Algorta & Bilbao

The Basque flag has a name : Il Coriña, so we are told by my brother's fianceé's mother, and she should know, she lives here.

We had bought both Spanish and Basque flags in la Rochelle and after a short discussion approaching Spain we decided to follow protocol and fly the Spanish above the Basque. If the reception was frosty, we could change it. However, “frosty” just didn't come into the mindset of the people we met. Our welcome was enthusiastic and warm.

Before we left Ireland Maria, my brother's fianceé, had told us that her mother lived in Algorta. But at that time hadn't decided on our strategy for crossing Biscay, nor where in Spain we would be stopping. When it came to it, we had a good two day weather forecast, and Bilbao, or Algorta at the estuary of the river Nervion, just made sense.

We arrived on the evening of Thursday 10^th July, and sent a quick email home to check we were in the right place. Friday we went exploring on our bikes, and didn't get very far before discovering the massive Puenta Bizkaia, or Bizkaia Bridge. This structure was influenced in its design by the Eiffel tower when it was built in the 1890s. It was designed to carry people across the river without obstructing the passage of tall ships up the river to Bilbao. Standing 63 metres high and spanning 160 metres, it carries several cars, motor bikes and pedestrians across the river on a kind of a giant cable car called a “gondola”. There is also a walkway across the top, we took the lift up and the views of the estuary and surrounding towns were magnificent.

On Saturday Asun, a friend from her student days in Ireland 15 years ago, made the two hour trip up from Pamplona with her husband José Louis, and young son, Adrian. It was a bit windy to take them sailing, so we contented ourselves with lunch onboard and a walk to the Bizkaia bridge. As they had never been to Algorta before, we played hosts, relaying the bridge's story we had only learned ourselves the day before.

No sooner had Asun left when Maria's daughter and son-in-law, Aisling and Jorge, and her mother Florrie, arrived. Aisling and Jorge happened to be in the area on holiday from Madrid. Pretty soon we were ensconced in a nearby tavern, and joined by an ever-growing group of In-Laws to be. You've been “Kidnapped by the Fernandez family” Aisling told us. Later she and Jorge took us to a traditional Basque restaurant, “El Molina de Berange”, and treated us to a sumptuous meal.

Sunday we took the commuter train into Bilbao to see the Guggenheim museum. A remarkable building with it's different shapes and curves, but for me it took second place to the bridge. Then in the evening Maria's friend Begoña collected us and took us to her house where again we dined like monarchs on home cooked traditional Basque fare.

We spent that last night in Algorta anchored in the harbour, our marina budget having been clobbered by our extended stay in La Rochelle. Aisling and Jorge had bravely volunteered to crew for us on the next leg to Santoña, so we picked them up off the quay first thing Monday morning, and left Algorta and a very full weekend behind us.


Copyright © Pat Egan, 2008, All rights reserved.

Biscay

It was the 9^th of July. Our fridge had been replaced, and we were keen to make progress. We cancelled our planned trip to Royan, opting instead to try and make up some lost time by heading straight for Spain.

The book says that Biscay rarely lives up to it's fearsome reputation in the Summer months, and the weather forecast was for calm. It wasn't comforting. Twenty years ago my sister and her husband were capsized and lost their mast in a Biscay storm. Aside from the natural dangers, the French military have a firing range, thirty miles out to sea for the southern half of the French coast. I hid my anxiety from Catherine as best I could

We filled up with diesel in Minimes on the way out of La Rochelle. My plan had been to deflate the dinghy and stow it, but we'd run out of time the night before, Port Rot had simply left us with too much to do. Instead I thought we could do it while we were waiting for the fuel berth to open. No such luck. We got there at 7:45, 15 minutes before opening time and there was already a queue. We attempted to bring it aboard while underway, but it's a 3.8 metre dinghy, and we just tired ourselves out.

Never mind, we've towed it this far, we can tow it to Spain. Accepting defeat I went below to make a reviving cuppa. Meanwhile a large motorboat nearby took Catherine's interest in the cockpit. She watched with some envy as a large mechanical davit craned its much more substantial dinghy, a RIB, into the water. She turned the binoculars to see the name, “D – U something” she said, then “- A – N – E - S, Duanes” she said as the RIB came straight towards us. “I think we're going to have visitors”. Cuppa was postponed.

Now anyone who imports a boat and registers it on the Irish Ships' Register is most likely going to encounter Irish Customs. As we bought Aragorn, and our first boat in the UK, we found it particularly useful to contact Customs beforehand. Ronnie Lyons, whom we dealt with was very helpful, giving us good advice about how to ensure we got all the correct paperwork for VAT etc. He also giving us information on the other, sometimes dangerous, work that the customs office perform.

With the background of this positive experience, a visit from the Duaneries was an exciting distraction and we welcomed the two men and one woman from French Customs aboard with smiles and bienvenues. I think our relaxed attitude unsettled them a little at first, but they quickly relaxed as our sincerity won through. That aside, I was a bit unnerved by the pistols they all wore on their belts and the remaining Customs man keeping careful watch over us in the RIB twenty yards off our beam. A further twenty yards out the Duane's mothership also matched our pace, I wondered what firepower they had pointing at us. Paperwork all checked and in order, they accepted our word that we had neither drugs nor guns aboard, they had a token glance in a few of Aragorn's lockers and were gone.

The rest of our trip across Biscay was a uneventful, in calm seas and light winds it took us thirty two hours to motor sail to Spain. However we had extracted a trophy from our Biscay crossing, as before Les Duanes left we got them all to sign our visitors book.

Copyright © Pat Egan, 2008, All rights reserved.

Wok Lid Technology

“What do you do for Internet access?”. It was Julian from “Electra of Plymouth” who had asked the question as we sat in the capacious cockpit of his Moody 40. It was in Concarneau, our first stop in France, and I started by explaining that Aragorn was still piled high with stuff, waiting to find room in a locker, and that I'd have to have that lot sorted before I could put my theoretical plan into action.

It was an idea I'd taken from someone's casual comment about “Matador” an English boat, currently in the Eastern Med, who were using a common kitchen colander to enhance their Internet access.

Long before we'd left Ireland Catherine had decided that there was neither room to cook with, nor to stow my wok in the galley. However, believing I had figured out what Stuart and Steph were doing with the colander, I had made room to stow the wok's lid in Aragorn's workshop. It would not be until we reached La Rochelle that I would be able to buy the remaining two components to test my plan.

The two items were an external USB WiFi antenna, and a USB extension cable, total cost €34. I then mounted the antenna in the centre of the wok lid and pointed it in different directions until I picked up an unsecured WiFi network. Hey presto! We were on-line, downloading email, weather forecasts, and chatting to the folks back home over Skype for two cents a minute. All from the comfort of our own boat in La Rochelle's Vieux Port.

The principal is the same as in your TV satellite dish, the semi-spherical shape of the wok lid reflects the radio waves towards the antenna. Of course ideally it should be parabolic in shape, like a satellite dish, rather than the semi-sphere of the wok lid, but wok lid was what I had, and it gives my signal a decent boost.

A side effect of this is the intrigue it causes amongst neighbouring boats, and the MacIvor status it earns me, at least until they know me better!

At the time of Julian'/s question, all of this still remained to be proven, nevertheless, I explained my plan. Julian listened attentively to my theory, and then asked my opinion on the device he was using. He showed me his directional WiFi antenna, basically a commercially produced version of what I'd described, except of course it had the proper shape and material. “Bought this on Ebay for a hundred quid, it's not bad”, he admitted as I expressed surprise that it was even available.

“Not bad” indeed, I have since come across the professionally made item on other boats, and they have three times the range or more of my version. A hundred quid of Aragorn's kit budget has been earmarked, but in the meantime I'll keep going with my Wok Lid technology.

To see how Stuart & Steph are getting on see their web site on www.yachtmatador.co.uk.

Copyright © Pat Egan, 2008, All rights reserved.

La Rochelle

If you ever go to La Rochelle use the first rainy day to take a tour of the aquarium. And if you ever go to La Rochelle's aquarium, make sure you bring a pack lunch, a flask of coffee, and a bottle or two of water. Take the whole day to see everything, there is just so much. But it's a pity that such a magnificent attraction offers nothing by way of sustenance to its visitors. When you're hungry and thirsty it gets hard to stay interested.

But the aquarium is just one of La Rochelle's attractions. There is the maritime museum, there are those famous towers, there is the old city itself, and while we were there they were giving tours of the Aluminium 100 plus footer, “Tara”. A sailing boat built for arctic exploration, that had been deliberately sailed into the Arctic ice, and had crossed the north pole; or within a few miles of it; on the iceflow. The same boat had previously belonged to Sir Peter Blake, on which he'd met his fate at the hands of pirates in the Amazon.

For the boating enthusiast there is more. Not a mile down the road is Minimes, whose three thousand berth marina makes it a boat slum of biblical proportions, but with that comes an abundance of chandlers, boat builders, and marine suppliers of about every ilk.

But for me, the centre piece of this beautiful French city are the towers at the entrance to the old port, or Vieux Port. Both my previous visits to La Rochelle were by road, and from the first time I saw these magnificent structures it became a life's ambition to skipper my own boat between them. And so, on Friday the 27^th June 2008 I fulfilled this ambition.

We spent our first night in the Vieux Port, right in the heart of La Rochelle's tourist area. Surrounded on three sides by the bars and cafés, with their tables sprawling out onto the footpaths. We were just far enough away for the noise for it to be only a slight intrusion. However, we were planning to stay for a few days, so when the next day Christian, the port Captain, offered us a berth in the quieter Bassin des Chalutiers Ancien, we took it. Here, just a hundred yards from the centre was a practically empty marina with berthing spaces substantially more generous than even Dun Laoghaire's. Later we found out that this ancient trawlers basin had just reopened a few days before after a marina revamp.

Chalutiers would fill up while we were there, but initially we shared it with a couple of English motor boats, a couple of unoccupied sailing boats, “Tara”, and “Kondor”, from the National Yacht Club in Dun Laoghaire. Needless to say the Paddys weren't long getting together. I lost count of the number of crew on Kondor, but all I had to remember was the skipper's name was “Dermot” and everyone else was called “Joe”, with or without the “e” depending on gender.

With so few boats, and such large berthing spaces it was perfect to go practicing our marina manouvering, but somehow there was always something else to do, and then the place was full.

We spent longer than intended in La Rochelle on account of essential repairs, but this was no hardship, and we made full value of our time there.

On the 9^th July we left La Rochelle with bruised wallets having replaced the fridge. This was not foremost on our minds. Next stop Spain, across the Bay of Biscay, with its fearsome reputation for sudden storms and mountainous seas. It would prove an eventful trip.

Copyright © Pat Egan, 2008, All rights reserved.

Vannes & the Morbihan

The city of Vannes proclaims itself capital of the Morbihan, and dates back to Roman times. The Morbihan itself is an inland sea, about twice the size of Dublin Bay, with hundreds of Islands. A number of rivers flow into this sea, and these, combined with the narrow exit into the Bay of Biscay, lead to exciting currents of up to ten knots.

Entering we rode the incoming tide, just a few hundred yards as far as Ile Longue, and there we dropped our anchor for lunch and a lazy evening playing cards and monopoly. I was to be reminded of my inexperience the next day when we planned to go the rest of the way up to Vannes. I had been aware of the strong currents at the entrance, but for some reason it hadn't dawned on me that these went pretty much all the way up to Vannes.

So Thursday morning, we weighed anchor, and as I tidied up the bow of the boat, still snug in the anchorage, I caught sight of a sailing boat heading out of the Morbihan at what appeared to be an unnatural pace. As I watched another boat went racing by, followed by several more. They were going at at least 15 knots. Now these sailing boats just don't go that fast. The penny dropped, the current, and it was going the wrong way! We picked up a mooring buoy, played cards again until lunch, and took the afternoon tide up to Vannes.

The marina in Vannes is right in the heart of the old town. They need lock gates to ensure that there is sufficient water there to keep the boats afloat, so going in or getting out is restricted to around high tide. There is a road bridge, which is swung open to allow the boats in. When we went through, having queued with a dozen other boats, avoiding a collision was something of a challenge. The bridge operator was calling something to us : “deux cent dix-neuf” he repeated, our berth had been assigned. We were lucky, just two minutes walk from the town centre, yet far enough back down river to dull the town noises.

It was here in Vannes that we were to have our first visitors, Bill and Rita. Now Rita's boating ambitions don't go beyond drinks in the cockpit whilst firmly secured in the marina. However, these she fulfilled in some style, arriving not just with the champagne, but laden with chocolates and other gifts. The weather was perfect, we had two evenings sipping our pre-dinner champagne, sheltering from the hot continental sun under Aragorn's bimini.

Walking through Vannes' narrow streets, with the upper floors of the buildings tiered out over our heads, I found myself instinctively walking close in to the sides for fear of what might be coming from the windows above. It was amazing to wander through street after street of houses built hundreds of years ago, with the original wood still in the exterior walls.

Vannes was also Matthew's departure point. On Monday Bill and Rita took him to the airport in La Rochelle on the next leg of their own journey. Catherine and I took an evening walk down the river to reccy the lock gates and the swing bridge in our own time.

The next morning we left Vannes with the ebb tide, the massive current sent us racing through the Morbihan and flushed us into the Bay of Biscay. Without Matthew now, from here on there would be just the two of us.

Copyright © Pat Egan, 2008, All rights reserved.

Work, Work, Work!

“Your website hasn't been updated .... As you have so much time on your hands you should be able to update it more often.” Or “How is your extended holiday going .... all that lounging in the sun.” It's a common thread in the emails I have been receiving, and it's one that invokes a sense of indignation.

My reply is along the lines;

“We have had about as much time available as we had on the days immediately before our departure. The to do list goes on for 2 pages, and gets longer every day. We usually get to bed about midnight, rise about 8, and start working at 9. Recently we found a Carrefoure (big supermarket, think Cornelscourt times ten) - and spent 2 hours there, mostly noting what they have rather than buying the few bits that we got - and then had to carry everything home on our bikes. Before that I had to fix a puncture on my bike & Catherine's needed a bit of adjustment. Getting internet access is a daily challenge. I've been spending an hour or so every day trying to track down someone that can fix the fridge, or fit a new one. I am still working on fittings to attach the Dinghy to the back of the boat.

“We're enjoying it, and certainly not complaining, but "As you have so much time on your hands you should be able to update it more often" is a bit wide of the mark. And absolutely I am not looking for sympathy. If you're going to have an enforced stay somewhere, La Rochelle in June sure knocks the socks off rainy Dublin”.

We met an English couple on their boat here and they told us that they'd stopped here on their way south, but a succession of domestic issues brought them back to England repeatedly, until it was too late in the year and the weather was too bad. Three years later they're still here, and they're not complaining either. La Rochelle is the sort of place you could hang up your boots in for quite a while, but three years is not on our plan.

Then we went up the mast to change a light, and in the process managed to break 2 winches (long story), we're still waiting for the replacement parts. When I say "we" - I was up there for half an hour and came down knackered and in need of fresh underwear, it's sixty foot up a narrow pole. When I got down I realised I'd put the trilight on back to front. Catherine went up the second time, and in doing so elevated herself to Ellen MacArthur heights in the eyes of the entire marina.

The fridge is proving an interesting problem, I have been told quite emphatically that there is only one company in La Rochelle that can fix fridges, and I have found them both! One has told me that mine has to be replaced, the other is due in the morning, so we'll see. If what the first chap told me is borne out, I have a dilemna. Should we stay in La Rochelle for a third week and get the type of fridge we were going to upgrade to anyway? On the surface that seems like the right idea. But it will mean another week's marina charges plus a lift out, which between them cover the cost of the common or garden version, and then there's the further week's delay. In the meantime, the compressor is located under the floor of the cockpit locker, so I have ropes, buckets, anchors, and various other junk strewn around the deck to keep it accessible to the repairmen.

On the plus side I have, I think, sorted out my davits. As I type the dinghy is suspended from the stern. I'll see how it works when we go to sea. In addition, we have made quite a dent in the to do list, to such an extent that I am down to the things that will have to wait until the Algarve, and the chicken list.

So perhaps I will have some time on my hands to update the website after all .... Naww, I'll just spend my time lounging in the sun.

Copyright © Pat Egan 2008, all rights reserved.

One for Ireland

The Irish flag that Aragorn wears on her transom is a just bit bigger than those of our Eurpean neighbours that we have been meeting as we make our way towards the Algarve. Probably coming from a small country has something to do with it, but I think it's more to emphasize that we are not British.

Now anchorages, even crowded ones, are quiet places, with not much going on. The highlight of activity in a whole morning may be the arrival or departure of a boat. Therefore all eyes in a crowded anchorage are drawn to such an event. Whether they are or not, you certainly feel like they are when you make a mess of a things.

The technique of sailing off an anchor without resort to engine had been explained to me, and it seemed straightforward enough, but I had never done it. Basically, the anchor holds you into the wind, just perfect for hoisting your mainsail, then you simply tack up to the anchor, with the crew on the bow hauling in as you go.

We spent the night among the Glenan Islands off the coast of Brittany, not much more than a few metres above sea level at their highest points, and hardly enough land between the lot of them to make a decent farm. But they are a popular place to anchor, and even in early June there were at least twenty other boats around us.

So, amidst the seasoned mariners of Europe, this novice skipper decided to have a go. It worked a dream. Catherine, Matthew and I raised our main, took Aragorn quitely up to her anchor, hauled in, made secure, unfurled the genoa and sailed through the other boats out of the archipelago without polluting the atmosphere with an ounce of diesel fumes. Proud of our achievement, and conscious of neighbouring boats and our oversized Irish flag, I indulged out loud “that's one for Ireland”.

Picking up moorings can also be a tricky business. Invariably one member of the crew ends up hanging over the bow in an undignified position trying simultaneously to get a line on the mooring and relay steering instructions back to the helm, and to do all that without descending into panic. Fortunately for us Aragorn came equiped with a gizmo for this very purpose, and Catherine has mastered it's use.

The following evening we arrived in Sauzon, a picturesque fishing village in Belle Ile, where, once again there was a crowd of boats as we picked up a visitors' mooring. I took the wheel and Catherine went to the bow, where she calmly tapped the buoy with the gizmo and coolly retrieved the line, now looped through the buoy. We sat down to relax for the evening, and again I indulged proudly, “that's another one for Ireland”.

Overnight the wind changed, the swell got up, and it became uncomfortable. We'd learned from our time in the Scillys, so first thing in the morning we moved to an anchorage on the other side of the island. We arrived to join the one other boat that was there ahead of us in the narrow bay. Forgetting to prepare the halyard I told Matthew to drop the main, the line promply snagged, and our half raised main flapped wildly while we sorted it out. Then, deploying the anchor I made the trip line too short, making it impossible for the anchor to set. We carreened in astern towards our anxious new neighbours, before realising the mistake and regaining control.

We reset the anchor, correctly this time, and sat down to take in our new surroundings. I made no comment, then or since, about our contribution to Ireland.

Copyright © Pat Egan 2008, all rights reserved.