame of watching our fellow citizens make fools of themselves. In fairness they were quite pleasant drunks and, apart from one Happy Wanderer, quiet ones. Nonetheless we decided to turn round and head back. We called in at a place we had passed on the corner humming with older people, we decided had known a thing or two, but it was still full, so went back to the marina restaurant. As we entered our hearts sank. It was full of people milling around a projection screen with drinks in their hands, obviously a private do. Just as we were turning to head back for a rummage through the lockers onboard our waiter from earlier materialized from the crowd beckoning us to follow him.

He took us back to the pool terrace, smiling and indicating tables. There in front of the pool were two black guys, dressed in white suits singing Cold Play numbers. Very well actually, but heavily amplified. This was bemusing, they were obviously a classy act playing to a few groups scattered about the pool. We wondered if they had been engaged by the private party humming inside and if we therefore were gate crashing. Our waiter was confident we could sit anywhere, so we settled down on one of the sidelines and ordered some tapas followed by a vegetable paella. Lara and the waiter seemed equally pleased by this, “Wonderful Paella!” he said, reminding me of Raymond Blanc. At the table in front of us were the mermaid and her Mum picking at a salad and some olives. The little lady was still as lively as a cricket and had a little dance next to the table before climbing up beside to her mum, who calmed her down by showing her video of her epic swim on a phone. The performing duo also danced, moving in immaculate synchronism, putting in huge amounts of energy, despite their meager audience. They took turns singing lead vocal and harmonizing through a much more contemporary repertoire than any other act we have overheard on the Islands. When the mermaid and her Mum came to leave the duo smiled and waved turning towards her in unison, still singing away. Their efforts were rewarded by a few more groups being drawn to the tables and our waiter rolled his eyes and apologized for the slow service. He was covering three separate areas on his own, while the other staff concentrated on the party inside, who by now were murmuring over the clatter of cutlery. In spite of being hard pressed he made a big deal of serving the paella, scooping together the contents with two spoons, dishing up three heaped platefuls and placing the rest to one side, covering it with a spare plate to keep warm. It was an excellent paella, with a vast assortment of vegetables, including asparagus and artichoke hearts, but so generous. This was another evening when we needed a doggy bag for the rest of the meal and Lara’s eyes sparkled at the prospect of breakfast.

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