Dolphins Guide Us In

It was airless inside the deep, red granite walls, of St Helier Marina, as we waited for the tide to turn. Then a relief to get underway. The jagged rocks of the Violet bank looked menacing as we hoisted full sail and aimed SE for Granville. The rocks released another hidden, and unwelcome, suprise as we passed. Flies. Thousands of flies. The boat was covered. We were covered.

Dolphins played alongside, as we furled sails, and made our turn across the sunken rocks, into Granville. Leaping ashore, Luke secured the boat with one hand, and grabbed the hose with the other. From stem to stern, the water cannon pursued the plague of “black spots” 'till all were washed into the scuppers.

The tides are big here, only in the Bay of Fundy, Canada, are they bigger. We were here on springs, so careful planning was a must. From the safe haven of the Marina, locked in by a granite wall, we watched as the tide fell a full 30ft, and a hidden world of rocks, gullies, sand and shingle emerged.

The Vieux (Old) fortified town of Granville, with its cobbled streets sits high on the escarpment. Its classic, old French, an architecture a delight. Tonight, perhaps in honour of our arrival, there is a concert there. Now where did I put that clean shirt......

Finally the skies cleared. No more the museums of Cherbourg. No more perfumed beers. Farewell to “Pirate Pete's” bar. It was down “the Race” with a SW force 5 churning the waters into a boiling caldron as we swept passed the island of Alderney.

Grand Amfroque, Tourtenay, Roustel and Brehon Tower, the marks of the Little Russel, slipped by as we dropped the main and motored on the last of the SW going tide into St Peter Port, Guernsey.

The number 7A bus only costs £1 a head, and circles anticlockwise around the island. Its a great way to see the rocky inlets, and find hidden beaches, all still guarded by the deserted German defences – a cold reminder of the past. We hopped off the bus and walked the SW corner back to the boat. The cliff path winds around the neatly kept lawns, and electrically operated gates surrounding the the houses of the well to do, then drops dramatically down, then rising, then falling revealing stunning bays and fabulous views.

The forecast is good tomorrow. Perhaps that secluded bay, or maybe Jersey, or Iles Chausey....

Hunt for the Sun

It was a grey afternoon as we slipped out of Portsmouth – but dry. Newtown Creek was as welcoming as ever. A headsail reach had brought us down on the tide and we were snug on a mooring. An early night. A dawn rise, and we were on our way west to find the sun.

Ideas of the Baltic had been shelved – the weather there as bad as here, but colder.

Sitting on the tide the Needles flashed by. Swanage glowed in the early morning sunshine. It's a long time since I enjoyed the old town of Weymouth, infamous for being the port where the great plague entered the country, but little has changed. The sun was shining, the sky had big patches of blue. Sipping a well earned pint the barmaid told us of torrential rain in Portsmouth, and the floods in Littlehampton. We smiled, and had another pint.

Our second dawn awakening and, as the sun crept over the cliffs of the Jurassic Coast, we motored out across the Olympic race courses, and headed south. It was Luke's first cross-channel. A blustery northerly had us romping across to Cherbourg, where Pete took our lines as we tied -up along side Stormvogel.

Tomorrow we go to Paris.............