OMG wish u were here!!

Wow! What can I say? The beach is heavenly, the sun is hot, the water is crystalline and warm enough to melt the ice in my mojito... take a look....

For those of you who are over 40 and or do not have your reading glasses on - this is not us. We have not made it to southern Portugal, we have not made it to northern Spain, we have not made it across Biscay, in fact we have not even exited Devon. 

WE ARE IN PLYMOUTH (how bad can things get?).

Personally I am getting pretty desperate to leave now. If there was ever anything that would convince me to sail South and never look back, it is surely the weather that this week has delivered to our door, adopting an impressive array of unpleasant disguises.

Type 1) Mean, hard rain with an icy tang of winter

Type 2) Circus clown cartoon rain, fat and falling in buckets, mostly just above your head when you try to do anything outdoors, followed by a full frontal custard pie

Type 3) The infinitely worse, imperceptible to the human eye car salesman variety of wet stuff that cons you into stepping out in shorts and hangs on long enough for you to get a good distance away from your wet weather gear before drenching you in an everso fine mist of very wet rain (I am aware I have used wet three times this sentence but you get the picture)

Note: All 3 varieties listed are summed up by the Devonshire expression ‘tis rainin pesh’.

So, weather: poor. Equally, humours: poor – not only because of the damned weather but also because we are STILL WAITING FOR THE SAIL. Casper and I have been reduced to relaying information to each other through a series of scornful grunts that, if they were a VHF communication, would be described by the coastguard as “poor, barely readable”. We also have some lurgy the symptoms of which might identify it as a mild case of swine flu – time to bring in the oinkment.

Anyhow – the said sail was due to arrive this morning, having been flown in from South Africa, cleared customs and been titivated to (fingers crossed) perfection in the finishing shop here in Plymouth. Whilst the sun shone (briefly) Casper and I have spent a bracing half an hour taming the beast that is the old sail into a transportable form. Tricky given the size of the thing (50 odd square metres) and the speed of the wind which channel 16 (the coastguards on VHF radio) confirmed was a force 9. Despite the sail being ready, wind has stopped play. Tomorrow we hope it will ease.

Things are certainly not all bad. We are alongside at Mayflower Marina, which, although expensive, boasts a bar that serves tapas and a new washroom block with not only power showers but a bath too. Living on a boat through a soggy English summer elevates facilities once considered mundane to truly sparkling luxuries. There is nothing like, freshly showered, slipping into a freshly laundered berth, sheets still warm from the tumble dryer, and being lulled to sleep by the play of wind and tide. 

Mayflower is close to town and, contrary to commonly held gender stereotypes, Casper's state of mind has significantly improved thanks to a very recent footwear purchase. You boys, it's just shop shop shop.