L'escale

December 2019

No sooner had we settled into Queensway Quay Marina, the Southwestern-most of the public berthing areas on the East side of the Rock, than Mate jumped onto a plane for a two-week visit to the UK, leaving warm sunshine and 23˚C.  A week later, Skipper left 17˚C and heavy rain to join her.

We returned to the boat together, and have since enjoyed exploring this curious British outpost at the Southern-most point of Europe.  One pleasantly warm sunny day, we walked up paved roads into the Nature Reserve that is the Upper Rock, paid our £5 each entry fee, and admired the Pillar of Hercules, the pair of which is the peak of Jebel Musa across the Strait of Gibraltar on the North African skyline.  Together they form the gateway into (and out of) the Mediterranean Sea.  We marvelled at the views towards Spain from the ridge line along the top of the Rock, and stood gazing across a stretch of sparkling water at Africa, the Atlantic, the Med and Europe stretching away to the North.

Warned by amusing road signs, we kept our eyes peeled for signs of local wildlife, and were rewarded with sightings of lizard, butterflies, ‘tête-a-tête’ narcissus growing wild everywhere, and…yes, all of a sudden, the famous Barbary Macaque tailless monkeys.  Much as Mate is uncomfortable observing wild animals confined to cages in zoos, the reality of being right in among these strong, wily and unpredictable creatures is more than a little unnerving.  They are completely unfazed by the proximity of their human cousins, out for what they can snatch from uncautious tourists, and rather threatening in their speed, strength and bared teeth.  One leapt onto the rucksack on Mate’s back, its weight and unexpected attention surprising her, but thankfully it soon sought more lucrative pickings elsewhere.

The path back down into town from the Northern end of the ridge is steep and covered in loose stones in places; the total distance covered was 12km!  There are several alternative routes up on the high ground, and the opportunity to visit a number of points of interest, but each entry into the Reserve would cost £5, and there is really no other walking away from busy roads and built up (literally: most of Gib is high-rise blocks) urban ‘scenery’.

Routine provisioning is mainly in Morrisons, that well-known British export.  We have learned to time visits for when they’ve just emptied wagons driven overland from the UK, as stock disappears swiftly and replenishing is unpredictable.   A Spanish Eroski supermarket just this side of the frontier carries a good selection of Waitrose products, so all is not lost.  Our bikes have proved invaluable here, for this task, and also to explore the rest of the peninsular at sea level.  One ride took us South on the West coast, along two tiny ‘beaches’ and through two short and one longer tunnel – not a pleasant experience to cycle even without much traffic.  We emerged between one of the city’s mosques and the university: sports sciences department, including a rugby ground; students wishing to study anything else travel to the UK, having been educated up to age 18 according to the British system, including the wearing of school uniforms.

The goal of our visit was the lighthouse at Europa Point, and we also came across the Sikorski memorial, to a Polish Prime Minister in exile who died on 4 July 1943 when his plane crashed into the sea near Gibraltar’s runway; only the pilot survived of sixteen others aboard.  After some moments of quiet reflection, we followed Europa Road uphill, past the Rock’s institutions for mental health and dementia, built high on the cliffs with amazing views of the Bay and sunsets.  We found another entrance to the Reserve near the small Catholic church dedicated to St Bernard, the patron saint of Gibraltar, and the ‘Glen Rocky Distillery’, once a water treatment works in a deep cleft of the rock.  We wound our way carefully down steep roads around many military buildings, eventually completing our circuit back at the marina.

On Christmas Day, we took advantage of almost no traffic (there is very little cycle safety provision here) to ride North and East, around the inland edge of the Rock, past the quiet airport and runway, to Eastern Beach and the pretty village of Caleta.  Although in the shade of the Rock for much of the day at this time of year, the beach here is clean and attractive, and backed with a few terraced restaurants, a cluster of colourful Italian-style villas clinging up the hillside, for this is known as Little Genoa, and each property is named for an Italian town.  Centuries ago, this was one of the landing places of the Phoenicians, and it retains a strong sense of community today.

It is not possible to circumvent the whole Rock on foot (at sea level) or pleasant to do so by bicycle, as a longer tunnel, too low for even single decker buses, pierces the Southeast flank, in the area of the UNESCO heritage site of Gorham’s Cave, where evidence of Neanderthal habitation has been discovered.  On the way back around the North end of the Rock, therefore, we found the main cemetery, a multi-faith burial ground with an interesting history of its own.  The separated Jewish cemetery is solemn, understated and serene, a stark contrast to the typically flamboyant Catholic tombs and the simple white crosses that mark war graves.  As elsewhere around the Rock, the lack of subsoil is very obvious, as the majority of the memorials sit very much above ground.

Thanks to the veritable fountain of useful information that is Mate’s new friend Lorna, a Glaswegian honorary Gibraltarian, we have indulged in a range of culture during our time here, including an unforgettable evening in St Michael’s Cave for the 7^th International Jazz Festival in the company of the best saxophonist we’ve ever heard, an Italian by the name of Stefano Di Battista, accompanied by his trio of extremely talented musicians.  The warm-up acts were local artists Levanter Breeze and Surianne Dalmedo.

A month later we enjoyed the European Sinfonietta at John Mackintosh Hall, performing a delightful repertoire of Mozart and Strauss.  In between we have made several visits to the cinema, hidden in the King’s Bastion that has been cleverly converted into a leisure centre housing various entertainments including an ice rink and bowling alleys.  We saw the live streamings of the concert version of Les Miserables and the ballet, Coppélia, and also enjoyed Cats and Little Women.

We have crossed the border into Spain on a number of occasions, to visit the market in La Línea (de la Concepción), where we partook of a Spanish custom, a glass of local sherry with a small tapa of cheese – before lunch – and for Skipper to try to source various items of chandlery, usually more successfully than here in Gib.  There is also a branch of the French supermarket, Carrefour, within cycling distance.

Epiphany, Twelfth Night, 6 January, is an important festival in the Spanish calendar, and was celebrated here with a cavalcade of carnival floats, flatbed trucks decorated in a variety of themes and accompanied by a cacophony of music and a marching band.  The winning floats were a Harry Potter – Hogwarts theme, and a Save the Planet message.  The cavalcade gathered in Casemates Square before processing along Main Street to ‘deliver’ the Three Kings, Balthazar, Caspar and Melchior, suitably regal on red velvet thrones, to the Anglican and Catholic cathedrals in turn.  Mate has enjoyed regular Sunday morning church services in English once again, and a lovely Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve in the company of our new sailing friends.

Exactly a month after we tied up in our new home, berth A4 in Queensway Quay, an unusual Ovni 455CC arrived to slot in two spaces from us; unusual because only seven of these centre cockpit boats were built.  Tendrel-Aurelie is the same length as us, and being an Ovni is built of aluminium, like us; her hull is not chined, but curved smoothly like ours.  Dörte and Jens, a German couple based in Kiel, have matured from delightful acquaintances to good friends, who generously hosted a pot luck supper on Christmas Eve.  During this we were introduced to their Swiss friends, Manuela and Christian on steel boat Svala.  They’d met in Portugal, and followed the route to overwinter on the brink of the Mediterranean.  We took our turn to host another pot luck supper on New Year’s Eve, before wandering down to the waterfront to enjoy extended firework displays up and down the Rock and around the bay into Spain.

In case this sounds like just an(other) extended holiday, Skipper has squeezed in the fitting of a watermaker, including a successful test run. Safely into a new year and new decade, 2020 started busy and has yet to let up.  Suddenly we’re preparing for a visit from London friends, she newly retired and keen to experience a new destination for a weekend break, followed closely by time with both our children one after the other as we begin a new season along the Andalucian coast.

Happy New Year!

Friday 8 – Saturday 9 November

With ship’s time now back in sync with local, we left Cádiz after lunch, under a clear sky and in a cold wind of around F4-5 from the NW quadrant.  We set a prudent second reef in the mainsail with the staysail to balance, making steady progress to the Southeast.  At 2100 we were just South of Cabo Trafalgar, the site of the famous sea battle where Admiral Horatio Nelson’s British Royal Navy convincingly trounced Napoleon’s combined Spanish and French fleet.  It also gives its name to the Southernmost of the sea areas for the UK shipping forecasts.  It has to be said, for somewhere so important, it is somewhat unremarkable, as the land on which the 34-metre-high lighthouse was erected in 1860 stands only 17 metres above sea level.  Nevertheless, across the dark seas, the land lights of Morocco, the Northern coast of the great continent of Africa, were clearly to be seen, with Spain lying quietly off our port, and around 3000 Miles of the Atlantic Westwards to America.

At midnight the log records “lovely sailing; in sight of Tarifa light”.  Indeed, it is the lighthouses that punctuate coastal night passages, encouraging us ever on our way.  As usual, conditions did not remain constant for long; by 0200 the wind was down to a mere F2-3, and we were in sloppy seas, but at least the strong current was carrying us in the right direction.

Now, you may recall from the previous blog that we prefer to arrive in daylight; so it was just as well the lighter wind was slowing our progress, but nonetheless we were well into the Straits of Gibraltar by 0400: us and half the shipping of the known world, it seemed.  As ever, Skipper piloted us manfully and safely to shore-ward of the main shipping lanes, and we wove our uncertain way around a plethora of anchored vessels in Gibraltar Bay, all lit up like the proverbial Blackpool, and into a safe anchorage just North of the prohibited area at the end of the runway North of the Rock, to await daylight for our final approach.

The other reason for the stop was that our chosen marina, Queensway Quay, has a boom set across the entrance overnight to limit swell and debris entering the marina.  After breakfast and a cursory tidy-up, we were able to radio the marina office and make a safe entrance into our allotted berth, where we shall lie safe and sheltered at the foot of the Rock, until the New Year.

Sunday 3 – Monday 4 November

At this time of year, it is important for us, when planning a passage of more Miles than can be sailed in daylight, to try to ensure that we arrive while it is light.  When everything is going to be new and unfamiliar, our least favourite landfalls are during the night, when important navigation lights can be buried amongst lights from land, and hazards and the ‘hard stuff’ are much less visible.  Having said that, night passages – being out at sea in the dark – are often a wonderful experience.  Whatever phase of the moon, in clear skies its rise and set, and the canopy of stars slowly revolving across the heavens, never fail to delight.

And so it was that we set off from the Southern coast of Portugal at tea time, bound for another border and another country.  As usual, we kept ourselves busy with various combinations of sails, starting with just the genoa, and around dusk changing to full main and staysail in a steady Westerly breeze of F4-5 on a slight sea.  Around midnight, the moon set and the sky became cloudy, making it very dark, but this is when phosphorescence is most visible: tiny plankton, disturbed by our hull sliding through the water, glow momentarily in a constant sparkle trailing behind our stern – ethereal and beautiful.

In the early hours of the morning, we were called by American warship William McLean, asking us to change course to keep our distance from their patrol course – a little unnecessary, we felt, as we were sailing, less manoeuvrable than their powerful motor vessel, and had to perform a gybe to meet their ‘request’.  We had to gybe several more times to regain our proper course.  Once daylight was properly established, we changed up from staysail back to genoa, gaining 0.5 knot speed.  As we crossed the notional border line into Spain, we changed the courtesy flag.

We maintained ship’s time during the passage, in spite of actually losing an hour as we left Portuguese waters, and mid-morning, Mate had to make an unwelcome decision to steer to port to avoid an unscheduled close acquaintance with another yacht.  ColRegs (the rules of the sea to which every vessel must adhere to avoid collisions) clearly state that vessels on a potential collision course must both turn to starboard.  A red-hulled Russian-flagged yacht was approaching our port bow on a starboard reach (wind from the right, onto the middle of the boat), and we were also on a starboard tack, with the wind further behind us.  Technically correctly, he held his course as we were the ‘windward’ boat (nearer the wind), but he forced us into a near gybe, as we moved further away from the wind by having to turn to port, and added insult to injury by tacking to starboard immediately he cleared our bow – and giving a cheery wave as he did so.  Grrrrr.

Nevertheless, we arrived safely in Porto America in Cádiz, Andalucia, in time for a late lunch, having sailed 96 Miles in a little less than 21 hours.  [When afore-mentioned red Russian yacht later berthed a few slots from us, an unusual lack of welcome was expressed from l’escale].

Thursday 24 October – Saturday 2 November

Actually, our second, as we came to an apartment with a pool, via a flight from the UK and a rented car, for a week in June with two small children, about 20 years ago.  We can’t actually remember exactly where we came, beyond that we flew into Faro, but it all looks different from the sea anyway – the resort development is glaringly obvious, but from out on the water it’s peaceful and appealing.

Refreshed after a couple of lazy days at anchor, we motored a few short miles across the bay (back the way we’d come – weird) to anchor off a not-so-sheltered beach just outside Lagos.  We paddled the dinghy over to the beach, and enjoyed an evening walk, via the marina office to confirm we didn’t need to register our arrival, around this popular tourist town.  Voices in many languages could be heard enjoying the sunshine, and of course it’s half term week in the UK, so there were lots of British kids around.

We found a decent-sized Intermarché for a little provisioning, and Mate indulged in a brief spot of souvenir shopping, in between perusing a selection of menus.  Sadly, little sounded tempting, being very repetitive to cater for the international visitors.

On the Friday morning we took the dinghy to explore the famous caves at Pointe de Piedade.  If you’re familiar with the rock formations at Studland Bay in Dorset, imagine them in golden sandstone and multiplied by a factor of 10, and you’ll have some impression of this amazing piece of coastline.  Constantly pounding seas have created blowholes, or chimneys, and caves amongst the stacks and arches, which are wonderful to explore in a very small boat, as you can get under low ‘ceilings’ to paddle inside the hollows.  In places light shone through underwater, and the ocean forcing its way in blew misty spray up into the cavities.  Up close it’s impossible to take photos (never mind the camera not being waterproof), so this is from the Internet:

We timed our visit well, before many trip boats were out, and the sea was calm, but the return trip was a different matter: a considerable swell had appeared from nowhere, due to a nasty weather system way out in the Atlantic, and we were tossed around with the small 2.5hp outboard struggling to propel us forwards.  We always wear lifejackets for these types of adventures, but they didn’t stop us getting very wet, and landing on the back step of the boat was not the easiest manoeuvre we’ve ever attempted.  Nevertheless, we made it back aboard safely, if in need of a little medicinal chocolate, and it was definitely worth it, to experience such incredible scenery up close and personal.

Once we’d recovered, dried out and warmed up, it was an easy decision to leave this horrible swell and head back all the way across the bay to Portimão.  Unusually, the sea was choppy with a headwind – like being back in the Solent, except the sun was still shining.  It took us nearly five hours to make seven miles upriver of Portimao marina, to a lovely quiet anchorage off Ferragudo.

On Saturday morning we had a much calmer dinghy ride to explore this attractive village, where fish are landed on the quay straight onto the barbecues for lunch.  Skipper changed the gas bottle, which ran out while supper was being prepped, and we gained another hour by changing the clocks back one hour overnight.

On Sunday we dinghied the other way, across the river to Portimão town, where we found another sparkling clean launderette, and laden date palms along the promenade.  We also found a selection of attractive fish restaurants, obviously where the locals eat, just through the arches under the road behind the waterfront.  In the afternoon we moved onto the temporary pontoon in Portimão marina, to fill up with very expensive water of disappointing quality.  Whilst there we met a chap who is a good friend of the ex-sales manager of Allures, who sold us l’Escale.  We were delighted to hear his change of career is proving successful, and asked to be remembered to him.  As soon as possible, we escaped back to our spot in the anchorage, from where we enjoyed watching the storks fishing, much like herons.

We had another foray into Portimão town, to a large Pingo Doce supermarket, a common name in Portugal, but one we’d not explored before…but we weren’t overly impressed: Waitrose it isn’t.  On the way back, we found ourselves in the midst of a huge canoe/kayak race, and were mistaken for a rescue vessel by a poor lad who’d capsized just away from the start line – he wasn’t the only casualty, and the large, powerful RIBs were in demand.

Mate took the opportunity to make progress on the current sewing project, while Skipper worked through some of the outstanding jobs list.  It was still warm and sunny much of the time, with very little wind in this sheltered spot.

On the last day of October we got back to sailing, departing early in the hope of completing a 40-Mile passage to Faro in daylight.  It was a lovely day, with temperatures in the low 20s ˚C and a light Westerly wind to fill the gennaker.  Well before dark we were anchored, just behind our friends on Yndeleau once again, off the Ilha da Culatra in the large lagoon that shelters Faro and Olhão.  The entrance is interesting, with overfalls, swirls and eddies at any stage of the tide, but a little extra oomph from Trevver got us through without any difficulties into the otherwise calm and shallow waters of the various channels that wend between sandbanks and around islands.

Friday 1 November was a beautiful, sunny day, and we took the dinghy across to the fishing harbour on the Ilha da Culatra to explore this popular island – where locals and tourists escape the crowds of the mainland resorts.  It is part of the Ria Formosa national park, and for landlubbers it’s only accessible by ferry, so we arrived early enough to enjoy its peace and quiet.  There are two distinct village communities totalling around 1000 permanent inhabitants, who make their living from fishing and tourism.  Culatra is where the ferry lands, and has a selection of restaurants, while Farol, Portuguese for lighthouse, is centred around…the lighthouse, that guards the entrance to the lagoon.  Single storey dwellings are built on sand, and slabs of concrete make pathways – there are no paved roads and the only vehicles are a couple of tractors, and bicycles for the brave.

The island is about six kilometres long, between 100 and 900 metres wide and consists entirely of sand and some scrubby ground cover.  Boardwalks offer easy walking through a stunning and surprisingly varied landscape, with views of the hills of the mainland to the North, and to the South the clear blue waters of the ocean.  We saw a number of different butterflies, birds and waterfowl, and had long stretches of beaches and dunes all to ourselves.  We felt it only polite to contribute to local commerce and enjoyed a delicious lunch of local tuna, salad and a Portuguese speciality dessert, a moist cake made of carob, of which Portugal is one of the leading producers worldwide; there is a carob tree on the island.

We rounded off our holiday by going into Olhão marina on Saturday morning [contrary to the advice of the pilot book, it’s perfectly possible to phone ahead and arrange a short stay, although a German skipper we met had not been welcomed].  A member of staff was waiting to help us tie up to the outer pontoon, and we were able to visit the waterside market and fill up with water.  We also had an interesting chat with an Argentinian couple, who shared their extensive experience of over-wintering in Seville; we had thought about doing the same, and may yet on our way back out of the Mediterranean.

Sunday 20 – Wednesday 23 October

Having topped up our water tanks, we set off for Sines under full main and gennaker in a light breeze from the NW.  As the wind filled in, it was too far behind us to fill the gennaker, shadowed as it was by the mainsail, so Skipper furled the foresail and we motor sailed briefly before deciding to try the genoa, which was successful.

At 1400 we rounded Cabo Espichel in the company of dolphins, and enjoyed a rollicking run, clocking 7.6 knots, towards Cabo de Sao Vicente.  Conditions were so good, we’d decided to carry on sailing, and this next headland, the SW-most point of mainland Europe, from where the famous Portuguese navigators set their bows West into uncharted waters, was for us a left turn onto the lovely Algarve, out of the worst of the Atlantic swell, and into serious ‘Brits abroad winter sunshine’ territory, as we were to discover.

Skipper changed down to the staysail as the wind built a little more, veering to NNW, and was distracted briefly from the rolly ride by the sighting of a whale.  Mindful of the shipping lanes further to seaward of the Cape, the crew joined forces to gybe Eastwards, and soon after the wind veered further to NNE, allowing us to harden up onto a broad reach as the wind dropped away towards Monday morning.  We actually cleared the headland at 0800, and two hours later resorted to furling the genoa, pulling the main hard in and waking up Trevver for the rest of the passage.

We failed to find enough space to anchor in the main pool at Alvor, and headed back to the surprisingly sheltered bay just inside the entrance to the lagoon.  Sandy shallow water is surrounded by green low hills and trees, and the water is clear and blue – all very attractive.  As the afternoon thermal breeze filled in again, we were entertained by hordes of colourful kite surfers whizzing around the shallows and anchored boats.

We enjoyed a quiet couple of days recovering from the usual lack of sleep of a 30-hour passage, but satisfied in a job well done and another 155 Miles under our keel.

Friday 11 – Saturday 19 October

We spent the morning of Friday 11^th visiting Belem by bicycle, while we had easy access to land.  Riding West along the waterfront, we were able to reassure ourselves that the alternative marinas were no more comfortable than the one we’d chosen, being more open to the current and wash from vessels plying the river.  We were impressed by the huge Memorial to the Discoveries, although we weren’t able to identify any of the statues balanced along the decks of the stone caravel.  Buskers entertained the crowds while dark-robed ladies tried to tempt tourists to buy souvenirs.  The pavements are decorated with the classic black and white cobblestone patterns, while at the foot of the Memorial is a beautiful ‘Mappa Mundi’ created in various colours of marble and surrounded by a compass rose.  It’s a popular place for people to lie on for a photograph.

Across the road is the stunning Jeronimos Monastery, where we forgot to pay homage to the tomb of Vasco da Gama as we were distracted by learning about one of Portugal’s most influential men of history: Alexandre Herculano.  A novelist, poet and historian, an interesting exhibition explains his important contribution to liberal politics and Romanticism in the mid-nineteenth Century.

We’d already decided we couldn’t bear the constant thrum of traffic on the huge bridge any longer.  On returning to the boat, we headed across the Rio Tagus to Seixal, a regular dormitory town with fast and frequent ferries into the city, and a peaceful, attractive anchorage.  At low water, the Breton habit of pêche a pied is widely practised, except here men wade shoulder-deep into the cold water (some in wetsuits), and waggle a curved rake into the mud to extract some kind of shellfish – we could never quite see what shape the shells were [we later discovered they’re clams], although they weren’t shy about coming very close to the boat.  At times we feared for the security of our anchor and chain.  A bonus was to find Yndeleau already comfortably moored here, and we enjoyed getting to know her lovely crew over the next few days.

In between the usual necessary chores of watering the boat and provisioning, we walked a short distance through the village to the ferry terminal.  About every half hour there’s a cheap fast catamaran that takes foot passengers across to Lisbon, landing at the Cais do Sodré.  We strolled West along the waterfront to the Praça do Comércio (Commerce Square), the largest in the city, inland of which is the pedestrianised Rua Augusta, where we enjoyed a pleasant lunch in the sunshine, before finding a 28 tram on Rua Conceição to shake and rattle to the end of the route at Campo Ourique.  Although not easy to take photos along the way, this is a pleasant way to see some of the many facets of the city.  The more adventurous can find tickets that allow you to ‘hop on, hop off’ wherever you wish to spend longer.

After a brief stretch of legs, we found another tram back to the Praça Luís de Camões, the main plaza of Bairro Alto.  Surrounding side streets are where the nightlife is best, and we’d read of an opportunity to hear the local fado music, without having to be out all night.  We made our way to the venue, but finding nobody around to book with, wandered a while, enjoying colourful street art and eclectic shops.  On our return a less-than-welcoming front of house lady told us if we hadn’t booked we’d have to wait to see if they could fit us in, as they had a party booked.

Fado is performed in small, intimate bars, played on two guitars, a traditional Portuguese accompanied by a ‘normal’ acoustic guitar.  Some songs are performed by a female singer, who sometimes duets with a male.  However, this particular show is a tourist attraction, and soon a large party of Indians arrived to be seated at restaurant-style tables.  As they were not apparently interested in the show, and certainly not in abiding by the strict rules that one listens in silence, for us the atmosphere was spoiled and we left disappointed.

Making our way back to the ferry home, though, we enjoyed the change of atmosphere as the city began to slip into evening entertainment mode.

Wednesday 9 – Thursday 10 October

Rather than rush straight into taking in the tourist sights, our priorities on arrival in this capital city were rather more down to earth and domestic: laundry, food shopping and watering the boat inside and out.  After a stupendously unwelcoming reception in the marina office, we dealt with the salt and empty tanks onboard, and then loaded up the bikes with panniers full of dirty clothes.  However, the docks where the marina lies are separated from the city by train and tram lines, as well as a four lane carriageway. Mate began to wonder whether everybody does their best to get out of Lisbon – as fast as possible?  There is a subway, accessed by long flights of steps, with a channel for bike wheels that is so steep as to render it almost impossible to control the descent, and a huge effort to push a loaded cycle up at the other end.  The alternative is a footbridge…with steps.  What do people of limited mobility, in wheelchairs, or with pushchairs do?  Eventually finding a crossing of all the road and rails, we found ourselves on a pavement barely the width of one’s shoulders, right alongside the fast traffic, at rush hour; which then petered out to nothing.  To our right was a steep road into the city, with no pavement, and steps.  Not a great first impression.  You may have guessed by now, that we just gave up and returned to the boat.

The following morning, armed with new information from Google Maps, we found a bike lane into the city, and accidentally discovered the Mercado da Ribera.  This is a large traditional market hall, offering a good range of fruit and veggies, fish, and other food items.  Better still, across a second hall full of colourful florists’ stalls, we found ourselves in the Time Out Market – a food hall of delicatessens, wine merchants and a huge array of top notch fast food – heaven.

It would have been rude not to have lunch, and it’s as well we did, for the afternoon was spent pushing those laden bikes up incredibly steep streets to sit in a hot, sweaty launderette for an hour.  It has to be said, though, that as launderettes go, this one was pretty impressive, set in a vaulted, crypt-like structure of stone arches and white walls.  It was managed by a friendly lady who spoke English, and was immaculately clean as always.

Coming back down the hills was equally scary, as the cobbles are very slippery and even chunky off-road tyres don’t feel entirely secure.  Thank goodness it wasn’t raining.  Unexpectedly, we were able to take in some impressions of the city centre, busy with tourists, trams and tuk-tuks.

Monday 7 – Tuesday 8 October

After all the touristing of the past couple of days, it was time to get back to the serious business of sailing.  We set off South in the usual lack of morning breeze, and found ourselves in the midst of a huge pod of dolphin.  Some were busy feeding, while half a dozen came and played around the boat and in the bow wave for some time.  After three hours, around noon as usual, the wind filled in, from the Northwest as forecast, and we were able to set full main and gennaker, maintaining good speeds and trying to establish a watch pattern for this long passage.

By 1430 the wind had increased enough that it was time to furl the gennaker out of harm’s way, and set the genoa.  Later in the afternoon we swapped the foresails over again, until dusk when the staysail was set up for the night.  As it seems to suit us, Mate took the first long watch of the night, and when Skipper took over the deck in the early hours of the morning, we gybed to make the most of the now Northerly wind.  Since the afternoon, we’d been within sight of another yacht often flying a red gennaker, sailing a little closer inshore, and we remained ‘sailing in company’ with them all the way to Lisbon.   A Dutch-flagged yacht, Yndeleau’s skipper had spotted our peculiarly un-seamanlike wobble on the AIS trail during that gybe manoeuvre, and kindly called us to check all was well.  The reassurance of knowing another yacht is with you on a long night sail was one of many special aspects of this passage.

The night was drizzly, damp and misty, the stars obliterated and shore lights invisible: a very dark night.  Just before 0300 we cleared the absolutely Western-most point of mainland Europe, without fanfare nor yet another label of “finis terra”; this one’s simply called Cabo da Roca.  Around dawn, Skipper gybed again to take us through the inshore passage between Cabo Carvoeiro and Ilha da Berlenga, while we lost ‘sight’ (on our AIS) of Yndeleau for a time as they followed the other two sides of the square.  We were pleased to pick them up again, with occasional real sightings through the murky misty gloom, as we drew gradually nearer to Lisbon.

Having observed for some time breakers on an invisible shore, at 1615 the cry of ‘Land Ahoy!’ suddenly went up: we were only two and a half miles offshore.  The sun finally broke through and the cloud burned off, revealing an attractive coastline fragrant with warm pine and eucalyptus.  The wind strengthened to F6, with gusts of 35 knots and a big following sea, under the bank of fog to our stern.  Our electronics recorded our top speed to date of 11.5 knots as we surfed down a wave.  With speeds regularly around 9 knots, Mate was too busy steering to realise it was more than time to reef; fortunately Skipper was paying attention and set about reducing the main sail to second reef.  Unfortunately the reefing pennant (rope) caught around the batten that shapes the top edge of the sail bag, and it tore away from the fabric by about half a metre…another job for Mate and the trusty sewing machine.  We ended up with a very messy bag in the reefed sail, evidenced by an otherwise excellent set of photos from our companion ship, but it served to calm everything down to more manageable conditions, as we headed along the Barra Norte into the Rio Tejo for the capital city.

We bid farewell to our companions, who chose to anchor in the bay alongside Cascais marina, as we’d decided to ignore the encroaching dusk in a bid to make a sheltered marina well up-river.  Amongst a plethora of yachts and catamarans, as well as tourist and commuter ferries, we managed to drop sails and motor under the huge Ponte de 25 Abril suspension bridge, which has a clearance of 70 metres, and carries both road and rail traffic.  Skipper had chosen the Doca de Alcântara, one of four municipal marinas and the one with the best shelter from the wash and tidal flow of the river, as it is tucked behind a large commercial wharf.  Finally out of the still strong wind, we gave up on the reception pontoon and tucked into a vacant berth alongside a sturdy pontoon.  We completed 215 Miles in 35 hours: our highest average passage speed of just over six knots.

The pilot book states this marina is “a peaceful spot and the distant hum from bridge traffic is not a problem”.  Hmmm, only if one is particularly hard of hearing: there is a constant harsh thrum from the bridge, the dock lies under the final approach flight path into Lisbon international airport, and behind a commercial dock busy with loading and unloading of large container vessels, supported by a mobile crane that crashes to and fro along the dock road.  The usual city noises of sirens, revellers and traffic is but a background blur in comparison…but at least most of it quietens down overnight.

Tuesday 1 – Sunday 6 October

On Tuesday morning we manoeuvred over onto an outer hammerhead at Bayona marina, to rinse off the salt and grime of Vigo and refill our water tanks.  An unsightly heap of someone else’s unwanted detritus greeted us on a scruffy pontoon, nobody responded to our radio call to request permission to dock, and when we made our way up to the marina office, nobody was on duty.  We made a quick sortie around the town to track down some provisions and take in the sights, and when we returned to the marina, the guy in the office apparently couldn’t be bothered with the paperwork, and said as long as we were leaving straightaway there was no charge.  We must have omitted to mention that we’d helped ourselves to water.

We were soon back and settled in the anchorage for our last night in Spain.  Mate was a little disappointed not to have had the opportunity to explore the Islas Cies, the fourth, final and Southernmost of the National Parks, but was comforted with the observation that they looked a lot higher than Isla Ons, and would have presented more challenging walking.

The following morning we were up and away at first light: 0800, and at noon ship’s time we’d reached the border with Portugal, all under motor as there was no wind at all.  The Rio Miño (Spanish) or Minho (Portuguese) forms a natural frontier, and is guarded at its mouth on the Spanish side by a very distinctive conical hill, visible for miles once passed heading South.  As the afternoon breeze began to fill in, we were able to run under the gennaker, until the wind strengthened to NW 4-5, and we continued under genoa only.

As the city skyline gradually clarified in the afternoon haze, at teatime we were five miles from Póvoa de Varzim (pronounced something like Povwad Varzim), and we gybed to make the entrance, before furling the foresail and motoring around the Western breakwater and into the harbour.  We dropped anchor as indicated by the pilot book, between the fishing harbour and the marina pontoons, having sailed 54 Miles in around eleven hours.

That evening we adjusted the ship’s clock to Portuguese time, back an hour and corresponding with UK hours.

The following day we felt an unpleasant grating as we touched an uncharted rock at Low Water, so we reanchored before going ashore to explore.  Entering the marina office to register our arrival, which we’d been led to believe must be done immediately on making landfall, we were advised that “the books are wrong” and yachts are NOT allowed to anchor in most Portuguese harbours, except with special permission from the relevant authorities.  We apologised, and arranged to move into an assigned berth in the marina on our return from town later in the afternoon.

Having looked at the proposed berth, we weren’t enthusiastic about moving as boats already tied up were lurching and snatching at their lines, while l’Escale was lying calm and stable in the harbour.  When we returned, it was approaching High Water, it was Springs (highest and lowest tides in the bi-monthly cycle), and a large swell was running – straight at the harbour wall, and crashing over the top to pour into the marina, causing even more and violent movement.  One of the pontoon fingers had collapsed, with a yacht still attached to it, and staff were doing their best to mitigate damage.  They were quite happy to allow us to stay in the harbour, and the marina manager later confirmed that he’d received authorisation from the maritime police that we could remain there.

The French skipper of yacht Millennium that we’d met in A Coruña had recommended a selection of stops, and especially Póvoa de Varzim as a cheaper alternative to Porto, reachable by metro in an hour.  As it turned out, it was a free stopover, and we enjoyed visiting the beautiful old town of Porto at the mouth of the River Douro, home of port wine.  The mini self-guided walking tour of Porto that Mate put together from information on the Internet is on the ‘Tourist Tracks’ page.

On Sunday we made an early start to take the metro down to Porto again, this time to catch a train for a two-hour ride up the Douro valley to Pinhão (say Pinyow as in owl), where we enjoyed an alfresco lunch on a vine-shaded terrace overlooking the river, before meeting a traditional rabelo boat for a two-hour cruise up to the Tao dam and back.  The sun shone, Mate spotted a kingfisher racing along the riverbank and the scenery was stunning.  A fitting, if delayed, celebration of our wedding anniversary.

Monday 30 September

Ready to make a move at last, we motored back through the debris-strewn and diesel-slicked waters of this Southern-most ria, the most ‘developed’ of them all.  A questionable use of the word, considering the destruction mankind wreaks on our beautiful world. There was no wind, and a misty drizzle accompanied us for the whole 15 Miles to Bayona, where we found a comfortable anchorage off the beach outside the marina, among yachts of many nations, including one from Alaska.