We made the most of the afternoon opening of the lock to
indulge in a lazy morning, offsetting this with a long walk to find supermarket
shopping on the opposite side of town.
The road was being rebuilt, and was recently tarmacked and still sticky,
edged with unmade pavement of loose hardcore, dotted with pallets of paving
slabs completely obstructing the way.
Failing to find the expected Intermarché, Mate was pleasantly
surprised by a clean, well-stocked and cheap Netto, and backpacks were soon
laden with lovely fresh produce and the makings of the next few suppers.
Modern art in Morlaix
As it was now lunchtime, a classic French crêpe
was sought, but we were too late, and fell back on the bar at the marina, which
we had been assured (by marina staff) offered very good food. Delighted to report – they are right! Skipper enjoyed a delicious beef casserole with
figs and Roquefort sauce, while Mate tucked into a fabulous deep filled tarte
of layers of courgette, tomato and feta.
Needless to say, these were washed down with samples of local microbrewery
ale, Coreff, and Breton cider.
Another early escape scuppered…and why is there no mention of air draught?
Being nearest the lock, with the top gates conveniently left
open, we slipped in after a pretty local traditional gaffer, with plenty of
time to sort ourselves out for the high tide opening. This would give us maximum water to wind our
way back down channel to Skipper’s assessment of a “sheltered anchorage, free
of swell” just South of Roscoff marina, which was full of yachts for the Figaro
event. This is one of the big French races,
where solo sailors compete in a one design race without assistance, over four
timed legs. This year the route covered
1500-2000 Miles in around twelve days, between Nantes, Kinsale, Baie de Morlaix
and Dieppe. We were close enough to the
marina to see hundreds of flags and banners dancing in the evening breeze, and
hear faint music from the onshore celebrations.
Following the local knowledge of our Saltimbanques friends,
we slipped easily through the ‘free flow’ lock out of the lovely city of Paimpol,
to explore the stunning scenery of the Ferlas channel and Ile de Bréhat. Basking in bright sunshine, the ‘granit rose’
pinkish sandstone rocks were bathed in a deep blue sea reflecting a clear sky –
very Baltic, except for the current carrying us along at 3-4 knots. As we came out into the almost Atlantic
swell, interspersed with areas of rips and eddies caused by shallow patches on
the seabed, we turned into a cold breeze almost on the nose, that was too light
to sail without Trevver’s help.
A couple of hours later we were at the entrance to the long,
wide estuary of the River Jaudy that leads eventually to Tréguier. As with much of this coastline, the area is a
rich producer of oysters and mussels, and fish farms are also in evidence. Fortunately we’d dropped and stowed the
mainsail just in time, for, just like two days earlier as we made the final
approach to Paimpol, the weather gods had other ideas and a big black cloud of
squally wind and hailstone force rain swept across us, rendering forward visibility
almost nil. Slaloming between fishing
pot marks, once again the last hour was the worst, but eventually we made it upriver
as far as the red No 10 buoy, recommended as a sheltered anchorage on the bend
beneath the chateau.
The fun wasn’t over yet, though: as we went through the
process of setting the anchor, the outgoing tide drifted us back over the trip
line, and the prop’s rope cutter did a neat job of separating 15 metres of rope
from the bright orange anchor float buoy, depositing the former seven metres
down on the riverbed, and leaving the latter to drift off serenely
downstream. As we were unhappy that the
anchor was properly dug in anyway, we decided to execute a quick man overboard
procedure to retrieve the buoy, resign ourselves to the need (excuse?) for
another visit to a local ‘shipchandler’, and make a second, successful, attempt
at pinning ourselves to the spot.
We’d chosen this anchorage as a peaceful and sheltered spot
to sit out the latest bout of strong winds, and we stayed onboard during Friday
while they blew themselves out across the top of the valley above us. As usual, our strong and silent crewmember,
our trusty Spade 30kg anchor, held us securely to the same spot on the
riverbed.
Saturday was much calmer, and we extracted our pretty new
tender, l’arrêt,
from her quarters in the sail locker, pumped her up good and plump, and swung
her over the side to the boarding point at the stern. The new engine, barely used since purchase in
Guernsey in the autumn of 2017, performed below par as we headed upstream to
explore ashore, but we got there safely, and tucked in amongst a fleet of Boréal
yachts, another aluminium hull brand we’d briefly considered before opting for
Allures. Tréguier is their home port, and
we took the opportunity to have a good look at the similarities and differences. Needless to say, we still wouldn’t swap our
beautiful l’Escale for anything else.
We spent a pleasant hour strolling around this attractive small town, admiring the mediæval buildings in the main square, and the cavernous interior of the Gothic cathedral of St Yves, whose bells played a different tune every quarter hour. Its steeple features fretwork to allow wind to flow through. Back near the marina, we browsed the temptations in the EcoCoop, stocking up on a few organic essentials for the next few days.
Trébeurden-on-Caribbean
After an unrestful night, we set off for Trébeurden,
in disappointingly light winds that necessitated motorsailing the whole
passage. We wove our way among the pink
granite rocks and white sandy bays of tiny islets, before lining up for the
narrow gap to cross the sill into the marina.
Suddenly we were basking in t-shirts and shorts in complete shelter, but
it didn’t last long and was windy and wet (again) overnight and into Tuesday
morning, such that we decided to forgo market day. As the afternoon dried up a little – only intermittent
showers – we strolled up the hill, chatting with our English neighbours from nicknack, to find the essentials in a
more civilised Intermarché than that in Paimpol.
On Sunday we waited for the tide to take us back down to the sea, and onward 15M to Port Blanc, where we picked up a visitor’s buoy, but no fees, and enjoyed the local dinghies and catamarans out racing. As expected, it was not the calmest of berths, with a little swell causing rolling, whilst heavy rain beat a tattoo on the cabin roof.
Wednesday was a very early start, away at first light to
clear the sill before the tide dropped below it, and a challenging crosswind
added extra challenge to our departure.
In the competent and calm hands of Skipper we managed not to hit
anything or pick up any new dings and scratches, but it wasn’t to be one of our
better days. Mate eventually got all the
fenders stowed, and we were able to set the mainsail with first reef, but the
sea was very rolly and unpleasant. Jimmy
Bucket was called into service even before 0800, but things settled a little
when we changed course and sail plan, to just the staysail.
“Underneath the arches…”
Just before 1000 we dropped anchor amongst the oyster beds in the estuary approaching Morlaix, to await sufficient rise of tide to attempt the narrow and shallow channel up to the lock in the town centre. There was just time for breakfast before we enjoyed a gentle potter under genoa almost to the lock, which was open waiting for us to motor straight in. We were met by friendly, helpful harbour staff, who took our lines up the wall and handed over a welcome pack. Once we had risen the metre or so to the level of the basin, they walked us to our berth on the quay wall, under the looming shadow of the huge double-decker viaduct that dominates the town centre.
On Tuesday morning we again waited for the tide, leaving
late morning under full main and genoa in the direction of Paimpol. We passed the iconic Cap Fréhel
lighthouse, well, both of them, with Mate enjoying fond memories of childhood
family holidays on this coastline. In the
usual mix of showers and drier patches, we changed from genoa to staysail in
anticipation of a squall darkening the sky ahead, but it passed out to sea in
front of us and, that time, we stayed dry.
As elsewhere, we played dodgems with fishing vessels and ‘Spot the Pots’
to avoid picking up lobster or crab on our rudders.
The final hour, heading up the massively drying channel into
Paimpol with the incoming tide, the wind built to an intense F5-6, right on the
nose, and in the end we gave up trying to hold our line and turned back to sea,
and improved sea room, until the wind eased and there was a better margin of
water under our keel. It was with great
relief that we entered the free flow lock into Paimpol harbour, and were soon directed
into Bassin 1 where the harbour master kindly moved a boat along and helped us
tie up to the town quay wall – in almost complete calm and shelter.
Hmm – it’ll be a while before we go anywhere…
On Wednesday we chatted with some other visiting British
crews, and played dodge-the-shower to wander around town and replenish our
fridge. We walked down to the entrance to
the harbour to see the channel at low water: hard to believe it’s the same place,
and spotted an older Allures 45 tucked into a side area of the port. Up on the hard near a chandlery was a steel
yacht that has sailed around the world – with a pet chicken on board, that laid
an egg for her Skipper each day!
This chick found her sea legs
We enjoyed Paimpol, and its vibrant atmosphere of all things
maritime. It’s a pity we won’t be here
in early August, when they have a famous shanty festival, of which there are
photos of previous years’ events all over town.
We awoke to a hazy mist that thickened to fog as we set off
just before 0800. There was enough wind
to set the full mainsail and genoa, and we sailed ‘blind’, grateful for radar
and AIS on the chart plotter, for most of the morning. We made steady progress in spite of light and
variable winds, and by mid-afternoon when the tide turned we enjoyed speeds six
knots and more.
Le Grand Jardin lighthouse
As we swung into St Malo harbour in the evening light, we
received no response on calling the lock keeper to request an opening, so we
decided the alternative, out-of-town marina would probably be cheaper, and
rafted neatly onto a charter yacht in Bas des Sablons. The following day we learned the error of our
judgement, when we met a brand new Allures 45.9, Wireless, in the Intra Muros harbour on the edge of the old walled
city of St Malo, whose crew informed us their berthing fee was €10
a night less than ours, and with better facilities. They kindly invited us for a look aboard, and
it was interesting to see the evolvement of the model ‘in the flesh’, after
talking about it so enthusiastically, never having actually seen one, at
Southampton Boat Show back in September 2016.
St Malo
We continued our cycle ride around the bumpy cobbled streets of the lovely (rebuilt) mediæval city, treating ourselves to a first taste of French cuisine with a pain au chocolat. Just as well, as there wasn’t food shopping to be found.
Reluctant to spend another expensive night in the marina,
and having seen what we wanted to of St Malo, it seemed a good idea to
investigate an anchorage just West of the city port, so at a time when most
boats are glad to be coming into harbour, we set off towards the sunset in a
poor choice of clothing for the conditions.
Some three hours later we finally dropped the anchor off the Ile de
Hebihens, not entirely sheltered from the swell. Mate prefers to tuck right into shore, but this
is not possible in areas of huge tides, as we’d potentially find ourselves beached
at the end of the necessary length of scope when the tide drops. Yes, our lifting centreboard means this is
theoretically possible, but we would never choose to take the ground without
first having prospected at low water to check for debris, rocks and angle of
slope.
We filled the tanks with fresh water, and washed the salt off the decks. To be ready for an early start with minimum fuss the following morning, we then escaped our rafted berth on the outer pontoons of Guernsey’s main harbour, and tucked into the fairly calm Fermain Bay, an anchorage just South of St Peter Port. It became peaceful once all the motor boats, jet skis and tenders had gone home for supper.
