Andraitx

Posted on June 19, 2015 by yachtlyra

We were all up before six this morning Mallorca bound. It was a longish passage we anticipated correctly having to make under engine, as the wind was slight and right on the nose. At 6.40 we had left harbour and Lara disappeared back to bed, this having been agreed the night before. At 7.08 we passed between the island and the isolated danger mark and turned onto our course for the next eight hours. I lay down on deck and closed my eyes. We had set out so quickly that my seasickness tablet did not have time to work, the sea state had not calmed with the drop in wind and the swell was swooshing through my insides. This left John stoically on watch till around half eleven, when the sea smoothed out and I surfaced again. I then helped look for lobster pots, but John still kindly wrote all the log entries for the day. He said I had not missed much, but he had slowed down to delay our arrival, because we were making such good time. Here in Spain we have found it is better to either arrive before two or after four. This is the hottest part of the day and everything very sensibly comes to an abrupt halt. There are people on duty, but they are running short handed, so it seems only courteous to not stress them unnecessarily. On emerging at half one Lara was much bemused by this delay. It is a bit wearing listening to the constant throb of engine for hours on end. On our journey up the west coast of Ibiza to Portinax we had been sailing and she had seen some little fat dolphins jump in unison around the bow, but on this journey there was nothing really to break the slog.

Leaving Santa Eulalia at first light
En route
Andraix

We were all relieved to see our destination come clearer into view and delighted by how pretty it looked. After a long sea crossing John had anticipated not wanting to have to risk finding a suitable space to anchor and had managed to book us into Andraitx. It is the location of the oldest yacht club on Mallorca and the pilot book had stated was impossible to get into, so we had not really studied it as a possibility. It turned out to be a lovely natural harbour wrapped in steep wooded hillsides. Mingling with the trees are houses in faded earth tones, very restful after the glowing whites of Ibiza. There are no high rise and even the holiday developments decried by the pilot book had mellowed into the vegetation. What was more the marina has a swimming pool, much more Lara’s idea of a place to swim. There was also a very swish looking restaurant, but after a day at sea we fancied a walk into the town and ventured across the very rickety wooden bridge.

By the time we set off it was late enough to eat. We were all hungry and had not ventured far when John spotted an Italian restaurant up a side street from the main quay. The restaurant spread over the street by means of a wooden veranda, so we squeezed past it to look at the menu displayed on a music stand. Italian restaurants usually offer more things for Lara to choose from and this menu had all the usual suspects. As we looked an tiny older lady drifted over to hover smiling and her presence tipped us into the decision to go in, even though we had not explored far. It turned out to be a most excellent choice. The proprietor, tall, dark and quiet spoken, handed us copies of the menu and then gently walked us through the days’ specials, looming over us and whispering of wonders elegant and simple. We were all mesmerized by the choice and avidly tried each others food after each course was served. Lara started with potato carpaccio, served thinly sliced on a huge plate topped with rocket and onto which our host grated generous slivers from a truffle. I had been tempted by this, but fancied the homemade taglietelli with truffle as my main course, so opted for the fish soup, which was rich and red and full of seafood served with a crisp slice of toast. John had carpaccio of melon with smoked salmon, which he reckoned was a combination to note. The sun went down and our host lit flaming torches, which he fitted onto brackets at the corners of the veranda. John had also selected a pasta main, with thick ribbons bathed in the sort of ragout the spoon would stand up in, while Lara had Pizza Capriccio. After eating half she had the vexed problem of whether to continue or leave room for a sweet and hoped she could take the other half for breakfast. “Yes you can!” came the answer and our host whisked it away, explaining to the old lady, who helped with the serving. She spoke no English, but smiled and spoke rapidly to us in Italian, approving of our not smoking and relieved there had been no fault with the pizza.

Our host racked his brain and murmured three mouthwatering descriptions of the days’ special deserts, half a dozen more were listed on the menu and I was full. Lara chose the chocolate soufflé special and promised me a taste. In turn I ordered the homemade biscuits to go with our coffees, so she could try one. Alas the biscuits were not baked yet. I had to choose a desert, he was looking at me offering me treat upon treat in lieu of the unbaked biscuits. I remembered lemon sorbet, surely that would be small and slip down. Would I like Vodka poured over it? I was already woozy from the Pino Grigio. “Perhaps then some Cava, just a little to lighten it?” Reader it was heavenly. Particularly after a spoonful of fabulously rich, warm chocolate soufflé, the mold for which had obviously been dusted in nuts to impart the slightest of peanut butter qualities. The restaurant is called La Fraschetta. If you go to Mallorca make pilgrimage to it.

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Hippy Market

Posted on June 12, 2015 by yachtlyra

John and I woke early and went for a swim. Very brave! Lovely actually, but we were both confident Lara would not have wished to be disturbed to join us. It was still cold and the blue fish were still curious. After our invigorating start we showered, had breakfast and woke Lara. By this time it was around ten and most of the other boats were upping anchor and setting off. This is obviously the time to arrive and pick your spot. It was also really peaceful, with very little activity from the hotels. It seemed a pity to leave, but we were booked in to Santa Eulalia for the following night and had the prospect of another beat round the top of the island, so we also upped sticks and followed them out. I took up the anchor while John steered till it broke the surface, when we swapped places so he could manage the final bit. He was full of praise for the smooth operation of the new bow roller, so no excuses if I mess it up in future. I held Lyra to wind so John and Lara could hoist the sails in the bay and then we were off, soon catching up our last nights neighbours as we beat along the top of Ibiza and slid between a pair of islands and an isolated danger mark to come round to Santa Eulalia. We had paid for a berth for in the marina, but were placed stern to on a quay just outside of it. This seemed a bit of a swizz, particularly as it was a long walk round to anywhere, but we were just across the water from the office and so had excellent internet reception on as many devices as we wished. On arrival we wandered round the boatyard to a waterfront restaurant full of marineras and had lunch of really good tapas washed down with cold beer.

Santa Eulaia was prettier than I remembered with gardens along a promenade full of clipped balls, feathery palm trees and vivid bougainvilleas. Up from the port is a large square with lavender and fountains flanked by shops and bars. The marina side opposite us is also lined with cafes and bars, including an Indian and two Chinese restaurants. On exploring further we found a street running parallel to the harbour high up in town completely of restaurants, all busy, the formula of paella and burgers working well. We settled for one where we could sit off the street, but looking into an interior courtyard, where John and I had hake, his plainly cooked with potatoes, mine poached in saffron and Lara had chicken with Roquefort sauce on the side. We were all too full for desert, but the coffees were good.

Day two and we were bound for the hippy market, surprisingly at John’s suggestion. There are two hippy markets on Ibiza, one on Saturday and the other on Wednesday. A review on Trip Adviser said the same sellers turned up to both, but the Wednesday market was much cheaper, the writer stating I live here so I know. We went to the Wednesday market at Es Cana, which takes place just up the coast and there are water taxis. There are three separate taxis one to Cala Llonga, one to Ibiza and one to Es Cana. We debated going to Cala Llonga as it has so many happy memories and we wanted to show it Lara, but the dream would be to go in Lyra and anchor off there, so we decided to hold back and hope the wind changed. In the event all three water taxis arrived together and nosed into the quay side by side. At this point the orderly single file line we had formed became chaotic as people shuffled about trying to reach the boat they had tickets for against a tide of people coming off the boats, some heading out past the queue into town, but others milling about trying to change boats. Eventually we were on the right boat and could watch the unplaiting of other people from our seats below deck. Across from us the Captain of the Ibiza boat was teasing two young boys who had been pushing a dangling fender by lifting it up and fishing for them with it. He was another Poldark type, they seem to be ten a penny on the boats out here. Finally our engine changed key and we were reversing off. At this point an accordion struck up behind me Que Sera Sera as we surged up and down in the swell. His balance was impressive and he determinedly ploughed through a medley of popular songs warbling along with his playing, inevitably ending with Y Viva Espagna and a rousing Olay. I entertained visions of David Walliams struggling to steer a wheelchair bound George Doors onto the ferry and settling down only to have a young Andrew Sachs in Fawlty Towers mode leap up to serenade them. Our troubadour went round his captive audience collecting change before heading for the upper deck, heroic given the sea state. I felt glad we were not out in Lyra. We had soon backtracked up the coast, into the lee of the islands we had passed yesterday, where we docked. Es Cana is a pretty harbour and a small town reminiscent of a British seaside resort. Very reminiscent. We followed the main thrust of people heading off the ferry with a purposeful step and sure enough they led us to the Hippy Market.

It was bigger and more organized than we expected. There were large car parks opposite. The market wove between rendered buildings of dull red in the shade of mature trees. There were pools with fountains and large tents for refreshments at intervals amongst the warren of stalls. There were a few lean, tanned original hippies, but most of the traders were their grandchildren, in suitably befringed leather waistcoats with flower-studded headbands. Many of the punters were tempted to buy the headdresses and wander round wearing them. Some folk had really gone to town dressing for the occasion. Yes there was incense and macramé work and it was all very chilled. No one hawked or even asked if they could help you, which made for very peaceful browsing. We passed the inevitable guitar players and an impressive gold painted guru. In one booth a girl was spray painting leopard spots onto the arms of an excited German. Most of the stalls were for clothing, T-shirt with printed logos, skirts, sundresses and wraps clearly of Indian origin and white cottons. John bought a new wallet at one of the leatherwork tables, Lara and I were tempted by some of the print harem pants, but did not succumb. Eventually we recognized a line up in the maze of stalls and concluded we had seen most of it at least once and made our way out.

We had a salad overlooking the harbour and then caught the next boat back. Thankfully there was no accordion player for the return journey.

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There is Nothing Like a Sail!

Posted on June 12, 2015 by yachtlyra

True to the taxi driver’s word, the wind came at us from the north in spite of the weather forecast. This made at first for an exhilarating sail, beating up the coast. With three of us on board the tacking was straightforward and I loved the energy rush of being out sailing fast in a steady wind. Although we travelled quickly progress north was slow, due to the zigzag track we needed to follow. John checked the forecast, for if the wind stayed in the north, Portinax would be too exposed to the weather for us to anchor there. The wind was due to drop and then turn south, so we carried on. An hour or so later Lara looked up from her book and was alarmed at the steep angle we were travelling at and our rocky motion through the waves. John and I had not really noticed, having come through much heavier seas last year. Ahead of us the sea looked choppier though, so we thought to turn round and run quickly back to San Antoni., which would be a smoother straight run with the wind behind. It was rather disappointing, with John rather dreading the prospect of the hippy disco, but we had enjoyed the sail. Almost immediately after we had turned the wind dropped. We looked at each other and sure enough it began to build from the south. Back round we turned and sailed up to Portinax in surprisingly calmer seas.

Portinax also has a connection to the filming of South Pacific. Perhaps it is always hard to visualize how a film set fits into a landscape, easier to spot familiar places on film. Perhaps it is just too long ago, but we could not feel the vibe of the film there. Perhaps we need to see it again. It is a lovely, lovely place and it was hard to find a spot amongst the boats already at anchor. Wooded headlands funnel round a deep bay with three beaches, one large and two smaller at its’ head. There are white hotel buildings climbing the hills on three sides and parasols and loungers along the main beach, where the Seabees sang about the unique nature of women and gazed out on the forbidden island of Bali Hai. After we had anchored, a process we approached tentatively with Lara relaying messages between John lowering the anchor from the prow and myself at the wheel, we were troubled to see an island out to see in the Bali Hai position. Not because we knew the actual island was down south some way, but because we had passed no island on our way in. Lara broke out the beers and when we looked again the island had shuffled across the horizon, revealing itself to be an oddly stacked container ship. Glad we didn’t come across that on our way here.

P1130580

We all went for a swim off the boat. The water was beautifully clear, but still very cold. This meant Lara took quite a time to actually come in. She was wary of the temperature, but even more afraid of the bright blue fish, which came towards her each time she dipped a toe in. John and I loved swimming with the fish, but Lara prefers her water void of non -human life forms. After much encouragement she took the plunge and we all cooled off swimming peacefully round Lyra as she hung idyllically in the bay. We ate on board. John made enough pasta in piquant sauce to feed an army. Afterwards we sat watching the sun go down and listening to the singing. At first it was children singing, from the hotel on the right, lots of little treble voices Letting It Go. After a pause the hotel in the middle sparked up with some adult karaoke. John managed the first three songs and then retired. Lara and I sat out waiting for the stars, listening to a practiced sounding My Way and some woman murdering Adele. There was a reprieve of Let It Go from a woman and child and we pictured John’s niece and little Bea singing along in their car. It was nice chatting to Lara and having the stars come out one by one to join us.

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Neighbours

Posted on June 12, 2015 by yachtlyra

The weekend marked changeover day with the boat charter companies and a couple of large motor cruisers moored opposite us and took on clients. One seemed to be quite an up market set up catering for small groups of people who clearly did not previously know each other. The other seemed to be one twenty something holiday with a group of Spanish lads, who obviously were mates. None of them knew much about boats other than how to pose on them. When they came in the marineras tied them on, but they made no attempt to connect to shore power and soon after let go a couple of the lines and ran the engine. John rejoiced in the hope they were on their way, but no, either they did not have a shore power cable or did not know how to use one and were running the engine to charge the batteries. This is annoyingly noisy in port. Everything they did or failed to do annoyed John. They offended his sensibilities just by being. I found them quite funny, lounging around chatting to each other in what seemed staged groups, some on the upper deck some on the lower, still more on some rattan furniture they had taken off the boat and set out on the pontoon. Had they been wearing woolens rather than shorts and shirts they would have looked to be posing for knitting pattern photographs. Lara barely noticed them, I think she would not have been aware of them at all had it not been for low level rants about them from her Dad. Eventually they set out for the evening and the marineras came back and tied them back on. Then early in the morning they were running the engines again, first at four for an hour, then at six. John went out and exchanged a disgusted look with another chap who was on his own deck for a look. At seven the noise stopped. The lady on Friendship, next door to us, had gone over and complained. They had duly turned the engine off, but retorted that she was a typical German, which upset her. Lara though it more typical that the men had all looked daggers at the youths, but it taken a woman to go over and face them about the problem.

P1130416 Our neighbours on Friendship were lovely. A retired couple, who had owned a berth at San Antoni for sixteen years and could remember when there was no protective harbour wall. They spent most of their time on board below deck. Initially John and I were surprised to overhear the woman speaking German endearments with great warmth and affection until we realized she was talking to their dog, not her husband. The dog is a Dalmatian, bought on the island called Lunar. It is a very apt name. The first time I saw her she was running along the pontoon at night, the moonlight catching the white of her coat, making it glow, the dark spots blending invisible with the night, a phantom on soft feet. The couple are obviously devoted to her, taking her running as they cycle along and going for swimming trips in the dinghy. All three are fit as ticks. Lunar was called out to say hello to Lara on her arrival and stood on deck waving with her owner as we left. They wanted us to stay another day so Lara could go to the opening of one of the clubs, which launched with a hippy fest of sixties and seventies hits, they were sure she would love. We were not so sure and after such a long stay were keen to seek pastures new, so headed out north bound for Portinax.

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Vedra

Posted on June 12, 2015 by yachtlyra

On our second day with Lara we all went on a boat trip. Not on our own boat, but the previously mentioned Captain Nemo II. Not to the aquarium, which was not to Lara’s taste, but to the Bali Hai island of Vedra. Why not on Lyra you might ask. Well, the weather forecast was for winds from the south and so we needed to travel north to find shelter, but we wanted to see something of the south of the Ibiza and Vedra in particular, so we went with Captain Nemo on one of his other cruises. There was a photographer on board, so we had a reduced family group photo on the foredeck, before heading upstairs for a front seat view. As we set off from the harbour the photographer came up and stood in front of us, blocking said view and holding out a small Ritz cracker. A seagull danced and swerved to one side of her until finally she threw the biscuit, which it caught as it wheeled away. She kept repeating the process until finally a bird took the cracker out of her fingers. At this point she wanted Lara to hold out a cracker for the birds. No chance. I had a go and the gull nabbed the biscuit before the girl could take a picture of me, so I had another try. This time the moment was captured for posterity. Others were offered the opportunity, and one or two had a go and were equally easily robbed of their offering. After there were no further comers the bird settled on top of the boats aerial and came along for the ride.

Spot the Ritz
Got it!
Htchhiker
Smugglers’ Cave
Naomi’s House
Rabbit Island

Our Captain, an attractive swarthy individual, more on the lines of the latest Cap’n Poldark than of old Nemo, kept up an informative commentary in Spanish and English. First we visited a grotto, where smugglers hid their wares, nosing inside with the catamaran close to the cave walls. Then we passed between the islands, and various sea sculpted rocks, at the edge of the bay. Here the water is much too shallow for us to attempt to go in Lyra and is a lovely turquoise blue. The Captain invited us to go down into the bowels of the Nemo to observe the fish through glass windows in the floats. Lara and I dutifully went down and sat on a bench looking out on a few disinterested silver fish dodging about the weed. This bed of weed did not seem to be the type teeming with aquatic life. John decided he had seen enough fish already and stayed up on deck. When we rejoined him the boat headed off to an azure bay with a beach and a number of villas, property of supermodels and sporting heroes. Our attention was drawn to ancient watchtowers, which had been used to raise the alarm if the pirates from Africa showed up. I think in the Spanish commentary the pirates hailed from England as well. Then we were off full speed to Vedra.

Watch tower
Bali Hai

The island is formed of arresting pale strata surging straight up from the sea, surrounded by eroded scree. As John and I had first approached Ibiza on Lyra I had been fixated by it off the starboard side, because it was lined up with the lower dark headland in such a way that it looked transparent, the mirage of a floating island. As we now approached Vedra on Nemo the wind from the south shuddered around us, whipping the sea into low level chaos and our seagull friend dropped astern for some shelter. Vedra was chosen to be Bali Hai in the film of the Rogers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific and it is easy to see why the dramatic shape appealed to the film- makers. The odd colour washes employed in the movie may in part have been used to disguise its’ obviously Mediterranean fauna and flora. In real life it is uninhabited except for many sea birds and a few goats. We spotted a couple of the goats clambering around the rocks near the shore as we drew close and the island’s steep sides suddenly sheltered us from the southerly blow. The water in the lee of the island was calm and incredibly deep blue, which we were told was due to its depth. The Captain took the Nemo right up to the screes and idled a while. When we backed away again the water that had been in our shadow was full of narrow, bright fish coiling round one another. The crew threw them some bread, for which they soon had to compete with squadrons of flailing seagulls. We then toured around the island, feeling close enough to touch it. The Captain pointed out stalactites formed by fresh water dripping in a vaulted arch of rock high on the south east side. After this we set off back, calling en route at various Calas to break the journey.

Our first call was just off Vedra in a sheltered bay with a magnificent view of the island, which offered it protection from the south. I could see John mentally filing it away for future reference as a possible anchorage. Those anchored off the beach were no doubt disconcerted by the arrival of such a large tourist boat. Particularly as the Captain dropped anchor and announced that if anyone wished to swim off the back of the boat, now was his or her chance. There were ladders and a couple of slides leading into the water. Lara and I went aft to have a look. A pair of girls had ventured into the water and another two were preparing to follow them. It looked cold, very cold. The engines were maintaining a low level throb and the swimmers clearly did not feel confident to venture too far from the rear of the catamaran. All in all we decided to give it a miss. Our own boat is a much more pleasant proposition to swim behind without the captive audience. After half an hour or so, well after all the swimmers were back on board huddled in their towels, we set off back up the coast. We called in at a couple of other beaches and some more people braved feeding the resident seagull. The photographer came round selling very sharp prints each in a cardboard wallet for six Euros, which most people bought from her. The Captain called on everyone to collect a complimentary glass of cava from the bar and plastic tumblers full were generously dispensed as we reentered the bay of San Antoni and our feathered friend flew off, job done for the day.

Duly feted we were offered the opportunity to tip the crew with any left over change in a bucket conveniently left by the gangplank. As we were docking one lady felt impelled to ensure the Captain was given his tip from her personally and wobbled into the front cabin. Probably not what he really needed at such a moment, but he nodded graciously, while managing to slot in between the other boats and not to ram the quay. All in all it was a trip I would happily recommend.

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Welcome Aboard Lara!

Posted on June 8, 2015 by yachtlyra

Lara has joined us for the next week, so we spent Friday scrubbing up ready for her arrival in the early hours of Saturday morning. We went to bed with an alarm set for three a.m. Before it went off John’s phone blinged with an urgent message about miss sold payment protection insurance, so we were up in good time to receive the next text announcing Lara being on her way in a taxi. Fifteen minutes later we wandered out along the marina to meet her at the barrier and were passed by a taxi heading for our pontoon. Lara!

We turned around and walked back up to where she was climbing out and we all smiled and waved at her taxi driver. Turns out he was a sailor himself, spoke fluent English and they had spent the journey deep in conversation. It was the driver who had spotted us on our three am stroll and said, “I think that’s your Dad.” He advised going anti clockwise round the island to avoid having to tack so much. This was John’s ideal plan but in the event the wind was forecast to be from the south so we had to go the other way to be sure of shelter and did indeed have to keep tacking.

We stayed the weekend in San Antoni to show Lara round. The first day we did not show her much, it was more of a restaurant tour between naps. After our late night, we all slept in. As soon as Lara was ready we took her to Mambo for brunch.

Mambo!
Beetroot salad

Mambo has a water edge restaurant overlooking the bay and considers itself famous as a long-standing venue with headlining DJ’s. We had lunched there previously and the waiter reeled off a list of names he assured us our daughter would have heard of. That lunchtime the DJ just seems to stand motionless behind his equipment, looking cool in shades, though the mixes did keep pumping and the atmosphere was very relaxed.  John had cheeseburger with excellent chips and I was very healthy with a beautiful beetroot salad. They served Alhambra beer and we chilled watching the antics of the para-gliders in the bay and resolved to bring Lara, to impress her with how cool we have become. Failing that we felt pretty sure Lara would approve of the food, so we made it our first port of call. This time John had a chicken burger, Lara nachos and I a goats’ cheese and quinoa salad, all were fresh and very good. Us girls may have pinched a few chips. After lunch we accepted a complimentary glass of Cava before setting off on a wander round to show Lara the town and the beachfront. We did not go very far along the main beach before Cava induced sleepiness took over and it was time to head back for a siesta.

After our hectic day we dined at The Curry Club, an Indian restaurant set in a small jungle, between two blocks of tall buildings. Despite the many signs it had taken us a few false starts to find, wandering about derelict apartment blocks and tacky bars, sadly aimed at drunken British lads. Once discovered it turned out The Curry Club was actually just a short walk up from the marina, behind the chandlers and was another place we had earmarked for a return visit. It is like stepping into another world, sitting outside under a gnarled tree by a fountain, eating delicious curries with all the ancillary trimmings, all washed down with bottles of chilled Cobra beer. As night falls the coloured fairy lights come up and the waiters light candles in the lanterns. The music is gentle, not to compete with the sound of running water from the fountains and the waiters whisk round quietly murmuring orders into headsets. Our second visit lived up to the first and we plan to come again in the autumn with the rest of the crew.

In one sense it had been a very full day.

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Into the Aquarium

Posted on June 2, 2015 by yachtlyra

One of the attractions of San Antoni is an aquarium in a sea cave. Boat trips set off there from the main harbour, but it is only a short walk round the headland from the marina here, so we set off on foot. We headed directly up across the headland winding our way through streets with cafes and beach shops. We came out of town into scrubland and followed a path down to the shore, picking up a reassuring sign for the aquarium. A little further along the road ran out, but there was an even bigger sign advertising the fact that the aquarium was there, it had a bar but it had no toilet. Good job I went twice before we set out. As we wound along the dirt track we skirted an idyllic small beach, with what looked like boat houses, with wooden doors set into caves in the rocks behind. The entrance to the aquarium itself was also most picturesque. The bar area hung limpet like onto the cliff face with a wooden jetty thrust like a stage over the water. The water taxi was tied up to it, but left as we arrived. This was a great stroke of luck as we had the aquarium virtually to ourselves with just a few other fellow walkers.

Old Watchtower
Looking back to Sant Antoni
Tourist boat
Odd Fish
The Aquarium
Lobster
Escaping starfish
Aquarium from the back
Mermaids Purses
Captain Nemo II

Tickets were sold behind the bar, the barman handed me a leaflet and gestured us to go into the cave mouth alongside. Part of the entrance fee money is used to conserve sea turtles. Inside the cave we had to bend nearly double to walk through the first few yards. We were walking on a deck above a shallow saltwater pond, on which natural light shone down from rough holes in the ceiling. Large fish threaded about below us, some very strange and ugly indeed. There were bottom dwelling fish warty and bug eyed, hard to distinguish from the stones around which swept assorted grey fish and three small black sharks. Seawater could come in and out through grates in the side, through which the fish were too big to squeeze, though one red starfish was having a good go. Once past the mouth we could straighten up, which was a relief. Another walkway led off at right angles bridging another pool in which lived bass, loach and some mutant fish with such large side fins I thought at first they were parasites. At the back of the cave was an area where seals once took their ease in the shade. Now it was home to a couple of big fish tanks home to some smaller specimens, including a row of little mermaid’s purse, strung like washing on a piece of fishing line. There were hoardings with printed information in four languages explaining the plight of the sea turtles and more worryingly of the seaweed. Apparently the native posidenia weed is a veritable rainforest in that it supports a myriad species essential to the ecosystem of the islands. It is under threat from another invasive weed, probably brought in by boats and from the activities of people. People like us, who drop anchors into the seabed and yank the weed up with them or those who scoop up the sea floor fishing for scallops and such. The Spanish are tackling the problem by designated areas where such activities are forbidden, providing licensed buoys for yachtsmen to use, so we can still visit and enjoy these places. The Columbretes is an example. Personally I would much rather catch a buoy than drop the anchor and would be happy to pay for the privilege.

Given the whole cave was effectively an ocean washed fish tank you can imagine the air inside palls after a while, so we made our way back to the entrance and were fortunate enough to find a free table in the bar. Remembering the notice about the lack of toilet, we contented ourselves with small beers. They came in dinky barrel glasses. As we sat drinking them a huge motor catamaran Captain Nemo II came thundering towards the bar, spume flying from its’ twin bow waves. We were beginning to think the Captain Nemo I may have gone down with all hands after colliding with a beach bar when, at the last minute, it slammed on the reverse and two guys jumped off with massive hawsers and tethered it to the shore. They deployed the gangplank and nigh on a hundred assorted tourists disembarked and threaded into the aquarium chattering. They must have outnumbered the fish three to one. We thanked our lucky stars our visit had been between boats. Needless to say they were not in there long and then were straight back up the gangplank and thundering off to their next port of call. The silence afterwards was exquisite, but brief. A small child began to fret and wail, it sounded tired and we dreaded had reached the stage of knowing it was unhappy, but being unable to remember why. Nothing her mum or grandma offered would appease her. The barman came to the rescue with a slice of bread. He stood on the wooden platform overhanging the sea tossing chunks to the free fish, which swarmed till the water roiled. When he had finished he headed back to the bar and the wail started up again, to be silenced at a stroke when our hero returned with another slice, which he offered to the child. She tottered with her mum to the platform, shrugging off any attempt to hold onto her, but finally being persuaded to sit to throw her bread in a crumb at a time. They made a peaceful picture as we left, returning by walking along the rocky headland.

Boat Caves
Aquarium bar
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Ibiza Town

Posted on June 1, 2015 by yachtlyra

Today we set off on the bus across the island to have a look at Ibiza town, check out the marinas there and explore the old town. At the bus station a world weary lady would only sell us a one way ticket. We could pay on the bus on our way back. The fact John could only muster a fifty-euro note did nothing for her joy de vivre. Clutching our flimsy ticket we joined a jabbering queue of older Spaniards, who all seemed to be together. On the hour our driver arrived, greeted us and we all filed on, the Spanish people filled up the front seats and we were on a higher level towards the back. We wove through the back of town, picking up odd people at stops en route, who duly filed through to sit behind us. Then were out into the countryside. There were no further stops till we passed through a small town of brilliant white houses and a large church, where we picked up three languid Rastafarians and a young English couple. The road was a major one, but the jolting of the bus made me wish I had taken a seasickness tablet. We passed what looked like circus fortresses perched on hills, with names like Privilege and Amnesia emblazoned on top of their ramparts. We were clearly heading into the heart of electro thump. We hit the outskirts of Ibiza town and several people disembarked at various stops. Then we pulled up on another seemingly ordinary street and the driver exhorted the Spanish party to leave. There was a lot of questioning and people to-ing and fro-ing, they got off, some of them climbed back on, others shouted questions up to the driver through the front window. The driver kept calling out in Spanish. John and I were not sure whether we were supposed to get off or if he was just answering questions. Finally we decided to chance it and disembarked and the remaining people still on board followed suit. As John forged a way through them the Spanish party were still holding discussions with our driver.

We walked on in the direction the bus had been heading and came into the top of a large square, shade by trees and dotted with monuments. At the other end of the square we found a tourist information office in a large wooden cabin. They furnished us with a map and John was prescient in asking them to mark the location of the return bus stop on it. We headed out of the square to the harbourside. All the marinas there looked rammed with craft. There was a fair amount of building work going on and some big ferries coming in and out, so all in all it did not look too enticing a place to spend the night. After a coffee looking out over it all we set off following our map looking for a villa, the name of which John kept saying, but I could not catch. He had carried out his customary research and seemed keen to find it, so I gave up asking. We headed off to the old town looking for his elusive villa. There was an impressive town wall and the buildings ranged steeply up hill inside it, culminating in a cathedral tower. John was not happy about the lack of signage, but we headed up a vast ramp, through a huge doorway in the city wall. Inside a girl in bright clothes was singing. We turned into the narrow streets and started to climb. At this point John realized that the Dalt Vila he had been looking for was the Old Town, which we were in. We had a chuckle about this and then decided to head to the cathedral and climbed up and up the picturesque narrow streets till we reached the battlements. There were breathtaking views of the harbour. John did another assessment of the marinas from up on high. They were still full to bursting. Looking round the views out to sea were stunning with rocky islands, turquoise waters and the sweeping trails of speedboats. We had a brief nosey into the Cathedral, pretty and cool and not at all grand with its whitewashed interior and stained glass. Then we explored a few alleys. For an old town a lot of building work was going on. There were workmen manhandling stones, and climbing up alongside us carrying long iron rods. Round one corner a forklift truck was bravely juddering up a steep incline trying to lever some stonework into place. In a few years some of the old town may not be quite so old. At the very top we came to an extremely derelict palace, which was for sale, some renovation needed, serious offers only.

Ibiza town pollards
scented geranium
Dalt Vila
Looking Up
Looking Down
The Cathedral
Cathedral Interior
Palace Anyone?
Celebrity Inn
Looking across the Old Town
Ibiza Harbour

On our way back down we came into a pleasant square, virtually a balcony with a panoramic view, where several cafes spread their tables under the shade of the trees. The doorways were adorned with ice buckets full of citrus fruit and brilliantly coloured geraniums. We sat in one and ordered the fresh lemonade and then had lunch, sharing a salad and a plate of Serrano ham and Manchego cheese. It was pleasant, but rather overpriced. As we had finished and were waiting to pay a couple of youths with a saxophone and a keyboard set up shop to play for the captive audience. They were terrible. The keyboard player seemed to be out of key and then the saxophonist did not join him, but also chartered a wayward course. Fortunately our bill came before we were appealed to appreciate them. We left the square and set off down the hill, followed a narrow path past nice shops, which then began to lead uphill. We followed this through several swifts and turns to eventually emerge to the sound of slightly familiar off key music. At hasty retreated ensued and we headed back down to ground level, out of the door and over a real drawbridge, we had missed noticing on the way up, back into the harbour. On our way into the main square we passed an obelisk, a monument set up in tribute to pirates. Our guide booklet claimed this was the only homage to pirates in the world apart from a memorial to Drake put up by the British. There is obviously still a bit of sensitivity to Drake here.

Plaque
Restaurants up on high
Fresh Lemonade
Drawbridge
Pirate Obelisk

We tried to retrace our steps out of the square towards the San Antoni bus stop and had a stroke of luck, when John spotted our bus turning a corner and we tailed it to the stop and then only had to sit on it a few minutes before we were off back to San Antoni. Our trip to Ibiza Town had been most enjoyable, but we are not tempted to try the marinas there.

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Sant Antoni

Posted on May 30, 2015 by yachtlyra

On our second day here the sky was a brilliant cloudless blue and the sun shone. The view from the stern across the water to the little green hills is lovely. We were much more encouraged by our choice of location. What John calls the electro thump music had petered out at the end of yesterday afternoon and the clubland acts that replaced it were stilled at midnight, early evening for Spain. The marina here is set on one side of a wide bay, along the front of which runs a long, narrow strand. The marina is very up market, wide concrete pontoons, immaculate facilities at the end of each one and a very classy bar and restaurant with works of art in the lobby. Even the rubbish bins at the end of each pontoon are housed in wooden pods topped with a flowerbed holding a stumpy gnarled olive tree and some spiky ground cover. There are speakers in the sides of these bin housings to provide a wash of music designed to appeal to our age and taste, (which is unnerving), the sound from one being taken up by the next as you walk along. At night warm, white fairy lights glow in the branches of the olive trees. It is all very elegant and restrained.

Classic boats
Dinghy School
View from the stern
Planter
Nightlife
Across the bay at night
Reception
Reception From above
Restaurant

Walking into town along the harbour is pleasant. There is a wide square, shaded by trees with benches set to look at the arching fountains. From the harbour side the shush of the falling water and hum of the queuing traffic masks the mingled pop music pumped out by various restaurants spilling out onto the pavement into the square on the opposite edge. To walk along this other side of the square is to be bombarded by attractive young people brandishing laminated menus, trying to entice passers by into their particular patch of checked tablecloths. After the square the bay turns onto the beachfront, which is a parade ground for scantily clad youth and the bars leading onto it are a bit basic. Studded along this stretch are the clubs with neon signs and pulsing music, though in the daytime the DJ’s are currently playing to an empty house. John commented on how honed and bronzed the youth of today is, though I think he was selective in his looking as I saw a few flabby ones with tattoos backed by distinctly pink skin. The beach itself has a more mixed population of older couples and families and was not too crowded. All the action was in the walking by, like Top Rank of a Wednesday night, back in the day.

Main square
view into the next bay
Beach
Windmill

On our first day we walked along, mingling with the parade and overheard young men in search of deep and meaningful relationships speak warm, flattering words to attractive young girls, who gave them short shrift. I myself was accosted by a series of tall black ladies dresses in fabulous floor sweeping prints. They wanted to shake hands as a prelude to braiding my hair. Even in my brief skinny phase with, what Katie calls my “dirty dancing” hair cut, I did not have the face for Bo Derek plaits. I smiled, shook my head and kept moving. It is a fact John would not have stopped had I broken step. Lara’s arrival will be surely be greeted rapturously by them. We walked as far as the old windmill, glanced into the next bay and then turned back, passing through the whole rich panoply again. We ended up at the restaurant opposite the marina for the previously mentioned occasion of the cold beer.

We explored in the other direction around the headland, where a number of up market bars and restaurants salute the sunset over the sea. Each night hoards of people, older folk and families as well as the massed young, assemble there to watch the sun go down. Once the disc falls below the horizon they all flock back, before it becomes too dark to see. On the water a flotilla of varied craft all ply back at the same time, obviously having taken people on sunset cruises. This is definitely the place for sun worshippers.

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Ice Cold in Antoni

Posted on May 28, 2015 by yachtlyra

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who has motored sixty two miles must be in want of a beer, a large cold one. Preferably it is served in an iced stein of a glass, so cold a film of ice delaminates from the inside and floats slowly to the surface and modifying the taste to a degree of unparalleled perfection. Sadly the Captain had to wait two days for the experience here. On our arrival we headed into the Gaudi inspired cocktail bar set in lush gardens across the street. Big mistake. He was tempted to order the local beer, but his turned out to be a small bottle, beautifully decorated with hippy flowers and CND logos of quite a hoppy brew. I swapped him for my small draught San Miguel, but that was a bit meager. The Club Nautica bar serves beer in elegant tulip shaped glasses, but they did not really hit the spot either. Then we called into the little pavement side restaurant opposite the marina for lunch and he finally found Nirvana in the form of a magnificent glass of Estrella. Even my small beer came in an iced glass. It set us talking about the great beer drinking moments of cinema, though we concluded there were insufficient to make one of those top twenty charts favoured by TV, which take two hours and an irritating number of commercial breaks to reach a forgone conclusion.

Our forgone conclusion, and indeed the only truly outstanding beer drinking moment of cinema history we could come up with, happens at the end of Ice Cold in Alex. John Mills downs a much anticipated cold beer after slogging through over an hours worth of desert misadventures, sweatily evading Nazis, quicksand and engineering meltdown. By the time he gets his beer we the audience feel we all deserve one and can taste it with him. In a cinematic triumph of monochrome, the beads of sweat on John’s upturned face and the condensation on his raised glass are illuminated in the same rapturous light. After that nothing else comes anywhere close. There is a joyous Foster-fest at the start of Crocodile Dundee, a sort of tribute to the genesis of the Paul Hogan character. One or both of the big convict movies, Shawshank Redemption or Cool Hand Luke, has a cold beer in bottles moment and there is a lot of bottle waggling in Top Gun, as Tom Cruise turns karaoke. On the small screen first Morse and now Lewis do a bit to support the Campaign for Real Ale, but most of the time beer in pubs is just another prop. Nominations for any other great beer drinking moments we may have missed will be seriously considered and this entry amended accordingly. The Captain ended his day with a pint of black stuff in the Guinness bar he just happened to notice as we wandered along the front.

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