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.
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.
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