Detour to Ceuta [Guest Blogger Terry]

Wednesday dawned wet and wetter.  The rain that came at 4am went away for only a couple of hours and returned by 9.  We were not thrilled at the idea of 42 miles in the rain to Al-Jebha, then a raft up in a harbour alongside a fishing boat in the wet.

 
Carol did a rethink and suggested we go to Ceuta, only about 15 miles away and with a nice marina.  I was convinced so we motored over to the Police and fuel dock and checked out of Morocco.

Off to Ceuta in the rain.  We managed to sail for a while then, as usual when things are going well, the wind died.  And it went on the nose.   Sails in, motor on but with wind on the nose, and raining, the rain was in my face.  I hate rain on my glasses because I can’t see but there was no other option.  Still, it wasn’t cold so there was some relief in that.

By the time we reached the Ceuta harbour walls the rain had stopped and we had a sunlit entry past the Hercules statue into Marina Hercules.  We were glad of the change in weather because there were giant ferries and ships going in all directions, in and out, and entry was a little hectic.  Then we had to Med-moor for the first time, reversing into a “slip” with nothing on the side and a mooring rope to hold the bow in place. We managed that without hitting anything with Carol and Mike doing a sterling job on fenders and lines.  Interestingly, when I checked into the marina, the marina took our passport information but when I asked where to go to get them stamped as entering Spain, the lady in the office said “they could see you when you passed the Port Authority building and if they’d wanted your passports they would have asked for them by now.”   I just love this relaxed attitude to entering a country.

Once more on this journey a completely unplanned stop has turned out to be a wonder.  This place is amazing.  I think I’d heard of it once before in my life.  The marina is “in” town.  We are slipped just off the main drag.  At one point today, after Mike and I had managed to change our Dirhams for Euros, we could look one way and see the Atlantic and turn through another archway 180° and see the Mediterranean.  It is a very swish Spanish city, with all mod cons, and at the same time a very ancient lived-on site.

 

As with mainland Spain, food and wine are inexpensive.  A huge meal for 4 of us of 24 steel kebabs (12 chicken, 12 beef) plus a house salad and a huge mixed grilled fish plate for Carol set us back €51 and that included a bottle of decent red (El Coto, the Stag) and a large CruzCampo for me.  Plus complimentary bread and olives.  Great restaurant, Cafeteria Heladeria Gin, Avda Sanchez Prados.

Ceuta is a duty-free city and  people come over from Spain and Morocco to buy luxuries here.  I went looking for a new lens today and came across a Tamron 18-200, which has only recently been advertised in National Geographic, and got one for €189 or say $A200.  Clothes, perfume, electronics all over.

 

Everywhere you look there are elegant street lamps, impressive statues and busts of formidable Greek and Roman intellects (Homer, Aristotle..) Navigators, chart makers.  Public parks and fountains, churches and cathedrals.  A delight to be in.

Carol was in McDonalds this afternoon (free wi-fi) and heard some Australian accents.  She went over to inquire and met 4 Australians who had just spent 3 weeks driving around Morocco in two cars they’d leased in France. Derick and Beth Johnston and Peter and Julie Kitchingman, all from Kalamunda, are well-seasoned travelers with many miles and countries covered.  It’s a small world for sure and to boot Julie knows Jim Chute, who I sailed with in the early 80s on Challenger.

If you’re ever in Spain, jump on the ferry from Algecira or Tarifa and come on over to Ceuta for a few days.

Tetuoan, Morocco [Guest Blogger Mike]

After a day to catch our breath on board Common Sense we again used our driver Mohammad to venture into Tetouan some 65 km south of the marina. We drove through many holiday apartments looking fairly quiet as their season has ended.
The king's summer palace is on the way and even though he was not there many guards wandered outside the high wall. Muhammad VI is a very popular king having been in power since he was 30, thirteen years ago. He replaced his father who the locals more kindly described as a very powerful man. Moroccans are seeing much more progress under the current king. Even so there is some mistrust as he uses four different guards at his palace all at the same time. Terry calls it "Watching the watchers" or "Divide and rule".
Knowing my love of golf, Mohammad detoured via a golf course. Not quite up to Bunbury Golf Club standards and 500 dirhams (approx $50) for a round with another 100 dirhams for a caddy.
Tetuoan with its white buildings and a backdrop of the Rif mountains was most impressive. The views were not blocked by a heavy coastal mist which occurred on our trip to Chefchouan on Saturday.

Dropped off in Tetuoan we first had a coffee watching locals going by. No local women are seen drinking coffee. As there are so few tourists now we tended to be targeted in the old city called the Medina. "No guide" became our catch phrase.

After a coffee we visited a museum with artifacts of Morocco's ancient inhabitants - many pottery items, urns, wick lamps and mosaic floors.
After viewing the king's palace we went to watch local artisans making beautiful leatherwork, copperwork and weaving.
Their main showroom was full of intricate pearl inlays for furniture and other cultural objects such as wedding thrones. Again we were the only tourists and wandered around freely looking at the craftsmen at work.
Mohammad, who lives near Tetuoan, took us to high vantage points on the trip home.We stopped at a very large supermarket buying up stores that only cost $100. 24 cans of the local Stock beer was a whole lot cheaper than a box of cereal.
A memorable day was complete with Terry cooking a bbq on the stern on Common Sense.

Morocco - Oued Laou and Chefchaouen

Autumn days here on the Moroccan Mediterranean coast are often blanketed in a fine white mist. An oily sea blends seamlessly into a pearly sky, and the Rif Mountains are faint silhouettes in the distance. We set off into the mists in Mohammed’s grand taxi, distinguished from the local petits taxis which are only licensed to carry three people; grands are typically old Mercedes, licensed to carry six, and with the internal door and window handles removed to make crowded rides more comfortable.

Our first stop was a beachfront restaurant near Tetouan, where we enjoyed some delicious fresh bread and mint tea, the preferred beverage throughout Morocco. Then on towards Oeud Laou, famous for its Saturday Berber market. The Berber people come down from the mountains each week to sell their fruit, vegetables, household goods, textiles, clothing and animals. Many of them still use mules to transport goods – understandable when you see how rugged much of this mountain terrain is – and dress in traditional clothing. For the men this means a coarse woven jilaba, often with a hood. For the women it seems to be layer upon layer of red and white woven cloth, and a straw hat with red, green and yellow pom-poms. A very popular fashion item appeared to be the brightly patterned bath-towel worn around the shoulders!

 

A nice intercultural moment:

Indecipherable Arabic voice over the PA system.

Mike: Is that the call to prayer?

Mohammed: No, it’s saying ‘Get your cheap pants here!’

 

Here is guest blogger Margaret Doust with her impressions of what was an overwhelming sensory experience: 

With a backdrop of rugged mountains and a dusty road the Mercedes was hemmed in by trucks, cars, loaded donkeys and a mixture of purposeful and some meandering people. On both sides of the road were piles of merchandise such as, clothes, shoes, cooking ware, tagines, electrical goods, televisions and satellites. It could have been any flea market. The traffic had ground to a halt. With horns tooting and people bartering we made our way dodging each hazard. We were fascinated by the small Berber women dressed in layers topped with red and white striped rectangles tied at the waist. Under their broad brimmed hats they had head scarfs and floral towels which draped over their shoulders. One woman bent double strode purposefully past with a load of reeds on her back. The men were dressed in a mixture of western clothes, jeans and t-shirts with some clad in full length brown cloaks with a pointed hood, resembling Gandalf the wizard. Mohammed found us and led us further into the markets. We passed an enclosure full of donkeys, a donkey car park. Canvas awnings covered stores full of fresh fruit. The yellow melons, green capsicums and red tomatoes caught our eye.  In some stalls piles of mysterious spices were being weighed on brass scales. We stopped and Terry selected an array of olives from large white ceramic bowls in the shade of eucalyptus trees. People pushed past us leading goats who opportunistically munched on herbs from the stalls. Cooking smells wafted by. Sardines were being cooked on charcoal grills. We saw a Moroccan boy with flat bread filled with chips and tomato sauce. We were intrigued to see live chooks, eggs and plucked chooks in the same stall. We watched men haggling over the price of long haired brown sheep. There were many goats being bought and sold amidst mules being shod. We then ambled through the clothing section marvelling at the embroidery on the brightly coloured kaftans. Two wizened old men were busy sewing a garment on an old treadle machine. We stopped briefly to admire the elaborate bracelets before making our way back to the old Mercedes.        

With our purchases – tomatoes, olives, some Berber cloths – we bundled back into the taxi and set off through the dramatic mountain landscape to the city of Chefchaouen.  A walk through the medina here is a surreal experience – all the walls of the narrow winding streets are painted with a beautiful chalky-blue tinted whitewash. In places it feels as if you are walking under water. We ate a very relaxed lunch (chicken tagines and cous-cous) at La Lampe Magique Alladin and then experienced the skilled and subtle salesmanship of the desert nomads at a carpet co-operative in the souk. By this time we were well and truly overwhelmed and exhausted by the day’s impressions, and remained fairly quiet on the long meandering drive home, as Mohammed regaled us with tales of the ineptitude of local drivers, the corruption of Moroccan business and various other topics all the way back to the marina.

 

Restinga Smir

Well here we are in Restinga Smir, a beautiful, newish marina about 40 nautical miles from Tangier, around the north eastern  ‘corner’ formed by the Spanish enclave of Ceuta. The voyage here was pleasant, though light winds meant we needed to motor most of the way. The marina was built on a long stretch of rather lovely beach, and, like much of what we’ve seen in Portugal, Spain and Morocco, it’s way over-capitalised. The whole area has vast hotel/ apartment complexes, many unfinished and most empty. Everywhere there are the sad remnants of stores and businesses. A textbook illustration of the fallout from the GFC, variations on a theme we’ve seen everywhere from Vegas to Daytona, through the Bahamas to Europe and now north Africa.

The marina has berths for hundreds of boats, both in and out of the water, but it’s well below capacity. Nevertheless, all the service staff, restaurant staff, taxi drivers and others have been very friendly and helpful. Moroccan families on trips to the beach (who love to have their photos taken with a yacht in the background) have all made a point of letting us know we are very welcome in their country.

Almost from the minute we arrived, I succumbed to some hideous Tangier-belly virus, pretty much wiping out three days that I remember very little about. Nearly recovered now, in time to greet Marg and Mike Doust as they arrive (in about an hour!) for a stay aboard Common Sense and some adventures in and around Morocco. We plan to do a sail over to Gibraltar for a couple of days, a trip to Chefchaoun for the Saturday markets, a tour of the ancient city of Tetouan, dinghy rides to some good beaches, day sails and whatever else we can squeeze in.

Tangier

The Tangier in my imagination was a seedy-glamorous cosmopolitan city, inhabited by artists, writers, diplomats, exiles, international bankers and spies, hanging out in cafes and indulging in the forbidden pleasures of kif and handsome Moroccan boys. There are architectural and linguistic echoes still of the days when Tangier was governed by a European consortium. Matisse, Delacroix and Picasso painted here; Tennessee Williams wrote “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” on the beach; Barbara Hutton, the Woolworths heiress, and later Malcolm Forbes of Forbes Magazine hosted legendary parties (racing camels, a simulated cavalry charge by 300 Berber horsemen, 600 drummers, dancers and acrobats, you get the idea…); Paul Bowles, Truman Capote, Jack Kerouac, Alan Ginsberg, William Burroughs…  But after independence in 1956 there was a growing backlash against all the decadence: several high profile paedophile charges, the closure of the gay bars, restrictions on the sale of alcohol and a resurgence of traditional Islamic values so that by the end of the 70s the good times were all but over.

Now the recession – ‘La Crise’ – has hit hard, with few tourists, poor maintenance of historic landmarks and little progress on some major works like the new marina. There is optimism, however: the new king is popular and he seems to have a genuine focus on the future of Morocco and the prosperity of its people. A huge new container port at Tanger-Med is helping trade, and a big new fishing harbour is under construction. Apparently a lot of the hustlers and petty criminals have been cleared out in an effort to attract tourists back to Tangier. We certainly found all the stall holders and vendors in the markets friendly and helpful, not at all pushy or aggressive.  There is no shortage of self-styled ‘guides’, including small boys, but for a few dirham they helped us negotiate our way through the maze of narrow streets in the Medina and find the things we were looking for.

Terry was delighted to find the tomb of Ibn Batouta, the great 14^th century traveller who spent 25 years travelling the Muslim empire and beyond. The markets of the souk are astonishing, with gorgeous displays of fruit, vegetables, spices, flowers – even the fish and meat are artistically arrayed. Carpets, textiles, ceramics, ornate gold and silverware, leather – each piece seems more beautiful than the last. Just as well we’re boat people with simple needs and no space or I would have spent the entire cruising budget in a day. Many of the carpet stores are run by nomads from the western Sahara: they live in the desert all winter and come into town for the summer tourist season. You also see Berber people down from the farming areas in the mountains, wearing their elaborate straw hats and selling wonderful produce (fresh cheese, sold in plaited palm frond containers, is sensational!)

You could sit for hours in a café or tea house, just watching the multitudes pass by. Although most of the women wear traditional long tunics, trousers and headscarves, the colour and variety is extraordinary – so much for trying to suppress feminine self-expression. I did feel a bit sorry for the fundamentalist Shi-ite ladies in their black tents and fly-wire screens, however, looking like sad grubs amongst the butterflies.

On our second day in town we were drinking coffee in the Café de Madrid when Terry thought he heard a girl speaking with an Australian accent. Sure enough, a young woman was at the counter, trying to get directions, and yes, Erin came from Marmion in Perth – just a couple of miles from where we grew up. She had been working in London and was heading home ‘the long way’; had caught the ferry over from Tarifa in Spain for the day and was on a mission to buy food for her mates back at the hostel, everything there being closed for a religious festival. With our extensive background of one day in Morocco, we helped her find the markets and see a few of the attractions. We enjoyed her company and the chance to speak Australian again for a few hours!

And speaking of intrepid young people, a French couple and their three-year-old son rafted up next to us on their yacht. The child was born on board and has lived his whole life at sea! They are on their way to Senegal. They were joined later by a young English/Japanese traveller named George who, amongst other adventures, has ridden a bicycle clear across Africa. And there we were thinking we were pretty brave sailing across the Atlantic!

Although this is a wonderful city, our place in the harbour is dirty and uncomfortable – there are no facilities for yachts and we seem to be a bit of a nuisance to Harbour Control – so we’re about to head through the Straits to Restinga Smir, a marina on the Mediterranean coast of Morocco.

 

 

Barbate to Tangier

We enjoyed a fine sail across the Strait, after the unscheduled stop in Barbate waiting for the fierce, gritty east wind - the Levante – to ease. Terry and I agreed that we would never again complain about the gentle breezes wafting in from the south-west or the east in Western Australia. Visibility on the crossing was not great. Radar and AIS helped us to avoid cargo vessels, ferries and especially the many fishing boats along the route, but we couldn’t make out the coast of Africa until just a couple of miles out.

Entry into the harbour was a bit of an ordeal – no radio response from the small marina or port authorities until we had done a couple of laps, when the harbour master called and advised that the only space available was a raft-up next to a German catamaran, behind a huge car ferry up against the harbour wall. After a decidedly hostile response from the German skipper, we moved along and rafted beside a UK registered vessel, Paw Paw of London. This turned out to be a much better option; we had a drink with the friendly and well-travelled crew, and the skipper, Michael Briant (writer, actor and director), was a wealth of helpful information. He reiterated what we’ve heard from almost everyone about avoiding the Red Sea, but his advice was based on personal experience of being boarded and robbed by 18 Somali pirates with AK47s!

Harbour officials and police were friendly and efficient, and there was no hint of baksheesh being required (though we may have missed some of the subtleties). We did discover that there were quite substantial charges for staying in the harbour, despite a total lack of berths or services – yachts are clearly a bit of a nuisance in a busy fishing/ ferry port that has no proper marina or anchorage. So, we won’t be here for long. After a day or two to see the sights, we’ll head east to Ceuta and then to Marina Smir.

Cadiz to ... Barbate?

[Terry wrote this blog entry because I just don't want to talk about it.]

We left Cadiz at 3:30am this morning for a 56-mile trip to Tangier.  Started badly when we almost got run down by a Spanish Armada Patrol Boat - he kept coming towards me on my starboard bow and all the time I expected him to turn to his port and head down the main channel into Cadiz.  I couldn't turn there because I assumed he would and I'd be right in his path.  He put his searchlight on us and kept a’coming - I did an emergency stop and he just carried on over my bows into what is definitely not safe ground - there's patches of reef in there that I'd certainly hit if I went in.  Must be some sort of "see who's brave enough to do this at 20 knots" game they play.

Anyway, out we went in 18 knots of breeze and Common Sense was humming along at 6-7.  However, the wind got up and up and up and by 10am we were in a gale with 40+ knots over the deck, a couple of peaks at 50+ and no sail out.  I couldn't control the boat and we were getting blown left and right depending on what wave we just fell off.  We'd already made 28 miles towards Tangier and I was reluctant to give it up but turned back anyway.  Then I decided to make for Barbate about 16 miles away and only 26 miles from Tangier.  It was sideways and a bit east so it took 4 1/2 hours to get there, amid much banging, crashing, spray flying and water over the deck.  We went past Trafalgar in a gale, sparing a thought for Admiral Horatio, the Lord Nelson, and thanking him for the fact that I don’t speak French!  Even in the harbour we couldn't dock on the waiting pontoon as there was a huge squall while we were trying with 48 knots coming through and the stern refusing to go in.  We motored around to our slip and that was a much better proposition and we simply eased in there. So much for yesterday's 18 knots of wind weather forecast.  There are two other yachts in here with the same story – got half way and got hammered back into submission like us.

 

The marina looks very much like the Cadiz one in fitout and it is also a victim of the financial times.  Half full and facilities empty.  We are 2kms out of town but on our u-beaut Montague Town bikes we make short work of that.  We went in to find an internet café with wiffy available to see why my Visa card wouldn't work in the marina machine.  Worked fine last night in the Cadiz marina machine?

We had a beer or two in the Galeria café and then wandered up the promenade a bit for dinner.  Settled on a fish café and had a local Barbate version of Paella - with tuna and capsicum strips.  Very nice.  Then we rode home in the dark to the marina.  You wouldn't credit it being the same ocean - moonlight dancing off the gentle waves, soft breeze off the land.  No sign of today's storms.

 

This town is loaded with tourists, mostly British, and also many Spanish.  You can tell the Brits - wind is howling off the ocean, the sand is leaving Spain and heading for the USA and here's a 70-y.o. walking onto the beach with a deck chair!  Straight up, wind or no wind, he was here to sit on the beach and that's that.

It's a bit grittier than Cadiz and certainly not the suave sophistication of Seville.  It's a fishing port with a big tuna industry and some hefty boats here.  Superb promenade that goes for miles, with kids, grandy's, parents, kids on bikes and roller skates, teens in love and teens out looking for love.  There must have been thousands out all along the way.

Once again, what a surprise.  And you can see the coast of Africa off in the distance.

 

 

Only in a Catholic country? (Terry)

We’re sitting at the 1812 Restaurant on the night before last (31/8) at an outdoor table enjoying tapas and beer and wine and generally watching the world walk past.  It’s a narrow street in the old city style – you can almost reach from one balcony to the other side.  It slopes down to the waterfront a mile or so away. Anyway, there’s this banging coming along the street.  A stick being thumped into the ground with some force, and a secondary, metallic sound.  It’s a kid of about 8 to 10 with a staff about 4’ long.  He’s bringing the base down onto the ground with a bang and there’s another sound as metal bits of the staff then also make a sound.  As he brings it down, he stops his walk and “proclaims” something.  He then begins his walk again, Left, right, left, right, shuffle, feet together, stop, call out, left, right, left, right shuffle, feet together, stop, call out.  Behind him is a smaller guy and this guy is carrying a Lego house or somesuch, all red and gold, about 12’’ square.  He’s doing the left, right shuffle too.

I was having trouble working out what was going on until I twigged that they were acting out a standard Spanish religious procession.  They were doing their own!  The guy in front was doing the Bishop thing, banging the ground and calling out the chant, the guy behind is carrying the image etc.  Amazing.

More amazing – we were in the main square last night (i.e. the night after) for dinner and a look at Cadiz by night and here they are again marching about one corner of the square.  Bishop-in-training is wandering about with purpose banging his rod on the ground and his acolyte is holding up a Rosary and following him.  Then they got tired of that game and went and sat down with their families and had an icecream.  It’s a hard life being a religious devotee.

Ola Cadiz!

After a pleasant enough overnight sail, our entrance into the Bay of Cadiz was quite eerie, as a thick white fog rolled out over the sea, reducing visibility to only about 100 metres.  Larger vessels were visible on the radar screen, but it was still a bit disconcerting to see boats suddenly loom out of the mist like ghost ships, and to hear the moaning of a foghorn somewhere up ahead.  We circled around for a while hoping that the morning sun and the breeze would disperse the fog, but when that didn’t happen we got bored and headed in to the harbour anyway.

Even though the main container port and the military base are on the opposite side of the bay, there is still a lot of maritime activity here, with fishing boats, yachts, ferries, police and rescue vessels and cruise ships all using the harbour. Most mornings we wake up to see yet another new giant cruise ship berthed at the customs dock!  The city marina is quite good, though it’s about a one-mile bike ride along the waterfront to get into the old town. It was obviously built in the heady days before the GFC – way more grandiose than it needed to be – and now much of the space intended for shops, restaurants and facilities is derelict. I would be willing to bet that someone’s brother-in-law got the brick paving contract, a friend of a friend got the fencing, the wife’s godson got the dock construction … all high quality and way more than warranted by the modest fleet of small power boats and average yachts that use it. Still, facilities are good and the marina staff are very helpful, as are the staff of the small chandlery on site.

Old Cadiz itself is great. Inhabited at least since Neolithic times, it has the layers of Roman, Moorish and Spanish imperial history that we saw in Seville. We visited a fascinating archaeological dig near the cathedral, where evidence of each of these layers is on display under a perspex walk-over, along with artefacts they’ve discovered. Herodotus, the ancient historian, records that the original inhabitants of the peninsula were so fierce that traders from Carthage would never meet them face-to-face: they left goods on the shore then sent smoke signals from their ships. The Cadizians (?) would leave gold and other stuff, take the traded goods, then leave the coast clear for the sailors to come and collect. Cadiz was Spain’s major seaport during the ‘golden age of discovery’ – Cortes sailed from here, as did Columbus on his second voyage to the Americas. And the ill-fated Armada, of course, though we don’t much like to talk about that here.

Mary and Joseph spent the entire family clothing budget on themselves.

Despite the evidence of financial gloom everywhere, the Spanish still know how to live well. You can’t walk a block in town without encountering a café, bar or restaurant where wonderful food and wine are available for next to nothing. One of our favourite meals – a great range of tapas with a couple of drinks each at the 1812* Restaurant – cost a grand total of 17 euros. Parks and squares are the places to be in the balmy evenings; everyone is out for a stroll, usually dressed in style, stopping to chat with friends or enjoy a drink. The kids are there too, playing, skating, eating icecreams at midnight; babies are obviously the stars of any show. Despite – or perhaps because of – Spain’s very low birthrate, there seems to be a huge baby industry. Children’s clothing is exquisite, and prams look more like luxury cars.

Because fountains are fun!

There are great beaches along the coast here, and they are very relaxed places. Everyone goes to the beach. Nut-brown kids jump off the rocks, handsome young men kick soccer balls around, beautiful golden skinned girls stroll along the shore, the leathery old guys stand around in their shorts in knee-deep water and even the old ladies bring down their deck chairs and sit in circles to chat. Our fold-up bikes have been a great asset here – Cadiz is contained within a small peninsula and it is pretty flat, so you can ride everywhere, including the narrow streets of the old town. It’s been fun to explore another Spanish city, and we’ll certainly head back to Spain on the way back out of the Med, but now it’s time to set sail for North Africa. Only 50 miles across the strait to Tangier; the weather should be good and we’ll head off in the morning. Adios!

 

 

*Still celebrating the defeat of Napoleon – this is the bicentennial year

 

Faro - the Barrier Islands

The 40 mile day trip from Lagos to Faro was intended as a short shake-down, to make sure the sails and the new instruments were all working well; thankfully they exceeded expectations. We picked up a nice 15 knot breeze straight out of the channel and as soon as the sails were up we were flying! Common Sense felt beautifully balanced – even when the wind dropped to only 7 knots we were still heading smoothly towards our destination. The improved radar, huge colour chartplotter and the new AIS gave us a clear picture of what was going on around us. If only we’d had all this good gear for the Atlantic crossing, we’d have saved several days and a lot of anxious moments. Paddy, you would love it!

Once in the entrance to Faro, we motored about 2 miles in behind the sand islands that form a barrier between the city and the sea. Though separated from the busy Algarve capital by only a few hundred metres, the barrier islands are very simple and relaxed, with fishing shacks and very basic holiday homes, hundreds of small boats, tiny family restaurants and lovely beaches. We anchored outside the fishing harbour off the island of Culatra and spent a couple of days dinghying around to explore the islands. Highlights included a bracing swim at the beach off Barretta Island, digging ourselves a meal of clams (cooked with white wine, stock and pasta) in the sand at low tide, and sharing a pleasant evening drinking and chatting with the crews of Moondance (Johnny and Sue, UK) and The Southern Cross (Catherine and Peter, Australia).

We also confirmed the good news that Marg and Mike Doust will be joining us in September for a North African adventure – can’t wait to welcome them aboard!

No building regulations on Culatra!

Terry, with Common Sense and Faro in the background.

Anchorage at dawn.