Motorways, Marble and Mouth-ache

Mouth-ache ? What? Don’t worry, all will become clear.

Departure day finally arrived. Rarely has a holiday been less eagerly anticipated, I suspect. However, we packed the car and set off for Salzburg. One thing was certain, it wasn’t ballast that would be lacking. Whyever do we imagine that so much stuff is necessary? We always have several times as much luggage as anyone else. Most participants of this flotilla holiday would arrive by charter flight with a 20kg baggage allowance. We probably had close to 100kg between us. We work on the principle that if there is room to spare in the car we have obviously forgotten something. As the cars get bigger, over the years, so do the mountains of kit.

If you’re looking for a rant about German motorways you clearly haven’t been reading my blog for long. Regular reader(s) will appreciate my restraint on this occasion. The roadworks even provided an amusing interlude. The satnav advised us to leave the Autobahn, and we ended up eating our lunch in a forest picnic area. We shared a table with a couple who clearly worked together. After eating quickly, they grinned sheepishly, bid us Guten Tag and scuttled off into the undergrowth together. Germans, eh? Always taking their clothes off at the drop of a pair of Lederhosen. (The Skipper thought I was imagining things, but he has led a sheltered life.)

It’s always a little frustrating to stay somewhere for just one night. For precisely that reason, I had booked a hotel right in the centre of Salzburg. Despite arriving later than anticipated, we had time for a stroll round the pretty bit and found a traditional-style restaurant where we had a very good dinner.

The next day, we didn’t really know how long it would take to get to Rovinj as the satnav data disk didn’t extend to Croatia, but we decided to make a detour to have a look at Ljubljana. That turned out to be an excellent idea. The old part of the town was undergoing major renovations, (reminding me of Bratislava many years earlier, where I used to stand at the tram stop, a little tipsy, watching workmen carefully laying cobbles well into the night) but is very charming. We ate at a rather tourist-trappy “traditional Slovenian” restaurant, but the food was fine.

Ljubljana; Caption competition

Thrown back on our (=my) traditional map-reading skills, we managed to locate Croatia without undue difficulty.  It seemed strange, though, to queue for border controls and have to CHANGE MONEY! Journey back in time! (Oh, sorry, some of you may not yet have joined the euro.)

Our hotel in Rovinj was in the Yugotours mould, but had been reasonably-well smartened up, and was right on the seafront, with a large pool. We had an aperitif at a waterfront bar, watching the sunset.

The next day, I had a slight twinge of toothache at breakfast, but thought no more of it. We set out to explore. The old town is just lovely. It’s one of those fortified coastal towns from the holiday ads. We wandered up and down the narrow streets, and bought a beautiful Dalmatian marble “desk set” which we consider to be far better suited to its new role accommodating soap and toothbrushes.  In the afternoon, we relaxed by the pool. I didn’t know it then, of course, but this was to be the last time I was to wear a swimming costume on holiday (as opposed to in the garden at home) for four years, and counting…

Rovinj

View from Rovinj

Later that night, the tooth started to get really troublesome, and the following morning it was clear Something Must Be Done. It was, of course, Saturday, and we had to be at Kremik to pick up the boat later that day. The hotel receptionist was not overly helpful, but directed us to a clinic in town. After wandering up and down stairs and opening unmarked doors, I eventually located a dentist and nurse sitting chatting over a coffee. After brief negotiations, we agreed to communicate in Italian, and she quickly diagnosed an abscess and prescribed ampicillin. While writing the prescription, the nurse asked, “E gravida?” Why ask me if it’s serious, I thought, then remembered it’s Italian for pregnant. At my age?! Anyway, armed with penicillin and painkillers, we set off for Kremik.

I may be doing it an injustice, but my experience is that inland Croatia is not very exciting. The motorway winds through damp and misty woods and farmland for hour after hour. There are, I’m told pretty lakes to visit, but we didn’t have time. I drove for hours to keep my mind off the Tooth, and eventually we dropped down to the coast and passed through a series of slightly scruffy holiday villages to Kremik. I had been in such pain all day that any nervousness about the boat had been banished, so it was with great bravado that I swanned up to the Sunsail office and announced our arrival. “Your boat is Fandan II”, the girl told us, “down this pontoon, on the right”.  “Great, thanks,” I grinned. I’m sure she was convinced.

The marina boasted a decent enough restaurant, and the Tooth was placated with a bottle of Macedonian cabernet sauvignon, which was really not bad. I threw myself onto the forepeak bunk and fell instantly into the best sleep I had had for weeks. Antibiotics + paracetamol + alcohol + exhaustion = zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

One Giant Leap

To keep us amused over the winter, we’re going to take a little cruise back in time. Whilst the Skipper and I may have let slip one or two clues as to our inexperience when we were let loose on an unsuspecting Baltic with Das Drama in 2011, we had of course already learned some essential stuff, like what to call the pointy end, and where to store - sorry, stow - the gin.

To go back to the book of Genesis, in this case Edward’s Classe de Mer in 197*, would be to test your patience a little too far, I fear. Perhaps one day. For the moment, let’s take you back just a few years, to 2009…

We had learned to sail dinghies in Greece (and were pretty rubbish at it), Ed (for he cannot truthfully be called Skipper until he has actually done some skippering) had done some inshore racing, and we had been to an RYA school on La Gomera in the Canaries, where Ed had passed Day Skipper and I had been officially certified as Competent.

I expect there are plenty of sailors around who have bluffed their way to a bareboat charter with as much, and quite possibly less, experience, but such is not the Skipper’s way.

I was, at that time, far from convinced that I wanted to go sailing at all. The sum total of my yachting experience was that week in the Canaries, which I had not enjoyed: We took the three reefs out of the mainsail once, just to learn how to do it, and put them straight back in again, the food was dreadful, and it was cold. In the Canaries, in June. Perishing. All in all, not an experience likely to infect the novice with the sailing bug.

We had a problem. Ed was very clear that sailing had become a real passion for him. He wanted to get out on a boat as often as possible, and didn’t really want to spend his precious holiday doing anything else. I was too scared to sleep every time he went off cross-channel racing, and didn’t even want to hear about how it had gone. He nobly proposed that, if I really insisted, he would give it up. Fine. This way, please, for resentment, blame, guilt and all sorts of other vital ingredients for a happy relationship. I must at some point have reached a conscious decision, although my recollections are unclear, at least to TRY to share my Other Half’s abiding passion. Why should it be HIS hobby that determines how we spent our leisure time together?  Well it’s got to be somebody’s, and anyway, I didn’t really have a counter proposition.

So. Where to start? We knew something about flotilla holidays from our brief, although frequently spectacular (in the literal sense of providing a spectacle), dinghy days. Then, the “caravanners” were looked down upon. They wore proper clothes and never had wet hair. Older and wiser now, those factors had quietly migrated to the positives side. The Skipper did the research, (He’s the planning half of the team; ENTJ, if you’re interested) and decided upon Croatia. Beautiful scenery, warm weather, reachable by car, not too expensive, recognized holiday company, and there was another factor. Let me think. Ah, yes! Not tidal! Let’s keep it as simple as we can – a sound philosophy if ever there was one.

There wasn’t really a choice when it came to the boat. How big a Beneteau do you want? What’s the smallest you have? 32 ft .Done. The Skipper is always nervous about my reaction to the boat he’s chartered (and never more so than when we first set eyes on Das Drama, years later), but in fact he’s the one who values his creature comforts above almost all else. Actually, I quite like camping!

The flotilla week was booked some months in advance, and I was regularly nagged to brush up the stuff we had learned for our French boat licences, i.e. colregs, lights and marks etc. In short, all the fun bits designed to make sure you’re really looking forward to your, ahem, holiday. My department was to organize some overnight stops between Luxembourg and the flotilla’s home port of Kremik.

The plan that materialized was as follows: 1 night in Salzburg (pretty, spot of culture, dust off rusty German) and 2 nights in Rovinj, on the Istrian coast, (very pretty, pool, souvenir shopping) on the way down, and 3 nights at a winery near Verona (more culture than you could shake a stick at, unlimited Valpolicella) on the way back. I was genuinely looking forward to that bit. I figured if we got that far I would have earned it.

As the departure date grew near, I became increasingly fretful, to the point where I could barely sleep. I spent hours staring at the ceiling and planning how I was going to deal with my terror. The policy which emerged from these extended nocturnal cogitations was that I would just look dead cool, as if I’d been chartering yachts since I was knee-high to a seagull. The theory was that if I acted well enough to convince everyone else then I’d have to believe it myself. The soon-to-be-Skipper was naturally a little nervous himself, at the prospect of his first Command. Unusually for us, we kept our anxieties largely to ourselves, but I think that was just as well. It would hardly have helped to sit there over supper swapping apprehensions night after night.

Safe in the Sound?

Friday morning. Up bright and earIy to head for the bridge. Sleeping on the Folkboat had been much more comfortable this year. I had taken the trouble to bring two full-size flat sheets, which I tucked in all the way round the saloon cushions (they got a bit rust stained, but the marks eventually faded with repeated applications of elbow grease and noxious chemicals). We had decent pillows, and the flat open sleeping bag, and the result was very much more like a proper bed. I think I’ve mentioned how much I hate sleeping in a slithery synthetic sarcophagus. We also abandoned the idea of sleeping cross-wise across the boat, as there were too many bumps and ridges between the cushions. The only snag is that making and un-making the bed each day are duties which are quite clearly allocated to the Mate on board any competently-skippered boat, or so I am informed. I haven’t yet mastered the art of crawling around inside a Folkboat without cracking my head on seemingly unnecessary (although beautifully varnished) bits of wood every 10 seconds.

Anyway, refreshed and quite chirpy despite the cranial contusions, I set out first thing in search of a weather forecast. The news was pretty good: SW 4-5 in the morning, decreasing 3-4 later. There were still a few thundery showers around, though. Having put the reef in at sea yesterday, it was a bit of an untidy mess, so we had taken it out on arrival at Neuhof so we could flake the sail neatly. Looking out across the sound from the marina this morning we could see a number of yachts, and nobody seemed to have a reef in. We would be staying in sheltered waters all day, and with the wind expected to drop we decided to start out with full sail and see how it went.

Yet again, we allowed far too much time to get to the bridge. I suppose you get more confident about your timing if you sail that way regularly, but the bridge opening time is very short, and it’s a dreadful inconvenience if you miss it. Combine that with the Skipper’s natural caution and pessimism, and you get an hour of sailing little triangles round an increasingly crowded bay hemmed in by shallow patches and eel nets. (I can understand the Skipper’s point of view, though. A few years ago he had become excessively blasé about business travel, and one day sat tapping away at his laptop in Frankfurt airport until just before departure time for a day trip to Edinburgh. Unfortunately they had changed the Gate, and it’s a Very Big airport. This is what’s now officially known as a schon weg moment.*)

We noticed a few boats going through the bridge with their mainsail up. The Skipper views this as showing off, and therefore most unseamanlike. In any case it would be unwise in the Folkboat, given the vastly greater power of the sail compared to the engine, unless there was practically no wind. (Panicky thought, much too late, just as the bridge is opening: OMG! Did we check the petrol tank?)

Feeling quite expert now as we motored through, we headed confidently for the little side exit from Stralsund harbour, marked by a couple of cardinals. We got the sails up, and headed downwind towards the Barhöf channel. Just ahead of us, a chap sailing on his own was bowling along nicely with his sails goose winged, everything perfectly balanced. We tried to follow suit, but it didn’t seem quite as easy as it looked, and I found myself constantly tinkering. We were making quite good progress, but getting a little weary of downwind sailing. Something a little more exhilarating might be more fitting end to our sailing season, we agreed.

Looking round, we could see a couple of menacing clouds poised atop their vertical dark grey columns of torrential rain like sitting hens. One of them, lurking just inland from Stralsund, looked as if we might be in its path. We decided it was time to head back to Altefähr and start getting the boat tidied. Tacking back down the Sound, the wind began to stiffen, and we were cracking along nicely. We had been watching the squall, and began to believe it would miss us, and indeed we hardly got rained on at all. However, we had seriously underestimated the size of the area where the strong winds generated by this little storm would be felt. I commented that it seemed hardly worth putting in a reef when we were so nearly home. Barely had I finished speaking when suddenly poor little Haltlos was on her ear, and it was clear we had to get those sails down.

Easier said than done. The problem was the jib. We let it fly, but it seemed certain to get wrecked by the wind long before I would be able to get it down. I tried to go forward, but with the sheets whipping about everywhere and the sail itself liable to take a preemptive swipe at me the Skipper decided it was too dangerous. I wondered later (months later, in fact) if, given that the jib on a Folkboat is pretty small, it mightn’t have been possible to subdue it by tightening both sheets to keep the sail centred while releasing the halyard. This would make it much easier to keep the boat into wind, and would also serve to stop the sail going in the water as it came down. Don’t know if that plan would have worked – I expect I’ll get chance to find out one day. In the event, we hove to for a little think. Luck was with us, in that the wind was blowing straight down the channel towards open water. We therefore decided to let it blow us along for a bit, confidently expecting the fierce wind to drop fairly soon. This time sailing downwind was rather less dull. We flew along at about 6 kts, with the sea running behind us as well. Another attempt to get the sails down had to be abandoned as there was still too much wind, but eventually things calmed down.

I think this says it all.
Source: http://hem.spray.se/anders.sberg/swe52.htm

I went forward to get the jib away, but the Skipper seemed to be having difficulty keeping her into wind. There was much peering over the stern and revving of the outboard. Unsympathetically, I wondered aloud what could be so difficult about it. The Skipper seemed equally bemused, until the light dawned. “I had the engine in neutral, that’s why!” he announced. Well, yes, that would explain it. We finally got the canvas away, although it took me ages to get the mainsail under control and tied to the boom. I seemed to have got progressively worse at this as the week went on, but today it was almost farcical. My fingers were just too tired to tie a knot.

Perhaps surprisingly, we finished off the day with perhaps our best attempt yet at tying up in a Baltic mooring box. We have discussed it at length, and believe the method goes as follows:

The first line goes on the upwind stern post. Skipper motors up to said post and lassoes it. He then lets out this line and motors slowly forward. As soon as I can, I jump onto the pontoon and secure a bow line diagonally opposite the first. The boat is now safely immobilized. A second bow line goes on next, and the Skipper lets out the stern line to let the boat drift towards the second post and get the final line on. Then all you have to do is tinker a bit to get the boat straight, and acknowledge the applause of the assembled onlookers with a bashful little wave.

It has to be said that this business is a lot easier if there are permanent ropes from the posts to the pontoon, defining the sides of the boxes, as there are at Altefähr. This means you don’t need to worry if the boat pivots round to point across the box, as it will simply rebound off the separating rope. The weather again turned nasty once we were safely tied up, and the water was quite bumpy even in the harbour. Not sure our arrival would have looked quite so professional had we tried it half an hour later!

Reflecting on the afternoon’s performance over supper in the Greek restaurant in the pinewoods (bliss – not a herring or bratwurst within sniffing distance), the Skipper conceded that if you decide to head in to port because you’re concerned about the weather then it’s not very logical to carry on with full sail. We ought at the very least to have reefed the mainsail at that point, and should probably have taken down the sails and just motored home. Had the wind been blowing us onto the shore, the story could have taken a nasty turn. Wanting to squeeze in as much sailing as possible on our last day would have made a pretty lame excuse.

The next box in the harbour was occupied by the Folkboat that had been chartered by the couple with a baby. Philip told us they had had to abandon their holiday and leave the boat in another port on Rügen as the baby had been seasick. (Really doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?) Philip and a friend had gone to collect it (the boat, that is, not the baby), and were hit by the same squall as us. He reckoned they had about 25kts of wind for a while. The Skipper and I nodded sympathetically, but refrained from sharing too many details about our own experience.

The Skipper had earlier expressed the view that this year’s holiday wouldn’t provide the same quality of blog material as last year’s. Our greater competence and experience would make it a thoroughly enjoyable week for us, but an uneventful one which wouldn’t be very interesting to read about. Mother Nature stepped in to put us right on that one. A glance at the log book shows we were two notches further up the Beaufort scale than last year pretty much all of the time. It’s easy to look stylish on the baby slope, but it’s still hard to remember not to stick your bum out on the mogully black run. However, to strain the analogy a little further, if a low centre of gravity helps you stay on your skis, a huge lump of cast iron at the bottom of the keel is similarly handy if you’re going to take a small boat out in a Force 5!

*Already gone.

Angle of Vanishing Mate

Thursday morning at Wieck. We went in search of breakfast (and other useful things, having failed to find any facilities for visitors). Yesterday evening I had spotted a pretty-looking café which claimed to be Austrian, just across the swing bridge from our berth. Happily, they were open for breakfast. The building was the former primary school: there were class photos on the walls, and pots of crayons and assorted toys on shelves around the room.  Very jolly, if you weren’t too traumatized by your own nursery school experiences.

You may have gathered by now that we care deeply about our morning coffee. Judging by the furniture and general appearance of this kitchen-style cafe, and the accent of the lady proprietor, I was optimistic that the place really was run by Austrians, for this would imply a vastly more palatable offering for the caffeine-needy. Why should Austrian coffee be so much better than German? It is not, as you might guess, because Austria is nearer to Italy (although that may well account for the superiority of the cuisine in general over that of their larger Teutonic neighbour). Italians may be incredibly fussy about their coffee, but the brutal truth is that much of what they serve is gritty, tepid and fit only for purging drains. No, the reason lies in the proximity of Vienna to the Ottoman Empire. The Austrian capital was never conquered by the Sultans, but it wasn’t for want of trying. Many centuries of, often uncomfortable, neighbourliness inevitably resulted in some cultural blurring. The Austrians got proper coffee and sweet pastries, and the Turks got spaetzle. 30-love.

We had an excellent breakfast. The coffee really was wonderful, and we pigged out a bit on the pastries. Back at Haltlos, we readied the boat for our return to the Strelasund, aiming to get at least as far as Stahlbrode. (Gastronomically a bit of a come-down: smoked herring or barbecued bratwurst was the choice last year, if I remember correctly.) We hadn’t managed to find much weather info, but the Navtex had no severe weather warnings to impart, and we were in very sheltered waters, so we didn’t worry too much.

I was a bit concerned, though, about the one-way system through the building site at the mouth of the river. Holding station in the middle of a waterway is all very well heading upstream, but threatened to be more challenging when being carried down by the current.  We also had a debate about the order in which to release our mooring lines as the wind and current were in opposite directions. We decided to leave the upwind stern line until last, and made a smooth and competent-looking exit. This wind/current combination seemed to help, in fact, bringing our bow neatly into line downstream as we reversed out. I was posted to my usual spot at the mast, and indeed spotted a cluster of buoys which we could have used if we’d had to wait. In the event, the light turned green at the perfect moment and we puttered out.

Once clear of the river entrance, we got the main sail up and I set about raising the jib. This must be done from the foredeck, with a slightly complicated system that involves hooking the halyard to another line which can be pulled tight from the cockpit. Suddenly, there was quite a bit of traffic. “Do you mind if we start sailing while you do that?” asked the Skipper, “We’re a bit in the way here.” Before I had chance to reply, I was given a textbook demonstration of something the Nordic Folkboat is apparently famous for. This creature knows exactly how far she would like to heel in any given situation, and sees no reason to waste any time getting there. It’s like flicking a switch. There you are, flat deck, alles in ordnung, and half a second later…

It is fortunate that I had a firm grip of the jib halyard at that moment. As soon as the Skipper steered away from the wind, I found myself prostrate across the deck, hind paws scrabbling for purchase – no rails, remember- and a face-full of inflated jib. I got an arm round the mast, and felt sufficiently confident of my situation to remonstrate with the Skipper. “You said jib out on the starboard side!” I wailed. “Ah,” came the reply, “sorry, I meant starboard tack”. My reply was muffled by the sail, (which was still vindictively trying to push me overboard) and it’s probably just as well from the point of view of matrimonial harmony. I enquired politely of the Skipper if we mightn’t be a tad over-canvassed, and this was indeed his view. I asked for a short time-out to fetch and attach my safety line. The Skipper’s log records that this near-serious-problem arose from the awkwardness of steering with the outboard. I include the previous sentence for balance and completeness.

Putting a reef in at sea proved straightforward. The big advantage with a Folkboat is that everything is of manageable dimensions and doesn’t require great strength. You may be wondering why I am always the lucky soul who gets to do all this exciting mast and foredeck stuff, but actually it’s no problem when the boom is only at about chest height, and also I’m a bit more nimble-footed than the Skipper. (I'm not good at sitting still, and when I'm supposed to be relaxing in the cockpit and enjoying the view I'm usually casting about for something useful to do.) Additionally, to be fair, it’s useful to have the Skipper at the helm where he can keep a lookout and think about what we need to do next.

Having re-established a reasonably seamanlike demeanour, we sailed out down the channel. We passed an impressive fleet of German and Scandinavian boats heading for Wieck for the regatta weekend. We were particularly impressed by the Danish boats, of which there were dozens, because of their ensigns. None of the faded and frayed jobbies so beloved of the English yachtsman – no, these were real symbols of national pride: clean, new and ENORMOUS!

Not enormous, but proudly flown nonetheless

Having got the appropriate sail arrangement, we had a fantastic day’s sail. It was largely upwind, which we both enjoy, and so, clearly, does Haltlos. There were a couple of little squalls, but not too much rain. There was a bit of a Bucket Incident, but I’ll spare you the details of that. We had made very good time, so decided to continue past Stahlbrode to Neuhof. This would make it easy to pass through the bridge at Stralsund at lunchtime the next day. We had that rare treat, for us, of coming into a familiar port, and the slot we had used earlier in the week was free so we cheered ourselves up with a smooth and trouble-free berthing. Sometimes we almost feel we’re getting the hang of this yachting lark.
A short while later, the torrential rain we had so cleverly dodged all day finally caught up with us. We had just about got the cockpit tent in place, and we cowered inside watching the raindrops bounce off the water, unable to converse above the deafening battering on the roof. It didn't whip up much of a sea, but it happened very fast and there must have been some nasty gusts.
Sadly we have only one more day of sailing. Looking on the bright side, this is our last night of fish and chips - tomorrow the exotic delights of the Athos. Really looking forward to kleftiko and rice!

Spot of weather at Neuhof

Cowes in the Baltic

I find myself under some pressure to crack on with this blog. The Skipper is not at all comfortable with my guardianship of The Log, my indispensable work of reference. I find the implication that I am not far enough up the evolutionary scale to be trusted with anything so fragile as a book rather hurtful. I mean, I even have opposable thumbs! I suppose I must acknowledge, though, that his concern is not entirely without justification…

A little while ago, I was sitting on the terrace working on an earlier episode, with the log next to the computer, on the garden table. Skipper wandered out from the kitchen (he regularly checks in there to see if any food is being prepared and might be in need of quality control), picked up said logbook and observed that it was not totally, how shall I put it, flat. I was treated to a severe Look. “It’s in the shade,” I protested, “Perhaps it’s been somewhere humid?” Another Look. Then the moment I had been dreading: he flicked through the pages, stopping at an entry from Brittany earlier this year. I confessed. “I spilt some water. Really, it was only water.”

“It’s WAVY!” The voice of indignant outrage. I failed  to keep a straight face.  I mean, I said I was sorry, and I really am, but is it so unacceptable that a sailing logbook should get a little damp occasionally?

Anyway, back on the Folkboat. One of the ports earmarked by the Skipper for a visit this year was Wieck – reputed to be the Cowes of the Baltic. The main yacht marina is a couple of miles upriver from the coast, beyond a swing bridge. We thought that sounded a bit of a drag, but the chart also showed a number of sailing clubs with those lovely mooring boxes along both sides of the river below the bridge, so we set off from Lubmin with the idea of finding a berth on the river, and only going all the way up to the marina if necessary.

It was a beautiful morning, and I considered walking along to the beach for an early-morning swim, but I’m afraid to say indolence prevailed. We sailed out of the Lubmin channel, and decided to do a long-ish dogleg as we didn’t think it would take us all day to get to Wieck, and our remaining sailing time for the year was vanishing rapidly. In hindsight, I realize we must have become much more confident about manoeuvring the Folkboat in port and negotiating the mooring boxes, because we had stopped worrying about getting in as early as possible to get the ghastly berthing business over with!

We sailed out to the Ariadne buoy in a SW force 3-4, with a calm sea and warm sunshine. We then turned towards Wieck, which lies close to the end of the Strelasund channel between Rügen and the mainland. We had a very satisfying upwind sail towards the marked channel leading to Wieck. The Skipper was smug about staying ahead of a couple of bigger boats going the same way, as we again marveled at Haltlos’ enthusiasm for sailing upwind. From the Mate’s point of view, short tacking the Folkboat is delightfully simple and not at all strenuous. (There are a couple of little winches, but I’ve only ever used them for tying on fenders.)

When we reached the river mouth, the scene before us bore so little resemblance to the picture in the pilot book that we seriously wondered if we were in the right place, despite having followed a series of buoys numbered exactly as expected. Where there should have been a few trees and a little ferry landing stage, we found a huge construction site, and the river entrance reduced to a passage not much wider than a lock. A one-way system was in operation, and the light was red. We chugged as slowly as possible, but the light stubbornly refused to change to green. There were a couple of fuel-dock-style pontoons attached to the riverbank, and some of our travelling companions tied up to wait. We were about to do the same when, finally, the light changed and skipper gave our poor little outboard some welly to get through quickly and avoid getting squashed. When we’re motoring, the Skipper has to sit on the aft deck to reach the throttle. From this position he is not far above the water, and so can see very little ahead. In marinas or busy channels, the Mate is therefore instructed to stand on the foredeck and shout instructions. I always have the feeling that other boats’ crews are saying to each other, “Look at that poor bloke getting a steady stream of orders from his Frau!” but really, if I don’t rattle on like a particularly bossy satnav I get, “Talk to me, talk to me!”

We pootled on up the river, and soon found an empty berth belonging to one of the yacht clubs, clearly labelled as free until several days later. We wriggled more-or-less neatly into the space, watched from the quayside by a couple of firemen (presumably off-duty) sipping beer from bottles and clearly not inclined to offer any assistance. I jumped aboard a rather smart little racing yacht next door to get our lines sorted, and our firemen looked slightly surprised, but (wisely) decided it was not their affair.

We quickly realized that the following weekend was Wieck’s annual regatta – in fact we were lucky to arrive on the Wednesday, as the place was quickly filling up. Presumably the owners of our berth were not into racing and accordion music, and had gone in search of somewhere more tranquil for the duration. Along both sides of the river, marquees and stalls were being assembled and equipped for large scale beer-and-herring consumption. We began to wonder just how peaceful our night was going to be. The facilities clearly shown in the pilot book proved to be no more than imaginary. Despite some time spent wandering around we found no club house or any way to pay for our mooring. The crew of the racing boat appeared, off out to practice for the weekend, and told us someone would come by to collect money the next morning. I pretty much stopped worrying about this as there were no facilities whatsoever so what exactly would we be paying for? No water, no power, no loos. No joke, that last point, when all you have is a bucket and you’re moored on a town quay busy with passers-by…

Wieck: the swing bridge

On the bright side, Wieck proved pretty enough, with little houses and flowery gardens along quiet lanes. The swing bridge opens for 10 minutes every hour, and a steady stream of boats was passing in both directions. We asked directions and set off for the supermarket. It proved to be about a mile away – much too far for the Skipper’s sense of humour. It was quite hot, it’s true, and the prospect of walking back laden with water, beer etc brought on one of his grumpy fits. Well, it had to be done. The provisions were stored and we set of in search of supper. We had a drink on the terrace of a smart bar overlooking the bridge, and crossed the river to a rather old-fashioned restaurant with a slightly more varied menu than usual.  We were getting really sick of fish and chips. The option of bits of bacon mixed in with your fried potatoes did little to relieve the monotony.

Back in the DDR

Tuesday dawned bright and pleasantly breezy, as forecast. The first job of the day, of course, is breakfast. People tell us we are very picky about food. We take this as a compliment, although it is rarely, if ever, meant as such, but the reality is that the Skipper won’t eat German bread, and I won’t drink their coffee. The coffee is easily solved, with the Mate’s traditional Provisions Crate™ and the spirit stove, but the food has proved trickier. I have therefore invested in an electric coolbox, which works either on mains or on a car-type 12V socket. This means we can keep butter and cheese, and even a beer or four, (although naturally the lattermost is irrelevant as far as breakfast is concerned. We are not, after all, German.). We had supplies of matzos, plain digestives (the Mate’s favourite) and Tiptree marmalade, so breakfast on board, in the amber light inside the cockpit tent, was more than civilized. The fridge worked pretty well (and proclaimed its usefulness with constant loud whirring), but if the weather had been really hot I don’t think the butter and cheese would have lasted the week. I certainly wouldn’t use it to store meat for more than a day or so. A useful acquisition nonetheless, as it can be plugged in to the socket in the car boot for supermarket shopping on really hot days. Now all we need is the really hot days.

Dead posh breakfast (Love the mug)

Thus refuelled, we set off for Lubmin. We put a reef in in the main sail before leaving the marina. We’d probably have been OK without it, but every now and then there was quite a powerful gust, so it made helming easier, and we still managed around 5½ kts. It’s actually not too tricky to put a reef in at sea (as we discovered later in the week) but Skipper likes to err on the side of caution, bless him.

Fate seems to have it that every time we cross this bay we go all the way on starboard tack, although I’m not sure three crossings is a statistically valid sample. Anyway. Lubmin power station is visible from a far away, and as there is virtually no current we just had to point the boat at the chimneys (clearly marked on the chart) and allow a little for leeway. We made sure to steer clear of a cluster of black-flagged fishing floats, and entered the channel to the marina without difficulty.

Lubmin is the site of a communist-era nuclear power station that was never commissioned. It doesn’t look like a nuclear power station. Why does it have four tall chimneys? If I’ve understood correctly, nuclear power stations do not produce smoke unless something has gone badly wrong. Also, a deep ship channel has been dug from the sea to a harbour at the power station. Just how much uranium did they think they were going to need? Oh well, what do I know? Very recently, a yacht marina has been created with an entrance from the ship channel. Access is therefore simple and sheltered, and there is a pinewood which makes the power station completely invisible from the pontoons. From the marina, it is a 3km walk along the clean, sandy beach to the resort of Lubmin, where there are restaurants and shops.

We tied up at a berth marked with the traditional green “vacant” sign, and went in search of the harbourmaster. There are no buildings at Lubmin marina (yet), but we spotted a tubby gent working on an engine, outside an old container serving as a workshop. I asked where I could find the Harbourmaster, and he replied gruffly that I just had. He led me to his office. At this point it all got just little bit more surreal. Every marina in this area has a restaurant, which is just as well as there are usually no shops, and Lubmin is no exception. Here, the function is discharged by the Gastroschiff   “Das Vaterland”. You couldn’t make it up. Das Vaterland is a retired Hamburg harbour ferry, badly rusted and still painted in its municipal public transport colours, and moored in the corner of the marina. The Skipper, being half French, always gives a shudder at the word “gastro”, because in French it means “tummy upset”. (Hence his point-blank refusal to enter any establishment claiming to be a “gastro-pub”, which in French would mean advertisement promoting gastroenteritis). Plenty of scope here for puerile chuckles at the silliness of foreign languages.

Gastroschiff Das Vaterland. Fried fish, anyone?

Where was I? Ah, yes, the harbourmaster. His office turned out to be a notepad kept under the bar of said Gastroschiff.  He gave us a key for the loos, and I bought tokens from him for the showers. A shower token is called a duschmark. I have never yet dared to ask if this is a parody of “Deutschmark”. Is it a joke, or a very sensitive issue? Pls adv.

We followed a sandy path from the marina into the woods, to a little group of metal containers housing the facilities. These sheds were painted white, but rust-streaked and uninviting. However, this is Germany: inside, the loos and showers were perfectly functional and spotlessly clean.

A Geman couple came in to a berth near ours. They had their car at the marina, and kindly offered to get a crate of beer for us from the supermarket. (They didn’t ask if we needed any food...). We declined, perhaps foolishly, and set off for a stroll along the beach. We walked all the way to Lubmin town, although the Skipper still believes that this had not been the intention*. 

She made me walk  for over HALF AN HOUR

We found a pleasant bar for some refreshment, and headed back to make supper on board. We were amused (well, I was; Skipper was appalled) to see a German walking his dog in the shallows, totally naked (the owner, that is). Again, of course, I didn’t have my specs to hand.

Yet another of my outrageously extravagant kitchenware acquisitions came into its own this evening. I had bought a sort of rubbery-plastic designer collapsible sieve, and was delighted that it worked really well for draining the pasta. Shame we’d run out of beer…

*I’m not that bloody naïve. Skipper.

Grounded, not Aground

When everything had calmed down, we spent a reasonably comfortable night in splendid isolation at the end of the pontoon. There were a few showers, but no more heavenly tantrums. Early on Monday morning, we went in search of a weather forecast, which only confirmed the gloomy predictions we had seen the previous evening, that is to say SW 4 to 5, gusting 6, increasing to SW 6 to 7. We didn’t want to be wimps, but a number of factors stacked up against going out in these conditions. Our main problem was the little outboard. It really isn’t feasible to motor very far, especially if there is a significant swell, when it becomes hopelessly inefficient. Also it guzzles fuel, and sooner or later somebody has to lean out over the stern to fill up the petrol tank. This is a bit hairy at the best of times, but positively foolhardy in a serious swell, and totally impossible in heavy rain as there is no way to prevent water getting into the tank. I suppose I could hold the jerrycan in one hand and an umbrella in the other, like a cross between Amelia Earhart and Mary Poppins, and Skipper could hold me by the ankles and steer at the same time, but it’s not hard to see how such a plan might go awry. Even more critically, we would be following a lee shore… No, all in all there was really no choice but to stay put.

If we were going to be landlubbers for a day, we couldn’t have picked a better place (well, on Rügen, I mean). The marina facilities are excellent, and maybe I could get a ride on that steam train to see a bit more of the island?

Given time to take a closer look at our surroundings, we realized that the mooring boxes behind the landward pontoon were indeed smaller. The Skipper got chatting to yet another friendly neighbour, who thought we might get buffeted a bit where we were, and offered to help us move round to the space next to him, which we duly did. The weather didn’t seem to be quite as lively as forecast, but we had made our decision, and with Haltlos safely tied up in a very sheltered spot even the Skipper felt able to relax.

We found that the narrow gauge railway, the Rasender Roland (Racing Roland – why? sorry, don’t know!), runs from the tiny station at Lauterbach Mole to the charmingly-named little town of Putbus and then on to the main town of Bergen auf Rügen. Putbus was founded as a seaside resort for the aristocracy in the early 19th century, and is famous for the Circus, a perfectly circular arrangement of terraces, inspired by Bath’s Royal Crescent. The original buildings all remain, and although it’s a bit scruffy these days, it’s still the perfect spot for relaxing with a small beer in the sunshine. You can even admire the abundant roses for which the town is also well-known, if such is your inclination. I suppose the luxurious holiday homes were built a little inland from the harbour and beach at Lauterbach to afford some protection in case of a less than idyllic summer, always a risk at this latitude. Feeling the need to acquire a little souvenir, I bought a watercolour and a pretty hand-painted bowl. (The latter, I realized afterwards, when I put on the infamously under-employed specs, was made in Poland, but that’s OK because Poland is not very far away.)

The Buffet Car...

... with wood-burning stove

The Rasender Roland is certainly a tourist attraction, but it is primarily a cheap and reliable form of public transport. We ran to catch the train back to Lauterbach, because we knew it wouldn't be running late. Not sure I could cope with the day-to-day certainties of living in Germany.

My watercolour shows a beached fishing boat (original idea, eh?) loaded with floats. Each float has a tall “flagpole”, with either two red or two black pennants. We had seen dozens of these floats stacked next to the boatyard at Lauterbach, and had come across quite a few in the water. We had assumed them to be lobster pots, but our friendly neighbour in the marina explained that they are always found in pairs, and in fact mark the ends of a tubular eel net. The black ones are not so troublesome because they are used for nets which lie on the bottom, and so you’re not likely to snag them, but the red pennants mark nets suspended just below the surface, so you have to give them a VERY wide berth. Useful information, but whilst we had no reason to doubt him, I was a little puzzled because we hadn’t seen eels on a menu anywhere (thankfully). If they don’t eat them, what DO they do with them? (Answers on a postcard, please.)

My souvenir watercolour: Rügen fishing boats

We made the best of our confinement at Lauterbach to consider a number of possible destinations for the next day, and to make a plan for the rest of the week. The winds were expected to ease, and if the forecast westerly materialized we could have a good sail southwards across the bay. Again, our neighbour was only too pleased to give us the benefit of his local knowledge (and show off his English). He suggested Peenemünde, of V2 rocket notoriety, where there is apparently a very good museum. It was a bit too far, though, given that we had to bear in mind getting back to Altefähr in a few days. (Maybe next time.) He also recommended Lubmin, which we had previously discounted because the pilot book made it sound distinctly unattractive, but he assured us we would be comfortable there, so the choice was made.

Wet, Dry and Wet Again

We slept pretty well, considering that the cabin was, unsurprisingly, a little damp. I had brought a new sleeping bag which opens out completely, to use as a quilt, so at least we weren’t cold. Next morning, the Skipper was in macho mood. “You should try sleeping on a pile of wet sails in a Force 7 in the middle of the Channel!” Yeah, course I should. Or maybe a cardboard box in’t middle of ‘t road?

Most importantly, the sun was shining. The sea was flat, but there was a gentle breath of wind, so maybe Stefan hadn’t got it totally right. We repaired to the restaurant terrace to do the passage plan – never mind the bedclothes, just don’t let the charts get damp.

Making Plans for Haltlos

We had hoped to get as far as Lauterbach, on Rügen island, today, but hesitated because of all this talk of windlessness.

Lauterbach was, of course, the scene of our most ridiculous, in the literal sense, attempt to berth a boat. The Skipper was confident that we now had much better mastery of manoeuvring a long-keel boat, albeit a small one. I didn’t like to contradict him – after all, I certainly couldn’t do any better - but I didn’t honestly remember having acquired any real proficiency in this area.

Our Plan B was a bit vague, but it was light until almost 9 at night, so we didn’t really envisage having to put in an extra overnight stop. In the event, the wind picked up to a steady Force 4 all afternoon, and it even had the good grace to back sufficiently to enable us to cross the bay on one tack. There was a bit of a chop once we cleared the shelter of the Strelasund channel, but only enough to make helming more interesting. This is the sort of sailing the Skipper loves. Not very strenuous.

The Greifswalderbodden is dotted with clear water marks, strategically positioned so you can navigate from any one port to another in simple stages. On a good day, you can see the next buoy from each one you pass. In a manner reminiscent of the episode with Basse Nouvelle in Brittany, the Skipper made sure to pass close enough to read the name on the buoy, just to make sure. He insists this is in no way a comment on his confidence in my navigation, or indeed helming.

Talking of which, though, we did have a bit of a hairy moment, which was entirely my fault. The Skipper asked me to look at the charts to see how close we could pass to the mainland at the end of the channel, to avoid tacking. We were well outside the dredged channel, but our planned course appeared to take us across an area of flat bottom with about 10m of water. Virtually no tides in the Baltic, of course, so it looked fine to me. I went back up, and took the helm. We were idly discussing how soon it might be a good idea to tack, when the depth sounder suddenly showed 2m and started flashing at us. The Skipper went over to peer at it and press buttons. “Never mind that,” I cried, “TACKING NOW!” Curiously, there was nobody in our way, and soon we were scooting along in deep water again. A closer inspection of the chart revealed a small shallow I had failed to spot, for the simple reason that I had been too lazy to put my specs on. I didn’t get a telling-off – it was more one of those schoolmistressy “I’ll leave you to reflect upon the error of your ways” jobs. In my defence, at least I got us out of the fine mess I’d got us into.

We arrived at Lauterbach late in the afternoon, still in warm sunshine. There was plenty of space in the marina, but we hoped to find a smaller box to avoid a repeat of last year’s performance. On our way to investigate the land side of the last pontoon, we spotted an unoccupied hammer head with a green “vacant” sign. This seemed the easiest option, so we tied up there, wondering nevertheless if we were going to be told to move to leave space for a bigger boat. The spot was rather exposed towards the marina entrance, and the only things to tie up to were the pontoon piles, but we got it sorted with a lot of rope and carefully-placed fenders.

The best thing about Lauterbach, we remembered , was the restaurant attached to the chandler’s, which I think belongs to the boat builder Vilm Yachts. (Vilm is a smaller island off Rügen.) Sure enough, we had an excellent supper there, although it was a bit uncomfortably breezy on the terrace. As we were finishing our meal, the wind died completely, and an eerie calm descended. We strolled back to the marina, taking the shortcut through the little railway station. I was distracted by the sight of a beautiful old steam locomotive chuffing away at the platform, when the Skipper pointed out a rather nasty-looking squall coming our way from out in the bay. We hurried on, and as we came down onto the pontoon the first large raindrops began to fall. We were, of course, moored right at the other end of this very long pontoon. There were plenty of people about, taking a little post-prandial constitutional, or just chatting in groups. I started to run, and couldn’t understand why nobody else seemed to see the urgency.

"That," observed Owl, "is not a Good Cloud."

Just as I got to Haltlos, the storm broke and it was like being underwater. There was lots of Donner und Blitzen, and the wind literally screamed through the rigging of the two hundred or so yachts. The Skipper donned his foulies and went on deck. The tempest seemed to bring out his sense of Drama, and he fretted and tinkered with the mooring lines. Suddenly, he let out an anguished cry. I hurtled out to help, but fortunately the problem wasn’t ours. On the next pontoon, the wind had got underneath the corner of a rolled-up jenny, the furling line had either snapped or come uncleated, and the sail was being shredded into tiny ribbons. The noise was appalling. Suddenly, it was all over, and there remained just a few innocuous little clouds racing after the squall like ducklings trying to keep up. Thankfully, we had not put our cockpit tent up before going out to eat, or else we might well have lost it. The flip side of that being, of course, that our stuff was not getting any drier!

Hamburg to Haltlos

After a week of luxury aboard Nara, quite a different week of sailing was in prospect. One lesson applicable regardless of the size of the boat, though, was that we would get much more sailing done if we could manage to be a little better-rested at the start. Skipper accordingly wangled a couple of days’ holiday, and politely suggested that the Mate might like to make herself scarce so some serious kipping could be got on with. Obedient as ever, I left him in peace for a day (my exile was curtailed mid-afternoon so I could rustle up a spot of supper, naturally).

Having resolved to make better use of the week than we did last year on Rügen, we wanted to arrive as early in the day as possible and get through the “starting gate”, the Strelasund swing bridge, which is only open for 20 minutes, three times a day. We therefore decided to spend the Skipper’s second rest day on the road, with the relatively modest target of Hamburg. This would leave a 2 or 3 hour drive to Altefähr the next morning. Philipp the Folkboat Man was extremely cooperative, and proposed to do the handover at 10.30 – presumably because the Haltlos wasn’t going out the preceeding week.

We assembled our mountain of stuff and loaded the car slowly and carefully. The Mate has a history of being over-impatient to get on the road. The Skipper starts to feel harassed, and the inevitable consequence is that something important is left behind. (Last year it was the buckets. I think I may have learned my lesson.) Philipp also volunteered the information that the stretch of Autobahn between Bremen and Hamburg which had so tormented us last year was still dug up (I’m sure it will be lovely when it’s finished) so we took a slightly circuitous route and arrived late afternoon.

I didn’t remember Hamburg being a particularly attractive town, but we found a wonderful, and wholly unexpected, holiday atmosphere around the Inner Alster Lake in the city centre, just a couple of minutes’ walk from our hotel. The waterfront was lined with bars and brasseries, and most surprisingly of all, beer was being given a good run for its money by prosecco in the popularity stakes. It was not necessary to ask the Mate twice. The Hamburgers were out in force to bask in the warm evening sunshine. It was fun, and we felt that the holiday was well and truly underway.

Very early the next morning, we drove out of a Hamburg shrouded in cool mist. There were just a few people out and about in search of bread or news (or possibly beer. It would seem there is no such thing as a yardarm in Germany), and it promised to be a lovely day. So much for promises. As we drove east along the Baltic coast, the skies darkened and it began to rain. The further we went, the heavier it got. We stopped for provisions in the little Hanseatic port of Stralsund, just across the sound from Altefähr. At this point, the rain seemed to have eased and we had hopes for a decent day – it was still only 10am, after all.

Stralsund, seen from Altefähr

The optimism was short-lived. By the time we had crossed Angie’s Bridge (ceremonially opened by the Chancellor a few years ago) to Rügen the rain had become a deluge. We parked by the little harbour, grabbed a first instalment of kit, and went in search of Haltlos. Despite the weather, it felt really good to be back.

Altefähr is a tranquil and unassuming village, largely turned over to retirement cottages and holiday homes for Berliners. There’s a sprinkling of restaurants and cafés, a little fleet of fishing boats best described as motorised punts, and a sort of youth hostel and sailing school for teenagers. A tourist boat, looking as if it belongs on a lake rather than at sea, does tours of the sound and doubles as a ferry. Several times a day it docks at Altefähr and the little boats have to squeeze round it to get in to the harbour.

Haltlos was bobbing in her little Nordic mooring box, bringing a frisson of trepidation to the Mate, as memories of our exploits with this cruel and unusual berthing arrangement came flooding back. Philipp the Folkboat Man was already there, busy preparing the boat next door. We carted our stuff to the boat, by which time we were completely sodden. The Mate’s new pale grey chinos had become completely transparent. (Everyone pretended not to notice. Must be getting old.) Poor Phillip had left his foulie jacket behind, and his T-shirt was now so wet there was no point in putting on more clothes. He shivered uncontrollably as we went through the inventory. It was only July, after all. Haltlos is in a class above Das Drama in terms of comfort: there is a heater! Philipp had already put it on, in a futile attempt to dry out the cabin, but everything we brought in just made it wetter. I changed into shorts. The Skipper does not share my view that getting legs and arms wet is infinitely preferable to getting clothes wet. All you need is a towel and the problem is solved. This is undoubtedly a reflection of the Mate’s exclusively warm weather sailing experience – a couple of night-time Channel crossings and foulies would surely go up in my estimation.

Worst of all, Philipp’s sacrifice was in vain: it became clear there was no way we were going to get through the bridge at 12.30. As I said before, the Skipper hates to be rushed, and I’ve learned it’s wiser not to argue. (In this particular respect, you understand, not as a general principle.)

We set off through the monsoon in search of lunch. We found ourselves the only customers in a cavernous restaurant overlooking the sound. The waitress took the trouble to explain to us that today was the highlight of the Altefähr summer, the Sundschwimmen race. Every year at the beginning of July about 2000 people aged from 14 to 80+ swim the 2.3km from Altefähr to Stralsund, the fastest completing the crossing in a little over 20 minutes. We watched from the terrace as the swimmers waded out from the little beach, some jostling for position while others seemed content to wait until the rush was over. It seemed like a reasonably sensible way to spend such a miserable afternoon.

On our return to the harbour, we bumped into Stefan the Hafenmeister, still wearing the most unbelievably dazzling white baseball cap, emblazoned with his title and the town logo. I wondered yet again whether he has a job lot of these hats, or is he just an überlaundrymeister? He remembered us from last year, which was pleasing. We asked if he’d seen a weather forecast. “Tomorrow the sun will shine,” he asserted confidently, “but there will be no wind.”

Haltlos could mean different things. You could translate it as “without constraint”, which isn’t far removed in English from “adrift”, so we won’t go with that translation. It could also mean “reckless”. If she is that, she’s going to have to mend her ways with THIS Skipper. Either way, her teak decks and freshly-varnished wooden cockpit lockers and mast made her look rather smarter than dear old Das Drama.

The Folkboat next door had been chartered by a young couple with a very small baby. We watched discreetly as they stowed crate after crate of stuff through the forepeak hatch, and speculated as to whether they were brave or just plain crazy to take an infant out for a week on a very small boat. What I know about babies could be written on the back of a postage stamp using a 2” paintbrush, but I couldn’t help feeling the lack of hot water could be a bit of a drawback.

In the relative sanity of Haltlos, we got everything organized and looked at the clock. Two hours to wait until that confounded bridge was due to open, only 20 minutes motoring away. Tum-tee-tum. I hate waiting around, and my mind started rehearsing the trickiness of the passage through the Bridge, as well as those dratted mooring posts. The Skipper, a sensitive soul, grasped that I was getting edgy, so we decided to set sail and have a little pootle about the sound.

Our departure from the accursed box was, if I say so myself, pretty professional. I let out the bow lines while the Skipper hauled us back with the stern lines. When we were clear of the posts, we chugged out steadily with the little outboard, feeling ominously smug.

Right then, sails up, lets dispel the Mate’s apprehension and get the week on the road! Er, just one little thing: the luff of the sail is supposed to go up that little groove in the mast, if you remember? Oops. “It’s a mainsail, not a bloody spinnaker,” grumbled the Skipper. Of course, having started I had to keep going, because a Folkboat doesn’t have anything as bourgeois as lazyjacks, so my ineptitude was clearly displayed to the whole of Altefähr. Thanks to the Skipper’s proficiency at keeping the boat into wind (for once) I managed to get the sail down without giving it a jolly good wash, and the second attempt was rather closer to the textbook description. I’m not sure sailing a nearly-new, hugely expensive, 34-foot cruiser was the best preparation for the Folkboat. What else was I erroneously going to take for granted? Stay tuned.

The Bridge.

The bridge opened several minutes late. Angie would have been aghast. I think they were waiting for a train to cross, but surely that couldn’t have been delayed? Motoring through was, of course, no problem. You tend to forget that most sailors understand that a little sailing boat with an outboard has severely limited acceleration, and so they are very considerate. Local sailors are also almost exclusively German, and therefore even better than the British at forming an orderly queue.

The rain had stopped, and we sailed in light winds to Neuhof, a pretty little marina with (bliss) finger pontoons, fondly remembered from last year. There was plenty of space. The Baltic resorts are largely dependent on visitors from the Berlin and Hamburg areas, who do not make their plans far in advance, but rather turn up for the weekend when the weather forecast is good. It wasn’t, so they had stayed at home. Our plan for the week was to sail around the Greifswalderbodden bay, between the mainland and Rügen, so we hoped for enough breeze to get to the end of the Strelasund channel next day.

The Home Strait

In order to leave ourselves a short hop on our last day we had decided to spend Thursday night at Port Haliguen. Having at first dismissed it as not especially pretty or interesting, we have come to appreciate this little town at the tip of the Quiberon peninsular for its modern and spacious marina, friendly mooring fairies and superb showers. There are a couple of decent restaurants around the old harbour and it's a short walk to the supermarket. Also it is easy to get in an out at any time or tide, and the fuel pontoon is spacious and rarely busy. Put like that, I begin to wonder why we were ever less than besotted with the place. Oh yes, it's also totally sheltered from the prevailing westerlies. But we haven't got there yet...
We went ashore at Sauzon after our ritual morning coffee, to get some bread and inspect the facilities. Suffice it to say that the bread was perfectly acceptable. We paddled back, beginning to understand why the charter company felt that an outboard for the dinghy was essential. It doesn't take much breeze or current to make paddling any distance really quite tedious, and far too much like hard work for someone of the Skipper's delicate constitution. For some reason that I can't remember, the Skipper didn't want to raise the mainsail until we were outside the bay this morning. No, really can't imagine why that should have been.
Anyway, we had a pleasant sail in just about enough wind, and it was the Skipper's turn to helm through La Teignouse, only this time it was downwind and the aim was not to gybe. Skipper was determined to sail between the markers at the eastern end of the passage, even though there was plenty of water outside the channel. He succeeded, passing the red Basse Nouvelle within, as he put it, "the toss of a biscuit". (He reads far too much nautical fiction - Ed.) He deemed it appropriate to celebrate this feat with a biscuit. Taken, not tossed. A McVitie's Jaffa Cake, if you're interested, purchased on a special provisioning trip to Luxembourg which the Mate undertakes prior to every sailing holiday, along with Plain Chocolate Digestives and Custard Creams. If you're wondering what the hell Luxembourg has to do with all this, then I can only admire your spirit of inquiry and attention to detail.

Basse Nouvelle

Happily, the wind picked up and we had a jolly beat up to Port Haliguen. We decided to fill up with diesel so as not to have to bother at La Trinité, where the fuel pontoon is squeezed into a little corner and always crowded. Yet another "character-building" aspect of the place. Nara's fuel guage had shown full at the start of the week, but it took 55 litres to fill it up. Having consulted our rough engine hours log, we were certain we couldn't have used more than half that. However, there was a sort of justice to it, because last year we found it hard to fill the tank on the Bavaria because the fuel just kept splashing out, and we only put in about 15 litres before we gave up. Moreover, on the scale of the cost of a week's holiday, we weren't going to start a war over 30 euros worth of diesel.
The visitors' pontoon at PH is easy enough to access, but a very long walk round the marina to get ashore, so we called them up on the VHF to ask if there was a more convenient berth available, which there generally is. Sure enough, a Mooring Fairy arrived to lead us to a free berth just in front of the Capitainerie. We were therefore not in a position to complain when we realised that we were going to get blown off this pontoon, so we'd have to approach it in a pretty aggressive manner! The boat in the neighbouring berth was covered with a huge tent, so the skipper could see nothing as he approached, especially as the Dufour's throttle was down by his ankles. After failing to get in at the first attempt, we reversed for another go, and the quick-thinking MF tied up his rib and leapt onto the pontoon with remarkable alacrity. Our second attempt was much better, and the MF took a line from me before I was close enough to jump down. Unfortunately, he did not use that line to stop the boat's forward momentum. Fortunately there was a bloody great fender fixed to the pontoon at the bow. We didn't hit it THAT hard. Anyway, what are fenders for?
It was only late afternoon, so we lazed about, availed ourselves of the aforementioned facilites, and dined well at the Hotel Port Haliguen.

Hotel Port Haliguen

Friday's trip back to La Trinité was a little disappointing, as there was just not enough wind to have a sail round the bay so we motored straight in. In the end we were tied up soon after 1pm. That wasn't such a bad thing as it turned out, as it took a while to unload all our stuff and clean up the boat. We had planned to have dinner in La Trinité, but decided to go straight to Rennes, where we were to stay overnight on our way to visit friends near Boulogne-sur-Mer. As we drove out of La Trinité the car thermometer showed 29°C. To be honest, there had not been enough wind during the week for us to appreciate the Dufour at her best, but we had had a real Summer Holiday, pretty lucky in the context of Summer 2012.
Overall, we were delighted with the Dufour 34E, and would certainly rent one again. I had expected comfort to be sacrificed for sportiness, and if this was the case it was very marginal: a slightly smaller shower, a tad less headroom in the forepeak, no cockpit table. On the other hand, the saloon was spacious, the galley excellent, and I liked the drop-down bathing/dinghy deck. Also the huge wheel looked pretty stylish! (Next year I'm bringing the little plastic picnic table, though. Ssh! Don't tell the Skipper!

Blustery Day

The advantage of mooring buoys, as opposed to those complicated cram-as-many-boats-as-possible-into-a-small-harbour arrangements, is that you can leave when it suits you, without negotiation or cooperation. The Skipper also conceded that there is no shame in raising the mainsail before casting off from the buoy. His initial reluctance is easily understood, however, when you consider that, as the boat points into wind without the aid of a helmsman, there is no reason why it shouldn’t be the Skipper who does a bit of work for a change – ooh, yuk! Won’t that rope make my hands dirty? Taking the management aspects of skippering very seriously, he was delighted to have the opportunity to experience at first hand the challenges faced daily by his crew. Once.

Aeolus was most cooperative today. We had a steady Force 4 from WNW all day. Given the Dufour’s amazing enthusiasm for upwind sailing, we managed the Passage de la Teignouse on one tack, with the Mate enjoying herself immensely at the helm. (You don’t imagine I’d have been allowed to helm had short tacking been the order of the day, do you?)

Our destination today was Sauzon, a pretty little port on Belle Ile which we had not previously visited. We had intended to moor in the outer harbour, but of course when we got there it didn’t look like the plan in the book, so we picked up a buoy in the bay known as Port Belloc, at the river mouth outside the outer harbour. There was more fretting about Skipper’s beloved secondary port calculations, but after some squabbling about arithmetic we managed to agree that there was, and would be all night, plenty of water. I will take criticism from the Skipper on a lot of subjects, but maths is not one of them.

Sauzon's dinghy park

Nevertheless, when we went ashore (quite a long paddle, this one, and the Mate broke a flip-flop clambering out of the dinghy – catastrophe!) the Skipper sought reassurance from the Harbourmaster. In addition to confirming that there was no danger of running aground, he also kindly explained the procedure for mooring in the outer harbour: you simply raft up to anyone already tied up fore and aft, and then string a couple of lines to the buoys afterwards. He claimed they tie 20 boats up to 4 buoys. Here again, though, if you want to leave at a time of your own choosing you’re better off outside in the bay.

We considered eating ashore this evening, as there were several tempting restaurants. However, I was tired, and didn’t fancy rowing back to Nara after supper. Worth remembering that had we moored in the outer harbour that would have been a very short dinghy trip – another time, perhaps. Anyway, yet again I sat in the cockpit with an aperitif in broad daylight well after 9pm. I don’t think any restaurant terrace could have afforded a better view. Unfortunately, we only saw Sauzon at low tide, when the inner harbour is dry, but nevertheless it is charming, and well worth a visit.

Sunny Sauzon, plus Mate

Over the Wall

Tuesday 29 May

We effected our Steve McQueen-style escape from Piriac without attracting unwanted attention, and set sail for the little island of Houat. The pretty bay just outside the harbour is liberally seeded with mooring buoys, but rather exposed to the north-west.  The forecast was for light winds, though, and it’s a charming little place.

We had a gently easterly breeze behind us, which gave the skipper chance to play with his preventer stay. (I think this 20m length of red string is one of his most treasured possessions.) It also gave him yet another reason to dispatch the poor long-suffering Mate to the foredeck and yell confusing and frequently contradictory instructions.

 In the end we got bored with drifting slowly downwind, and turned on the engine. (We had told the charter company to keep the spinnaker. The Skipper has a good grasp of the limits of the Mate’s patience with string.) Anyway, we needed to heat some water and give the fridge a burst of power, as we were going to spend the night on a buoy. There was a spot of navigational confusion, as the current was much stronger than we had calculated from the chart. We found ourselves approaching the wrong bay, wondering dimly why it didn’t look familiar. Like, why had the harbour wall mysteriously disappeared? Oops. At least we’d got the right island. Comfortingly, we weren’t the only ones surprised in that way, from what we could see of other yachts’ manoeuvres.

We’ve got the picking-up-a-buoy thing pretty well sussed now, as long as I remember to yell loudly enough to cloth-ears on the helm. It’s the only time I get to give the orders. (Except on land, of course.) This probably won’t be news to anyone, but if you’re interested, I take a line from the bow cleat and lie on the deck amidships where I’m nearest the water. I don’t try to grab hold of the buoy, but simply push a line, with a bowline on the end, through the ring on top of the buoy. Usually it’s easy enough to grab the end as it comes through, but if the deck is high above the water line (or if the buoy is small) the bowline makes it easy to snare the line with the boathook. Skipper then reverses the boat and I take the line back to the bow. When we’re secure, Skipper usually decides a second line would be a good idea, and goes swimming in his undies to attach same, having forgotten yet again to bring any swimming shorts. He has now gone off this idea (having spotted some startlingly large jellyfish in the area this year) which is a shame as it did give us the chance to show off the luxury hot-and-cold-water shower on the luxury bathing deck of the luxury Dufour, although I’m sure most people would have preferred not to watch.

The dinghy inflating routine was less embarrassing this time, as nobody was close enough to witness our clumsiness, and we paddled across the harbour in search of provisions. After the cheerful chaos of the holiday weekend the French had returned to do another couple of weeks’ work before the long summer holiday, poor things, and everywhere was very quiet. It took us a while to find an open bar or café, but I did eventually track down a cold beer, thankfully.

Downtown Houat

We met an English couple sailing a beautiful old Kentish fishing boat. They were about to return to their holiday house on an island in the Golf du Morbihan. Sigh. One day…

Back on board Nara, I set to work on the supper. It was a beautiful, calm, sunny, evening, but the few other boats on the moorings were taking their leave, one by one. We asked one couple if they were worried about the weather, and they said they thought it might be uncomfortable if the wind backed, as forecast. We persisted in our view that, even if the wind was from the north-west, it was not likely to be strong enough to make life really unpleasant, so we would take the chance. The harbourmaster chugged up alongside in a rib to collect our money. We asked his opinion, and he said there was space available inside the shelter of the harbour wall if we were concerned. There you can either tie up to buoys bow and stern, or with a buoy at one end and a line to the harbour wall at the other. He suggested if we wanted his help we should move straight away – fair enough as it was already evening. I had the distinct impression that, in his view, we would be well-advised to move. We thanked him, but decided to stay put. Was this hubris on our part? Stupidity even? I don’t know why I should have felt uncomfortable about being in a minority of one - it’s not exactly a novel experience for me.

Cheese-eating surrender monkeys

In the event, we were right … and wrong. We spent a comfortable night, with almost no wind. However, by morning such breeze as there was came directly from the west. We slept in the forepeak, but the headroom is very limited so our habit was to leave the cabin door open for air. This meant that the next morning the sun rising in the east came straight in through the open door. This is the trigger factor for the Skipper’s migraines, which last for several weeks once they get a hold. Sure enough, the first headache started later that day. We hadn’t thought to rig any kind of curtain across the companionway, because there was nobody anywhere near so privacy wasn’t an issue. We won’t forget next time though. That turned out to be a serious error.