Shy whales, sunbathing turtles and skippers in the surf

Porto Santo´s bay

Whale spray and tens of turtles sunbathing – nothing else disturbed the glassy sea as we ghosted away from Porto Santo, with its long white sand beach and arid interior. This is where Columbus met his missus, amidst the cacti and palm fronds. There is nothing much more to say, being on Porto Santo is like stepping into a one horse town Western. Strangely, one of the islands gastronomic specialities is ‘lapas’ grilled limpits with garlic. Nice but not something I will try at home. I digress...

It was a slow and hot passage. Several miles from our destination twilight faded into dusk and dusk to semidarkness. The amber lights of civilisation collected in drifts on the skyline ahead framed by fat fingers of cloud and the ebony silhouette of Maderia’s outling island, Ilheu de Fora.

Eastern tip of Maderia

It took ages and ages to get to the Enseada da Abra, lying to the East of the island. The night was too dark to take the shortcut between the mainland and the island so we stood out, our eyes peeled for the fish pens and platforms that our pilot book warned of. At last we reached the wide bay, no obstacles encountered, where several other boats were tucked up. We barbequed fish (regrettably not caught by us), topped up our alcohol levels and slept well.

Enseada da Abra

We woke the sun rising over the tip of the island, swiftly as always and a tangerine red. Cliffs towered above us, at first dark and foreboding, but as the sun rose higher and turned bright white a startling rainbow of ochre and green was revealed. Walking through this landscape later was like walking through the earths internal organs, deep red veins surging through flesh coloured rock, once bubbling with gas and alive with fire. Surprisingly, for such a dry looking landscape, the isolated patches of vegetation are a vibrant green, revived overnight by heavy dews.

The snorkelling in the bay was great and, it being my first time in warm waters, I was astounded not just because I could swim with my head underwater and not be blinded by an ice cream headache but mainly by the amazing colour palette of the underwater world. I swam through clouds of silver fish, small like butter knives, darting hither and thither near the water’s surface. In shallower water fat fingered starfish lazed on rocks, some a rusty orange colour, others a vibrant grey-blue with bright orange suckers. There were brown fish with yellow spots on their tail, black fish with electric blue rims to their fins so bright that it looked artificial, like neon. There were long nosed glittery fish like stiff pipe cleaners. Fish that lay in the sand almost completely camouflaged. My favourites were long and technicolour, starting with a turquoise head and graduating through yellow, pink, orange in zebra stripes to its slim tailfin. The most amazing thing for me was their total indifference to my presence. I could dive down and practically rub noses with them (if they had noses) and they were non-plussed. It gave me a tremendous sense of awe for these splendid sea creatures, of privilege and also of shame that I had even contemplated bringing my speargun (thankfully they were all much too small for eating).

Another day at the office

Casper kept himself busy doing jobs, scrubbing the boat’s bottom, cleaning the engine jets and then dismantling the steering gear. In doing the latter he disregarded two most commonsense rules in the book: a) taking something apart when it is not broken ‘just to see’ b) starting a job after 5pm when there is not artificial light to be had. I came back to a cockpit full of greasy ‘bits’ well after the sun had set and the light had all but disappeared. Needless to say there was also a terrifically grumpy Casper there too. But all’s well that ends well and the following day he put it all back together and no stray bits were left over. What is it with this Dutch work ethic? – it was a Sunday too!

With steering gear intact and a good bit of wind we blazed over to Funchal, the island’s capital. It is an elegant city, bustling and alive with spirit. The tree flagged streets of the city centre are cobbled black and white. The planting is exotic with hibiscus and birds of paradise. Cafes spill out onto the wide pavements. The car is secondary.

The capital’s wealth has been used well. Along the rest of the coast, from what we have seen it is quite different with sprawling tourist condos destroying the old villages. We are not impressed with the coastline but the heart of the island is really where it is at. The island’s interior, which surges up to 1800 metres at the highest point Pico Ruivo, is a jungle green of lush vegetation. The vertiginous roads are lined with blue, white and dusty pink hydrangeas, agapanthus and towering bamboos. The woods are heady with eucalyptus and pine.

Look at them peaks

The mountainsides are busy with small terraces planted with bananas and irrigated by ancient ‘levadas’ or waterways. The island changes dramatically from one elevation to another and from one aspect to another. We drove through cloud and swirling rain to pop out in another world of moorland and grazing cows. The North side the island appears much wetter, with the trees flanked with moss and bellshaped datura flowers the colour of apricots growing in abundance by the roadside. In the blazing afternoon sunshine we walked to the top of Rico Ruivo to look down on blankets of cloud. The silence was overwhelming.

From Pico Ruivo

Today we are going to the market to buy the island’s speciality, swordfish, and to generally stock up because we are heading next to the isolated Salvagens which lie between Madeira and the Canaries.

postscriptum (sadly no pictures to illustrate the tale): Casper has just returned to the boat having been dispatched to recover Melvin´s missing paddle (quite how it dissapeared when it was ´secured´in a rollock I really don´t know and the irony is that the loose one is still in the boat). He is wet from head to foot and looking flustered. And so the story unfolds.... The mission took him to the beach where he became an innocent victim of the atlantic surf. Having landed neatly on the beach and ´secured´Melvin, the little rat (the dinghy not Casper) proceeds to float away, then (somehow) ends up fulls of black volcanic sand and water. Casper wades in to save the dinghy much to the enjoyment of the locals fishing off the peer. He then takes the dinghy back to the marina pontoon to remove the black grit from it. It gets tangled in some lines or other and Casper again provides the morning´s entertainment for the bystanders there. Sadly the mission was fruitless and paddling is off for the time being.

Sao Martinho to Madeira

Passage distance = 560M
Passage time = 3.5 days
Wind speed & direction = mainly NE, 8 - 35 knots
Rhumb line course = 220 degrees
Packets of biscuits consumed = 6

The passage indicated by the pencil

We made a safe and very enjoyable passage to Porto Santo, Madeira’s sister island 21M away to the Northeast. In fact the passage was magical. The seas were initially lumpy and uncomfortable departing Sao Martinho do Porto. Once we crossed the shipping lanes (never a pleasant experience), the waves became longer and deeper with the great Atlantic swell.

Crossing the shipping lanes

The first night was fast and furious. The night was so black it was scary. All that I could see beyond the boat were ghostly white explosions of wave caps. With the swell on our stern, at times Impulse was lifted up and hurled down the face of the wave, a flash of frothing white sweeping ahead of us. During daylight, this felt exciting, like surfing, but in the blackness of the charcoal night it felt more akin to the terror of bungee jumping. I confess to shedding tears of fear and, travelling down the waves at 13 knots as the wind gusted to 32 knots suddenly I experienced mental and physical paralysis. Only Casper’s kind words from the open hatch below helped me overcome this and give me the edge to reef down considerably.

The sea was an extraordinary colour during the daytime. Was it Prussian blue? Electric blue? It’s so hard to define. It was a blue of such intensity that I believe only comes from the immense depth beneath us, at times in excess of 2000 metres. The water was thick, its surface leathery and timeless like a sunbaked face. Waves broke in whispering crests often leaving behind a crisp turquoise patch in the water. The sun made a fan of rays through the clouds like the picture on the cover of the Good News Bible I had as a child.


The second night with the wind a steady 20 to 25 I was able to appreciate the magic of it all. The jet sky spattered with stars. I think I have never seen so many. The brilliant phosphorescence - fireflies, a million small tinkerbelles dancing in our wake.
On the third day the clouds hung low and pregnant, the colour of a fresh bruise. We thought they would bring us the rain that was forecast but it never did.


The air gradually got warmer and warmer. The salt crystals that lay in drifts on the boat got fatter and fatter. The wind eased and at first light on the fourth day we traded the genoa for the spinnaker. We lazed on deck watching a merry turtle paddle by. They swim so very strangely with funny asymmetric circular motions that it’s a wonder to me that they make it so far. We mused that, its little flipper in the air, it was waving at us so, naturally, it was only right to wave back. No dolphins but we did see the spray, far off, of what we believe must have been a whale of some considerable size.
In the late afternoon we caught sight of the very faint shadow on the horizon that was Porto Santo. We were very excited as it felt like we were arriving at a proper foreign port, neither of us having ever been to this volcanic island. How incredibly exciting this would have been for the explorers who, after days at sea, found this unexpected landmass rising up before them.

Porto Santo at sunset

Another few hours and we were ghosting in just after sundown to the island’s only harbour.
Impulse is now in the game with the big girls as we have entered serious cruiser territory now. Every boat is set up for long distance sailing and the sailors themselves have the sun and the sea etched deep into their skin.
I can’t get over the fact that we are out in the Atlantic. It feels so strange. I can’t quite put it into words but its something like awe at the tremendous space surrounding me - that if I swam out to sea I would be lost forever.
Today we visit the island and then we will move off to Madeira itself. Love to you all my friends. I can’t believe that Totnes has had its first frost. What a large world this is!

The Northerly wind bloweth.

Sao Martinho do Porto

After a near week of heavy hot skies and fat rain, thunderstorms and lightening the wind has finally edged North, giving us a fine day for savouring the sun and drying everything out again.

We have become very fond of Sao Martinhoa, with its womblike bay, the Atlantic crashing just beyond its mouth. The sand here, once whetted by the whispering waves, sparkles brilliantly silver and graphite. Once a day the tide leaves the shore rimmed with jewels: shells of all sorts, the vacant remains of urchins, perfect like tiny skulls, paper thin and fragile. Most of all the people here are a delight, infinitely patient as we blunder on with our nascent Portuguese. My achievements in this domain continue to be severely limited – after much preparation I asked the lady in the corner shop if it would be sunny tomorrow. Smiling broadly she replied “yes, yes, we are open all day”.

Obidos

Weather bound, we decided to explore inland and take the autocarro (bus) to Obidos (pronounced, we discovered, ‘obidj’). This hilltop cluster of whitewashed houses enclosed within 14th century castellated walls is straight out of a fairytale. It was apparently Isabel of Aragon’s wedding present from her husband King Dinis (not bad I say). We walked the length of the castle wall peering down at the painterly scenes. The white houses framed with bright colours: blue, yellow and red. Brilliant purple bougainvillia and delicate eggshell blue plumbago growing in drifts over balconies and rooftops.

Bougainvillia and cobbles - oh and a tourist looking gormless

The following day we hired a car and drove to meet our St Just friends Anne Marie, Martin and their little one, Alina, in Ericeira. This old fishing village perched high above the Atlantic holds a significant place in history because it was from its harbour that the last King of Portugal (Manuel II – not Alfonso) sailed into exile as the Republic was declared in Lisbon in 1910. Strangely, with all the places he could have gone to, the banished king settled in Twickenham. There are many links we have noticed between the Portuguese and the British that punctuate history. We were told by an old friend of mine that the oldest treaty in Europe was signed between both nations and this perhaps explains why, for example, at Torres Vedras, another town we drove through, Wellington assisted the Portuguese in resisting Napoleon’s army by building lines of fortified defences after which the town is named.

A door

We sped through Mafra but, overwhelmed at the sight of its massive baroque palace and monastery, white and majestic, made a U turn to take a better look. Inside, the amount of creamy pink marble beggars belief. Clearly no expense was spared by King Joao V, who commissioned it (initially just the monastery) apparently to assuage his guilt at being a naughty boy. This was also where, later, Manuel II had lived before emigrating to Twickers.

Then there was Sintra, which was another royal haunt though just for the summer because it is high up a very windy road in the cool hills. It’s a strange place owing to the fact that it looks very un-portuguese. Standing in the middle of old Sintra feels like being in a Swiss mountain town. This may have something to do with the fact that, at some stage, a German Architect was appointed by the royal family to do a makeover but who knows…

And on to Cascais the ‘trendy and cosmopolitan’ suburb of Lisbon where we were taught (by means of a delicious practical) how the trendy and cosmopolitan Portuguese eat by Fernando and Rita. In a restaurant hovering above the crashing surf, in a minimalist modern surround we ate juicy prawns and buttery clams, meaty grilled fish in garlic oil, honey coloured bread made of maize flour and, best of all, we drank the crisp white wine that has been produced by Rita’s family for four generations – how brilliant is that?



Now it’s back to bread and cheese (in a bowl) for we are on passage again tomorrow – to the Portuguese island of Madeira. We will send news from there. Until then: Impulse out.

Walk over the dunes at Sao Martinho

ps...

... we think we may be changing plan and that our next stop will be Madeira, followed by the Canaries, rather than Sothern Portugal followed by Morocco. Love from us both x

With love from Casper n K8

News from Impulse!

Natural sculpture etched by sand and wind
Islas Cies

Okay okay! The blog is back (we were busy having a bit of a holiday after all that storm – bucket – bucket – storm stuff). The storm – bucket incident makes far more exciting reading than the events of the last week or so (what day is it?) but the last week has been by far more pleasant.

New moon at Corrudedo

So, following the Ría de Muros, we drifted down the coast and nestled in between the many fishing boat moored in the harbour at Corrubedo. We marvelled, before bedtime, at the pretty place, ‘so sweet’ we said, so real. The very real fishermen then kept us awake most of the night zipping in and out of the bay, laying pots, picking then up, engines growling like they too needed to rest.

Casper seeks shade under a horreo

On to the equally pretty Combarro (less ‘real’ and more touristy than the last – oh how well we slept!). Old Combarro sits at the very end of the Ría de Pontevedra, its water frontage crammed with horreos. These Galician maize stores are made of stone, set on legs to protect the produce from rodents and water and adorned with simple crosses and scallop shells.

The winding streets of Combarro

As the sun rose and the land breeze set in, we drifted out of the Ría de Pontevedra under spinnaker, weaving through the large muscle rafts. At last we caught some fish but alas it was mackerel (something about coals to Newcastle) and they were so teeny that we felt compelled to throw them back in. By the time we got to the Islas Cies, lying just outside of the Ría de Vigo, the wind was all but gone, the air hot and the water inviting. We anchored with a handful of visiting boats, in the lee of a short but long white sand beach, framed at each end by a bristling forest of pine and eucalyptus. We spent the next few blissful days walking, swimming and soaking up the sun – and doing some easy but important jobs (fitting the external sun shades to the pod, lengthening the sail cover to protect the new, bigger mainsail from UV ware).

Sewing - Islas Cies

The Islas Cies are a nature reserve – for birds the rare book says – but we only saw seagulls, and very brown topless women.

The Islas Cies (spot Impulse in the bottom RH corner)

The mornings were peaceful and windless, a light breeze arriving only after lunch along with the daytrippers from Vigo. By Sunday our small island paradise had become a fascinating but mildly chaotic pantomime, if there ever were such a thing in Spain. Sixty boats, and then I lost count, now jostled in the bay. Many were rafted up together, some three deep. The bay was a hum with music. Dishes of food were ferried in dinghies from speedboat to yacht, and then back, empty. Most of the small boats were heavy with people, and almost exclusively men. There seemed only to be a female on board if: a) there was also a child under 10 or b) she was fit, tanned, topless and draped over a PVC cushion. By Sunday afternoon we were happy to leave and, as the wind looked promising, did so. We showed off disgracefully, sailing off the anchor under headsail and then bearing away immediately to whip up the huge kite. Luckily it all went to plan but, as if to castigate us for our immodesty, within 15 minutes the wind had vanished completely.

View down Islas Cies towards Baiona

And so we motored into our next port, which was only just down the ‘road’: Baiona.

Impulse in Baiona Bay seen through this funky piece

Baiona is the first landfall that Columbus made after discovering the Americas, and you can understand why. It has a superbly protected bay, which sits right at the top of the Portuguese trade winds. Carrying news of the new lands to the West, Columbus would have been blown straight in on the Atlantic trades. On the Southern end of the bay is a knuckle on which a royal palace was built by one of the many Alfonsos (IX?) who ruled a large part of Galicia in the 1200’s. We had a leisurely stroll around its 2 kilometre perimeter, enjoying the spectacular views North West over the Islas Cies from whence we came and West, an uninterrupted deep blue, towards America.

Skippy looks out to sea from Alfonso's joint

After some excitement in the form of a dinghy rescue (not ours, thankfully) and a phone loss (Casper’s – irretrievable - burial at sea), we sailed off Southbound once more. It was a particularly hot day and the wind was temperamental. We made slow progress towards our destination, Viana do Castelo.

Hoisting our home made Portuguese flag

With the sun still a decent way off the hazy horizon we decided to cut our losses and to sneak in behind the tiny island of Insua Nova just off the mouth of the river Minho which forms the Northern border between Spain and Portugal. The island houses nothing more than a small fort which we think was used either to protect the Portuguese from the Spanish in the 1600’s or from the French under Napoleon in the 1800’s. Reading up on Portugal’s history we were struck by the country’s immense wealth in the past and also by its problematic relationship with neighbouring Spain. This Northern band of Portugal is the oldest part, having been founded as a state (Portucale) in the 1100’s by another Alfonso who declared himself King.

Alfono, the man com el plan

We anchored just around the ancient fortress town of Caminha in which, I was tickled to read, there is a picture of a man bearing his bottom to Spain (just across the river Minho) engraved on the Northern façade of one of its ancient buildings. Caminha was Portucale’s first major trading port, and continued to be one of its major ones until its trade was diverted to Viana do Castelo, our next port of call.

Sunset at Insua Nova, river Minho

One can really tell that Viana was a major trading post. Its architecture, ornate and elegant, speaks of riches from afar – not only financial, to fund the projects, but moreover aesthetic, inspiring the design and spirit that was to imbue these buildings. The narrow streets are carefully paved, carving the beautiful town into small quarters, each with its own charm. The streets have a labyrinthine quality but the town is not oppressive thanks to the abundance of airy Plaças and the wide promenade along the dock where we were moored.

Casper takes a rest on the stairway to heaven

Casper and I celebrated my birthday in Viana, picking up cards and gifts sent posta restante to the correios (thankyou!!!), eating puffy custard filled cakes and climbing the stairway to heaven and the Church of Santa Lucia, a popular pilgrimage sight. We had lunch in a very local joint, which although decisively ‘no frills’ was brilliant. No one spoke anything other than Portuguese but we managed because there were only two things on the menu and we were given one of each: sardines and chicken (which much to my amusement is called frango who I am sure was a character in the Muppets).

Feeling my age in Viana do Castelo

It seems that when you are cruising and you finally arrive somewhere where you think ‘how nice, let’s stay put for a bit’ the weather changes or threatens to at least and you are compelled to leave just in case you get stuck in that ‘very nice place’ for so long that you begin to hate it. So it was with Viana – the wind threatened to blow South, South, South FOREVER and so early on October the 2nd, a day into my 33rd year on this mortal sphere we headed out, not South but West because the wind had already started misbehaving. Despite not being able to steer a preferred course, we had a great sail over a day and a half, tacking out to sea and back in again. The wind was wildly variable and so were our sail settings: asymmetric, white sails, screecher, reefs in, reefs out. The engine came on overnight as the fog set in thick. Motoring in fog is eerie as things suddenly appear with no warning - and with the engine on you can’t hear them approach. I jumped out of my skin when three dolphins broke the soupy silver surface besides me and entertained themselves, briefly, in our wake.

Perfectly timed by our skipper, we slipped into the strangely perfect bay of Sao Martinhao do Porto just before losing the light. Sao Martinho (between Porto and Lisbon) is a circular cove with a crescent of fine sand at its lip, entered through a slim shallow passage between two scraggy cliffs. Looking at it on a chart, it has the appearance of an ink stain, where the sea has bled into the land.

Sao Martinhao at dawn

Behind its flashy façade of restaurants and holidays apartments, the old town has a crumbling and sunbleached beauty, which no new building could ever emulate. I cannot say more at this point, because we have yet to explore fully. This week the wind continues to blow South, until Thursday. We therefore have time for some inland excursions: Obidos and Lisbon. So my friends, até logo!

El capitano maravilloso