Balvicar Island of Seil. Pause button pressed.

Monday morning showed a clear sky. The coastguard weather report promised S / SE winds at force 3 -4 and smooth seas in sheltered waters with possible thrunderstorms later. We were headed further north east, up the Sound of Jura and then branching off to starboard. If you go and look at a map of this bit of Scotland, you will see that the Sound of Jura runs roughly NNE and is bounded by Jura on the west and the mainland on the east. The mainland is broken into a number of finger like peninsulas, each with a string of small islands at its southern tip and  with sea lochs in between them. At the head of the sound a number of islands block the way into the Firth of Lorne. As the tide rushes up the sound, the water is forced between these islands giving rise to tidal races between them.



The Corryvrekan  runs through this gap

One of these is the legendary Corryvreckan and another is known as Dorus Mor.

Our destination for today is Balvicar at the head of the Seil Sound, itself at the head of Loch Shuna, a sea loch between two of the Peninsulas*. The Vikings' daughter has a cottage nearby and is on good terms with the owner of the boatyard there. It will be a good place to leave Vagabond whilst I go home and cut the grass (etc).

I climbed onto the boom again to make a few phone calls. Yes the boatyard can let me have a mooring for a couple of weeks. Yes the cottage is available, the neighbour will let me in.

We have to negotiate the Dorus Mor to get there so all I have to do now is work out the tide times...

I find conflicting advice.
One book recommends passage times that change depending on whether it's neaps or springs. Others make reference to High Water at Dover. All say the best time to go through is at slack water and the speed of the current suddenly increases an hour after it. I plump for the HW Dover option and realise we have to leave now  to be there in time.

I had planned to creep out of the north exit of my lair - the chart plotter seemed to think there was a way through, as did the Clyde Cruising club but when I let go of the buoy, Vagabond had other ideas and only wanted to go out the way we had come in. So we did.

Disturbed water through the Dorus Mor

Out into the Sound and up with the sails. We turn north and waft up towards the Dorus Mor. The wind is light and dead astern; I try to set the jib in a Goose wing. It just flaps from side to side as we drift along. There's plenty of time, isn't there. A yacht appears ahead and seems to be going the same way.

Another yacht motors down a loch to the right and swings round into the Dorus Mor. It seems to get through easily enough, so it must be slack water there. At this rate we're still an hour away - so we'd better get a move on. Freddie gives us a helping push and we arrive at the entrance to the Dorus Mor in the company of two other yachts, all motor sailing like us.

The yacht behind was a 45 ft Halberg Rassy and the helmsman was itching to overtake Vagabond as we went through the Dorus Mor passage. He was edging to pass us on our starboard side- the snag was that I wanted to turn that way as soon as we got through the passage, to run up Loch Shuna. I could have found the fog horn and blown one blast.  ('I am turning to starboard') but he wouldn't have heard it (and if he did, he would have had to go and look up what it meant), so I put my hand out like a cyclist! He understood, waved and crossed our stern to pass on the other side.


The water in Loch Shuna was flat calm. The sun shone. The wind was still behind us and we now  had plenty of time and a long run ahead of us. I pumped out the water ballast and set the jib into a stable goosewing. Vagabond accelerated to just over 6.5 knots.
After we had passed Shuna Island, we needed to veer a bit to port to cross a bit of open water and then head up Seil Sound to find the anchorage at Balvicar. The wind veered with us and we stayed goosewinged all the way until just before the anchorage when we came into the wind to drop the sails. Now I remember what is is I like about sailing in this part of the world.

Clouds gathered around us as we came into the anchorage. We found a mooring buoy and had just made fast to it when the rain started. It threw it down. This was one of the thundery showers that the met had forecast. I hastily put up the spray hood and huddled under it for about 20 minutes. This reminded me of the downside of sailing in this part of the world.

I took the opportunity to read the log.

17.7 miles in the day, at an average speed of just over 4 knots. 

The rain eased off enough for me to inflate the dinghy and go ashore to report to the boatyard. Over a cup of tea I outlined my plans and I returned to Vagabond to properly put her to bed for a couple of weeks and to take off her the stuff I needed to take home.

It was then off to the cottage, a hot shower and a real bed. Next morning I was on the way home, by bus on the Bridge over the Atlantic and train from Oban to the south. It took 13 hours, door to door!

Our total mileage so far is just over 1000.
I had reached my (revised) goal for the year (Oban by September).
Activity at home on the house move front looks like it's hotting up.

Vagabond on the buoy in Balvicar bay

It may be time to press the Pause button for longer than a fortnight......

*Peninsulae for the Latin scholars amongst my readership

The Sound of Jura

Never mind what it says on the blog posting, think Sunday 19th August. We are in Port Ellen, on the Island of Islay, getting ready to go north into the Highland and Islands of Scotland. The forecast is for wind SE to S, force 3-4, perhaps 5 later.

Several other yachts are also getting ready to depart. On Schiehallion, a forty five footer, the barbecue is being stowed away. They're off to the south. The skipper of Wild Thing is trying to pass on the  fresh scallops they were given by a fisherman before thet "go round the corner" for lunch. Both leave before us and I see them motoring out of the bay.

If we go now, we'll have a weak "foul tide" for an hour or so, but then it will woosh us north, up the Sound of Jura. We're aiming for Carsaig, an anchorage on the east side of the sound, well protected from the East and South.

Distillery in sight

Freddie pushes us out into the bay - there's a light wind from South. The sails are hoisted and we sail out of the bay and tack off eastwards, along the south coast of Islay. Distillery after distillery passes by as we cruise east a couple of miles off the coast in a calm sea. I suppose I should have stayed for a day and had a tour or two - never mind, there are distilleries on Mull and on Skye.

This area is littered with rocky bits and small islands, so I have to keep a sharp look out and eye on the chart plotter to make sure we are not running into danger. The wind dies and the tide starts to push us west again. I pull Freddie into life and we motorsail east again. We pass Tarr Skeir, the southern most of of the rocky islands and turn north east, towards the Ardmore Islands that mark the entrance to the Sound of Jura. Here we turn more to the north.

The Paps stay hidden

There's a yacht coming up behind us. It's sails are full and it's leaning in the wind. Suddenly the water becomes more agitated. Three foot swells roar round the Islands from thewest. The tide has changed and is now coming in from the Atlantic, pushing us northward. The wind arrives too and we are soon scurrying along at 7 knots. The yacht astern passes the islands and turns west to run up the Sound of Islay (that channel between Islay and Jura). We cross the meeting place of the two sounds, pass Gigha aIsland some miles away to our right and follow the coast of Jura, keeping a couple of miles off it. Ith a following sea a routine is rapidly established - stern rises and is pushed to the right as a wave overtakes us. Push tiller right to keep on course. Wave passes underneath us and then pushes the bow up and to the left. Pull tiller to the left to compensate. It's quite hypnotic.  
I'm woken from the trance by the emergency tone shrilling out of the VHF.
A MayDay. Press the button to silence the alarm and turn up the volume to listen to the unforlding story.
 Belfast Coastguard takes control 'Belfast Coastguard calling Station calling MayDay over". There's a bit of silence - I assume the vessel in trouble is replying and we can't "hear" the response. The next I hear is 'Mayday Schiehallion, Schiehallion, Schiehallion, this is Belfast coastguard, please spell the name of your vessel' . Schiehallion! That's the forty plus footer that had left Port Ellen just before us. It appears they are taking in water. One yacht and two commercial craft respond to the call, a lifeboat is on the way and the yacht is soon alongside the casualty. At this point, Clyde coastguard want to give out the new eather forecast, so I give up my voyeurism and listen to the forecast.
The sea pattern changes and becomes confused as the Sound of Jura narrows and I make a mistake. I should have headed closer to one or other coast but stay in mid channel. Soon we are in a very rough sea, being pushed hard by wind and tide. I take in a reef and things calm down. And so we carry on. The Paps are modestly covered by cloud.

The wind dies down but the current is pushing us to port, towards Jura and we want to head towards the mainland. I try to shake out the reef but the main hailiard is caught round something at the top of the mast. We'll have to stay as we are until we can get into calmer water; as it is, the 10 minutes we spent drifting whilst trying to sort things out have pushed us back towards Jura.

I turn Vagabond towards the mainland shore, more concerned with finding some calmer water than with making progress to the north and we close to within a couple of cables* of the mainland shore, where things are calmer and I can sort out the haliard and hoist the full main.

Order and confidence restored, I remember to switch the radio back to channel 16, the emergency channel. The hue and cry over Schiehallion has died down, so I assume all ended happliyd .

The wind gets up a bit and Vagabond surges north east again, as I search the coast for the entrance to Carsaig. A large yacht is motoring towards us and turns in ahead of us. We follow and I can see there were already two other yachts here and the one ahead of us has pinched the most protected of the spaces left. Never mind, we need less water than she does and can get nearer the shore. I also see that some buoys have been positioned in the anchorage. They weren't here last ime; one is free. That will do nicely -  but it is a long way from the beach and the road to the pub.



On the buoy, looking at the way we came in

 Within 20 minutes we're secure to the buoy and the wind has gone completely.
We've done 36 miles today in  7hr 30min (2 hrs were under power).




A large rib rushes around the anchorage and persuades the other yacht to move to another bay.



That's the way we're going tomorrow.

 We're snug where we are, there's three metres of water under the boat so we won't touch the bottom as the tide falls. I can't be bothered to move to the vacant space, nor to inflate the dinghy, row to the beach and walk to the pub (and back - besides which, last time I was here it was shut...)

I stand on the boom to find a mobile signal to report progress to the Owners Agent  and to find out if we're homeless yet (no).

I don't trust myself up here with the Ipad so we'll have to go without a weather forecast until tomorrow. It doesn't look like it will rain overnight so I'll leave the tent down just in case  I have to get on deck in a hurry.

I make a three course meal - soup, ham and avocado salad, followed by biscuits and cheese, accompanied by a glass of Rjoca, followed by coffee and an after dinner chocolate (well actually a mini Twix, if you really must know), wash up and turrn in for an early night.

The tide won't turn north until midday tomorrow; I wonder where it will take us?
Whereever we go, we only have to do another 10 miles or so and we will have clocked up 1000 since we left Burnham on Crouch.

We must be nearly half way.



* A cable - it's a tenth of a sea mile (or about 180 metres or 100 fathoms**). Wonderfully refreshing things, dimensions at sea. A sea mile is defined as one minute of latitude at your location. As the earth is not truly spherical, a sea mile varies depending on where you are........

** six feet*** (British Royal Navy) 

Furthest West – for the moment

I left you at Glenarm as I went looking for an Internet connection. The Bridge Inn of Glenarm offered free internet connection (and Guiness). At first I though it was shut for there were no exterior lights showing, not even a welcoming light in the doorway. Still, this is Ireland, so I shouldered the door open to find a pub that was open. The decor was dark brown - woodpanelling, floor and ceiling. It was dimly lit by a few low wattage bulbs. The window blinds were tightly shut. All ready for a lock in. It wasn’t full but had a lively crowd around the bar. A Guinness or two later, the latest dispatch in the blog was uploaded and the weather forecast downloaded and the pc put on charge.

Tomorrow would be a good day, with winds force 4 -5 in the morning, reducing to 3 – 4 in the afternoon, from the East or South East. Just right to blow us north west,  to Port Ellen on the Isle of Islay.

Back on board Vagabond, I checked the tides. If we left about 11:00 we’d have an hour of weak tide against us and then 6 hours of tide taking us north and then west. I worked out the course, allowing for tidal drift. Due north would be good enough and the tide would give us the necessary westerly vector. (All those years at school / college” doing”  vector analysis and the only time I’ve ever used it is to calculate tidal drift. As for vector calculus, I never did get the hang of that .....)

The next morning the sky was clear and there was the promised breeze. Whilst paying for the nights’ stay, I checked my reading of the tide table with the harbour master – ‘Yes leave an hour before Dover High Water and you’ll be fine – you’ll have Morecombe Bay emptying into the Atlantic and pushing you north. ‘

So, at about 10:45, I cast off and we left Glenarm, following in the wake of  4 other boats. ‘That’s  good’, I thought, ‘some people to follow.’ The wind was blowing down the valley, out to sea. Up went the sails and we were off. About a mile from shore, the wind died.  The boats ahead had no wind either.

On came Freddie. We rounded the headland at the northern end of the Bay and set course due North. Now it became clear that the yachts I was following were hugging the coast into the next bay. Perhaps there was a good lunch stop nearby. These haven't been a feature of our trip, so far, and I decided not to set a precedent, so we carried on to the North. 

The clouds piled up behind us





Fairhead



The sun shone ahead. Clouds piled up across the land. The wind stayed absent. Freddie stayed on. The green valleys and rocky bluffs of County Antrim trickled past. Then Rathlin Isle came into view. We passed Fairhead, the last headland of Ireland, and plugged on northwards. The combination of Freddie, the tides,  and the following sea pushing us along (in roughly the right direction) at over 8 knots for a time. In fact the wave patterns suggested there was a Southerly wind somewhere behind us. If there was, it hadn’t reached us.  Those Paps of Jura, so prominent on the northern horizon last night, stayed stubbornly invisible. Had they been a mirage? Were we on a journey into the open sea? The chart re-assured me.

We approached the designated shipping traffic separation area. These are areas on the chart where real shipping is meant to operate in a sort of dual carriage way* of the sea, with designated lanes going (in this case) South East or North West. There are no buoys telling of these things, just lines on the chart. In theory, yachts are allowed in these areas but have to cross them by the shortest possible path. This would have meant a dog leg in our course and extended our journey by about 10 miles. ‘Bu@@er that’, I thought, ‘I’ve not seen a ship all morning. We’ll maintain our current course and speed’, and moved diagonally into the East bound lane.

We had just reached the ‘Central Reservation’  between the two lanes  when a ship appeared, moving Eastwards. Phew!! We could have been run down. I shut Freddie down to refuel. The wind tell tales I had tied to the stays hung limply.

You’ll notice that all hi-tech wind indicators have now failed. The whirry thingy that told me the wind speed and direction (true and apparent) had been blown off during the gales in Eastbourne and the slightly less high tech wind vane had fallen off the mast when we had the jib incident on the way up from Holyhead to the Isle of Man. Our wind instrumentation is now reduced to that of the Cadet in which I learnt to sail 50 years or so ago.....a couple of pieces of material tied to the stays.

Freddie refuelled, we resumed our northward passage. Those Paps appeared on the horizon, seemingly quite close and then Port Ellen appeard, almost where I expected it to be, looking rather industrial with the Port Ellen Malting works very obvious.

The Malting works at Port Ellen.

Now for some tricky navigation. Line up some radio aerials with a light tower until you pass a green bouy (letting it go past on the starboard side).  Turn sharp right, lining up with the pier head, slide down the side of the pier and into a berth on the pontoon.

A fishing boat overtook me on the way in. As I manoeuvred us into a berth, the fishermen were unloading their catch whilst stopping the harbour seal from climbing into their boat to help.

Freddie off and rewarded with a fresh water rinse out (this pontoon has a hose – almost all pontoons so far have had water taps but the hoses have been withdrawn for ’Ealth ‘n safety’ reasons).

Now to look after the crew. I needed sustenance and didn't fancy the sandwiches that I had made yesterday. But, I had been to Port Ellen before and did not have high hopes as several years ago the Skipper and I had arrived here from Lough Swilley on a Sunday to find the place closed.

It wasn’t much different on Saturday. It was a sunny evening; the local pub beckoned. I found that ‘Drinks may not be taken outside, it’s against the law’. I quickly finished my pint in the dim interior.

‘Sorry, we don’t do food, try the hotel down the road’, said the publican. The skipper and I had tried to eat there before only to be told ‘We’re full’. This time it was different: I was told there were no tables, despite there being an empty one in the bar at which I sat. After I had read the local paper for half an hour, I was allowed to  order  food!

The local petrol station was next to the hotel. Freddie really needed his cans refilled but it was shut and didn't reopen until Monday.  I resolve to leave Port Ellen as soon as possible and go back to Vagabind to look at the weather, the tides and where to go next.

We are at N 55deg 36.83 min,  W 6 deg 12.79 min. We now turn Eastwards for a bit, to make our way up the Sound of Jura to somewhere near Oban and we won’t  be further West than this until we round Ardnamurchan point, some 70 miles further North .

Fortunately the weather forecast  tomorrow (Sunday) looks  promising (SE F3 - 4, possibly 5 at first) and the tides will be sweeping up the Sound of Jura from about midday onwards.

* Transatlantic translation : Divided Highway

Looking at Scotland.

I’m sitting in the cabin listening to the rain coming down. The tent* is up again. Both have been the usual experience for Vagabond in Ireland so far. It rained stair rods on Wednesday, when I tried to return from the Titanic experience – it was so bad I asked the cafe manager in the place to let me have a big plastic rubbish bag – he looked a bit askance as he produced it and went wide eyed when I cut a hole in the bottom of it and put it over my head.  It worked, keeping the upper half of me dry at the expense of a few raised eye brows. Eyebrows were also raised at a local restuarant where I had a reunion with an "ex" **. She's just 40 and we had an excellent dinner together in the Boat House. The food and converstaion were excellent. The staff were a bit confused about our relationship and we parted at the gangplank promising to see each other more often (it had been about 8 years...). She roared off into the night in her convertable - she assured me that the kits car seats and buggies all fitted and SHE WAS NOT GETTING A PEOPLE CARRIER.

At least it’s no longer blowing hard.  We had a full gale yesterday in Bangor and it was still blowing quite hard at 07:00 this morning. As forecast, it had calmed down a bit by mid morning when we set off to do the short hop (22 miles) to Glenarm, a small marina tucked into a little bay somewhere along the Irish coast of St George channel.

Dodging Ferries

It was misty and damp, with a cloud layer that looked menacing. When we had departed the marina and raised the sails, the wind dropped even more and we motor sailed across the mouth of Belfast Lough, dodging two out-bound ferries and an in-bound freighter.

Once we were past Black Head, the wind freshened up and veered slightly to the West. The sky brightened and Vagabond picked up her skirts to fly to the North. At one point we registered over 8 knots over the ground – probably at least 2 of which were from the tide.

We ran into patch of really awful sea – it was clearly a set of waves set up by the tide rushing north as it passed a headland – once down tide of the headland, the sea smoothed out and we had a really pleasant sail. The verdant coast of County Antrim slid past.

The verdant coast slide past

The mist cleared to the North East and there was the Mull of Kintyre looming over the sea. The last time I had seen that had been at night, with the Viking, when we were taking part in the Scottish three peaks race.



Beacon



Also to the north appeared  a couple of beacons, both showing their lights to mark  a series of nasty rocks about 3 miles from the coast.

Round the last headland and there was Glenarm – but where was the entrance? As in Ilfracombe, a yacht chose to leave the Marina just when I was looking for the entrance; this gave me a pretty good indicator of the hole in the breakwater. We drifted in – I called the marina master on his mobile, only to find it had been diverted to another numbers voice mail....

Suddenly I could see him – gesturing to a space on the pontoon, not on a finger, or the pontoon, but sandwiched between two yachts who were on their own finger pontoons.

And so the day drew to a close. The sun shone – the rowing club went for some exercise and the Paps of Jura stood out to the north, whilst dark clouds gathered from the South.

Rowing club and the Paps

I began to wonder if we could make Port Ellen (on Islay) in one hop tomorrow. It would get me a day nearer to Oban or Croibh Haven, where I could leave Vagabond and take the train home before next week end.

The Owners Agent insists on it.

It would all depend on the weather and the tides......

In the meantime, it's stopped raining - I'm off to the pub to find an internet connection (of course, any Guinness will be incidental.)

* The Flautist wanted to know where I erected a  tent in the Marina. It fits on a frame over the cockpit and reminds me of the hood on the elderly Morgan Plus 4 that I had once. I sold it to pay for the honeymoon with the Owners Agent....
** Boss - I don't know what you were thinking.

Irish Landfall

 

The Titanic Exhibition Building

I am sitting in the cabin, listening to the rain on the roof and the wind howling in the rigging as “an unseasonal storm” (as the weather forecaster put it) passes through. The tent is erected giving me more living space and the fan heater is plugged into shore power to dry me out. This morning, I left Vagabond to her own devices in the marina at Bangor and went off to the Titanic experience in nearby Belfast. It was well worth the visit, tracing the history of the town industries and taking to the building yard to experience the making and the launching of the ship. It wouldn’t be complete without mention of the sinking but that is not the major part of the story. Excellent. Beats stuff at Epcot in Florida.

The only snag is that I had to go by rail and the train station is about a half mile walk from the centre. The heavens opened on my way back and I’m just recovering.



Peel Marina



Another digression from the main story, I’m afraid. We* had arrived on the Isle of Man and moved up to Peel, where a day or so of gales had kept us fretting on the pontoon.

At last, the weather eased to a nice 4 -5 Southerly wind, which would be just right to move us Nor’Nor’ West (300 deg True) up to Bangor. That tide gate across the harbour would be open at 08:30 just right to catch the tide in the same direction. We were ready. And then I checked the bilges. Brown water. Where’s that come from (the marina was in a river, conceivably it could be from that. Help, we’re sinking.

 Frantic sponging cleared it out and then I thought the smell was familiar. The Coke can (that I had bought for the teetol one of the architect couple that visited in Ramsgate ) looked a bit odd. It had exploded/corroded and emptied into the bilge. Phew! Panic over.

Through the gate, into the bay. Up with the sails and set course. The wind dies. Freddie comes on and we resume course.

He turned away

We were soon out of the wind shadow and Freddie was subdued. We whizzed along at over 6 knots as the wind and tide drove us NNW. Rain showers appeared all round us but missed. Trawlers ploughed furrows in the sea bed across our bows. I was just thinking of taking avoiding action round one, when he turned round and fled back the way he had come.

Scotland was sighted away in the North East and the Isle of Man disappeared in the haze behind.

The Isle of Man recedes

A yacht was sighted astern, slowly overhauling us.

But where was Ireland?

Thunder clouds towered to the West.  Still no sign of Ireland. By now, the GPS thinks it’s about 5 miles away. The boat speed drops off as the tide starts to turn south. The other yacht passes us and drops his sails.

There’s Ireland. The main bit is away on the port side and ahead of us is the little Island and the passage between it and the mainland that is our shortest route.

By now the tide is pushing against us. I roll of the jib and pull Freddie into life. The yacht ahead pitches and rolls as she enters that turbulent water in the passage. ‘He’s twice the size of us’, I think, ‘This is going to be interesting’ and crank the throttle open some more. Freddie now barks defiantly. I hope he keeps going. We’re in the channel. First we’re set towards rocks to port as the sail and Freddie drag us past them (our ground speed goes down to less than 3kn at one point). Then we’re set to starboard towards the other set of rocks. We gybe. Ouch.

Finally we drag ourselves clear. The water smooths out. Freddie is silenced once more and the sails take us down Belfast Lough towards the marina at Bangor. 

47 miles (mostly under sail), average speed 5.2 kn, max speed 8.7 kn - doesn't a good tide help!

I secure us alongside and tidy up, "putting the ship to bed” before reporting to the Marina office. Here, I discover that in the loo block includes a BATHROOM, with a BATH. I emerge after a half hour soak. Just what I needed.

Then I was ready for the Titanic.

The rain has stopped. It’s time to go outside again.

* By the way, the other of my readers has asked for clarification of the term “we”. Did I mean the crew? No. “We”, unless otherwise stated, means Vagabond and I. That’s quite enough for me to deal with.

Gone Abroad – Sorry no photos

I’m sitting in the Creek Inn, overlooking the harbour in Peel, IOM. That’s it. We're really committed now – no driving up the Mn * with the trailer to fetch Vagabond home – we would have serious water to cross as we found yesterday.

 I had left you, dear reader (there is at least one of you, that I know)with Vagabond in the marina at Holyhead, on the Isle of Anglesey (it doesn’t count as an Island really having been connected to Wales by a bridge built by that great, early Victorian road and bridge builder Thomas Telford**).

I digress. We had a day off in Holyhead, shorts and T shirt weather as it was, preparing ourselves for the crossing to the Isle of Man. (My apologies to Manx people – I spelt their island incorrectly in the last post). It was of the order of 60 miles from Hoyhead to the nearest port on Man. Port Erin is a little town, with a small harbour for locals and a couple of “rough iron”  buoys for visitors that were protected from winds in all directions except the West.  A bit further on (up the Wesy Coast of Man) is Peel, with a gated harbour, giving good shelter from all directions.  But the gate means there is only a small window when the harbour can be entered. It would be the ideal destination.

The forecast was for E to SE winds F4 or 5 occasionally six later. Not ideal but, I thought, if the 6’s were only occasional, probably acceptable. At least we’d get there quickly. Then there are the tides to cope with – on the ebb, Liverpool bay empties to the SE across the gap between the Isles of Man and Anglesey. On the flood, it fills from the SW. The journey should take about 12 hours, so be roughly tide neutral. Simple – course due north. But we had to arrive at High Water – this meant leaving at 05:30 (again).

We left at about 6 o’clock, despite having made the sandwiches the night before. Two other yachts were going the same way.

The sail across the harbour and out into the bay was delightful, good wind and smooth water. The we were becalmed. On came Freddie but he soon went off again as we moved out of the wind shadow of a local hill.

We had thirty minutes of reasonable wind (F4) just behind the starboard beam and flew along. Then the wind strengthened and I took in a reef. We flew along again. Thirty minutes later it strengthened again so I took in the second reef. Over the next hour, the wind continued to strengthen. Moreover, this wind had been blowing across the width of Liverpool bay (50 or so miles) and had built up an eight foot swell from the same direction. The boat needed even less sail, so then only thing to do was roll up the job. And here’s where the trouble hit. I couldn’t fully roll up the jib and it fluttered uncontrollably, shaking the mast and the boat. I can to let it down into the sea and then recover it. Lifelines on, I clwed my way onto the foredeck and pulled in the jib, lashing it down with the dinghy lashings. All of this took place in a shipping separation lane but at least Vagabond was now under control and I only saw one ship when I was on the foredeck. She was taking spray over the foredeck and occasionally into the cockpit. One wave went down the campanionway hatch so I belatedly raised the spray hood.  

Whilst all this was taking place I lost track of the other two yachts and I never saw them again. I wonder if they had turned back. I considered doing so but thought it would be as bad going back as it would have been going on, so went on.

I also noticed that I had lost something else in the kerfuffle. The windex had been shaken off the mast by the pounding from the jib. I'll need to buy some wool and tie it to the shrouds.

And so we continued, making a steady 4 to 5 knots over the ground, sterring north and tracking first to the west and then to the east as the tide turned. Towards tea time *** the wind eased a bit and I raised the jib again.

At 17:30, we sighted the Calf of Man, the small island at the southern end of Man. It was 5 miles away. I had intended to take a short cut through the sound between the small island and the mainland but realised that the wind would be being funnelled  straight down it, so chose not to do so. I was glad we hadn’t gone that route, four when we crossed the other end of the sound, the wind was stronger than ever. By now it was too late to get to Peel, so I turned into the shelter of Port Erin and eventually (and thankfully) made fast to one of their visitors buoys. 55 miles at 4.7 knots.

I cleaned up the cabin, ate my sandwiches and fell into my bunk. It was about eight pm and I didn’t wake until just before daylight. I caught a snippet of a forecast - SW winds, some where nearby. This harbour wouldn't be safe in those conditions and I realised that, if we left immediately we could probably get to Peel whilst the harbour gate was open. We managed to leave at just after 05:30 and were in Peel (thanks to Freddie) just before 8, so caught the gate before it shut. I fell into my bunk again and surfaced at midday.

No sign of the other two yachts: I wonder if they turned back when I was not looking

Now, where shall we go in Northern Ireland?

Holyhead - Gateway to Ireland

Snowdon stood out to the east

I had intended to leave Pwllheli at 06:30 – another early morning start to catch the tide. Early mornings were never my strong point and we were about 30 minutes late leaving. It was a sunny morning with a breath of wind from the South East. Snowdon stood out clearly to the East.

We needed to catch the flood tide north and round to Holyhead, so we were leaving at just before low water. Another anxious time watching the echo sounder as we creep down the harbour channel.

We made it with about half a metre * in hand and headed for our first rendezvous with the tide – Cindal point. According to a bit of local knowledge I had gleaned the in the bar, the tide there turned early and would get me through the passage between Bardsay Island and the mainland whilst there was little current (up to 5knots at Springs)  and then out into the beginning of the mainstream flood tide northward.

On time at Cindal point

Freddie pushed us on. We were on time at Cindal point and the local knowledge was well founded – a small current took us westward to the sound. The water in the sound was flat calm with no signs of the dreaded over falls. We were out into the Irish Sea: flat calm, no swell and no wind.

The coast disappeared into a haze. Eventually, an island appeared to the north, and the haze cleared to reveal the north coast of Wales and the coast of the Isle of Anglesea.



Eventually, the dreaded South stacks appeared and the tide turned against us. More local knowledge had told me that if you get really close to the South Stack, there’s on odd eddy that runs contrary to the tide.

Approaching South Stacks

I saw a small boat making use of this eddy and followed her through, into the bay between South and North stacks. Cliffs loomed over us as we clung to the shore and we crept past North Stacks to see a line of breaking waves (overfalls) to the north of us.

Ouch.





As we approached, seeking some way through them, the tide current must have changed a bit, for the breaking waves just collapsed, leaving a mass of seething water.





North Stack - the lighthouse is for sale



Freddie barged us through and we rounded the North Stacks to see the harbour wall of Holyhead. It’s a mile and a half long and the tide was now really against us – it took nearly an hour to get through the entrance, and then we had to go back down the other side of the wall to reach the Marina. 55 miles in 10 hours. And all thanks to Freddie, who was hot and salt encrusted at the end.



RNLI doing it's stuff



A day off today (10th August) watching the RNLI doings it's stuff.

Now it's the Isle of Man and then Ireland tomorrow.  We're going abroad!

*A bit more than 18 inches



 















Pwllheli – phew!

Vagabond and I resumed our clockwise wanderings on Tuesday (7^th August). I had left her  a drying buoy adjacent to the Swallow Boats workshop and rejoined her on Monday, after a week of house clearance, gardening and all the other stuff you when when starting to "downsize". The journey back to Vaganbond t most of Monday and included a car, three trains, and a slow local bus until I arrived at the Tesco in Cardigan, where I bought a few staples.

 After Matt (the MD of Swallow Boats) had kindly picked me up from there, I joined him and his team looking at their latest creation – a true replica bronze age boat, built out of timber planks and held together with the bronze age equivalent of string and sealing wax.

Bronze age leviathan

Leavinf them contemplating their creation, I went off for a walk, to look at the channel that we needed to take the following morning, for I was anxious to leave as soon as Vagabond floated. My thoughts were to make for Aberystwyth but I was worried that we’d get there just in time for low tide and we wouldn’t have enough depth of water to get into the harbour.

Waiting for the tide

I was woken on the Tuesday to the sound of two enormous tractors as they lifted the leviathan  to the waters’ edge and, like Vagabond, , it lay there, waiting for the tide.  I called the Harbour master at Aberystywth, who confirmed my fears. It meant I was in for a long passage, as we had to get to the north end of Cardigan Bay before nightfall.

Both boats floated at roughly the same time. Matt and his team of 12 volunteers paddled the replica away to it’s temporary resting place, ready for the sea trials on the following day.

At 10:30 am, I steered Vagabond out through the channel, anxiously watching the depth gauge as we went.  We cleared the bar and hoisted the sails, more in hope than expectation. It was a grey morning, with a hint of rain in the air, but the sky was blue out to sea as we headed north. I had the choice of three possible destinations, Bardsay Island, just of the point of North Wales, AberPorth, a bay along the south side of that northern peninsula, or Pwllheli, a marina nearby.

‘Head due north’, I thought  ‘ And decide where to go when you get there.’

The Welsh Coast disappears

The wind dropped. The blue sky disappeared. The rain started. The coast of Wales disappeared. Freddie barked into life.

Nine hours later little had changed except that we were further north and I had to make the decision about the destination.

It would be dark in about an hour. I could just get to Pwllehi before the sunset. The marina, showers and an easy time beckoned. Freddie was cranked up an extra notch.



Snowdon on the right!

The sun came out and gave us some stunning views of the North Welsh hills (including Snowdon). I called the marina and was allocated a berth, which we reached just as dusk was closing in.

53 miles. Ten and a bit hours. The ongest motor boat trip yet.

More Gardening Leave

The perceptive of my readers will have detected that Vagabond has been inactive for the last few days. She is (your scribe hopes) attached to a buoy close to Swallow Boats yard whilst I'm at home finalising the sale of our home and helping the Owners Agent find another one.


At least, that's what I was planning to do. All I can say is that I am amazed at the many ways in which a legal mind can delay a transaction.


So I've cut the grass, sold stuff on Ebay, visited the local recycling centre, given stuff away on freecycle, taken the Owners Agent out to dinner, and filled a skip with the contents of the garage.  This was a cathartic event for each these items had been painstakingly accumulated over the 39 years on the basis that 'it might come in useful'.

I've also taken the opportunity to include a couple of pages to the blog - the first is a map of the UK showing our progress and the second is Nerds Nook - a record of the hours spent in each stage and the nautical miles recorded. I see we're at about a 60 / 40 split between hours spent sailing and hours spent on Freddie.

Normal service should resume on Tuesday when, weather permitting, Vagabind will wander north along the Welsh coast.