Nettuno

Posted on July 2, 2016 by yachtlyra

Our journey is now taking us into the part of Italy where Grandad John was landed in 1944, to become embroiled in the fighting at Monte Casino. The marina at Nettuno is just along from Anzio, where the Allies landed on the Italian beaches. We think Grandad John landed further south, but he spoke of Anzio and was deeply critical of the American commanders who launched men into landing craft much too far out to sea, as they would not risk their ships. Many drowned. From the sea we could see a large white church and there is a big American cemetery full of young men who went no further. It proved to be the first in a series of mistakes made by those in command. The landings were virtually unopposed and forces could have pressed on to take Rome, but did not and were then trapped fighting to take Casino.  From now on we will be looking at places and wondering if Grandad passed through them.P1170514.JPG

The marina has been built since that time, but is in the process of more building work, so the plan of it was blanked out on our chart. We had just pulled the fenders in for this short journey, so I dropped them back out and put the stern lines on before we went in. The entrance wound round on an uncomfortably tight twist, not helped by another yacht coming out cutting the corner as we headed in. There were piles of rubble and twisted wires all around. John radioed in and a deep voice told us yes he could see us and to keep coming left, to number one. We crept along the outer quay counting down numbers. If number one was in the corner someone else was moored there. We turned left again and started a second countdown. It looked as though we would be all the way inside, next to the boatyard. A little blue car hooted at us from the shore and the man inside it waved us on. The berth was right inside by the boatyard. John turned round and began to reverse. The man from the car proved to be rather large, he stood planted on the shore waving thick blue ropes at us. I took off our stern lines and he threw me his, which were already fastened to rings on the quay. This worked very well. Then he held out a lazy line and John took it forward. Our man stood watching till John had made fast the line, then nodded, said ‘Bye Bye’ and headed back to his car. We manoeuvred ourselves back close enough to deploy the passerelle and headed out with the boat papers.p1170518

We waited till evening to explore. At the end of the marina an archway led up into the enchanting old town, narrow streets and cobbled squares on which tables were set out on the slope.

We ate in a large square full of flowering plants, where pigeons and people alike drank from a trickling wall fountain. As evening fell it became very busy and microphones set out in a balcony told of music to come. We both had fish with a rosti potato topping. When I praised this the waiters became very animated and talked football with us, commiserating us on our woeful performance and saying it had been a miracle for them to beat Spain. We came away the best of friends. It was not early, but there was little activity from the musicians and we had another early start as tomorrow is a long leg down to Gaeta.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Porto di Roma

Posted on July 2, 2016 by yachtlyra

The morning was very still when we set off for Porto di Roma and the sea dotted with small fishing boats. I think we upset one, who had two rods out spinning for Ferrari, but was so busy fiddling with his electrical gear he did not see us maneuvering to avoid him until we had to pass behind. John waved at him and he waved back pleasantly enough, so either he realized he had cut us up or though us mad people, best humoured. The coastline was a lovely patchwork of ochre and green fields backed by blue hills, much how I imagined Tuscany, which we are now past.p1170502

An early start meant that we arrived here around one and since the office was closed till three, headed off to the tablecloths and parasols of a marina side restaurant. The waiter spoke very good English. He set us a square table at an angle across the flowerbed; so we could both sit looking out across the marina, under the shade, but in the breeze. I had risotto, which was lovely and creamy, John had mixed fried fish, which came on a big oval plate and was much more substantial than he was expecting. We could probably both have shared it. After coffees our waiter pointed us in the right direction for the marina office. This was just as well, since it was hidden away round a corner, right at the end of the run of shops and bars. The lady there was lovely, did all the formalities and gave us the wifi code, which turned out pretty useless. From our berth the signal was not even strong enough to pull up the BBC homepage.

The marina here has an unusual design, intended to reduce the swell inside ad reflect the shape of a Roman port excavated nearby. The swell calming certainly worked for the duration of our stay there, though at the time the seas were not very big. Basically the harbour is very wide and relatively narrow, like a letterbox with a double entrance in the center. There is a buffer arrangement at the mouth, where you must pass through a split ring of wall, leading immediately to an artificial pebble beach. p1170504Yachts going in must turn either immediately port or starboard, not to wash up on this beach, at which point there is a normal arrangement of pontoons. The theory behind this is that the sea washes around inside the ring at the entrance and dispels its’ energy on the beach. A long promenade runs the length of the marina, with children’s play areas by the beach. The prom is backed by shops and bars with a service road running behind them, behind that is an area of wetland, a wildlife reserve. That evening we wandered along the prom and back, stopping at a wine bar for a chilled glass of white overlooking the beach and the red mini dredger parked alongside it. The waitress brought us such a plateful of small snacks to go with our drinks so we needed nothing further to eat that night.

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Next morning we had a more relaxed start as we needed to return the marina key and the office did not open till nine. Then we set out, stopping for fuel on our way. The bad news was that the fuel pontoon was inside the sloping ring of stone protecting the entrance. With Lyra inside it seemed even smaller than when we arrived and it was quite hairy turning to come parallel with the quay in such a confined space. John did it though and a marinera came out to take the midline and I managed to scramble up onto the high quay with the stern line. Between the three of us we hauled Lyra back to the rear pump and he handed John the nozzle to fill her up. Then the dredger arrived. It pulled up right in the center of the entrance, deployed chains at each end and started sucking up sand. The marinera brought out a hand held credit card machine so John did not need to leave the boat and explained we should pass behind the dredger when we went out. First I had to climb back on board. Two sets of fenders were holding us off and it looked a lot further going down than it had looked climbing up. John asked if I needed a hand and in truth I felt I needed several, but was not sure where. I turned and began to lower myself backward, groping down with my right leg, At this point John took a firm grip either side of my hips and guided me down. It was not elegant, but was effective. Once we were both on board John started the engine and the marinera passed me the lines and watched us pull away. We skirted the dredger and made for the open sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Tale of Two Football Matches

Posted on July 2, 2016 by yachtlyra

We slept till nearly five and then hurried to shower as the Italy v France match was due to start at six. Back down the marina past the still closed hostelries we walked. In the awning of the bar where we had lunch a group of men were wrestling with a wide screen TV balancing it on a pair of dining chairs. All the blinds were down as far as they would go, but the blinds were of white fabric and there was a problem with reflected light on the screen. The younger men were hustling the tottering TV from side to side as the older men judged the relative merits of various positions. It looked a bit private, so we carried on and walked the length of the marina. Nowhere else showed any sign of life, so we turned back to the. By this time the TV was in place, with a row of men in vests sat behind a table in front of it, beers at the ready. We shuffled self-consciously into a table behind them all. The pre match parachute games were in full swing, blotted out by the team sheets, then the images of ranks of stern looking players blossoming onto the screen. John went in to buy beer. The proprietor came out with a couple of large books and jimmied one side of the TV up, placed the books on the chair and let the TV back down on top of them. The chaps and myself carried on watching proceedings set at a jaunty angle. The row of Spanish players were panned, singing their anthem, wearing white shirts with their flag spewed on the shoulder. The cameras swung onto the lineup of Italians. The proprietor wandered over to turn the volume up full and disappeared again. Buffon and the lads belted out their anthem with a strong backing from the crowd and nods and smiles from my fellow viewers. Our host came back with two more volumes to prop up the other side of the set ready for kick off. John arrived with a girl in tow helping to carry the beers along with an assortment of complimentary crisps and nuts. We were showing fellow feeling with Nastro Azzuros, but on the front table it was Tenants and Heinekens all round.

It was an exciting match if you were rooting for the Azure. For a start they were playing with a lot more vim than in the other matches we have seen them start. Running in numbers, passing the ball, shots on target, lots to excite the lads. The Spanish couldn’t seem to find their feet. I had a few pangs about the chaps over in Restaurant David, where we had watched some of the World Cup. As the match progressed more men and boys gathered around us along with a lady with a pram. They were a vocal crowd, full of excited shouts, groans and comment; when Italy scored all were on their feet with a roar that woke the baby. He wailed wide-eyed and they all turned to smile at him indulgently. His Mum picked him up and walked to and fro shushing him, and then his older sister arrived with her friends and took him off in his pram for a walk. At half time most of the audience disappeared too, John went to get a couple more beers, but was soon back as no one else had been in ordering. Where they all went we do not know, they had smoked freely throughout the first half and were gone a long time for a toilet stop. Back they all trouped in time for the restart and Spain took more possession and there were a few fouls that had the punters muttering and on occasion gesturing angrily at the set until their second goal settled things and they were all on their feet again, then they were happily shaking hands and dissipating, even before the final whistle. They have no time for pundits, interviews and someone else’s analysis here, though there is huge affection for Buffon, or Gigi as they all murmur with a fond smile whenever he has the ball. John did not think they would want to watch the England v Iceland game after that, so we went in and settled up before heading back to Lyra.

John made pasta sauce and I cooked the pasta, while he set our little TV to tune up. We also prop it up on a stack of pilot books, but our TV set fits on just the one pile. As the Italy game had been on Sky we hoped the England match would be on the free to air channel and in this we were not disappointed. That was untill we had thrown away the gift of a one goal lead and were two one down, playing some of the right players in all of the wrong places. It was hard to credit how promising we had seemed in our opening match against Russia and to compare how out of sorts Italy had seemed when they started. They had been lucky to win then and have now found their feet. We had been unlucky to come away from our first game with only a draw and have looked worse with each viewing since. The only awesome thing about this last match was the Icelanders’ war grunt. No doubt they were running up and down the oars in Reykjavik that night. We were just fed up and rather grateful we had watched the humiliation in the privacy of our own cabin.p1170497

On the BBC homepage next morning it was hard to judge which gloomy headlines were referring to Brexit and which to the football. We had thought about going to Rome today, but opted to do the laundry instead, living la Dolce Vita being contingent upon a ready supply of clean knickers. The laundrette itself was hard to find and when we found it the machines were domestic ones with unfamiliar symbols, we had to pay a girl in the chandlers next door to use them and she told us how to proceed. The driers were condenser types which threatened to set fire to the laundry had it not stayed so determinedly damp, so we have carted it back on board to drape over the rails and string from the rigging. It is oppressively hot in the marina, but through the entrance we can now see big waves rolling in and are happy to sit watching our unmentionables stirring in the breeze. Tomorrow we are off to Porto di Roma and hope to be near Ischia for the weekend.

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Having it Rough

Posted on July 2, 2016 by yachtlyra

Our meal out was lovely. There was a small family run restaurant just along from our pontoon. A small bald man showed us to a table, but implied we could sit where we chose, even though the other tables for two had reserved signs. He offered us English and German versions of the menu and then left us to it. Out came a slight dark haired girl, who stood with a notebook as if gracefully poised for flight. I pointed to my choice of starter, a prawn cocktail with citrus fruits. ‘No…o’, regretfully shaking her head, not sure if this was a lack of prawns or a lack of citrus fruits I chose hot mussels and clams. All smiles, the order noted down. Then I offered up my main, linguini with sea bass. ‘No..o’, thankfully she then started to list alternatives to the sea bass, so I chose dorada. John had no problems with his choices and prawns were on the menu. He asked for a wine list and our waitress gave a slight nod and whisked away. The next time we saw her she was bringing food to a family seated in the doorway. They had a Scottie dog and a pair of very fluffy toy poodles, which were up walking on their hind legs at the scent of the food. John was not at all sure our waitress had understood him and looked up ‘wine list’ on his phone, for when she next appeared. He need not have worried she came back out with a small cork bound booklet. She handed it to John and said carefully ‘there is not all the wine on this list’. I think someone else had been busy on Google translate. It was John’s turn to play guess what they have in the back. He chose a local wine and was rewarded with beaming relief on the face of our earnest little waitress. An older lady resembling her brought out the starters. I was heartily glad the citrus had been ‘off’, my mussels and clams were steamed with fresh tomato and good olive oil. I picked through the clattering shells and mopped up the delicious liquor with bread. As we ate the older lady and the man were busy joining tables into a long row behind us and bustling to set them. Our girl came out with place mats and it was all hands on deck, working feverishly in near silence. Then they issued in a large family group, who had been sitting nearby. It became suddenly clear that they had been waiting in the wings for a French couple just across from us to finish their meal and cigarettes and be graciously ushered out, freeing up the space.

With a large table and several smaller groups the staff were now all whizzing round, but the service was always prompt and pleasant, as though they had all the time in the world when they were dealing with you. Our mains arrived and the pasta was a wonderful home made treat. It seemed churlish not to order a desert. Our waitress recited them in slow Italian and we each chose a word we knew. Mine was mascarpone, and turned out to be a delicious creamy confection with hazelnuts and a tuille biscuit served under a tiny glass dome. John’s word was chocolade and his was a similarly creamy desert of ricotta cheese, riven with chocolate sauce, served in a stemmed glass. Then we had coffee and came away to smiles and ‘Grazie’s. That night we slept well like logs, but woke up before the six o’clock alarm.p1170489

On rising John noticed that the line of boats that had spent the night at anchor were on the move. It was windier than forecast and the sea looked bumpy. John checked the forecast and the wind was not due to be strong till mid afternoon. We decided to forgo a stop at the fuel pontoon, which did not open till eight thirty and set off into a new chapter of our pilot book, the Tyrrhenian Sea. This is area of water above where the boot is kicking Sicily, with Sardinia marking the western shores. If we thought yesterdays man made efforts created turbulence we were soon reminded of the superior power of the sea. There was an unpleasant, pock marked chop running onto the bow, overlaid with a rolling sea of one to two meter waves hitting the starboard side, and the wind blew from the shore onto the port flank. Most of the time it was just wearingly like being on the wash cycle, but every so often the bigger rollers sent us wallowing tow rail up, tow rail down in the briny. Even John took a seasickness tablet. At one point it all seemed to be calming down, but then the wind came up a notch much earlier than forecast and the roller coaster set off again. Lyra is a big girl, but today she rocked and rolled with the best of them.

The best of them were also out, several sailing yachts ranging from fifty six to over a hundred feet, some of them sailing downwind and one crazy catamaran, lurching towards us on an uncertain reach. Most of these were coming out of port, but the fishing boats were heading smartly back to base, which I always take as a good signal to do likewise. By this time we were crossing the traffic separation zone into the port of Civitavecchia; though it seemed only a port bound fishing boat and ourselves were adhering to the regulations for navigating such an area. After crossing the zone we turned towards the shore, heading for shallower water and the Riva de Traiano marina. We passed an area of anchored cargo vessels and even these giants were being tossed by the swell. Our own steering was being pushed from side to side of our course and John was concerned that the entrance to the marina would be untenable.

We talked. The pilot book stated that entry could be difficult with strong onshore wind, but only dangerous in an onshore gale. Our wind was offshore and not gale force, yet. We would head towards the marina and take a look. If it looked dodgy we would head back into Civitavecchia and throw ourselves on the mercy of the port authorities. In the pilot book Rod had describes the marina there as ‘cut off from any cooling breeze… a hell hole in the summer’, but in view of the high seas and the forecast of high wind to come, it was beginning to sound reassuringly protective. I went below and fetched the life jackets. Mine was worryingly tight, too much pasta. As we headed in the sea state grew steadier, rather than yielding to the breakers we had feared. The strewn boulders of the harbour wall with the usual backdrop of crowded masts stood out plainly. The entrance to it did not, but with the steadier seas we were able to steer a straight course to our waypoint. As we approached the white sail of a dinghy sped along the outside of the harbour wall. That someone was out enjoying a sail in such a craft cheered John. I thought ‘What kind of an idiot comes out in this’ and took no comfort from the sight. As we came closer in he passed alongside us and did look quite a competent sort of idiot. Finally we could make out the string of port marker buoys and turned into the channel as another similar sized yacht was coming out. All we needed. Then we were in the steady waters of the harbour and I was out doing lines and fenders as John called up on the radio. The marinera was out promptly in a tender, whether this was the wind, now blowing sixteen knot, or the proximity to lunch was hard to call, probably something of both. We were all done and dusted well before twelve.p1170495

On shore the restaurants and bars closed on Monday. We walked the length of the long marina; there were closed shops and numerous chandleries, providing every thing a Skipper could wish for. Fortunately they too were closed. Finally we found a sort of mini market, paper shop and bar combination that was open. We stopped for a beer and a pizzette, a small oblong pizza the girl reheated for us. It had only been a short haul, but had felt like a very long day already. After lunch we headed back to Lyra for a siesta and collapsed.

 

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Messing About in Boats

Posted on July 2, 2016 by yachtlyra

Sunday dawned and we set off before seven, having been unable to secure a booking at either of the marinas next on John’s list. If there is no room when we arrive we will anchor off as the wind overnight is due to be light and offshore. It was a long passage and John put the music on to pass the time. All the way down there was not a breath of wind. We were glad of the Bimini and the breeze stirred by our own motion. To one side rose the shadow of the mainland and all around were dark steep sided Tuscan islands, Elba behind us, Pianosa to starboard, Giglio ahead and in the distance off the port bow the storybook island of Montecristo.

The sea was glassy calm so we easily spotted the line of flat rocks strung out off shore, the anticipated hazard of this passage. They are called the Formiche Rocks, which seems apt given their tabletop surfaces. The unanticipated hazard came as we passed between the island of Del Giglio and the high peninsula of Monte Argentario, which looks like another island from the sea. We came up closer to the Monte and suddenly there were boats of all kinds, everywhere. First we were passed by a massive police launch, kicking up a wake to set us tipping and tilting, and there were muttered complaints from the cutlery below. Then pandemonium broke out. Big boats and small boats, row boats and sail, weaving in and out of one another, we were the only people plotting a straight course. Each boat in this chaotic maelstrom was stacked to the gunnels with people. Whole families crammed into tiny motor launches, brown bodies reclined on the front of big motor yachts, people everywhere, none of them were looking where they were going. Still no wind, but the sea was churned up in streamers of milky turquoise and white and we racketed about on little choppy waves. The smell of water hung in the air, which buzzed with engine noise. All along the shore in the shadow of the mountain boats that had given up the chase lay at anchor. We rounded the headland and there were yet more boats whizzing around, and just to make things even more interesting lobster pots scattered at random. However these survived I do not know, but by the time we reached Cala de Galera, we were both feeling frazzled. It seems that on Sunday in Italy instead of all gathering for a large family meal, like they do in Spain and France, everyone sets out in their launch to create mayhem on the open sea.

True to form as we approached the harbour wall the afternoon breeze came up and by the time John was radioing in it was blowing Force three. The good news was that the harbour itself was half empty, drained of all the berth holders, who were out charging up and down the nearby coastline. Even better news there was room for us for the night on the visitors pontoon. The marineras came out and helped us onto a berth, where we rested in splendid isolation till around six when the fleet all came trouping back in. They made an orderly file and the marineras dealt them efficiently into their various berths. It took a couple of hours in all. Tonight we are hoping they are all off home after the weekend and we will be able to have a nice meal out.

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Marina di Scarlina

Posted on July 2, 2016 by yachtlyra

We motored out from the main port of Elba heavy with the nation’s decision to leave Europe. We have been sailing in Europe for four years now and crossing a border instantly threw us into a new unique sense of place. The nations are gloriously, indescribably distinct, but the sense of shared values and expectations run through the weave of all. Over our time sailing we have felt the lightening of the load of the recession. Now we just feel gloomy at the futility of the retreat from a bright future. To me it seems a betrayal of the young, who already have not had the advantages of a state willing to invest in their future, which we had. We who ran up the debt they are clearly saddled with, along with all the other monies that have been sidled off the nations books and hidden away for them to sort out at some later date. None of our politicians can stand up with integrity, so why trust them to act alone without the muddled but often mitigating views from a broader conference of nations.

The several massive ferries plying to and fro with the threat of mild peril did nothing to enliven us. Our gloom persisted and hearing from the girls and how sad they all were too made it all the more real. There was enough wind on our quarter for a good sail, but we did not have the heart for it. Probably just as well. For it had risen to a force five by the time we arrived here. We had been allocated a finger pontoon near to all the facilities, which are lavish. So in the end we landed in the lap of luxury. The men John spoke to in the office here said that in Italy the young people were the ones wanting to leave the E U because of not being able to find jobs. These men looked to be in their mid thirties, to us they were young people. I hate to think what they considered us to be.

The marina is set in lovely gardens and across the road from the boats runs a raised terrace, with views across the marina to the sea. Each night ends in a spectacular sunset over the water. The facilities are strung out along this terrace, all within easy walking distance and as it is all covered over art exhibitions line the route. There are several bars and restaurants, all with seating overlooking the panoramic view. Further away and set back are the offices, a laundry, a supermarket and various other shops. There is a bakery, which is also licensed, which John thinks is an idea that should catch on. At the end nearest to the boats is a swimming pool surrounded by loungers set in pairs under parasols, the staff provide towels and will bring you drinks and snacks. Meals even if you want to recline like a Roman to eat. The pool is tiled in black, which looks stylish and mysterious, people’s bodies disappear into it; an excellent feature for those who have partaken of the bakery, as we had. The raised terrace allows a lovely cooling breeze from the sea to wash over you as you lounge. In fact after swimming it felt a bit cold up there till I dried off, all this Mediterranean heat is making us nesh.

So we chilled out and relaxed by the pool for a day, after which the charge down the shin of Italy begins.

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Elba

Posted on July 2, 2016 by yachtlyra

I first came to Elba some over forty years ago and so hoped we would be able to stay on this enchanted island. My wish was granted and we had a couple of days, not long enough, but lovely. My memory was of a coach tour looking down through trees at distant beaches and of a narrow fishing harbour with sparkling clear blue water. Down to the harbour ran narrow streets with a charming mix of shops and houses. Outside the shops and at upstairs windows inside the houses sat tiny ancient ladies in long dresses with black head veils, their faces so lined it was hard to read their expressions. I bought a pale pink coral necklace, which I still have from one of the small shops.

Two days ago we motored round the headland into the main port of Porto Ferraio and were given a berth on the curved wall of the stone quay. The water was still crystalline, but none of the structures were at all familiar to me. Perhaps we had visited a different smaller harbour. This one is lovely with large square fronted buildings in subtle tones sweeping round the bay, climbing steeply up hills topped by a series of old forts. Once we were all tied up we headed along the front looking for the port office to register our arrival. It proved deceptively hard to find, which allowed us to explore much of the waterfront and to spot an open topped tour bus. Finally a port official pointed us in the right direction, we found the office on the first floor and paid for two nights.

By this time some of the terrific heat had seeped from the day, so we explored the narrow streets and squares behind the front, steadily climbing until we arrived at a building claiming to have housed Napoleon.

Napoleon was imprisoned on Elba, but after a year escaped to meet his Waterloo. During his time here he set up a civic administration and built roads and is considered to have been good for the island. A couple of places now claim to have housed him. This one looked a bit down at heel. It was only open for another hour, but John reckoned from the look of it an hour would by long enough. We wandered through a series of dusty rooms with faded ceiling facades, painted to look like draped fabric. On music stands in the center of each room notices in Italian, English and German gave facts about the furniture and paintings. There were lots of paintings and busts of Napoleon, but other than saying when they had been made and by whom no reference was made to the life and times of the former Emperor. John voiced the opinion that Napoleon had never clapped eyes on most of this stuff and certainly there was no claim to its having been in situe when he stalked these rooms. The formal gardens outside offered impressive views of the island and across the sea, one could imagine Boney looking out and plotting his escape. After Napoleon’s house we contoured round and eventually found a set of steps leading back into the town square. That night we ate in one of the restaurants in the square, with the residents watching Italy play on large screens.p1170439

Next day we headed to the bus stop and joined the tour to Napoleon’s other house.  The route to Napoleon’s house in the open topped bus offered often intimate contact with the local flora and views down through it onto the beaches, much as I had remembered.

The bus had a live commentary in Italian and English, provided by a tall, blonde woman, who spoke into a microphone between bursts of pre-recorded background music. The soundtrack started with Pavarotti followed by the theme from Gladiator, morphed into reggae and Abba. We pulled over at the last beach for a photo shoot and as we left the music launched into Celido Lindo. All the ladies sat behind us started singing along and it was all very jolly, then came Volari, a tricky upbeat version, which they all knew the Italian words for. We joined in with the chorus and must have made such a good impression that our guide stopped the English part of the commentary. It is also possible that our guide forgot us after the stress of the bus breaking down. This happened after we had edged into a small car park in order to turn around, there was little space, so our hostess opened the door to hang out and give directions to the driver. After this the door would not close and an alarm to make the driver aware of this kept sounding. This put a damper on the singing as we headed off to Napoleon’s house. As they dropped us off in the car park our hostess told us they would be heading back to base to fix the bus, but would be back in an hour to continue the tour. From the car park we headed up through the usual encampment of stalls and bars that gather round a tourist honey pot and headed through large gates and up an impressive driveway to the house.

This was much the same as the Napoleon’s house we had already seen, but bigger and with an impressive lower arcade, in which were displayed some old satirical illustrations of Boney being exiled to Elba. The island was depicted as a rocky wasteland populated by gurning gargoyles. If the target audience of these scenes could have witnessed the state in which Napoleon had actually been kept, with his spacious houses decorated with royal eagles and imperial bees, they would have thrown the papers away in disgusted. The sparsely furnished upper rooms were rammed with tours of Italian speakers and the guides had plenty to say for themselves, but as we did not understand a word it was just more of the same faded spaces and dusty furniture. We edged round the tours, accomplished a swift circuit and wandered round the upper deck surveying the grounds, before heading back for a coffee ahead of the bus. From our vantage point in the cafe we saw it arrive and threaded our way back to join the ladies for the rest of the tour.

The music started up, but minus Pavarotti and the “husband to a murdered wife, father to a murdered son”. Soon the sing-a-long was in full spate. We visited a spa, but I have no idea why, stopped in the car park, no one got out, so we headed back to base. There was a different tour in the afternoon to visit a Roman Villa in a small fishing village, for which our tickets were valid. I wondered if it was the place of my memories, but we did not feel we could face a further bus trip and spent the afternoon at leisure.

We spent our last evening in the posh restaurant on the front, which had lovely food, but a rather uneven service, but a stones throw from the boat it hardly mattered. Back on board we had ringside seats for a fabulous guitar performance, which was literally stopping people in their tracks at a bar opposite. We sat with a glass of wine joining in the applause.

 

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Cala di Medici

Posted on June 29, 2016 by yachtlyra

Another early start, even though we do not have so far to go today, because the early hours seem to pass quickly. We nosed our way out of the shallow harbour entrance, a feat not made easier by meeting the fishing fleet coming in. It was a still morning, the high crags looked spectacular in our wake. Curiously we never noticed the backdrop when walking around the town, either the mountains are further away than the view from the sea suggests or we were too busy peering in bars for a telly. Once out at sea it became calmer still, so that at one point the sea was glassy and mirror flat. There was no choice but to make way under engine. We passed a boat we had noticed yesterday, which was conducting hydrographic research according to the AIS. There were one or two other boats about making passage and a couple of big cargo ships at anchor. Just after ten we crossed onto the deeper part of the reef outside Leghorn, a strange sensation having the depth gauge suddenly plummet, but we were soon back in deep water and began our approach to Cala de Medici before noon.

This was nowhere near as stressful as yesterday, though typically the wind came up to force three as we rounded the headland. There was a string of little red buoys marking the shallow water by the headland and once inside the marina they were quick to answer the radio and soon came back with a berth number. The radio operator then asked if we would like directions to the pontoon, which is the first time in four years anyone has offered. John said please and our guide was very clear. We were on pontoon G 58, again right on the inside of the marina. As we set off slowly down the ranks of boats two marineras in a tender motored past us, waving that we should follow them. John turned around at the end of G pontoon and reversed down. One marinera was stood on the dock waiting to catch the lines and the other was in the tender ready to give us a nudge if it all started going pear shaped in the wind. As it happened John’s steering was spot on and we did not need a nudge. My throwing also went well which was a big relief as the second marinera stood with the lazy line in his right hand and his left extended like the Fonz, as if to say throw it here. I did so and he caught the line one handed and passed me the lazy line with the other without seeming to move. Faced by this stern master of the Universe I scuttled off down to the front to tie the line on before the wind caught hold of us. John came out and took the line back from him, so then we changed places as he took a second lazy line down the front and I tied off the other stern line. By this time our man was holding out a piece of paper, which I climbed down the back to take from him. He told us we should fill it in and take it to the office with the boat papers. The office would close at one. His companion in the boat had by now drawn up to collect him and said something in Italian. The stern one talked to the office on his radio asking about the hours and then announced they would open again in the morning. At which point he smiled and hopped into the tender. I think they were both off to lunch. We want to be off early tomorrow, so John headed straight over to the office and even though it was only twelve thirty had to dig the girl out to take our money. They have been brilliant here, but it was as well we set out and arrived early, they seem to work a very short day.

On exploring ashore we found a beach area, an apartment complex and a couple of bars and restaurants. We had a very nice Caesar salad at the Fuxy Bar, which had the most amazing ceiling of hanging light bulbs. Collecting a backpack we then headed further inland to find the town center, but were distracted by finding a huge supermarket close by the marina. This was actually just what we needed and we stocked up on fruit and water. In the evening we tried the restaurant above the other bar at the marina and this truly was gourmet and cost much less than our DIY crudités in Cannes.

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Viareggia

Posted on June 21, 2016 by yachtlyra

Having crossed the Gulf of Genoa we are leaving the Italian Riviera behind and are making seven-league strides down the boot of Italy. With a few decent days forecast we plan to move on each day, starting early. On the longer legs this will mean we arrive mid afternoon and can rest up a bit for the next push. On the shorter runs we will arrive before lunch, so will be able to have a look around. Once we reach Elba we plan to stay a couple of nights to explore the island, before off again down the shin to see Naples and rest.

Day one of the plan went splendidly. We were away by seven, out into a breezy morning with a calm sea state. Flat clouds lay scuffed across the sky and mist lay along the mountain feet ahead. Neither of us knew what this fortold of the weather to come, but the Internet forecast was good and we were out dodging fishing boats, which is usually a good omen. We had planned to go to Carrera, but had decided to try to start with a longer leg and are bound for Viareggio, which I managed to book yesterday. It was only after we were committed, on a second reading of the pilot book, that we realized what had put us off it at the original planning stage. To wit, the harbour mouth is prone to silting, due to an adjoining river and vessels drawing more than 2.5m are advised to radio for a pilot boat. Now we are 2.1 m and so fall in the tricky domain of not really meriting the fuss of a pilot, but are close enough to the 2.5 to worry about it. There is a full moon at the moment, meaning the highest high and the lowest low tide wise. The Med does not have tides worth worrying about, only a matter of centimeters, but when it’s your pride and joy at stake you give such stresses a miss. But as I said we were committed, so settled down to a long six hour motor and tried not to think about it too much. The scenery certainly helped. There were spectacular mountains ashore; steep sloped with serrated tops, appearing to rise straight from the sea. The mist confounded many of my attempts to photograph them properly, but the cloud formations above made dramatic pictures as we neared Viareggia.

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John crept in following the pilot book instructions, both our eyes on the depth gauge. It reads the depth below the keel, the lowest point of the boat and was down as far as 1.8 m before it began climbing again as we entered harbour. At this point I relaxed and bustled about with the lines and fenders, though John noticed the harbour itself had worrying shallow patches. Weirdly along the very back harbour wall were tied some of the biggest Super-yachts we have seen outside Cannes. They must come in with the pilot and it would have been handy to see one do so and watch the line it took. Still, we were in and they answered the radio promptly and had us booked into a nice sheltered berth, right on the innermost pontoon, number one. This meant John having to turn and reverse in, but he made this look easy and there were a couple of marineras waiting to take the lines. I messed up throwing one, but he recovered quickly and caught the end, so we were soon ready to head out and explore.

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Viareggia is a seaside town, a rather up market one. From the marina we walked along the river bank, which had been dredged and looked more like a canal, with small pleasure boats tied along one side. We walked along the towpath to an arched footbridge that spanned the river. On the opposite bank was a pink block of a boat with a big pink plastic octopus on its roof selling fried calamari and chips, a sort of floating fish and chip stall.p1170365 A few similar bars and cafes lined that bank of the river the smell of hot chip fat assailed us as we crossed the bridge. We turned right and round the corner was a wide avenue, our side the pavement was wide enough for a pedestrian precinct even allowing for the grids of tables set out in front of every café and restaurant. The traffic seemed very far away. We walked along looking down the side streets, which all culminated with an entrance to the beach, which had been split up into a series of small funparks, with loungers and play areas and restaurant come bars. John came to a halt by a wood fired pizza oven. We have yet to try a pizza in Italy, largely because the traditional Ligurian ones do not have cheese, so we saved ourselves. No longer, for lunch we shared a Romana pizza ( pomodora, cheese, mozzarella and capers) and an Adam and Eve salad. The salad had lots of the usual suspects, olives, mozzerella balls, but no apple. The pizza was particularly yummy. After that we tried to walk back along the strand, but were unable to do so because of the way the beach was divided up into concessions. We went back the way we had come, John studying all the bars for TV sets, as England were due to play their final group match at nine. Pickings were decidedly slim on that score, but he decided we could eat first and then have a look.

Back on Lyra and the news from the England camp was dire. Roy was planning to snatch humiliation from the jaws of victory by resting most of the midfield. Not only were we risking our chance to lead the group, we faced the possibility of coming third. Doubting the credentials of the BBC, John checked other news sources but they were all singing from the same hymn sheet, Roy’s requiem if we lose to Slovakia. Disgusted of Sheffield decided he wanted no part in what promised to be a disaster, we might as well have a nice meal out as a late Father’s Day treat and then confront the result. So that is what we did later that evening. I thought his resolve might weaken as we took another turn along the avenue, scouting for TV’s. There were a few in bars showing the news and one with a couple of Russians parked in front of it, settling down to their unanticipated humiliation at the hands of Galles. Then John shook off the lure of the England match and we headed back to the American Bar, near the marina. It was styled on the deep south with green painted shutters, ceiling fans and music with a Mexican fiesta flavour, but there any reference to America ended. John started with caprese salad and I stuffed mussels, and yes they had managed to stuff several mussels I know not how. Then we both had sole, which came with a side salad and was lovely. We strolled back and consulted John’s phone. The news was not as bad as it could have been “We’re not doomed yet” said Roy, inspirational to the end.

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Father’s Day

Posted on June 19, 2016 by yachtlyra

Today we set out early and were at the fuel pontoon just as it opened. A couple on a French boat came along just after us and we took their lines. They had a toffee coloured dog that looked like a large poodle, but was not one. When the woman took the dog ashore for a walk as they waited, the dog tried to come aboard Lyra and the woman had to restrain it. She was lovely and we conversed in any words we all understood. They had been in Turkey and Greece, which they had loved, but were now on their way back to France. The dog was from Italy. I said we hoped to go to Greece one year and she said one year was not enough and held up five fingers, five at least for all the islands. Meanwhile the young man operating the pumps made an excellent job of filling us up and not spilling any. Fuel is a lot more expensive here than in France, we should have filled up there.

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We were away by half past eight and off on a long motor across the gulf. Part way across we lost telephone signal, but when it came back the journey was made brighter by an e-present and text messages from the girls wishing John a Happy Fathers Day. The present is a visit for both of us to a vineyard in Holmfirth, so we will be drinking the Last of the Summer Wine when we come home. Most of the journey was fine, but the last two hours we danced a two step round a thunderstorm and the last hour was spent in rain. Luckily it had just about stopped raining when we arrived in the large harbour.p1170334 John radioed in and we were asked to wait for a marinera to come out. It always seems a long time drifting around, especially when other boats start to arrive, but then our man arrived waving at us from the end of a pontoon. He spoke as much English as we spoke Italian, but finally we understood where to go, he met us, took the lines, did the paperwork and shook our hands. Grazie. John went straight to the office and paid on the card, and then he started phoning the girls to thank them for their gift. First Lara, because she had called us just as we were coming into the harbour, so John had been forced to ring off on her and then Katie, who had a train to catch. Mid way through Katie a man was calling us from the pontoon. I went up on deck . He was a different marinera, and he was very sorry. He was sorry because the place we were in was promised to another boat. We would please have to move. Our original man, who had made a mistake and was also sorry was waiting for us there. There, was a much more exposed berth along the main quay. So John hung up on Katie too and we had to disconnect the shore power, wrestle the muddy lazy lines off and set out across the marina again. Both men were very sorry. We were pretty sorry ourselves. Anyway we tied up again, spoke to Katie and then to Emma. John washed down the now filthy deck and we both had a shower before John finally sat down to enjoy a well earned Father’s day beer. We then found our new berth was miles away from anything, we had to walk all around the harbour wall and through the boatyard to access a miserable bar and a deserted restaurant. We decided to spend the rest of Father’s Day back on board and wondered if the sorry mistake in our berthing would have happened if we had chosen to pay cash.

 

 

 

 

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