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.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Friday, 11 September 2009
Thursday, 27 August 2009
L'Aberwrach to Camaret Sur Mer
The weather turned in our favour and so we set sail for L’Aberwrach, which is a small village on the very outer reaches of the Brittany peninsula and is one of the last few ports of refuge before the Chenal du Four.
We flew along our track towards our destination with full sails clocking hull speed as the wind fell on our starboard quarter as we made the approaches at slack water. Instead of anchoring at our destination, we motored down the shallow river to Port de Paluden, and picked up a mooring buoy where we sat and took in the view of the remote village, watching a group of youngsters messing about and egging each other on to dive into the river.
The following morning it was decided that the next stop would be Aber Bonoit, a 12 mile journey through a treacherous passage of submerged rocks and outliers, well, its treacherous in bad weather. There were, as the almanac described “free mooring buoys”, so rather go there than pay the 10 euros a night for a place that has none of the facilities that make our journey more comfortable – like showers and cake shops.
Actually, the approaches to Aber Bonoit weren’t as bad as we had read, and with careful pilotage, “La Jument” the inner port buoy, marking the entrance beyond the rock strewn coast, gave way to a strikingly attractive fishing village – on one side white houses with slate roofs nestled amongst mature green fauna which sloped down to the silvery sanding beach upon where children splashed about in the clear water. Weather beaten fishing vessels came and went, each taking it’s turn to unload its cargo of seaweed across the other side of the river where a rusty crane, its steel tool gingerly raked the fresh cargo into a lorry parked on the steep slip.
Sure enough, we found the mooring buoys and settled down to watch the day pass before returning to the chart table to consider our next passage – The famous Chenal Le Four and the leg to Camaret.
The Chenal du four is the wide stretch of water which runs north south and is really a tidal gate for small pleasure craft transiting the north and south coasts of France. It was important for us as the weather allowed to make a dash for it and push the last of the flood tide so we could be at Le Four lighthouse for the beginning of the ebb.
The barometer hadn’t changed much overnight so in anticipation of fair weather left early under a grey sky. In the distance you could see swell breaking over the rocky entrance and nervously checking our position agreed that it should be safe – the logic is that the swell meets the shoal rocks and breaks. But as we got closer the sight of huge waves breaking was enough to quicken the pulse rate and seriously question whether to proceed. So we got closer and closer and could hear the incredible energy of the waves booming against the rocks and watched as we motored past in silent horror, either side 300 meters away from certain doom. But it was alright and no sooner had we passed the outer reaches of Aber Bonoit we hoisted sail into the most enormous Atlantic swell we had ever seen. And I mean enormous. The wave period was very long and Sunny jim found her way under a sea which towered over us and rolled past each wave increasing with size as our tiny boat disappeared then reappeared between each wave top. I would have liked to have captured an image of the sea state but like anyone who has never seen the Atlantic swell in true form found it difficult to prize my fingers away from the nearest handhold.
But the sea was benign enough. No waves were breaking so we were safe as long as we stuck to the passage plan. The really annoying thing was that just as we were coming to terms with our situation, and had began congratulating each other on our courage and decision making, we spotted a 10 foot rowing boat on the crest of a wave, the yellow wellied fisherman stood paying out a fishing line as if he were tending to potted plants! So feeling a little humbled by the nonchalance in which he went about his daily routine, I promised myself to bear in mind the next time I tuck into fresh crab meat to be thankful for the price I paid.
The passage through the Chenal was swift and took a little over 2 hours with us accelarating past st. Matthieu point at the very end. Although we did momentarily get swept up in a race near the La Fourme buoy. From a distance I remember calling Clare and pointing out how close another passing yacht was to the final buoy upon leaving the chenal – as it turns out he must have had local knowledge as he passed over calm water whilst we and another boat got swept into the race at the end and confused waves boiled all around and threatened to break over us. Worse for the catamaran behind who seemed to get lost in the fury whilst we crabbed along under motor (whenever it gets bad the motor goes on…) into safer water.
So another few days have passed and were a little further south. We plan to stay in Cameret for a few days and are hoping to establish better communications whilst were here, and plan the next leg of the passage. We spoke briefly last night of doing a passage straight to Spain, but its just a sketchy idea and we would need a clear weather report for at least 3 days. We are missing you guys and have already “over cooked the chicken” as far as getting over excited about meeting other british flagged vessels- we seem to scare away the snobby bastards….
Saturday, 22 August 2009
The City of Morlaix
Morlaix
So after an awful day yesterday, we decided that the next stop would be Morlaix city for a couple of days of R+R.
Morlaix is situated 5 miles along a long meandering river which dries out completely at low water. The river ends at a lock, and beyond this, the narrow but secure marina basin winds its way into the centre of a bustling city. To get there, all we had to do was wake up at 5.30 and head upsteam and wait for the lock to open. But, in true form, the time on the phone alarm had not been adjusted and therefore we were running behind. With the ebb in flow, we just managed to make it to the lock before it shut its gate on us for the entire day.
I really wish you guys were here – you’d love it. The city is in bloom with market day, and just about every conceivable item of french cuisine is on offer. The narrow cobbled streets echo with vendors crying out there wares and Clare and I bimbled about soaking up the busy and lively atmosphere. It is a gourmets paradise, and you could spend some serious money here and pick up real quality ingredients. There was one stall which just dealt with sturgeon roe – caviar, and we passsed tanks of live lobsters of various sizes. I have added a few pictures for you to see the quality of food for yourself.
We are here until tommorow(Sunday) and then we have to go. Both of us are wondering if you’re receiving emails as we have sent out quite a few and not had any responses – are you out there?? We still havent sorted out a phone yet but Clare has made inroads to get her phone unlocked. Then, all we need is a sim card and presto, we’ll give you a call.
Speak to you all soon
Morlaix
So after an awful day yesterday, we decided that the next stop would be Morlaix city for a couple of days of R+R.
Morlaix is situated 5 miles along a long meandering river which dries out completely at low water. The river ends at a lock, and beyond this, the narrow but secure marina basin winds its way into the centre of a bustling city. To get there, all we had to do was wake up at 5.30 and head upsteam and wait for the lock to open. But, in true form, the time on the phone alarm had not been adjusted and therefore we were running behind. With the ebb in flow, we just managed to make it to the lock before it shut its gate on us for the entire day.
I really wish you guys were here – you’d love it. The city is in bloom with market day, and just about every conceivable item of french cuisine is on offer. The narrow cobbled streets echo with vendors crying out there wares and Clare and I bimbled about soaking up the busy and lively atmosphere. It is a gourmets paradise, and you could spend some serious money here and pick up real quality ingredients. There was one stall which just dealt with sturgeon roe – caviar, and we passsed tanks of live lobsters of various sizes. I have added a few pictures for you to see the quality of food for yourself.
We are here until tommorow(Sunday) and then we have to go. Both of us are wondering if you’re receiving emails as we have sent out quite a few and not had any responses – are you out there?? We still havent sorted out a phone yet but Clare has made inroads to get her phone unlocked. Then, all we need is a sim card and presto, we’ll give you a call.
Speak to you all soon
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.
