As we were promised, Camaret has proved to be a real favourite for us.
When we first got here the weather- which always plays a primary role – was fairly unsettled. Sea mist hung persistently in air for several days and at times visibility was reduced so that the street lights of the shoreline were difficult to make out.
Sunny jim was anchored 300 meters from the mole- the man made breakwater that offered protection from the atlantic swell and from here we could see the comings and goings of small commercial fishing boats, ferries and pleasure craft. Across the mouth of the bay, sandy beaches lines the shoreline, and further on a grass footpath followed its way up a steep cliff along the waterfront.
Although most of the weather we had at Camaret was unsettled, we did have a few sunny days. On one occasion, after a quick reccy in the dinghy, we all decided to go along the pebble shore to explore the beach. Upon closing the land, we were greeted by a huge rock formation unmasked by the ebb tide and climbed onto the beach, our feet slipping on the large pebbles which covered the shore and heaved up the dinghy to a safe level before securing it with rope around a large boulder. The sun shone overhead and the jagged edge of the cliff face worked its way down creating a natural barrier between where we stood and the other side of the rock. A low arch, carved out of the stone allowed us entrance onto a private pebble spit, hidden on the other side of the cliff face where the ebb tide lapped gently on the shore, uncovering and covering humps of granite rock embedded close inshore. The water, although cool, was crystal clear and we could see oysters partly camouflaged, clinging on to there rocky homes. Great colonies of mussells clung together in groups and we would have dug in if it had not been out of season and the mussells were small. Instead, using a chisel and a stone I chipped away at the oysters and sucked out the meat.
Later, whilst Clare and Henry played in our hidden cove, I climbed a slate rock to have a look at what was over the other side. The slate descended down onto a flat stone platform and beyond that, derelict concrete posts layed horizontaly together to form a kind of concrete rectangle spanning 40 metres across to the other side of the bay. I stood on the platform, following the route I would have to take across to get to the other side. A concrete wall which spanned the width of the structure prevented- at low water, the sea from surging into the cove so on one side the sea lapped up against the wall, and on the other side, the clear water stood still. It was like looking at an enormous part man made fish tank teeming with sea flora and colourful weeds. As I walked along the front wall I became aware of a really unusual sound. There must have been some kind of hole in the wall, beneath the waterline level leading from one side to the other. The flow of water, sucking through, made a heavy breathing sound –as if a giant in deep sleep taking in a deep breath through huge nostrils, pausing, then breathing out again. This went on continuously and I felt like I was 9 again- discovering new and exciting things by the sea.
It was Camaret that we met Mike, who was anchored just a short distance from us. After a couple of days of friendly waves passed, Mike rowed over to us and introduced himself. During the course of drinking tea in the cockpit we discovered that there were in fact some really interesting places to go to in the Rade de Brest, information which we had heard contrary to in the past so planned to follow Sea-Witch – Mikes boat up to Chateaulin along the river Alne. It was only a short distance to the Rade de Brest, and then into the Alne estuary following the river for 20 odd miles inland it would take 3 days of unhurried sailing/motoring. After the jostling we had had recently in uncomfortable swells, the prospect of sitting at anchor somewhere up a calm river seemed like a good idea, so we made preparations to leave.
Sunny jim had been motoring for miles up the unbuoyed and sometimes shallow waters of the river Alne. We spent one night just anchored in the river looking up at the steep hillsides populated with dense undergrowth, and took Henry for a walk ashore along the river bank.
The following day, we continued to follow Mike up to Port Lornay, through a lock, and moored up alongside the riverbank which ran parallel to this remote village. Although the rain was extreemly persistent, the views of the hillsides in the distance loosly shuffled behind one another in shades of grey, gave the impression we had travelled through somewhere far more exotic.
That evening we lay listening to the sound of the wind rising and falling gently buffeting the side of the boat in the gusts.
Chateaulin was everything Mike mike said it would be. The Alne winds its way up and is crossed by a low arched bridge in the centre of town which prevented any further progress up the river. We had come alongside the quay wall and threw out our lines and quickly settled in a place which offered us all of the ameinities that you might expect from a town and full protection from bad weather, without the expense of marina’s. The supermarket is 2 minutes away, wifi is offered cheaply and we have managed to blag a key to the showers without paying for it. It remains to be seen as to whether we are able to get access to the showers for our stay here without getting clobbered for the bill.
We have also done some fairly big jobs during our stay here. The engine has clocked up its 150 hours of use so a full service has been undertaken. We discovered that you can purchase oxalic acid in the local supermarket so have also attacked the cockpit with scourers and brought the scum and ingrained dirt out of the gel coat, finally finishing the job with a good dose of teak oil and a squirt or two of wax. The boat is looking really good – better than it has ever looked to be honest, and both of us await a delivery of English books at the poste restante before we go back to Camaret and jump off into the blue. Its getting a little late in the day for an ocean crossing in these latitudes but with careful timing our next arrival will be a place considerably warmer than here.
With a low and falling glass,
Soundly sleeps a careless ass…..
With mares tails in the sky as night fell, and barmoeter reading a fall in pressure, both Clare and I tucked ourselves into bed last night with our hot toddy’s and a bit of bedtime reading before we finally succumbed to the gentle sway of Sunny Jim.
It was only when I awoke in the night and had a quick look at the barometer that I noticed the considerable drop in pressure. Outside the wind chorused with the melancholy moan of the turbine, and Big Cuddles, tied alongside, made rythmic thuds against the hull.
I popped my sleepy head outside to casually check the conditions and the creeping realisation hit- Sunny Jim was drifting out to sea. She had been dragging her anchor way beyond the perimeter of the other boats. In the distance I could make out the orange glow of shore lights but the anchorage in which we were so comfotably resting was lost within the grey murk. Dark silhouettes of French granite provided a sinister backdrop and notice of our increasingly precarious situation– where were we? How far have we drifted?
Clare was up immediately and switched on the chartplotter. Yep, we have travelled a whole kilometre….a full kilometre with us both cuddled up in bed. The boat, if it had drifted in a straight line would have had to pass 2 submerged rocks and was well on the way to heading out to sea!
We don’t have one of those red alarm buttons on board with a proper red siren but if we did I would have pushed it there and then- several times. What followed from that point was both of us scrambling into action, Clare on the tiller and starting the engine and myself heaving on the anchor chain for all I was worth, praying to the anchor gods(or gods that deal with general ground tackle, buoys and other submerged stuff) that the anchor hadn’t fouled, and that it would just a matter of pulling up the chain. After some serious grunting, the anchor came up with a clunk and we motored in the general direction of where we had drifted from. But for a moment it was touch and go, and im quite amazed at the speed we both came to our senses.
It wasn’t just us though. As we picked up a vacant mooring buoy after our little incident, I noticed during the course of untangling the lead line which was attatched to the buoys securing rope, a little red dinghy came floating past on its merry way out to sea. I even called the harbour master but had no response so Clare made tea and I sat down with the binoculars to watch the poor little dinghy floating off.
Still, panic is over and the lesson learn’t – always, always pay the right amount of scope out.(shameful to admit but we payed out 20 meters – ok at low water, but
Soundly sleeps a careless ass…..
With mares tails in the sky as night fell, and barmoeter reading a fall in pressure, both Clare and I tucked ourselves into bed last night with our hot toddy’s and a bit of bedtime reading before we finally succumbed to the gentle sway of Sunny Jim.
It was only when I awoke in the night and had a quick look at the barometer that I noticed the considerable drop in pressure. Outside the wind chorused with the melancholy moan of the turbine, and Big Cuddles, tied alongside, made rythmic thuds against the hull.
I popped my sleepy head outside to casually check the conditions and the creeping realisation hit- Sunny Jim was drifting out to sea. She had been dragging her anchor way beyond the perimeter of the other boats. In the distance I could make out the orange glow of shore lights but the anchorage in which we were so comfotably resting was lost within the grey murk. Dark silhouettes of French granite provided a sinister backdrop and notice of our increasingly precarious situation– where were we? How far have we drifted?
Clare was up immediately and switched on the chartplotter. Yep, we have travelled a whole kilometre….a full kilometre with us both cuddled up in bed. The boat, if it had drifted in a straight line would have had to pass 2 submerged rocks and was well on the way to heading out to sea!
We don’t have one of those red alarm buttons on board with a proper red siren but if we did I would have pushed it there and then- several times. What followed from that point was both of us scrambling into action, Clare on the tiller and starting the engine and myself heaving on the anchor chain for all I was worth, praying to the anchor gods(or gods that deal with general ground tackle, buoys and other submerged stuff) that the anchor hadn’t fouled, and that it would just a matter of pulling up the chain. After some serious grunting, the anchor came up with a clunk and we motored in the general direction of where we had drifted from. But for a moment it was touch and go, and im quite amazed at the speed we both came to our senses.
It wasn’t just us though. As we picked up a vacant mooring buoy after our little incident, I noticed during the course of untangling the lead line which was attatched to the buoys securing rope, a little red dinghy came floating past on its merry way out to sea. I even called the harbour master but had no response so Clare made tea and I sat down with the binoculars to watch the poor little dinghy floating off.
Still, panic is over and the lesson learn’t – always, always pay the right amount of scope out.(shameful to admit but we payed out 20 meters – ok at low water, but
when the tide comes in at 12 meters, its just not on).
So the day turned out to be pretty blustery after all. Towering culmonibus hurried past and the anemometer was regularly recording 25 knots. To avoid any other little sojourns into the night, I suggested that we pay out plenty more chain to allow for the return of high water. Yeah? No problem? Well, to do this we were going to have to move into a spot which would allow us to reverse into a space with more swinging room so the whole anchor and chain would have to be lifted again. Right, well, I’m getting used to this heaving lark and its not all that bad. Don’t really mind it at all actually, a good heave ho and a jolly good tug and its done. Anchor on the deck. Except that we had to co-ordinate the retreival of the little darling anchor buoy which is like a little inflatable attached to the other end of the anchor by 10 meters of rope. So you can guess whats gonna happen. No? Clares on the tiller, engine on, slowly motoring forward. I’m there, stood on the fordeck, pulling at chain when the anchor buoy, with mindless determination, bobbing along with all its might, inevitably dives right at the last second to secure itself nice and tightly around the prop.
We had heard stories of lines becoming so tight that the force of the shaft trying to turn has pulled itself from the boat causing it to sink.
The engine went off immediatley and anchor secured to the foredeck.
Without any way, the boat was left in the unhelpful hands of some pretty powerful elements.
The wind blew fresh and the tide began its afternoon flood as our boat began drifting towards a buoyed shoal patch where small waves lapped over glistening stone…..
Clare and I stood digesting the situation. It was pretty grim. My cogs were turning but the panic inside was preventing rational thought and the dog had done a mr. whippy on the foredeck.
The headsail was whipped out and with the wind filling the sail gave us enough way to tack out of our situation, leaving the shoal patch, rocks and dire consequences in our wake.
With time on our hands the panic subsided and the next step to sail onto the mooring buoy that we let go only hours before. This we pulled off without a hitch and must of looked pretty slick. A nearby family on board sat up in there cockpit and gave us the thumbs up.
Step by step, the boat had been made safe.The dinghy was fastened alongside wherein I stood, balancing myself in the swell brandishing a jagged diving knife lashed on the end of a 3 foot stick, fashioning soiled and soggy underpants, socks and sandals(the fashionable footwear of a man who has lost touch with his sense of dignity), and with the fearless courage of a british paratrooper begged Clare to dive down to the propellor.
Another hour went by as the remnants of the anchor buoy’s line was sawn away from the propellor shaft and after having checked that everything was alright and no damage done the engine thumped into life and we found ourselves in an anchoring spot, paying out 40 meters of 8mm chain and 16kg’s worth of galvanised steel.
Its been a hell of a day. We had to leave the anchorage in the end because of strenghening winds and a northwesterly swell making the whole place untenable. As we left, there was only one occupied yacht toughing it out, pitching and rolling in the uncomfortable swell.
We came round the corner and dropped anchor hopefully for the last time. The wind has eased and the swell was unable to find its way into the estuary so were hoping for a quiet night. It’s a beautiful spot- the rocky cliffs and stone bluff’s have been replaced by woodlands and farms, but we’re a mile offshore in this wide place so there is not much chance to go ashore. After the weather prevented us from setting foot on land today, I feel at a bit of a loss. Even though I have been unable to make contact with friends and family, just writing and reading old emails has helped us keep in touch with you guys back home(we had planned to get wi-fi access at a restaurant sited on the beach today), but with the weather denying us that small mercy I, for one, feel the burden of a very long and tiring day.
So the day turned out to be pretty blustery after all. Towering culmonibus hurried past and the anemometer was regularly recording 25 knots. To avoid any other little sojourns into the night, I suggested that we pay out plenty more chain to allow for the return of high water. Yeah? No problem? Well, to do this we were going to have to move into a spot which would allow us to reverse into a space with more swinging room so the whole anchor and chain would have to be lifted again. Right, well, I’m getting used to this heaving lark and its not all that bad. Don’t really mind it at all actually, a good heave ho and a jolly good tug and its done. Anchor on the deck. Except that we had to co-ordinate the retreival of the little darling anchor buoy which is like a little inflatable attached to the other end of the anchor by 10 meters of rope. So you can guess whats gonna happen. No? Clares on the tiller, engine on, slowly motoring forward. I’m there, stood on the fordeck, pulling at chain when the anchor buoy, with mindless determination, bobbing along with all its might, inevitably dives right at the last second to secure itself nice and tightly around the prop.
We had heard stories of lines becoming so tight that the force of the shaft trying to turn has pulled itself from the boat causing it to sink.
The engine went off immediatley and anchor secured to the foredeck.
Without any way, the boat was left in the unhelpful hands of some pretty powerful elements.
The wind blew fresh and the tide began its afternoon flood as our boat began drifting towards a buoyed shoal patch where small waves lapped over glistening stone…..
Clare and I stood digesting the situation. It was pretty grim. My cogs were turning but the panic inside was preventing rational thought and the dog had done a mr. whippy on the foredeck.
The headsail was whipped out and with the wind filling the sail gave us enough way to tack out of our situation, leaving the shoal patch, rocks and dire consequences in our wake.
With time on our hands the panic subsided and the next step to sail onto the mooring buoy that we let go only hours before. This we pulled off without a hitch and must of looked pretty slick. A nearby family on board sat up in there cockpit and gave us the thumbs up.
Step by step, the boat had been made safe.The dinghy was fastened alongside wherein I stood, balancing myself in the swell brandishing a jagged diving knife lashed on the end of a 3 foot stick, fashioning soiled and soggy underpants, socks and sandals(the fashionable footwear of a man who has lost touch with his sense of dignity), and with the fearless courage of a british paratrooper begged Clare to dive down to the propellor.
Another hour went by as the remnants of the anchor buoy’s line was sawn away from the propellor shaft and after having checked that everything was alright and no damage done the engine thumped into life and we found ourselves in an anchoring spot, paying out 40 meters of 8mm chain and 16kg’s worth of galvanised steel.
Its been a hell of a day. We had to leave the anchorage in the end because of strenghening winds and a northwesterly swell making the whole place untenable. As we left, there was only one occupied yacht toughing it out, pitching and rolling in the uncomfortable swell.
We came round the corner and dropped anchor hopefully for the last time. The wind has eased and the swell was unable to find its way into the estuary so were hoping for a quiet night. It’s a beautiful spot- the rocky cliffs and stone bluff’s have been replaced by woodlands and farms, but we’re a mile offshore in this wide place so there is not much chance to go ashore. After the weather prevented us from setting foot on land today, I feel at a bit of a loss. Even though I have been unable to make contact with friends and family, just writing and reading old emails has helped us keep in touch with you guys back home(we had planned to get wi-fi access at a restaurant sited on the beach today), but with the weather denying us that small mercy I, for one, feel the burden of a very long and tiring day.