Sunny Jim and the Milk Run: August 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.

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

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.

Tuesday, 18 August 2009

We have arrived at Treguier!

Enchante!

If there ever was a place that I could settle it would be Treguier. This little town is situated a little further west of Lezardrieaux, nestled downstream of the river of the same name.
We have anchored off about a mile upsteam of the main town and have been comfortably at rest for a number of days.

We must have arrived on market day as I had to go ashore in search of tobacco and other important neccessities and found myself wandering around a colourful market town, steeped in french heritage and architechture. The culture shock really has hit home, and after Clare had sent me packing with the shopping list, spent the first hour wandering around the busy streets wondering how I was going to make myself understood without coming across as your typical English tourist. It really is quite unnerving and I admit to finding myself stumbling over simple french language to purchase the most basic commodities.
But it has to be said that Treguier is such a wonderful little town. I am astounded by the sheer quality of ordinary produce- things that would carry the “tesco’s finest” seems to de rigeour. We bought a whole chicken for curry that evening – it cost us £7.00, but upon cooking realised it was truly “free range” – a chicken that was actually a little tough – have you ever…?

The boulageries and pattiseries are also absolutely out of this world with real french sweets, and I mean proper sticky cakes, dusted with icing and covered in chocolate that would put the finest high street british pattisserie to shame – not mentioning any particular ashby high streets…..
So yeah, we are having a jolly relaxing time of it all. Treguier would seem to be in festival at the moment and we are going ashore tonight to enjoy the performance of “vivalidi’s four seasons”(on a harmonica- no, not really), at the town square atop spiralling cobbled stones. The atmosphere is thoroughly intoxicating and It would be wonderful if you could join us as there is so much to share, but for now, we shall contact you again further west, as our plans will take us ultimately south, through the chenal du four and then on through the Raz du sein- a notorious stretch of turbulant sea.
Bye for now!!!

An unwelcome entrance…

We were caught out after spending the night rafted alongside Tony. The following morning, before the harbour master had chance to do his round, we thought it best whilst it was still early to sneak off back to the place where we were anchoring so as to avoid the cost of a nights stay on a pontoon. But we were clocked the night before, and when the harbour master motored up to us in his orange rib, I was keen to explain the reason why and promptly blamed it on Someone else.
Actually, as we had paid for the scrubbing grid the night before the extra charge was waivered.
During the course of conversation it came to light that there were a number of boats leaving the next morning for Lezardrieaux, and that the skippers were to be found just a little upstream.
Big cuddles sped up the Dart and found 4 other boats huddled together along a pontoon, and after a brief exchange of information, I agreed to meet them on the way out at 11am the following morning to join them in what would be our greatest passage to date – the channel!
The trip would take around 18 hours and at an average speed of 5 knots that would cover 90 miles. The forecast looked very pleasant and as opportunities go, to travel with 6 other vessels to the same location- all british flagged was an opportunity not to be missed.
Clare was a bit surprised to hear of the decision as it was so very soon, but understood that if we were to go, now would be as good time as any, and in the company of some pretty experienced sailors.
The rest of the day was spent in preparation, dinghy deflated and packed, and all of our gubbins which manages to fill up every spare space was shoved back in its locker and a quick trip to the fuel barge to make the most of the keen price of diesel(well, its not keen at all, but better than France).

On Saturday 8th August, at 11am, the anchor was weighed and Sunny jim, last in a convoy of 6 other small yachts, headed south beyond the Dart estuary, and as the wind veered round we were carried under full sail into the blue of the Canal du Manche.

The remainder of the day was spent trimming the sails to get the most out of the boat which was doing much better than expected on account of her new painted hull, and whilst Clare prepared chicken curry and rice for dinner I fiddled and adjusted the steering lines on the aries – the big ugly lump of aluminium on the stern of the boat which steers the boat to the apparent wind.
We crossed the shipping lanes not long before dusk and witnessed the last of the sunset as darkness began to fall all around. The excitement was too much for us so we both decided to stay awake for the night, and so cracked out the safety gear and harnessed ourselves in to the cockpit.
The approaches to north Brittany, for anyone who has’nt seen on a chart, is littered with rocks, some quite away offshore so the final approach must be taken with great care. By the time we were 12 miles away, still dark, we could make out the tricolour lights of the other yachts converging on our destination after having been alone bar one other boat for the entire night. You could feel the tension rising as we neared the shoreline and “Paddy”, one of the leading boats who had made it to the river entrance crackled over the vhf that there was a strong cross tide at the entrance and to take care not to be swept off your track.
Morning broke when we were 5 miles offshore. The psychodelic mixture of adrenaline combined with the side effects of sleep deprivivation propped up with cigarettes and coffee heightened the situation as we plotted our way into the cross tides.
The sea was a hypnotising pattern of riven stone wavelets weaving and threading liquid steel, like a rolling tapestry of intricate machinery spanning out and blending in to a grey horizon. The gaping maw of pink granite rose and jagged rock surrounded us as we became disorientated by the pull of the cross tide. The radio fell silent and masts yawed in uncertainty as positions were checked and leading lights were extinguished in replace of vague distant buildings and unfamiliar surroundings. The strong east going tidal stream dragged our boat sideways against our heading and then, as if the stream released its grasp, we were through and hurtling down the river Trieux at 9 knots. Morning sun lit up the little houses either side of the river and we motored inland with the rising tide past “La Croix” beacon and on toward Lezardrieaux.

At last we picked up a berth at the marina and with everything secure got our heads down for a well earn’t kip.
Our time in Lezardrieaux was fairly short and we basically only spent enough time here to rest before we began to finger the local coastline for other promisings ports of entry.

Preparations before Dartmouth Departure

Well, it’s been so long since we wrote anything and so much has happened, it’s difficult to know where to start, but I guess the best place to begin is after all of the trouble we had had with the old outboard, it was decided that we took a trip to the local outboard engineers in Kingswear and find out what was available to replace the old one that was going to be ongoing trouble if we left it.
So £700 lighter we carried away with us our new yamaha 4hp motor. Its pretty flash though, and although its really eaten into our funds, it was the right thing to do, especially as we are at the mercy of much stronger tidal streams and the last thing we want is for one of us to get sucked out to sea with a tempremental outboard.
The next thorn in our side was of course the boat underperforming in terms of its speed, and the log was’nt reading correctly. We knew that the cause of this was having a dirty hull, so had arranged to use Dartmouths scrubbing grid for the day.
For those of you who don’t know the ins and outs of drying out let me shed a little light.
Tide comes in, boat is fastened onto the quay wall. Tide goes out, boat is left there standing on its keel, ready for scraping/painting whatever. Tide comes back in again, boat is unfastened and drifts off. Heh, but its not always that simple, if you get it wrong, you are juggling with the possibility of causing major damage to your boat, particularly if you’re unfortunate enough to allow the boat to fall away from the wall.

So, there we were, starboard side to the quay wall early morning padding around the deck with lines running ashore to hold us in position as the tide turned. The crucial moment came when Sunnyjim touched bottom and with the sides of the hull fendered off, Sunny jim came to rest.
AS morning wore on we were found scrubbing away at the barnacles and slime whilst holiday makers ambled past soaking in the charm and the sounds of the coastal town.
We even had time to give her a new coat of anti-foul which was particularly pleasing as it saved us the hassle of drying her out for a second time, although it was a mad dash at the end to get the last of the paintwork on, and Clare and I were found shin deep, splashing the last of the paint on as the river began to swell. Still, we floated off at high water pleased with the hard days work and immediatlely noticed a huge difference in the boats performance.
Later that evening we rafted alongside Tony, a friend of ours from Southampton who had invited us to dinner and discussed our options as to where to go next.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

What a bloody disaster!

The weather has taken a turn for the worst here as that “fine” rain has settled in over the past 24 hours and has drained the colour of Dartmouth away replacing it by

shades of grey – but that's o.k, were all sat cosy in our boat reading and listening to the sound of the wind blowing mist against the windows.
That is until Clare mentioned that we needed to get ready to go ashore, I have to book the scrubbing grid at the harbour office and Clare has an appointment at the dentist for a quick checkup. There was a few other bits also that needed taking care of like food for tonight and the dog needed a walk so we began to get dressed in formal street wear so as not to get noticed as backpacking hippies.

So there we are about to leave when we both realise that the dinghy has 3 inches of water in it from the incessant drizzle over the past 24 hours. Clare steps aboard the dinghy, quickly followed by an over excited dog, whilst I go to fetch the pump to pump the rainwater over the side. Well, not long after I return and step aboard Big Cuddles, Clare’s clinging on to the side of Sunny Jim and an increasingly annoying dog is splashing about, leaning over the side and pawing at the shoreline. I’m pumping water ferociously over the side and shout Henry, ” Oy! bloody sit still”, and then realise I’m actually sucking water up in the pump and squirting it down my trouser leg. OK, so finally the dinghy’s dry and I climb aboard to put the pump back when Clare lets go of Sunny Jim- the dinghy’s immediately swept upstream by the spring tide and I'm stood there pump in one hand, wet trouser leg in the other calling Clare to remain calm, put the oars into the rowlocks and row back to the boat.

So that’s where the second part of this little farce kicks in. I mean, it was still kind of funny at the time, watching Clare struggling to get some kind of synchronicity with the oars in true girlie fashion- dinghy twirling aimlessly about as at each passing second she began falling further and further away from Sunny Jim, and her 3 o’clock appointment with the dentist.
So, it was time to call up the harbour master as it was becoming more obvious, if Clare was going to be left to her own devices she would be in Dittisham, the next village further upstream in less than an hour.
After calling for help on vhf the harbour master was seen motoring alongside a beleaguered “Big Cuddles” who was in the process of being saved by a local water taxi, who had motored over amidst cries of help from the sole crew member and a joyful whining from the dog, was safely towed back, F.O.C to Sunny Jim, now late- and very wet.
“No problem, we’ll still make the appointment”, I said and hopped over the side to join Clare and Henry- who by the way, thought this all to be very entertaining and part of the plan.

Clare let go of Sunny Jim and once again we’re adrift, this time with me huddled over the outboard trying to get it started, yanking the starter cord as the flow of tide takes on a journey all of its own. But this motor is just not going to start today. Since the spark plug panel fell off, moisture gets in and no amount of yanking is going to spark the motor into life so I assume the position, oars ready, and crab over the river Dart to the quay wall, some 300 yards upstream, Clare barking at me, me barking at Clare and the dog shaking with excitement as we Clamber off the dinghy in the sheeting drizzle and the increasing wind.
But, as far as the weather gods were concerned, our bad luck wasn’t over yet – far from it. You could just imagine them peering down at us and begin to take an interest as other locals, huddled together under brolly's and lean-to shelters began to stare at the odd looking trio, struggling with an over exuberant dog.

So that’s where we parted, Clare with poo bags in hand disappearing off into the seaside town and leaving me to contend with what was actually the poor canine, desperate to take his shit ashore, who, as luck would have it, decided to stack his khaki sausages at the door of the harbour master.
Not long later, the business of the day was completed, and after booking the scrubbing grid, made my way back to our meeting point which was well organised, down by the dinghy and out in the fine Devon weather.
As Clare was still at the appointment, it made sense to begin the fruitless task of rowing upstream, flogging relentlessly into the tide and making my way towards the pontoon which hugs the town quay on which a couple of water taxis gaily bobbed about.
As I approached, a couple of bearded taxi operators, dressed in foul weather gear and luminescent hoods peered out from their wooden doghouse.
“Alright, my motor wont start, think it’s the moisture- any chance you could tow us back to my boat – she’s over there”, and I pointed a finger in the general direction of the other anchored boats.
I have to say it was a bit like meeting the two jailers from Monty Pythons Life of Brian, One guy kept sucking in hard, “sssssssssss cant do that, see, harbour master wont let us tow boats, mmmm, why don’t you leave the dinghy here and we’ll take you across”. I could see that they were trying to suck me into there little trap. “Er, no thanks, I’ll need the dinghy to get ashore again”.
“tides runn’n ‘ard”, the other guy muttered in a gruff local accent, ”y’ might struggle. We’ll take you over to your boat- and the outboard too, and the dog.”
At this point, Clare turned up and joined us in the dinghy.
“well thanks anyway but its really a tow I need, I could try rowing, its not too bad, after all, it’ll be slowing down now, the top of the tides not far away”. And that was it, oars out and another furious session of rowing began as we left the locals at the dock.
They’re sneaky bastards though, all you need is to leave your dinghy behind and they’ve got you, stinging you for every trip ashore, here, there left right and bloody centre – cheeky buggers.
So we finally made it back to Sunny Jim, and I have to say that there wasn’t a dry spot left on the three of us. The outboard is still out there clasped onto the dinghy awaiting final judgement, the dog is curled up on his bed awaiting dinner, and here we are wondering when its going to stop raining.

Sunday, 2 August 2009

Lyme Bay and arrival at Dartmouth

Did I mention that we ended up at a place called Shipstal point?
Well, after saying goodbye to Clares family, we motored away from the town quay at Poole and followed the lateral buoy markers across a shallow but choppy expanse of water which led us around Brownsea island and west to Long Island. The depth was just enough to take the boat so we flaked out the anchor and with 35 meters distance to the shore, inflated our dinghy – called “Big Cuddles”- that’s the unofficial name – the official name is “Son of Jim”, so we can always avoid embarrassment should we need to refer to our dinghy in polite company – which there seems to be plenty of.

It’s amazing just how quickly time slips past, and after 3 days of walking, fishing and bird watching, we took advantage of a small weather window opening up for the lengthly passage across Lyme bay with the pretty town of Dartmouth on the other side.
The anchor was weighed before dawn and we motored under a dark blanket of stratus and watched the dawn break against a backdrop of granite cliffs that lead us out to sea.

It took 14 hours from our point of departure and aside from sighting a basking shark who drew along side us to take a look, the journey was pretty uneventful until finally, the dark form of the south Devon landscape began to reveal itself across the western horizon, and, as the light of the day began to fade, we could make out the winking cardinal buoys through drizzle which signalled the rocky entrance of the river Dart and would guide us safely to anchor upstream.

Dartmouth is just the most charming place you could encounter and reminds me of the kind of town that’s written about in a fairytale. Within the sloping valley, forestry flourishes and gives way to pastel coloured Victorian homes which lead down to the commercial waterfront where fishermen land their catch in brightly painted boats. Across the wide shimmering chocolate coloured river is Kingswear, mirroring Dartmouth in character and charm, and to top it all off, as if We weren’t blown away with this picturesque setting enough, the south coast blood and custard steam engine winds its way through the valley on the Kingwear side, its horn echoing off and filling the steep sides of the valley as it heralds its arrival.

Yeah, not bad for £6 a night……

Sunny Jim and the Milk Run