Las Bicicletas nuevas

Yay! Check out the shiny red bikes.

Viva España!

We made it! 58 hours across Biscay, living on dry bread, plain boiled potatoes and sips of water. Only the first 48 were the worst, where I spent most of the time lying down with my eyes shut pretending I was somewhere else, devising adverts for the sale of the b*****d boat, while my stomach turned itself inside out. I did have to make myself take some watches, because I knew if Andy didn’t get some rest, things could all go horribly wrong. As it was, we picked up a huge bit of fishing net on our propeller as we were motoring into the south-westerly which was supposed to be a nice westerly. Luckily it was daylight and not too rough and that Andy had just come up from a rest (I’d just been sick over the side) and he stopped the engine very quickly when he heard it go clunk. We drifted 150 miles from the nearest land with about 3 miles to the bottom underneath us and Andy inflated the dinghy to inspect the damage. He squeezed into the wetsuit and snorkelling gear and had to dive under the boat with a sharp knife and cut us free. After about an hour and a half we were ready to continue. That was on the second day. The wind veered and increased. We stuck the sails out and were doing about 7 knots. The third day, I rose again. The sun shone. Less than 99 miles to go. About 30 miles from the Gijon we saw a whale about two boat lengths away from us, blowing. I think they feed along the edge of the continental shelf. Shortly after that we were able to make out land and the Picos de Europas mountains loomed out of cloud. We sailed into Gijon about 6pm in the sunshine. The coast is green with cliffs and river inlets interspersed with sandy beaches. We were in Spain. I never want to do that again – well next time, I’m going to take the Stugeron before I start, and keep taking it all the way.
Gijon
The largest city in Asturias. I don’t like cities. But Gijon is different. It’s spacious, clean, quiet and happy. It has two beautiful beaches. Some beautiful old buildings still remain, although it was mainly destroyed during the Spanish Civil War in 1936 and has been rebuilt as a modern and very attractive city. It has trees, parks, sculptures, bike hire stands, where you put a card in a slot and ride off. The marina is very big and, compared to France, practically empty. It costs about two thirds of the French prices, as does the food.
As we got further south in France the British yachts became fewer, and what there were, were mainly retired people having a few weeks cruising in boats that were kept permanently moored in France. Here, the few British boats there are tend to be those of people with a larger agenda. There are a couple with two little girls (aged 2 and 4) heading for the Caribbean; a couple on their way back from the Azores and Back race who got stuck in Coruña and were trying to get back to England – they’ve just decided they like Gijon so much they’re going to leave the boat here and fly back; and a Dutch couple with two children who are also off to the Caribbean. They are proper boats, solid with long keels, fit for the oceans. Those modern fast, wide boats, fitted with televisions don’t cross Biscay. We’re with the big boys now.
Tomorrow we’re going to try the hire bikes in search of new folders, before make plans to set off westwards along this fascinating coastline.
PS The Spanish language I’ve been waiting to practice is all coming out in French now. C’est la vie! See what I mean!

Off to Spain

Looks like we have our window for Biscay. I can't find any more excuses not to go, so it looks like we'll be leaving tomorrow morning - Wed - should arrive Gijon on Friday.

Watch this space.....

Sorry

Sorry, folks, for the last two rants. Please don't stop reading. I like to know there's someone there that I can talk to.

Things were getting just too much for a while, but I'm getting over it and getting things back into proportion. I think I'm getting over mourning for my bike, too.

I can't promise no more rants, though, as there are so many things that happen in this crazy world which deserve to be ranted at. Not that it does any good.

We are still stuck in France, but it looks like there'll be a weather window this week (Wed - Fri) for us to get across Biscay to Gijon.

We had become resigned to not going there at all, and taking the canals, but that was proving problematic. We have to take a test and get a certificate which we should have done in England, except that we weren't panning on going that way. Also, there are other regulations which we're not sure if we comply to. If we can't cross Biscay and can't get through the canals, then we'll most likely have to turn round and bring the boat back to England.

We've worked out that we've spent, so far, about twice what we were expecting. This is mainly becuse we've been in France for twice as long as we were expecting and been forced to stay in expensive marinas in order to get internet access and long-range weather forecasts. The other reason is that the exchange rate is very unfavourable.

If we can get to northern Spain, our expenses will be much lower.

So, it's either Spain by the weekend, a month getting through the canals and then finding ourselves in the Med, or back home.

I'll let you know.

It's a Dog's Life - Another Rant

Well that was exciting – just had a visit from three young men in uniform with Douane written on their chests. They just wanted to know where we'd come from, where we were going, had we anything to declare and to check our ships papers and passports. They've gone away now. I thought they were going to take the boat apart searching for drugs or illegal immigrants or whatever else they may have been looking for – potatoes or salt, I expect. I managed to get into the conversation about our bikes being nicked, mainly so that I could paint us as the innocent victims.

Well, we're still here, in L'Herbaudière. Yes. A week here now and still no weather window for Spain. After three days of howling winds and rain, pinning us onto the pontoon, squashed by the boat rafted up to us, squeaking fenders all night, it is now hot and sunny. We thought we were going to go yesterday or today, but there is more shit coming at us from across the Atlantic, expected tomorrow and Monday. We're hoping a window might open up next week, if the high pressure out there decides to sit on the Azores and push the lows up over England. Meantime we wait and see. Tomorrow we shall take the free bus, yet again, - the lady driver is quite friendly to us now, even though we haven't got a clue what she's chatting about. We just smile back – to walk to the SuperU where we can get the Wifi for €3 per hour. It's so noisy in there that it's impossible to use the Skype phone. The Port said it would have Wifi on 15^th August – yes, that's today, but when I asked yesterday they said it was coming at the end of August now.

It's pretty annoying being here with no bikes, though. We've walked all the walks. We're thinking of trying a swim this afternoon, when the tide's come up a bit and hopefully warmed up the water on the beach. At low tide there are miles and miles of wet sand (and seaweed) which is utilised by land-yachts. We've been trying to get new bikes, but it's very difficult to speak in French on a phone, because they gabble back and don't understand that I don't understand, if you understand what I mean. The bike shop in Noirmoutier did have a go at ordering some for us but told us it was impossible. So we continue to wait, bikeless.

I'm keen to get to Spain. I've been revising from my Spanish language text books. I've just started reading Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, to get in the mood. And maybe we'll be able to buy bikes in Spain. I also hope that they don't have as many dogs in Spain as they do in France. What is it with the French and their dogs? I thought Britain was supposed to be the land where we treat our pets better than our children. Here nearly everyone has at least one dog. They take them in shops, restaurants and bars; they carry them in bags, give them rides in bicycle baskets, and even have special bicycle trailers for the dog to sit it! I've never seen so many dogs being dragged, against their will, onto boats. Huge men with shaved heads and tattoos have little lap dogs on leads. It's impossible to walk along the pavement without getting tangled in one of those stupid leads that extend and allow beloved pooch to get in front of legs, bikes and (hopefully) cars. The amount of merde on the pavements also reflects the French love of their favourite pets.

If we haven't found a weather window in the next week or two, we're going to have to take the canals. That's not as easy as it sounds. We'd have to get the mast taken down, and the boom, even our radar and wind turbine are too high, we think, for some of the bridges. We'd have to find a way of taking the exam so that we can get our international certificate of competence for the inland waterways. There are 120 locks between Bordeaux and the Med. At least we wouldn't have to worry about the weather, though.

So we wait.

Grand Theft Vélo - L'Herbaudiere 12th Aug 08

....and it was all going so well....

There's a lot to tell you, so I'll start with the good stuff. Saturday we got our bikes out and had a good old explore of this very interesting island. It is joined to what we would call the mainland, but the French call the continent by (a) a bridge and (b) a causeway which is a road for cars only at low tide. They sell a funny postcard in the tourist shops showing a car under water as the tide has come in. Not so funny to us in England who remember the flooding last summer. Anyway, the main economic activities here (apart from tourism) are growing potatoes – famous Ile de Noirmoutier pommes de terres which are sold in little fancy packages to tourists, mussels, oysters and salt. There are vast areas of salt pans on the marshes and people gather salt, as the water evaporates in the sun, and sell it, you've guessed it, wrapped in fancy packages to tourists. It is a completely flat island made of sand and the main mode of transport (apart from the constant jams of tourists in cars) is tourists on bikes. There are about three million bikes (I counted) on this island and a marvellous grid of cycle tracks and roads to get around on, away from the cars.

So why did you pick on our bikes to nick, you bastard, whoever you are out there, I hope your thieving fingers rot, painfully and slowly.

That was Sunday morning, as Andy set off to buy pains au chocolats for our breakfast, then came back to tell me our bikes had been stolen from where they were locked to the bike rack at the end of the pontoon. That was when our world fell apart. With no transport, we couldn't get to the town of Noirmoutier, which is where we have to go to get internet access and weather forecasts, so that we can get out of this place.

We went to the Bureau du Port and told them and got them to phone the police for us. At this point, there was a screaming of sirens, flashing of blue lights, the exits to the Island were sealed, scene of crime officers descended with finger-printing kit, nets, guns and prison wagons. No, there wasn't. We were told to go to Noirmoutier to report it to the Gendarmerie, but not to go until the afternoon, as they were busy. But how do we get there? There is a free bus. Wow. Yes, in July and August there is a free bus about 5 times a day to and from Noirmoutier.

The bus dropped us near the centre of the town and we had to walk about a mile to find where the bold Gendarmes hide behind a big barred fence and locked gates. There seemed to be no way in, until I walked past the sign saying no entry apart from military personnel, through the car park and up the steps. A very suspicious officer opened the door to us babbling about how we were meant to use the phone outside to get in. Je ne comprends pas in an English accent soon shut him up. He let us in and we managed to explain about our bikes. He got us a form to fill in and gave us a case no. so we can claim on the insurance. Oh, by the way, you'd better go to the Municipal Police to see if they've found your bikes. While we were there a couple were admitted, after waiting at the gate a long time, with bleeding hands, ranting on about something and being hit on the head, and the bold gendarmes, with true sang froid, told them to go away. How I wish I could understand this stupid language.

The Municipal Police Station was completely hidden behind the Mairie, down an alleyway, round the corner, with a sign about three inches across announcing we'd finally found the right place, after searching for half an hour, then asking at the Tourist Info office, and a woman officer took down details of the bikes on a post-it, which she'd probably binned before we were back out of the alley. Anyway, there seemed little danger of any of them actually solving any crime, but at least they were safe.

Now don't even get me started on the Restaurant....

Oh, all right then.... we'd gone up there on Saturday evening lured by the promise of the vegetarian set meal for €20. Madame told us the restaurant was full but would we like to make a reservation for the next day, Sunday? Yes, we would.

Sunday, we walked, bikeless, to the restaurant and were shown to our table. It was all rather bizarre. There was a huge stuffed caterpillar against the wall, which may have been art. Not sure. The waitress had very little English and spoke so quietly that we couldn't hear her, anyway. She brought a huge menu, the size of a photo-album, made of that lumpy home-made paper you get in gift shops. As I flicked through (and she only gave one to me, not to Andy, whom she never addressed at all) could see all sorts of stuff in French, but nothing about what food or drink they had on offer. She turned it to the wine page and said something about it starts here. I looked at the wines (Andy normally chooses the second cheapest) and then handed it to him to choose. We chose a rosé. She went off, with the menu.

She brought the wine. We drank some. She then brought a plate with some little melon balls and a little pot of mushed up beetroot to dip them in with a cocktail stick. Okay, we did that. When she came to serve the people at the next table, I said I would like to read the menu. We'd not ordered any food yet, and were hungry. She said something I couldn't hear and the man on the next table said he'd explain. Apparently, on Sunday evenings there's a set menu for €22 when the chef uses up all his left overs in the fridge so you don't know what you're going to get. Oh, we said. That explained some of it. “Nous sommes végétariens”. She went away. We waited for some time. The other tables got brought an entrée in a glass with some salad and a bread roll. Eventually the chef came in with two plates which he proudly set in front of us. There were two very small pieces of fish arranged on some haricots verts with spring onion tops. Andy said, “Je suis végétarien.” No problem, said the chef in his little hippy African-type hat, and took his plate away. I ate mine. It didn't take long. Then the chef brought Andy a plate of fried potatoes on some green vegetables. Then the waitress brought us both a small bread roll. I'd already finished my fish, so ate the bread while Andy ate his, what we thought was an entrée. Then we waited a long time. The other tables had plates of hot stuff brought to them and they ate up. Then the waitress brought us a spoon and fork, and we wondered what kind of main dish it was going to be. You never know with this nouvelle cuisine lark. After a while the waitress brought us a desert. I was gobsmacked. Partly because I didn't want one. I wanted my dinner. Partly because it had a cooked banana lurking in one corner (which looked to me like merde de chien) and something in a little tiny glass. A half a strawberry in another corner and a tiny drizzle of what looked like kiwi juice. Oh, and the mint leaf, of course. I ate half of the stuff in the glass, but the spoon was too big to get the rest out. I knew Andy would be embarrassed if I stuck my finger in, like I would at home, so I didn't. Then we waited some more. We were hoping for some cheese, or a coffee, perhaps. Nothing happened. I tried and tried in vain to catch the eye of the waitress or the proprietress. People were leaving, all happy and smiling and fed. In the end we went. The bill was €70. I was fuming all the way back to the boat, where I filled up with bread and cheese. Today, I spent two hours with my dictionary penning a letter to the restaurant proprietors about how I felt disappointed, angry, robbed and hungry. Why didn't the stupid woman tell us what happened on Sundays when she took our booking? We would have booked for another night where we could choose the vegetarian option for less money.

That's done it for us, now. We're never eating out again. We had a veggie pizza on Belle Isle where we'd both woken up parched in the middle of the night because of the amount of salt that must have been in it. In Britain there is a huge variety of foods you can eat out: Indian, Chinese, Thai, Italian, French, English, African, McDonalds, fish and chips. In France every restaurant has the same food, every crèperie has the same menu, every brasserie, bistro, whatever, has the same menu. The only thing they ever have which isn't fish or meat is a warm goat's cheese salad as an entrée. The French pride themselves on their food. Well, there are more tastes in heaven and earth, M'sieur, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. You try and find lime pickle or cumin seed in a French supermarket. They don't have it. And another thing, while I'm on a rant, why don't they sell choppped tinned tomatoes. Plenty of tinned tomatoes, not chopped. You have to chop them in the tin, the juice runs down the side and makes a mess. Don't they know we've had them chopped for the last 20 years or so.

Sorry about this, but having our bikes stolen has certainly coloured our vision, to say the least.

My life now consists of getting the bus to town, trying to claim the insurance for our bikes, trying to source new bikes, which is proving impossible and waiting for this infernal wind to die down. Today we rescued a traditional wooden boat in the marina which had broken free of its moorings and was blowing towards us, menacingly. When the guy who works in the marina came to help, he didn't tie the motor launch up properly and it drifted away. Perhaps there's a future permanent career for him in the police force.

Blog - Saturday 9th August – L’Herbaudière, L’Ile de Noirmoutier.

Well, we’re still in France! We thought we were going to Spain on Wednesday, although it was looking like Thursday was going to be a bit blowy, but on Wednesday morning the forecast was worse (Force 7, gusting to 8), so instead we had a change of plan. We thought we’d keep going a bit further south so that we only had to find a two-day weather window to cross to northern Spain, instead of a three-day one. We said goodbye to Port-Louis and sailed to Belle Ile, which is aptly named. It was lovely. We saw some dolphins on the way but they didn’t hang around. Thursday was indeed very blowy and we were getting the full benefit of the Atlantic swell at our anchor, so we moved into the harbour on Thursday night, which meant waking up the boat next door very early on Friday morning and doing complicated things with ropes, in order to get out and put in a full day’s sailing, as the next port was about 45 miles away.

We had a cracking sail all the way to Noirmoutier in less than 9 hours which was marked by a pod of dolphins swimming along with us, under the boat, in front of it, leaping out beside us, for about twenty minutes. A marvellous and heart-warming sight and such an honour. It was a bit rolly with a following wind and the swell from behind. With our old-fashioned long keel, we were able to keep our course while surfing down the waves. We saw other boats wallowing quite a bit more than we were in the swell, particularly when we got closer to Noirmoutier, where the sea is shallower and the swell was breaking.


So it all went swimmingly until we got into the harbour and the girl in the Service du Port boat gabbled something at me in French which I didn’t understand at all. She then indicated for us to follow her, so we did, right down the harbour, which was absolutely packed with boats rafted up along the hammerheads at the ends of the pontoons. She was pointing and Andy, scrabbling around with ropes, was saying, There, next to the motorboat. Well, there were about two hundred motorboats to choose from and I had no idea where I was meant to be stopping the boat. It became apparent when I saw the harbour wall in front of me and the depth gauge started flashing frantic signals at me, that I was supposed to have stopped at the motor boat which I had just passed. Now, as I said, it was packed in there. There was no room to turn our boat round, so I was forced to try reverse. Now, if any of you have ever tried to reverse in a long-keeled boat, you will know the problem I had. If you haven’t, then take it from me, it’s impossible. As the water you are pushing away doesn’t flow over the rudder, you have no way of steering. The boat goes backwards, but in whatever direction it chooses. It decided to turn itself round to port on this occasion and was stopped when we crunched into a little motorboat rafted up on the opposite hammerhead. Oh, dear. People came out of their cabins to help, smirk, or just protect their own boats. My first thought was, Oh my god, it’s going to be nightmare of paperwork sorting out the insurance. By this time, we had managed to get ropes over to the motorboat on the other side and we were able to park, facing the other way. (At least we’re now facing the right way to get out of here!)

I sat down shakily with a beer, once we were firmly attached to the pontoon, and tried not to look at the blue paint on the motorboat the other side of the fairway. When the harbour girl came back, I called her over and managed, in French, to admit, Nous avons frappé cette bateau, while pointing at the incriminating Sally-coloured paint on the other boat. She went over and washed off the blue smear and gabbled something else at me. It seemed that she thought there was no damage, even though I’d heard a horrible crunch as our inch-thick GRP with teak rail had dented in their ¼ inch-thick shiny white plastic. We even went to the Capitainerie du Port and told them what we’d done. He said there was no damage. So, it looks like we got away with that one.

The pilot book said this place was an unspoilt, old-fashioned mix of yachts and fishing boats. Maybe the authors were here some time ago, but now it is a big marina and the quay is wall-to-wall tourists’ shops, cafés and bars. Not really our kind of place. To cap it all, they have no internet access. Their Wifi is coming on 15th August! Fat lot of good to us. We’re going to have to pedal off to Noirmoutier sur L’Ile in order to find some kind of interweb so that we can continue to pore over weather forecasts in the hope of getting across Biscay. If we don’t manage it in the next week or two, we’re going to have to go the Plan C and take the canals.

The good news is we found a restaurant here which has a vegetarian set meal for €20. As it is the only place in the whole of France (as far as we know) that caters for Veggies, or even admits that they exist, we're going to have to go and try it.

It's also very hot here. I'm suffering a little from an excess of sun yesterday, so I'm going to break out the sunhat.

Bad Hair Day in Port-Louis

We’re still here in Port-Louis, but I’m not sure how I’m going to manage to write, as I’m trying to get over a very bad haircut. We didn’t do “At the hairdressers” for my French O Level, which was 40 years ago, and the coiffeuse had less English than my French. It was so bad that I went back two days later and asked her to try again. She gave it another going over, but it was too late then. She’d already cut some bits too short. I think it may be terminal, or at least several months in recuperation. Hopefully it will get so hot that I have to wear my sunhat.

We received the charts we were waiting for, and some spokes arrived, but they were the wrong ones. However, we managed, using the French integrated public transport system, where you buy a ticket for €1.25 and it lasts an hour on any buses, including the water buses (or Batobus – get it?), to get to Lorient and a big bike shop which had the correct size spokes. Andy has now replaced 4 broken ones on my back wheel (I’m not really that heavy) and we are fully mobile again. We had actually been getting around to the supermarché, etc, using the bikes provided free by the Bureau du Port. I don’t know if any other marinas offer this service, but this is the only place we’ve ever come across it. I must emphasise how impressed we were, though, with the cheapness and effectiveness of the bus system. Lorient had a noticeable lack of traffic congestion, and a lot of people using the buses.

The seaward approach to Lorient is dominated by the massive concrete submarine pens built by the Germans under Admiral Dönitz during WWII to house their UBoots. The Americans tried to destroy the pens, but didn’t make much impression on them, so they bombed the city almost out of existence in order to cut off the supply lines for fuel, food, water and power in order to stop the Germans deploying their UBoots. Lorient was rebuilt as a pleasant modern city with wide boulevards and squares. The concrete pens are now mainly used for a variety of other purposes, including housing the lifeboats, but they are a chilling reminder of what an unhappy time that was for the French. Next to them is the biggest marina I have ever seen full of the largest, fastest sailing vessels know to man. It makes Cowes look like small fry. There were several of those enormous trimarans like the one Ellen McArthur used to knock around in. You know when a boat goes fast, because it has lots of big corporate logos emblazoned all over it.

We are now waiting for a big enough weather window to get across Biscay and to northern Spain. We need a good three days and three nights of not too much wind, not too little and not in the wrong direction. Not asking much? At the moment there are a series of low pressure systems crossing the Atlantic, into Biscay and hitting the French coast just about where our boat is moored. These are bringing strong winds, rain and the wind is mainly from the South West, which is where we want to go. We don’t fancy three days and three nights of wind on the nose and bashing into waves, which stop the boat, causing the wind to spill from the sails, not to mention the pouring rain and being up to 200 miles from the nearest lifeboat.

So we wait. It’s a nice enough place to be. We haven’t even done the museums yet. We’ve been entertained by a film show one night, where films about the tradition of boat-building and fishing in Brittany were projected onto the sails of an old wooden fishing boat, accompanied by musicians playing Breton bagpipes and another ancient wind instrument, like the thing they blow into on the bag pipe, but without the bag. There is a terrific street market on Tuesday nights until very late, which everyone seems to attend and there is music played outside the bars and lots of stalls selling stuff we don’t want. Yesterday we saw a whole band of bagpipers, pipers, drummers, brass section and their dogs ‘n’ all, practising while marching round the local sports ground. We still think there IS only one tune, repeated as necessary.

Meantime the search for a restaurant which has one vegetarian main course on the menu continues in vain. I had the boat stocked up with sailing snacks ready for the epic voyage, but Andy keeps eating them. Grrrr!