What I did in my summer holidays, by B. Newbury age 59 ¼
As opposed to my Winter holidays, Spring Holidays and Autumn holidays.
Did I mention I'm retired?
In response to many requests from our long suffering readership, this blog will be strong on pictures and sparse on writing. A slew of new photo galleries have been added and this entry comes with a promise of brevity suitable for Sunday Sport readers, if readers be the word.
The summer has been one long bout of blundering round the Ionian Islands playing a (usually unsuccessful) game of 'Dodge the Flotilla'. It's been very relaxing (most of the time) - no long trips and generally predictable weather patterns. The only real downside has been that it's so popular that all the anchorages and harbours get full to bursting with hordes of Italians, Germans, Austrians and flotillas.
To get round this we cunningly set our passage plans so as to arrive in harbours around midday when they've all gone out sailing. They have to leave sometime. As they get ready to leave, Birvidik and a few like minded cruisers cruise gently round the harbour like circling sharks. As soon as one leaves there's a berthing frenzy as the predatory cruisers fight for the available space. This tactic has been spectacularly successful, but has two main drawbacks:
1 - If any distance has to be travelled, then it involves getting up at some ungodly hour in the morning.
2 - The winds are, as mentioned, predictable. Calm in the morning, sea breeze builds in the afternoon to about a force 4 and then it dies off again in the evening. As a result, getting into the available berths means you miss out on the best sailing weather and tend to motor everywhere.
All the summer activity has taken place in a relatively small area, from Corfu in the North to Cefallonia in the South. We've not, therefore, updated the position map as it just show a mass of dots merging into a muddy blur. Position updates will resume next season when we get on the move towards Turkey.
Potted itinerary (Use an Atlas if you're really interested):
Lakka (Paxos) > Mongonnisi (Paxos) > Ormos Fanari (Mainland) > Preveza (Mainland) > Lefkas (Lefkas) > Vlikho (Lefkas) > Ormos Kapali (Meganissi) > Vlikho (again) > Spartahori (Meganissi again) > Matharia (Mainland) > Astokos (Mainland) > Petala (Mainland) > Atakos Island > Vathi (Ithaka) > Fiskardo (Cefallonia) > Picked up Paul & Jan > Vlikho (again) > Spartahori (again) > Vathi (again) > Fiskardo (again - dropped off Paul & Jan) then back to Corfu to meet Karen & Jaime - Vlikho > Lefkas > Mongonissi > Mourtos (No thunderstorm this time) > Petriti (Corfu) > Corfu (Corfu) > Gouvia (Corfu), where we now are. Off back to Corfu Corfu on Thursday to meet Karen and Jaime at the airport at 1:30 in the morning.
We're still undecided as to whether we'll overwinter in Lefkas or Gouvia, but it seems as if the decision is edging nervously in the direction of Gouvia. We hope to lift the boat out of the water at the end of February and spend a few weeks in Jersey and Portugal if we can sort out cheap flights. The back here for bottom painting etc before heading through the Corinth Canal, across the Aegean and on to Turkey.
Well, that's the plan.
So far.
At the moment.
Probably.
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The trip from Ay Stefanos to Pagania was marked by the complete absence of wind and the complete blockage of the aft heads when we tried to pump the holding tank out. Bob pronounced it a 'wait for a marina with full protective clothing' job. Luckily we have two heads. Many will have noticed that this is a recurrent theme in the cruising almanac - trouble at t' heads.
We anchored in Pagania, which was a deserted, fully enclosed bay, with the only signs of civilisation being a sodding great fish farm blocking the entrance and a tiny little small holding in the corner. We dropped anchor after a day's motoring without any wind, at which point the wind decided siesta time was over and started to rise. And rise. And rise. By the evening it was blowing a hooley and the anchor chain was bar tight. We had looked forward to a quiet evening relaxing over dinner to the sound of birdsong drifting across from the wooded hills. Fat chance. We had to shout to be heard across the cockpit over the screaming of the wind and the howling of the rigging.
By morning the wind had dropped and we went on to Valthou creek, just North of Igoumenitsa. (If you think these names are difficult you should see them written in the Greek alphabet.) After a lovely couple of days here we got a met over the radio predicting strong winds and thunderstorms. In fact we got this met repeatedly over the next few days but all we got was flat calm and general muggy weather, so we ignored it and motored down to Platarias where we moored to a stern anchor again and Bob set about the aft heads piping with hacksaws, hammer, wire coat hangers, levers, hydrochloric acid and vigour, if not enthusiasm, all washed down with concentrated bleach solution.
Plataris was a welcome change from Gouvia. Instead of 50 Euros a day we paid 3 euros a night, plus 3 euros if we wanted water and electricity. Bargain.
The met had given up predicting thunderstorms and strong winds, having a sulk as no-one was taking any notice of it, and had predicted light southerly winds and clear skies. Off we went under motor and anchored in Mourtos roads. These are a collection of little anchorages, set in small bays between the mainland and a number of small islands. There were quite a few other boats there, but we managed to find a space to swing, dropped the hook and Bob dived on it and proclaimed himself satisfied.
As we were settling down to prepare dinner, several other boats came in and the anchorage became pretty crowded - fine as long as we all swung in unison (This is a technical nautical term and not a euphemism for orgiastic activities carried out whilst simultaneously performing choral evensong) and no-one dragged (this refers to anchors - transvestites are free to do whatever they wish in the confines of their own boats).
Among the late arrivals was a ruddy great charter catamaran crewed by 8 very large German gentlemen swilling beer and smoking cigars. We watched their anchoring technique with interest and a growing sense of smug superiority. Said technique involved motoring vaguely in the direction of a space fractionally bigger than the cat, throwing the anchor and a pile of chain over the side, switching of the engine, slapping their thighs a couple of times and then going below for more beer.
'Look at them' we commented to each other. 'That'll just be an anchor lying on its side with a pile of chain on top. Didn't set it in, lay out the chain or dive to check it. They're lucky there's no wind forecast for tonight other wise they'd drag through this crowded anchorage and cause mayhem.'
Not long after, Bob looked across to the North and saw some large, dark purple clouds building up which didn't make him feel at all comfortable. The bright flashes and dark rumbling noises didn't help either. The flashes got brighter and more frequent, the thunder got louder and more frequent and the clouds grew as darkness fell.
Then it hit. The light southerly wind against which we had anchored swung through 180 degrees and blasted out of the North at about 35 knots. Boats lurched and pivoted all over the place and one by one started to drag their anchors. Several made a number of attempts to re-anchor, failed and headed up to the North bay where there was a little more shelter from the North.
Strangely enough, the German cat was not one of those that dragged. Its pile of chain had pulled out straight and so it had moved back about 2 boatlengths, but it was still in position. As, fortunately, were we.
The wind continued to build, Birvidik snatching at her anchor and leaning over in the gusts, and then it started raining so heavily it was like trying to look through a waterfall. More boats dragged and either reset their anchors or wandered off North in disgust. Still Birvidik held firm.
So did the bloody German cat.
In the end, Bob's nerve cracked first. Hoping to leave more space in the anchorage he had anchored fairly close to the windward southerly rocks and the boat had swung away from them as planned. The 180 shift had now swung us directly toward them, and straightened the chain rigid to bring us even closer. This meant that if the anchor did drag, we'd have no time to react before we hit them. Just to add to things, some kindly local fishermen had left floating ropes and moorings just off the aforementioned rocks in a prime position to foul our prop should we drift back any further.
So Bob put a waterproof on over his shorts and T shirt, Liz took the helm and we raised the anchor and set off to reset it in some of the space made available by the recently departed yachts.
Still the bloody German cat held firm.
It took four attempts to get the anchor to reset. By this time the storm was directly overhead. The rain was falling in sheets, the lightning and the thunder simultaneous. Several strikes were so close we could hear the hissing crackle as the air ionised and one was so close it made Bob's hair stand up and he could feel the charge tingling on his skin. Soaked, scared and pissed off, he looked across the bay. There was the German cat, still in place, lights glowing cheerfully through the fug of cigar smoke and beer fumes in the cabin.
By 2 in the morning the storm decided it had had enough fun in this area and slowly wandered off to cause mayhem further south. The sun rose the next morning on calm seas, crystal clear water, Birvidik, one Canadian boat, and the bloody German cat.
'Hubris' is also a word of Greek origin. Suitably chastened we slunk out of the anchorage before the crew of the cat woke and started on the beer and cigars again. Lakka on Paxos beckoned. It was good holding and fully protected from every direction. Sounded good to us.
After a lumpy trip to Lakka, we awoke the next morning to the ominous rumble of thunder. Either he'd come back for another go or one of his mates wanted to join in the fun. Whichever it was, we don't think his heart was in it and it cleared off after a couple of desultory flashes and bangs.
Since then, summer has hit. It has been sunny every day, light winds except for the afternoon sea breeze (which can get quite strong) and the temperature in the cockpit has risen to the low to mid 30s every afternoon
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We originally planned to set off for the Greek Islands on 'Minivet' in 1981, but didn't make it past the pier heads. Now here we are in Ionian Greece. We may be slow, but we get there in the end.
After a couple of days in Catania we set off up the coast to Naxos (the Sicilian one, not the Greek one - that would have taken a while). This is the village and bay that lies beneath Taormina. It's a stunning setting; Mt Etna in the background, lava flows visible at night, castles and pretty towns perched vertiginously on cliffs and the long arc of a sandy bay.
We stayed here for a couple of days so that Liz could indulge in her usual hobby of finding the highest point in a 5 mile radius and dragging Bob up it. This involved a 3 mile climb to Taormina, followed by a further mountain goat impersonation up to the village of Castelmolo.
The next stage involved four long slogs across the toe and heel of Italy to get to Ionian Greece. First stop was Rocella Ionica, which had the disadvantage of having no electricity, but the distinct advantage of being free. On the way there, we were sailing along the Southern coast of Italy, doing about 6 knots on a beam reach, and all was hunky dory. Then the wind started to build, probably a topographic effect, funnelled down between the mountains. The waves built and spray and foam streaked downwind across the sea. By the time we were doing 8 ½ knots and leaning over at 45 degrees with the leeward gunnels in the water we thought it might be just a smidgeon past the time at which we ought to have reefed.
Having reefed and got things vaguely under control, we then approached Rocella Ionica. The pilot issues dire warnings about the approach to this place: sand banks, breaking waves, boats rolled over and dismasted; doom, defeat, disaster; fire, famine flood and traffic jams. Luckily we avoided these, but mooring in a strong wind was made more difficult by picking up something round the propeller which managed to impede the steering. After an interesting and unusual mooring technique, which kept the assembled onlookers amused, we set off to explore, which involved a 4 kilometre walk into town.
We met up with Aquatint and Lady de Vie, and went for a pizza at the pizzeria at the marina. They sell pizza by the metre. ¼ of a metre satisfies even Bob's appetite.
Two long runs from Rocella to Crotone and then on to Santa Maria di Leuca took to our leaving of Italy and it was then a trip across to Corfu. We had intended to stop off at one of the small Islands NW of Corfu, but unseasonal SE winds persuaded us to anchor in Ormos Vroulias on the N coast of Corfu.
Having heard of Greek bureaucracy we decided to go straight to a port of entry (Gouvia marina) and get all that sorted out. They were very friendly and helpful. After visiting a couple of offices, filling in about 5 forms and handing over a not insubstantial number of euros along with crew list, ship's stamp, inside leg measurement etc we were given a DEKPA, or transit log. This is a large document (some obscure Greek standard which never quite fits into any standard document wallet) with space for 60 official looking stamps.
Greek maritime bureaucracy is designed for huge merchant shipping fleets, not the little piss-in-the-wind yachts that merely get in its way and send in claims for damages when the wash from a 20 000 tonner going at 15 knots smashes them to kindling against a concrete quay. As such, the DEKPA sternly instructs 'The master of the vessel' to check in and have the DEKPA stamped immediately upon arrival and to further have it exit stamped 'not more than 2 hours before departure'. It is pertinent, though, that the English word 'pragmatic' has Greek roots.
"How do I do this in deserted anchorages and small harbours where there are no port police?" Asked Bob, plaintively.
"You don't" came the off-hand reply from the port policeman.
"What about these stern instructions on the front of the DEKPA?"
"Ignore them. Get it stamped if they come round and ask you, or go and find them if it's more than about 30 days since your last stamp."
"Oh good - can I have that in writing?"
"No."
We took the bus into Corfu wearing our 'Look at the pratty English tourist' hats and set about sightseeing, getting Greek SIM cards for the 'phones and trying to get the Canon repaired. Success on (1) & (2), abject failure on the third. No camera shops anywhere. Googled 'Canon' and discovered that Greece is about the only European country without any agents. It's really galling to finally get to the Ionian and not be able to take good quality pictures.
Talking of pratty English tourists, Liz managed to get Bob on the little tourist train. Luckily he could pull his Stetson over his face and pretend he wasn't there.
From Gouvia we sailed (yes - actually sailed) to a little bay in the North Corfu channel called Ay Stefanos. This is an idyllic spot just a mile over the water from the Albanian mountains. Clear water, swims every morning and evening, excellent tavernas in which to idle away the warm evenings. It's such a trial this pensioner penury.
We are now working our way down the mainland coast, Pagania, Igoumenitsa creek, Platarias and Mourtos before crossing over to Paxos. Then it's round the gulf of Amvraikia before heading to Levkas to check out the marina there for overwintering. That's probably where the next update will be uploaded.
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