Note from the end of the world

El Hierero's Camino de la Virgen,

snowy El Teide in the distance

It's only 50 odd miles from La Gomera to El Hierro but the passage took us 28 hours! The wind blew directly from our destination, La Restinga, at all times. We had between 0 and 35 knots of wind which made for an infinite number of sail changes and a real old hokey-cokey of reef in and reefs out.

West coast of El Hierro, sailing in to La Restinga.

Still we made it to the most westerly point of the Canaries chain and of Spain as a whole. Thankfully we didn't arrive earlier as last week they had 76 knots of wind in the harbour and much breakage.

Casper calms the traffic on El Hierro

El Hierro is a cross between the moon and the West coast of Ireland in a heat wave. The backbone of this island, some one and a half kilometres up, is most definately lunar, the colour of ash and rust. 100 metres down grows a scruffy tight pine forest which stops abruptly, opening to pasture - cattle and sheep graze.

Beneath this, wobbly volcanic stone walls separate the hotchpotch of small fields. Most are cultivated - with figs, almonds, lemons, potatoes. Poppies and buttercups grow wild between the cultivars. On the winding empty roads rickety folk in straw hats herd goats. The bleating and the bells carry a long way in this otherwise silent landscape. The lower third of the island, reaching into the sea, is the vast lava field that flowed two centuries ago. Here and there the lava looks fresh, arrested in mid ooze down the mountain side like a giant cowpat caked dry in the sun. Some of the lava field has been cleared, allowing thickets of lime green cacti to spring up. There was a time when cacti formed the scaffold to El Hierro's economy. The cactus was host to the cochineal insect which, once dried and crushed, provided a valuable dye. In the 1800's the cultivation of cochineal was El Hierro's monoculture. Today this has been replaced by the production of tomatoes and bananas for international export. The cacti fields are largely abandoned although some folk still harvest the akward fruit to make jam and liquor.

El Hierro is only minimally geared to tourism and perhaps because of this the Herrenos are exceptionally friendly. The bus driver ('without your ticket you will not be able to claim in the eventuality of an accident') recognises me already and we have only been here 2 days. On this small island nowhere and everywhere is a bus stop - "just put your hand up and he'll stop for you". I stumbled into a bar this afternoon (whilst Casper nursed a cold on the boat). A couple were having a traditional sing song to the accompaniment of a cow bell and a guitar plucked from behind the counter.

We've just weathered another angry Westerly (35 knots and 3 metre swell). The wind is now more reasonable. Provided we can get our two anchors up tomorrow we will be leaving for Banjul, capital of the Gambia. This will be our longest passage to date on Impulse - some 1000 miles due South and East a bit. Next time I write we'll be in Africa!

Aiiie la Sardina!

The day following the big storm we walked through Valle Hermosa, the beautiful valley. The air was thick and heavy with the brassy smell of rainlogged earth sweating in the near noon sun. Out of the village and climbing the wooded track, nobody else but us. Everthing still, but not silent - birds, bees, the rustle of something in the hedge, scampering lizards. Reaching the high point of our ramble, at 900 metres, a breathtaking view across the water to Tenerife's Mount Teide, sugared white by the recent rains. How lush the mountains have become in a few months. We wove down the barranco to the sound of gushing water. The tinkle of a goat bell across the valley. Rounding the ridge, there lay the village again, pretty and white, neat terraces either side red and ridged, freshly planted.
We crammed on the guagua back to San Sebastian, the driver shoving two bottles of wine in the glove compartment before collecting fares. Country folk were off to town to celebrate Carnival, and more precisely this evening the Sardine fiesta. This was a strange affair involving a procession of folk (mostly crossdressed and in costume the theme of which was death - cobwebs, black veils, crying into hankies, skulls, the grim reaper) following a giant sardine through the streets to the beat of a drum and the shrieks of 'aiiiee aiiee, la sardina!' Arriving at the beach the sardine was set alight with a spectacular amount of fireworks leaving the general public to grab the 'safety barriers' and use them to shield themselves from the fast exploding fish. Tonight is the final night of La Gomera's carnival so tomorrow we will need to be scrubbed clean and hence will be going to sea.

Any port in a storm

Motorsailing into San Sebastian

The wind has turned. But not to a desirable direction. Yesterday, with an increasing swell and gusts in the high twenties, we increased our holding by rowing out another anchor and tying a stern line onto a buoy. We watched the barometre fall then stabilise, the cumulus clouds swell until they swallowed the horizon entirely, the wispy stratus in the higher atmosphere merge to form a milky halo around the sun. With two anchors and two buoys we were well setup for the bad weather that was forecast. What happened however was not forecast. The wind did not blow hard overnight and this morning, when it did start, it veered far more southerly than predicted, blowing straight into the harbour from the open sea - nothing between us and the South Pole. Decision made, immediately and unanimously - haul anchor, slip free of the buoys and motorsail back 6 miles to the relative safety of San Sebastian (unfortunately open to the South but as they say 'any port in a storm'). By the time we had unspun the web of lines from bow and stern the rain was falling, lightly at first and then in fat drops. Passing the breakwater the sea was surging and laboured, white caps here and there. The wind blew steady just around 20 knots. The rain thickened reducing our visibility. The thunder started and lightening lit up the brooding sky.
In the harbour the water is red with mud and thick with debris that has surged downriver from the island's interior. Because the current was so strong and the heavy wind beam onto us we manoeuvred into a tight berth using long lines in addition to our engines. Fortunately half a dozen pairs of hands sprung into action to halp us fend off, tie on, avoid any breakages. And here we are, in port, the wind squeeling through the rigging of 300 odd boats, the relentless rain washing our decks clean, the barometre still falling. The pressure has dropped 9 bars in the last 3 hours. We're in for a big blow.



(just seen 46 knots on the anemonemometre)

Leaving Las Palmas

We are back at sea after our anchor vacation in Las Palmas. Amazing how a few extra days in the city fast became two and a half weeks.
- Yeah two and a half weeks.
- Two and a half weeks?! Two and a half weeks of what?
- That... is hard to say...
We were busy every single day yet precisely busy with what is still puzzling. If you are reading this from your upright and ergonomic office chair with a heaving inbox stealing your eye I apologise. And if it makes this any more palateable I do feel whole heartedly self conscious (and guilty) owning up to this. Continue to ignore the intray...
I'll explain - there were days tracking down elusive pots of antifouling (brown only, delivery date indeterminate). This mission began on foot - a two hour walk at least before we mastered the complex circuitry of guaguas (buses to you and me and it's 'wahwah' not gwagwa). This task highlighted the benefit of owning a foldup bicycle which set in motion a second mission. In searching for a bike we made new friends (incidently with a boat from Dartmouth) and so we stayed another night. Then there was the shopping delivery that turned up 48 hours late, delaying our departure on the favorite North Easterly. Inevitably a Southerly then kicked up glueing us to the boat for a further 24 hours (and rescuing someone else's from a sticky end in the shape of a dragging anchor a too-close-breakwater). By the time the wind returned from a sensible direction a band of friends arrived so it would have been rude to leave. Then there was the saga of the missing package of ardently anticipated engine spares (arrived but promptly sent back 'because the package was small', interesting logic). So you see how a few days quickly turns into several weeks and it's not through laziness.
It's not all enjoyment either. There are many days when I curse the boat and long for bricks, mortar, a warm shower, a kitchen in which I can stand up and more generally a home which does not run the risk of blowing away, blowing over or being holed by another vessel. This thought crossed my mind most recently when we were just going out and the wind became quite lively. We decided it best to pop a second anchor in lest the first one drageth. I swung into Melvin, Casper passed me Bruce, our second anchor, and I attempted to row out to place the anchor. This proved silly as I was immediately blown back on the boat and almost under the trampoline. I cranked the ever-temperamental outboard into life. It obliged momentarily, then died. I started it again, and again, and again just managing not to wrench my arm out of its socket in my fast swelling anger. Not a great idea doing this in my 'shore clothes' (I am wet through). The wheezer obliges and we make it out to the choice spot to throw Bruce overboard. But what's this? No longer moving forwards are we. Scanning the possible explanations for this setback, the favorite is that Bruce's anchor rode is caught around the propellor of the dinghy outboard - CORRECT! I tip the outboad up to lift its leg out of the water and free the prop, forgetting to close the fuel cap, and thereby releasing half a tank of petrol down my favorite shorts. Great stuff.
On Casper's birthday we set sail at last. He was treated to a chirpy Northerlywesterly. We sailed off the anchor, executing a gracefully lap of honour to say goodbye to new friend Marinus on the hearty Mare Liberum before leaving the harbour on an ample goosewing. We ran downwind the length of Gran Canaria, making trifle as Impulse surfed the gushing waves, hitting 13 knots every so often. The coast here is attractive but greyed by tourism. The real stunner is the complex theatre of shapes and shadow which forms the volcanic interior, layer upon layer of alien landforms heaved up from the earth's core centuries ago and now, in the beginnings of Spring, veiled in the dewy green of a million fresh shoots.
I wrote earlier that in cruising South we do not witness the change in seasons and that I find it disorientating, uncomfortable. This itch has been scratched as we've been in the Canaries for sooo looog now. We've seen the steady trade winds of the autumn weaken, overtaken by Southwesterly gales. Right now, anchored in the sleepy (comatosed?) village of Santiago in the South of La Gomera, we are hostage to one of these. The wind threatens to blow West for another 4 days - again the package awaits us in El Hierro, Southwest of here! Before the barometre fell through the floor and the rain squalls started we took a bus (no, the bus) into the hills. From the clutch of whitewashed houses that is the village of Imada we walked down the valley through a meticulously terraced landscape, once (probably in my lifetime) farmed but now mostly left fallow. How quickly a place comes to rely on imports and, within a generation or two, the skills necessary for self sufficiency are lost. Still a few plots are worked, by hand as access is difficult, and as far as I could see by people at least twice my age. An abandoned almond orchard, in full bridal white bloom, kept us occupied, filling our shirt bibs with its bounty. Further downhill we stood lightheaded on the edge of a huge drop, a waterfall stretched below us, feeding a valley of luminescent green. The cobbled footpath, testament to some earlier activity than walking simply for pleasure, kept the river to our left and the sea ahead of us. We ducked under palms, sidestepped cacti, brushed against fragrant wild lavender, accompanied only by the occasional fat furry bee or speckled butterfly.
When will the wind turn? That's the current nagging question. The anchorage here is ok but not comfortable. I am anxious that if the wind turns Southerly in any way (though it is not forecast to) the swell will become nasty. If it does we will have to sail downwind, backtracking East to the island's capital San Sebastian. It's simple and not lifethreatening so why am I worried? I think the answer is that I don't know what will happen. If it happens at all I don't know when and I don't know how. We cannot plan ahead. We are just waiting. It is this loss of control that stresses me. It is the constant quicksand of parameters that underrides every mini decision, each mini decision shaping a future outcome and therefore another set of slipsiding parameters to be decided upon. It is like this in landlife too except the outcomes are more immediate out here and these decisions have to be made more often. Plus you cannot shut the door and ignore the weather like you can in a house. Every 'clunk' has us up to check the lines, the anchor, that nothing has broken or fallen into the drink. This morning I jumped over the side fully clothed to retrieve some rugs I'd left to air 'in a safe place'. I forgot to let go of the dustpan I was using at the time. All Casper could do was laugh at the sight of me trying to swim upwind hampered by clothing, two rugs and a bright pink dustpan.