Home to Hope Cove

Cold, me? what gives you that impression?

At six in the morning on the thirteenth day, the Scillies lie abeam and into wind. A North Westerly blows, just right for making passage onwards up the channel. So be it. Tribute on Tresco must wait. On we sail, Wolf Rock to port, Land's End too, familiar landmarks - the homecoming starts. We dodge fishingboats, netting their catch in the cold spring sunshine. St Austell Bay, the Lizard, Dodman point - landmarks of memories fondly recalled, our old friends. 'Remember when...?' 'The time that...' ' The place where....' So much has changed but this landscape remains - faithful to us and our memories, never disappointing. Today it is glorious in its rugged beauty. The ash coloured cliffs with bold thumprints of ochre: lichen, gorse? The colour of treasure.  I drink in the succulent fields of green, the lemon-sherbert fizz of rape in rapturous bloom. So still is the cool blue sky that it appears two dimensional, the weightless cotton clouds pegged up against its flawless backdrop. 

Later, we watch the sun set red behind us, on so many adventures. In the milky pink night we pass Eddystone to port just as a candy floss moon rises, full, from the sea to starboard. Gliding on between, Plymouth abeam of us where so much began, I feel that this is the moment. We are riding the finish line, ending the chapter, dotting the 'i'. The long ribbon of our wake, which has witnessed so much, has finally crossed itself and the circle is whole. We are done, it is over. Something else begins. 

The rest of the night we play music in the moonshine. In the early hours we ghost into Hope Cove. A veil of heady scent envelopes us. Sour coconut, sweet almonds. The smell of gorse at its peak, the smell of Devon in Springtime: we know we are home. 

Our enemy the Easterly

Big seas abeam

We are just 50 miles below the latitude of the Scillies. We do not know what winds will come but we think they might be: 1) a interstitial N/NWly running behind the whopping high that is currently centred over London and preceding the next front 2) a SWly heralding the arrival of the low which is now in the middle of the North Atlantic. So eeny-meeny-miney-mo baggsie we go: Northeastabit. If our amateur predictions are correct this heading will pay off. It we are wrong and it blows from the SE I'll be posting this from Galway. From the NE and you'll be reading this next month.

Radio 4 is clear as a bell now but I'm not sure it's such a good thing because all we hear about is the blinking-beautiful-barbeque-summer-come-early. Yeah yeah I know you're at it. Well, if you can just tear yourself away for one minute, raise a toast to us why don't you, sorry to interrupt, stuck out in sea area Sole facing the only pure Easterly in the whole of the damned Atlantic. Grrrrrr. And: that high you're all enjoying appears to be on its second tour of England, once clearly not being enough, whereas we'd banked on it moving off soonish to grace Sweden or Holland or somewhere else that could do with some sunshine giving us a fighting chance of edging East. Another low now seems to have developped over Spain and is rumoured to be creeping North meaning we might get a SouthEasterly after all - Galway here we come.

Today is Sunday and an exciting one for many reasons. Firstly, thanks to the cloud-free skies of this never-ending high, we have brilliant radio reception and I listened to the Archers for the first time since Christmas. Wow, it really is riveting. Secondly, whilst reassuring myself that Tom's sausage empire did not collapse during my 6 months absence from the airways, I hear a distinctly Celtic twang emanate from the VHF. Do my ears deceive me? No no - he definately just said 'wedder furcast'. I ditch Linda and the llamas and tune in, as instructed, to channel 24. I learn that Cork is enjoying sunshine and a light Northerly breeze. Great. But then I have an idea. After rifling through the Almanac I am able to determine the identity of the caller and radio 'Valentia Coastguard' on channel 16. Amazingly someone (no doubt dressed entirely in green and with a pint of Murphy's in front of him) answers immediately and I am able to request a long term wedder furcast. Stand by, I am told, and I do. When Valentia calls back on 67 I can hear him loud as a bell, which is infinately encouraging.  But - to my chagrin, each time he begins to read out the forecast for Sole the radio cuts out. We repeat this process several times before I lose contact entirely. Later (during Desert Island Discs) I think I hear Impulse being called on 16. Not Valentia Radio this time but the captain of a commercial vessel in range who has been asked to act as go-between. I relay all our boat details and patiently wait for the wedder furcast forwarded by my Irish friend. But there must have been some misunderstanding somewhere because what I am given is a 24h prediction for Sole which is what I have already. I give up! Despite my disappointment I thank the sea captain profusely for his assistance, hang the radio handset back up and return to eyeballing our dismal Southbound track. 

Another gorgeous sailing day in sea area Sole - bloody marvellous (but for our errant course, still doggedly pointing SE). Looks more like soupe de poisson in Brest than a pint of Tribute on Tresco. At worst we could nip into Bilbao's Gugenheim for churros con chocolate I suppose... Do any of the forecasters really know what the weather is planning? No one seems to have the foggiest (booboom). The French, the Irish, the Brits, they all give wildly different predictions of what the key players in this meteorological drama will do next. They can't even decide where they actually are. I mean where is the centre of le fameux barbeque 'igh? The Irish: 'over Cork'. The French: 'sur Cherboug' and so on and so forth... Gripes aside, this chunk of ocean is strangely empty. I'm suprised (and relieved) that there aren't more ships, after all we are only 200 M off Land's End and the seagate to Northern Europe. We haven't seen anything for days despite being able to pick up ships loud and clear conversing with both Valentia Radio and Falmouth Coastguard. The Portuguese Men of War (those little pasty shaped balloons), having progressively diminuished in size the further North we got, have now vanished altogether. So have the strange aenenome clusters, like sugar puffs that stayed in the packet too long. Quite a few birds though. A little fluffy thing popped in for a wee while - definately not a sea bird (it looked like it belonged on a Happy Easter card). The others were mainly Northern Gannets (if I've identified them correctly: white with black speckling and wing tips, yellow headed). Quite relieved that none of these chose to stop for a rest like the sparrow did yesterday as a) they're quite large and b) I washed my hair today. That was a bracing affair and I hope will not have to be repeated before we get ashore. The sunsets have been quite spectacular of late with the sun red like a engorged bloodorange and the horizon blushing pink. We are graced by a plump and waxing moon (scandalously naked in the cloudless sky). Mornings come suprisingly early and evenings suprisingly late. Mercifully the night is now one dark watch shorter than when we started our climb North. 

Today, mostly, we be headin' North. Nought to do but tack up as we've just reached Biscay's Northern boundary. Heading further SE with the current string of NElies is just not wise. At 10 degrees, our track is far from fantastic but at least we've crossed the continental shelf without issue whilst the sea is in a good mood. It's a bumpy but beautiful day. The water like jade, electric indigo nearer the horizon. There is a light, transluscent quality  to it that makes it appear shallow -more like a Cornish cove than the wild Atlantic. I steal glimpses through the pod hatch, trying to limit my outings on deck in an attempt to stay warm. Recently I've resorted to stuffing a hot water bottle down the back of my oilskins to keep myself toasty but this system is under review having just sprung a leak and emptied itself down my leggings. 

Blessed relief (of sorts). Finally we are heading East with the wind gone Northerly. We are almost back on the rhumb line to the Scillies. The wind has changed but also increased - a gusty 7. The waves, whilst not enormous, are solid and beat us like a drum. In a cloud of spray, my stomach lurches, as we tumble into the void behind one of these water walls. 

It's now an 8 and, strangely, Impy is coping better - less slamming,  a tighter track and able to maintain a steady 5 knots. Apart from that it's pretty filthy and I have spent much of the morning wondering why we do this.

The gale finally released us as night fell and  the opal moon rose, full as a bud. What a day of ups and downs. We were on track for the Scillies albeit somewhat uncomfortably. Ten hours and we'd be swinging on the hook uncorking the Cava. Then the wind came round to eyeball us and we were heading back to France. Another day at least before we'll be able to dump the chain anywhere - if we stick to the Scillies we'll have to sail past then tack back on ouselves: miserable. Mustard after the meal, there is now a Westerly forecast which makes us feel like we shouldn't stop at all but simply carry on whilst the wind is favorable. But the idea of even one more day at sea right now is decidedly unattractive... How much dos a set of golf clubs cost?

Hove to with a bird on my head

The unexpected guest

Believe it or not I am sitting writing this with a bird on my head. Yes, a bird - on my head. A swallow to be exact. There were three earlier (not all on my head but on the boat in general). The other two have flown off. Alarmingly the bird seems to be snacking on something in my hair which doesn't say much for my current state of personal hygiene. Indeed - a shower would be nice. And we are only 288 miles from one. A few days ago, 288 miles represented a mere hop, skip and a jump away but now, beleagued as we are by Easterlies, goodness only knows how long it will be before we can set our cold little toes in that shower tray. Yesterday we hove to on the premise that 'if we can't go where we want to go there is no point in going anywhere'. Both tacks on offer made a poke in the eye look attractive. So a hove-to-holiday it was - a chance to catch up on sleep and take stock. 

One man's high is another man's low

Ah! So now we know who ate all the pies! Tuning into a very scratchy Radio 4 today, I discover that the big fat high is squatting right over England. How the tables have turned - while we are freezing our buts off in a mouldy old low there you are stoking up the barbeque! Well I can only hope the big fellow sticks around long enough for us to see a bit of sunshine in the Scillies so we may at least dry out our bedding (hark! the romance of liveaboard life). We are definately both ready to get there now particularly since the wind has turned Easterly two days earlier than forecast which sees us beating into an ugly wind with a bumpy sea to boot. Struggling to make supper last night, with the cabin sole bouncing vigorously beneath my feet, I was reminded of the one and only time I had a go on a trampoline. That had been fun - this was not. Later, making a hot drink, trying to align the unusually uncooperative trio of cup, strainer and pot, I was 6 again, running the egg and spoon race at school. No cheering crowds however, no promise of a sticky sweet prize at the end. Yet what can we do but make the best of it eh? For soon we'll be sitting at home (damp bedding and cold toes entirely forgotten) thinking 'you know what? I'd rather be sailing'. 

We-hey! Sun's out and the barometer is UP! But dammit that wind is still on the nose and we are busy berating ourselves for having been sensible and climbed North early on. A dismal last day of tacking no doubt awaits us (which should be spent savouring ale at Saint Martin's Seven Stones). But Hell's Bell's at the time you just don't know do you? 

Grrrmph. We've just crossed the rhumb line and can steer 65 degrees at best which is 20 degrees off course. 

Halfway there!

Followed by big seas

The magic carpet was finally sent to the cleaners by a fierce and shouty wind. This was accompanied by heavy rain - so much as to flatten the chaotic sea. Trying to put a third reef in, with the wind at our backs pushing the dials well over 30, was laboured. One of the top battens whipped past the shroud and wedged itself there. We had to drop the reluctant sail further to fix up a fourth reef, using this then to pull the end of the batten clear of the shroud. By the time we'd finished, the squall had just about blown itself out. Typical.

This afternoon the sun made a dazzling appearance and the wind reduced considerably. So much so that we hauled up the Screecher. A perfect half winder. It was not to be however as the pin on the end of the Screecher's furling block unthreaded itself (thankfully it did not break but it is a mystery sometimes how these things can happen at all). The sail made a bid for freedom, secured at only two of the usual three points, and had to be wrestled down to the trampoline. Now we're under main and genoa and its a bit slow.

We are fast approaching the halfway point of the passage, having covered 628 miles with another 640 odd remaining. This morning we traded the comfortable goosewing with waves from astern for a bumpy broad reach with water more abeam. We are adopting the classic Azores-Northern Europe tactic which is to sail NE until level with the top of Biscay then steer a direct course to destination(wind and water permitting). A classic passage rides on the famous Azores high and sailors steer up like this to avoid being blown into the inhospitable bay by an associated Westerly wind. This however is a strange year, marked in these latitudes by a distinct absence of the usual Azores high. So we are riding a low pressure sytem on winds from the Southern quadrant. We don't therefore run the risk of being forced into the delectable Bilescay but are still adopting the traditional tactic because a high pressure system lies in the bay and we don't want to end up in it (especially given our recently discovered talent for becoming becalmed).

Day five and lots of wind. We are down to four reefs in the main and a mere smidgen of headsail. The waves are not so big but they are running fast, putting the boot in our stern every few seconds. We are the boat that rocks but not in the 1970's groovy sense (I have dug out the Stugeron as a matter of precaution). The ocean is an ugly grey, scored and marked by the clawing wind. The sky is grey, dull and oppressive. We are both tired, damp, cold, dirty and we smell. Miraculously we are still being nice to eachother (all credit to the four-on-four-off watch system). On the bright side: we are on course for the Isles of Scilly, we have at long last found the charts for them and it is not raining. 

Onwards on the Magic Carpet

The wind has continued to blow between 8 and 15 knots from SSE, allowing us to head NNE on a fast and comfortable tack. Sailing towards England (a passage which is usually closehauled) with a following wind and sea is an unexpected treat - our very own milagro! In unison we chant our new mantra: 'LONG MAY IT LAST!'.

The nights are intensely dark. The sea bubbles. We are caught in a two dimensional blackness in which there is no horizon or sense of distance. Ghoulish shapes appear and disappear at random - waves breaking all around. 

Rain today - at long last the sails, soiled with the dusty memory of Africa, will be clean. Unlike the sails, my body refuses to yeild its memory of Africa which etched a delicious blaze of heat on my bones. No number of layers can make me warm now. All day and night, my skin is prickled with cold and my shoulders tense with chill. 

Impulse is giving us what we call 'the magic carpet treatment' - it feels like she is trundling along at about 5 knots when actually she is steadily cantering on at 9 or 10. It's like she's on rails and this despite the hollow crested waves distorting the water's surface. When the waves whipped up to a mighty height she amused herself by skating down them at great speed - 16.9 knots being her best performance. Much as Impy seemed to be enjoying herself I, the damp squid in the whole affair, felt decidedly nervous. Another reef went in.

Leaving Horta, heading for home...

Atlantic dolphins follow us as we leave Horta

Impy looking small amidst the big boys at Horta

Pretty as they are, the multicoloured swirls than dance across this week's weather chart fill me with dread. Two tiny red blobs in particular. They sit in the centre of each anticlockwise spiral and herald winds in excess of 40 knots. Plotting our likely position at various projected dates over and over, we determine that we shouldn't be in the hot zone but, in reality, who knows? Oh well, we have gone for it anyway and - so far so good.

We left Horta at the end of the afternoon with a gentle breeze plumping the spinnaker. We coasted past the high cliffs and Faial's emerald green hillside with its Etch-a-sketch of small square fields. A pod of bottlenose dolphins arrived, much larger than the common dolphins we have become accustomed to. Some entertained us with acrobatic jumps and side flops but all were soon gone, to round up supper no doubt.

The wind began to gust around midnight. The asymetric was replaced by full main and headsail on a goosewing. It's quite a caper changing sails singlehanded and this simple swap took ages. I was glad for the exercise though simply because it kept me warm. All the while dolphins swam around us, streaking this way and that, lighting up the otherwise dark water with explosive phosphorescence.