Untenable Anchorage - Warm Welcome

Quite predictably the weather in England is cooler than Gibraltar.

It is also ‘That time of Year’ when almost everyone seems hell-bent on emptying the shops and supermarkets of their entire contents.



I had two options –join the frenzy, or retreat to a quiet sanctuary.

Gatwick was empty, the flight to Shannon on time. A quick one in “Durty Nelly’s” in the shadow of Bunraty Castle, and it was off to Ennis for the craic in Brogans, a great little bar. The guinness was good, and so was the session – I even had a little play myself.



Eire is a beautiful country. Its rugged west coast conceals snug anchorages, open bays, and wild wave swept rocks under towering cliffs. This coast is serious sailing. When the wind blows the Atlantic Ocean vents all its pent-up energy on the Emerald Isle. It can be fearsome, anchorages untenable, yet always it remains quite beautiful.


Killkee Bay

Winding around the mountains and hills, on its way down to the sea, the River Shannon drains the lakes and peat bogs, in heart of the country, with the sound of the fiddle wafting down from a session.



It snowed on the way back from the session in Larkin’s Bar -- another great night. In the morning ice covered the car, and snow capped the hills.





I fell in love with the country, and the people, whilst cruising round the UK in 2001 – and it hasn’t changed.

From an Ocean to a Sea

Throw him in….Throw him in… they chanted. Firework night was celebrated in style. Little Bay was packed with children – young and old! – for the bonfire, hot dogs, sparklers, and, of-course the fireworks. The bonfire crackled and spat, sending sparks, and flames, high into the moonlit sky.

An orderly queue, safely marshalled, of kids dragged their guys – pirates, spacemen, monsters, and more, to the fire. On the count, and to the chant “Throw him in…. Throw him in…”, together with a great cheer, the guy’s were thrown. One at a time to the flames they flew. With a background of The Rock, Africa, Spain, and the Bay of Gibraltar, it was a memorable evening.



The Romans called Gibraltar, Calpe, and recognised the rock as one of the two Pillars of Herakule, the other being Jebel Musa, in the Atlas Mountains, Morocco, on the other side of the Straits.





Neolithic man lived here. The Phoenician’s called it the end of the known world, and it has been fought over by many others, each leaving their imprint, but it was the Moors who gave Gibraltar its present name. Jebel means mountain, Tarik was the Moorish leader who controlled this area and who built his castle on the rock – Jebel Tarik. There are Moorish baths, great bastions, tunnels from the Great Siege and WW2, Victorian and Spanish style housing, the docks that Nelson used, and the airport marking the border with Spain, and still the arguements over ownership rumble on.





Avocette is safely moored in part of the old RN Dockyard. The sun is shining, and temperatures still climb into the low to mid- twenties. This year’s sailing is now at a close. Next years is in the planning; Lift-out and anti-foul in February, then into the Mediterranean in March.



The planned route is Costa del Sol, then crossing to explore the Balearics, Sardinia, Sicily, and on to Malta. From Malta we head north to find active volcanoes and ancient ruins, art and history, islands and the Rivera.



For once we can be a little more planned in our route and timings, though with sailing nothing is set in stone, and we look forward to lots of family and friends joining our adventure….. but now it’s time to go skiing.

To the Immortal Memory

More sea trials took us back to Cadiz, a vibrant city, full of life. Spanish, German, and American voices on the VHF alerted us to naval ‘goings-on’ as we sailed through the night. An hour before dawn we changed the watch. Graham caught some zzzz’s, and I watched the lights of Cadiz. Windfarms surrounding the bay made spotting navigation light a joke. Each turbine was lit with a flashing white light, cranes and buildings added to the fun with both fixed, and flashing, red lights. The shore-lights just added more colour.

As I searched for the leading lights that would take us safely in I became aware of a gap in the lights – it was moving. Then another, and another. I slowed Avocette down, and watched as, in line astern, a NATO squadron of naval ships returning from their exercise, crossed ahead of us – not a single navigation light showing on any of them!

I used to see sights such as this as the Royal Navy sailed in and out of Portsmouth. Now I have to go to Cadiz. What would Nelson have made of it?

So onto Barbate, its brand new marina, empty, and the town much the same, but they did do a good line in anchors!



We slipped out, sailed around Tarifa,the southernmost tip of Europe to port, Africa to starboard, and back into Gibraltar.



Next stop – the Mediterranian.

Ilha da Culatra

The harbour at Faro is reminiscent of Chichester Harbour, and we wanted to explore it, and the old town of Olhao. At the entance, the flood tide ran swift and powerful. Big whirlpools, and cross currents added to the excitement, then we were in. Quiet and calm returned, and we drop anchor, just off the village on the Ilha da Culatra.



The harbour is large. Withies, assorted flags, buoys, and fishing floats, mark the safe channels through the mud flats, fish-traps, and trammel nets. Local boat-boys zoom around ferrying the days catch to market, out to Culatra, or into the old town of Olhao, with It’s classic Portuguese buildings, and cobbled streets hinting at a distant prosperity, and its Roman and Moorish ancestry.

Back across the harbour, life is still tough. The men fish, the women manage the shellfish nurseries.



It was only in the late sixties and seventies, that an effort was made to support the community on the Ilha da Culatra, and water, electricity, and sewerage systems were installed. The single story houses are built on the sand. There are no roads, no cars or bikes – just a few tractors to relieve the fishermen of some of the heavy tasks, and outboards to power the boats.

Algares = Potholes in Sandstone Cliffs

Our return to Lagos proved a good move. Contacts in the Ocean Cruising Club quickly led me to the right man to sort out the chartplotters. Slowly and methodically they were brought back to life. Now they needed testing. We had to go sailing. We tried them under sail, under engine. We tried them with the radar on, and off. All seemed good. As a reward we popped into Portimao, and dropped the hook.



The river is big enough for small cruise liners to visit, and most of their passengers stay in Portimao, or visit the long sandy beach at Praia de Rocha. We headed for the sleepy east bank, to Ferragudo.



With the fishermen’s blessing we tied the dinghy at the side of the slip, between their boats, and stood watching, fascinated as they mended their nets on the quay, before meandering up the narrow cobbled backstreets to the church, then on along the cliff tops. As the sun slowly dipped the sandstone cliffs shone gold, amber, and ruby red. Surfers caught the rolling surf, and we caught a sundowner at the bar on the beach, our toes nestling in the warm sand.



More sea-trials followed. All works well –such a relief.

Blind Navigation

The crossing from Morocco back to Gibraltar had been a challenge. Thick fog obscured the very busy shipping lanes that we were crossing. The forecast 15kt wind decided to be 18-20+kts. This pushed the sea into a confused wind against tide, and the waves just grew bigger. To add to the difficulties the Raymarine chartplotter and radar, in the cockpit, decided to choose that moment to pack-up.
Back in Gib, no help was found, but with the main plotter at the chart table working OK, we set off for Madeira.

Again the weather gods had us in their sites. Blue sky, sunshine, a perfect NE 10knots sent us on our way. Six miles later it was blowing 18kts – great sailing!

By the time we reached Tarifa, ten miles further on, the wind and seas had built. Now it was no main, and no jib – just a small staysail. We surfed the 4m waves at over 9kts in 38kts of wind, and darkness was approaching.

The winds eased a little, so did the sea. Talking to other yachts spread from Gib to Tenerife, to Madeira on the long range radio (SSB), we heard that everyone was enjoying fast sailing. The good news was; the further west you got, the more the wind and seas dropped.

Two days later, nearly half way to Madeira, the chartplotters’ threw all their toys out of the pram. No longer would they maintain their displays. The choices: Return to Gib 200 miles up wind? Carry on out into the Atlantic for Madeira, another 250 miles down wind? Tack for the Algarve 120 miles across the wind to the north? I tacked.

Twenty-four hours later, just as dawn broke, we entered the river at Portimao. Anchor down, head down, and a good sleep.



The anchorage was pretty, and very secure. Golden cliffs and sandy beaches surrounded us. And the sun shone. In town, the high-rise blocks encircled the old town with its quaint little parks. It was a pleasure to while away the minutes sitting on tiled seating, to enjoy the flower beds, the mosaic pavement, and the sun-drenched trees wrapped in crocheted artwork.



Always a trading port from early Phoenician, then Roman times, Portimao again came to prominence in the early days of the slave-trade, then later, building perhaps the largest sardine fishing and canning industry in Portugal. Now its tourism.



Back on the boat, enquiries had revealed that repairs were possible here, but not speaking Portuguese was a handicap, so we sailed across the bay to Lagos. Contacts in the Ocean Cruising Club soon unearthed some help. So now we wait, fingers crossed, that all will be repaired, and we can resume our travels.



Today it rained!

The African Continent

Some hard decisions had to be made. We had left England later than originally planned, and it has taken three weeks longer than expected to work our way down the west coast of Europe. Now the wind has gone. There is little or none in the Med, and little or none in the Atlantic. Malta is now out of reach this year, but the fickle winds won’t take us to Madeira either!

Morocco was the only choice – if only to wait for the wind to return.

A big toothless grin greeted our arrival. Ahmed, my guide from my last visit to Smir, helped us secure our lines, and I was only too happy to barter with him for a day out in the mountains to see the souk and the old towns high in the Atlas mountains. But first the formalities…

Gone are the delays and long waits. Gone are the bribes and sweeteners of a few years ago. Entry into Morocco is simple. The friendly marina staff do most of the work, but the Police stamp your passports, both in, and out, of the country.



The drive into the mountains was fascinating. Soaring 2500m, they are covered in patchy course vegetation and small trees. Olive groves abound. Cattle, sheep, and goats, are frequently seen searching out a tender morsel. In this harsh environment the only form of transport for many of the local farmers is the mule, or donkey, and it’s not uncommon to see them in the fields, or on the road, a slow plodding train heading for market. Most wear traditional colourful dress, and some, especially the women, also wear the conical straw hats adorned with tufts of coloured fur.



We visited two cities, Chefchaouen – the blue city – with its Casbah – it’s old medieval town with its winding narrow lanes snaking around the hilltop, the houses steps, even the paths painted in a variety of shades of blue. Many of the old buildings have been modernised, many sprout satellite dishes from their flat roofs. Most have electricity, and water, but the communal taps are still in use – there’s no tax to use them, or the mountain streams, so the women can still be seen scrubbing carpets, and treading the washing, then hanging it on the rocks to dry.





Arriving in Tetuoun, the white city, Ahmed asked if we would like lunch. Western food, or traditional local fare? The chance to try a shish kebab and couscous was a winner. Fully replete, it was off to the souk. Amongst its whitewashed walls you can buy anything. Carpets of course, even a remote control for a twenty year old TV, and computers from a bygone age. New plastic bowls and clay tagines, new clothes, old clothes and shoes –new and second-hand spill from the stalls, or laid out on the dusty road. Then there are the herbs and spices, wonderful breads, vegetables, meat, and fish. The smell of the souk is unforgettable.

All was fresh, the fish not long caught. The chicken was certainly fresh – still running around. The blood and trimmings from the butchered meat and fish was then washed down with buckets of water and run down the central gutter of the narrow street….I rolled my trousers up!



Sailing back to Gib was an experience! The forecast light easterly blew 18-20kts. The wind against tide lifted short steep waves to 3+metres, and the thick fog hid all from sight – as we crossed on of the busiest shipping lanes in the world!
At last the wind returns – we hope – so tomorrow we sail out into the Atlantic, destination Porto Santo 30M north of Madeira.

The Rock

There really is no question as to who owns the "Rock", Britian? Spain? It's the Apes!


There is not much there, a big rock, some reclaimed land, and an airstrip, but its what's inside the rock is fascinating.

At one end there is St Michaels' Cave which has some fabulous stalagtites. The main cavern is cleverly used for concerts - an experience for another day. The section through the fallen stalagtite reveals the beauty created by nature over time, with water drawing down, and realigning the elements of the rocks



At the other end, are the Great Siege Tunnels. Dug through the rock with pick, shovel, and gunpowder, they served to fire down on the attacking Spanish, the heavy cannons having been dragged by hand up the rock.

No visit to Gib would be complete without a courtesy visit to the RGYC, and the hope of sailing one of their Victories. The welcome was warm and friendly. Their new club boasts workshops and boat storage, a marina, views across the harbour, all enjoyed from their terrace... or bar, or restaurant, or swimming pool..... where did the Portsmouth Victory Class go wrong?



Gib done, time to move on. A new contient awaits across the Straits - Africa. Morocco's Atlas mountains reach 2500m to touch the clouds. Mmm tagines, couscous, Souks, and Casbah's....

The One that got Away.......

Fishing is big all down this coast. Leaving Baiona the sea was glassy-flat. Engine on, we motored our way towards the border. Pot-markers littered the sea turning it into a slalom course. From the cliffs a fishing boat sped out turning at the last moment to pass, not across our wake but our bows. As he passed lobster-pots tumbled from his transom. Two boat lengths ahead of us he zig-zagged across our bow miles of floating line running from his stern. The result was inevitable. The underwater winch (propeller) wound the line tightly round the shaft. the engine stopped. We were caught.

Meet the Locals!



They thought it a great game. Graham donned his dive gear, bread knife in hand, and we were free. Thankfully no damage done.

No trip down the west coast of Portugal is complete without a stop at Nazare. A quaint old town with its bullring sits atop of the cliffs, narrow streets of little family run restaurants hide behind the sandy beach where freshly caught sardines air-dry on the racks, before being sold, by the old fisher-folk still in their traditional dress, to passers-by.


Nazare hit the headlines in the world press on 30th January 2013, when a surfer rode the biggest wave in the world. Now it’s a mecca for surfers. Its long sandy beaches stretch for miles. Beach fishing is difficult as the waves, even on a calm day, are big enough to surf, and crash noisily on the sand. Rock fishing is, however, popular – even from the top of the cliffs!

It was a good feeling to round Cape St Vincent. The weather changed instantly. Head winds became tail winds, the sky became a mass of stars. Now, a new challenge – tuna nets! Tuna nets are on, or near the surface. Perpendicular to the shore, and can be a mile or so long, and they are guarded fiercely.

The multi-coloured cliffs, sandy beaches, and Mediterranean climate of the Algarve attract the tourists, and the harbours are buzzing. Busy bars, great seafood, and a great mix of nationalities guarantees a great party atmosphere; and the party goes on well into the night.

The friendliness of the locals is great. Whilst in Vilamoura, and short of propane gas, I went in search. Quite randomly, I asked in a kiosk that was advertising sailing, and trips to see the caves. The owner was so helpful. He gave up explaining, got out his car, and drove me, and the empty gas tanks, the twenty miles to the only garage able to fill them, then brought me back to the boat. Invited onboard, he carried one tank as we chatted, and payment – my round next time we met, he insisted.
Portugal to the left – Spain to the right

The Rio Guardiana marks the end of Portugals 500 miles of coastline. Entering the river was like entering Chichester Harbour, keep to the port hand marks for deeper water, kitesurfers on the east side sandbanks. We headed for the Spanish marina of Ayamonte and its pretty old town. The Habas con Choco was delicious (broad beans and cuttlefish)!


The one that didn’t get away