This snow stuff was not expected - at least, not by yours truly. It's not unknown as these aren't exactly the tropics but I'd have thought a milder winter was in store. I brush off the decks religiously and mind my feet but still it snows. I'm reminded of pictures of the Curlew in South Georgia or the Pyes in Vancouver, visiting Miles and Beryl Smeeton on Tzu Hang. At least they were prepared for the Canadian climate, whereas I am a creature with a more tropic of cancer bloodstream and find the cold initially bracing but eventually wearing. Both those references smack of heroism and true adventure. Curlew is a Falmouth Quay Punt, now in residence at the National Maritime Museum, Cornwall. She was famously the boat and home of Tim and Pauline Carr. They shunned the popular cruising grounds of the Med and Caribbean for the southern wastes in a 30 ft old wooden gaff cutter. Fifty years before them, Peter and Ann Pye sailed their engineless Looe fishing boat, Moonraker (ex Lilly) to the pacific, the Baltic and Brazil. Dr. Pye's books are riveting, not least for his captivating and beautifully written narrative but also for the incredible understatement of their achievements. Ah me. The world was a simpler place in 1952. I imagine they had their pressures; society was in flux after the war and their world, the pre war world, was changed for ever. Pye himself was unhappy with the proposed National Health Service and so I guess he dropped out. Compared with today it looks a peach. Their black and white photographs look strangely familiar right now as I poke my head out and gaze at a scene of extreme contrast. The bright whiteness of the snow covered marina renders any shade to black. Yachty goretex and Musto gear stands out in brilliant modern colours and figures move about in technicolor silhouette like a Lowry in psychedelia. I'm going to don a coat and find someone to partake in a brandy at the marina bar. Later I might do a few bits on board, or more likely tramp into the village for a cosy dinner with a mate - if I can find one to brave it. Wish me luck. It's cold out there.

Early Arctic blasts

Forecast is for rain but we've had snow here. Force 3, NNW but cold, and this is Biscay. I can't imagine it will stick but there's an icing sugar look to the coach roof and every vista is etched in deep contrast. La Foret's wooded backdrop looks bare and dark and the sky is the colour of Blakes primer. Ropes are like bars and every step crunches underfoot. This weather is very early and not encouraging. If I start to get damp below I wonder if I'll stay the winter. There's a fine line between ventilation and condensation on an old boat. Early days yet. It'll warm up, just you wait and see...

la Foret - new home

The weather is off. Can't complain I suppose. It is November - the saddest month, they say hereabouts - but The Promise is settled in her new home for the winter, snug from Biscay's temperamental outbursts in the spacious marina at la Foret. There is a lot of plastic to camouflage our old woodwork but we still get admiring remarks from passers by on the footpath that winds up the river, over the lock sluices, past the golf club and into town. I've been here before but not so late in the year. The estuaries are placid in summer, drying out to flat sandiness and green with weeds, whereas now a dull muddy pallor over paints the landscape. trees are bare, save the pinewoods, and the light is low and shy. There is much to entertain though, restaurants and bars, lots to see and places to visit. I got myself a bike, real roadworthy one as opposed to one of those shiny yachty folding types and consequently can venture a bit further afield. I have to hoik it onboard as the captainerie advises petty theft is not unknown, especially by northern Europeans, Germans and Dutch. Strange when you'd think they had enough of their own. Under a cheap tarp' the bike resides quietly as I await a break in the weather.

It's damp now, 50% chance of rain but not cold. No frost to nip the fingers and harden the halyards. No ice in the lockers either. Cold is a damned thing. Canvas solidifies, as do ropes of all fibres. Handles stick to buckets and anything left in the bucket adheres to it with alacrity. The crew have abandoned me for the time. Off to Paris for the sights, as one has never been and is a bit of an artist. Its hard to recollect them scampering about all tanned as their lanky forms are now swathed in layers of polartech under their la Glazic smocks. The other was a dab hand in the galley too. Her clafoutis was a custardy triumph and my whiskey will miss the cold leftover slices.

Ah me. The boat is mine own for as long as they take, if they return at all. I've given the batteries a charge so I can curl up later with a decent book - Peter Pye's excellent omnibus - and put a little Elgar on the tiny stereo. If I don't end in tears it will be a miracle.

When I was a lad, I was introduced to the classics by an old man on a wandering yacht. It happened to be Grieg's piano concerto but ever since the sound of the open sea and full orchestra have been inseparable. He ended up on a reef in the caribbean but his influence lingers on. Funny how a chance meeting over fifty years ago can make such a difference on your life. Someone said something like give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man. I know many people blessed and cursed by that one. Enough philosophy, the kettle is beginning to hum, lamps need to be lit and distant calls of farewell can be heard about the boatyards. Time for tea.

Call me Ishmael...

"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me."

From Moby Dick by Herman Melville

Don't you just know how he feels...

The lagoon

While we carves a furrow towards The Promise' prospective winter berth, I scan the distant shore out to port. There is a line of surf now and not a place to venture but in the heat of summer, there is a narrow entrance and a sandy lagoon there. Le Letty is a popular spot for locals, warm, shallow and peaceful. High tide it's a race track for windsurfers when the wind is up, but low water, it's a secret world of waders and divers. I spent many happy hours there this year just idling. If you wait for half tide, you can easily wade the estuary from side to side. The current fairly rips out but there's no danger except to odd crab nipping your toes as you go. If'n you're sly, you can crouch in the salty waves and approach on all fours like a hippo. The terns and egrets have no idea and you can sidle up to within feet as they're feeding.

The marshes left uncovered by the receding sea are a different world. The sand bars dry into low lying tropical islands, hot to touch behind the protecting dunes. As the land solidifies across the shallows, isolated sunseekers drag canoes and rubber rafts behind them, knowing that as the sea returns, they will have to row, or make a very lengthy trek around the peninsula. In the evenings, low fires burn in the wilderness like Tuareg camps and the smoke of barbeques drift across the lagoon. Beach parties gather and distant music thumps. These dunes extend as far as Mousterlin on this side, and almost to Beg Meil beyond the point. Miles of pine backed, sandy nothingness and I love it.

I'll come back to this spot but right now, a coffee has materialised from below and we keep an eye on the coastguard station on the point. Once abeam, we'll round up and tighten sheets for the run into the bay.

Laying up maybe...

I've been thinking about the winter. There was a time I thought I'd just sit it out, lay out a new bower and batten down the hatches. The Odet is a beautiful river but lonely and sometimes the idea of having to launch the punt to do anything is daunting. I have the crew to think of too. We had a conference around the saloon table, all low lights and steaming mugs but the vote was, let's semi lay up. Stay afloat but somewhere safe, convenient, with showers and shops and bars. I am a bit anti marina in outlook but am coming around to the idea of being able to walk on and off the deck with dry feet having luxuriated in a hot tub for an hour and not have diluted my JD with a ton of rain.

Now, marinas come in shapes and sizes. Years ago you could moor up on anyones beach, having bargained a reasonable rent over a beer. Not so today. England is just too expensive for an old buccaneer, by-lawed and privatised but France is a more appealing. There are no moorings above the bridge where we've been at anchor for months, and downstream is, frankly, too crowded and you're always on show. Especially as they'd put our cutter, pretty as she is, where every Tom, Dick and Pierre can gawp at us. Not our style. Not after the Robinson Crusoe season we've had upstream, where we'd occasionally raise a hand to passing steamers or visiting birds of passage. Down the coast just a bit, at the head of a deep-set bay, is a modern marina, a hop and skip from the centre ville where moule frites and muscadet are a plenty. I contacted the man at La Foret Fouesnante and decided to give it a go. We can always move on, or come back if we want. Easy in a boat, with no deadlines, commitments or contingencies.

Come the day, as the green tide began to turn the bows upstream, we backed the jib, handed the big hook and swung downstream. I patted the tiller and squinted up the mast. Come on Promise, my girl, I thought, Lets go a roving...

Spring tides, Autumn nights

So, there's another equinox gone south. I expected the associated gales to turn up. Strange phenomenon, no earthly reason but it's often the way. This year fairly quiet though and ever since, on our peaceful mooring, the weather has been quite the indian summer. Trees are a-turning but we've had hot days which has extended our time here and we've made the most. Night time is the thing. On board it gets cold. Soon as the sun dips below the horizon, which is increasingly and substantially earlier now, the temperature drops like a lead from the ratlines. You're soon sent below for another jumper and then a coat, as the breeze chuckles across from the creek opposite. Hot chocolate or thick black coffee becomes the sundowner, laced with whatever is in the galley locker, which today is calvados. We met an old man, a farmer, from some storm jib sized small-holding east of Gouesnache. He had his pigs, geese and chickens but his pride was his orchard. Actually the whole area, from the river here, to Concarneau, is big in apples, pears and sure as nature intended - cider. Our Monsieur was a cider man but had a dispensation, a perk if you prefer, he was allowed to make, that is distill, calvados. The dark golden eau de vie that one, with the aid of a little handed down knowledge and ancient cast iron machinery, can brew from Fouesnant's best cider apples. I'd gone off looking for him after buying some of his bottles from a market stall. I reckoned that a deal could be done for bulk, though his idea of bulk and mine differed. I thought to line the bilges of The Promise, he thought I was from a supermarket. He did however offer me a tipple of the serious stuff, and after another, I thought that this would take up less space on the boat and was a drink worth studying. Sadly for me he wasn't allowed to sell me any, his 'Dispensation' you understand. He did offer me a couple as a gift which was quite legal. Back on the boat, the crew has lit the wood burner and trimmed the wicks. I watched the last rooks flap home and the blue mist creep across the half tide. It'll be a high one again tonight. The full moon and ol' Jupiter will make sure of that. No wind though and a cosy light seeps from the washboards and a wave of warmth

wraps itself about you as you descend the companion way steps. Pass me a glass my girl and shove up.

Browned off...

I believe the term, "Browned off" comes from the process of preserving steelwork with controlled RUST. In centuries past, musketeers and carabiners would take the exposed metal parts of their muzzle loaders and treat them with a rust accelerating compound. This obviously dulls shiney new steel but a soldier or hunter didn't want the sun reflecting off their gun barrels. This actually helps keep metal good and I have a percussion lock musket from the 1800's which testifies. Once browned off, the steel can be oiled or waxed to a lovely deep patina. I say this because there is a glut of stainless and bronze parts available for boats today but I have a friend in Maine who fits his punts out in iron and browns them off in the traditional way. Look great and is easily maintained. Mild steel is workable, long lasting, good looking and CHEAP. Boatmen, you don't have to spend your hard earned Reales on mass produced chrome. Find a gunsmith and get browned off.

Wild life on the Islands

We took The Promise out to sea for fear of her turning into a freshwater vessel, with all the problems and horrors that engenders. Our pastoral anchorage quickly disappeared behind the wooded bends as we followed the channel downstream past chateaux and lush farms, from where munching cows and stalking herons monitored our passing with indifferent silence. Once past the countless modern yachts and enormous multihulls in Benodet, we rode the racing ebb out through the narrows and headed her in order to up sails and bear away towards the Glenan Isles. That whole sweep of bay is some pretty. Once away from the river the sea hisses by and out to port the shining edge of sand stretches to Mousterlin, Beg Meil and on to Concarneau and the south. She heels pleasantly on a starboard tack and slips along in her groove. We, like gulls on her silver deck, can sit occasionally bending the elbow on the helm up to keep her straight, though to be honest, if I eased the mainsheet a touch, she'd sail herself. The joy of the cutter rig, well balanced and easy on the eye. On the horizon the dark line that is the half tide profile of the archipelago, Les Glenans. Passenger steamers carry hoards of visitors to this tempting reef. The water is so clear that pilotage is by eye alone and one can gaze down at familiar rocks and gullies below fathoms of blueness. Tourists are greeted by a land of sand, scrub and low lying boulders. There is little in the way of vegetation and precious little shelter from the summer sun. Not that shelter is sought for as these islands are a mecca for bird watchers and sunbathers. An ironic mix of men in camouflage, rucksacks and binoculars on one hand, and nut brown naturists on the other. They are like dancers on a ballroom floor, each in their own space, each aware of the other while trying to imagine the pristine place is theirs alone. The islands also attract yachtsmen and a famous sailing centre is based there. The only industry apart from the tourism and that can hardly justify the name, as amenities are kept to a minimum. There is no traffic, hardly any buildings - two small restaurants, ancient fortifications - and when the steamers depart for home, the Glenans are quiet save for the gulls and waves breaking on the windward beaches. I was determined to at least circumnavigate the reef and we enjoyed the running and reaching in the warm September breeze after the early start and brisk two hour transit. The Crew however have a different agenda. They are also keen for a run ashore to explore what there is and do some foraging. So it is, we luff up, drop the hook and haul the sails down to the deck. Once the dinghy is deployed they scramble over the side with bucket and net for a spot of hunting. They were after shell fish and prawns, muscles, scallops and unsuspecting shallow sea dwellers, perhaps crab or eel. There's the harpoon too. They mean business.

From the peace of the moorings, except the wind slating in the rigging, I can make out their simple forms like two chess pieces, stalking the tide line and wading deliberately to and fro in the rocky shallows. One dipping low, reaching under a ledge, or one lunging to retrieve the harpoon. Happy as children, primitive as cannibals in the south seas. We've done this for millennia, hunting, and to watch two young hominids about this ancient work is to observe a ritual that begat tool making, planning and man's eventual rise from the swamps. Better drop a bottle of muscadet over to chill on a line. It'll be seafood chowder tonight.

There is a blush of autumn about the river. The very tops of the chestnuts are just showing highlights though the oak woods are still reassuringly dark. Isolated pines lance through the canopy supporting noisy but invisible rookeries. On board, the serenity of the river has been fractured by one of the crew's enthusiasm for their new concertina - The Box. A delight in the right hands but the learning process can be painful for those of a discerning ear. Thank goodness they didn't buy bagpipes (another Breton favorite) or worse - a bombard. I was moored in the inner harbour at Lorient once, during their occasional celtic festival. I thought then, If I ever hear a baghad again, it'll be too soon. That said, I do think a small guitar might be nice to while away an ocean crossing. There's a very musical community afloat. I knew a guy who had three pianos on his boat, and a model train set. He also made the best profiteroles known to man. Having spent several days scraping down a mast in preparation for umpteen coats of best varnish, his coffee breaks in the boatyard were a treat. Time for a brew I think...

Those were the days

I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow--a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

RLS

The wild lands

West of the sunshine and beaches of the Bigouden, the land takes on a wilder character. There are sparse villages and flat moorland between and I also needed to stretch my legs after weeks afloat. I left one of the crew to chores, that being off to the co-op maritime for boot topping as the anchor rode chafes our line on occasion. The other picked up a hire car and met me at Ste. Marine quay, as we were off to Penmarc'h. There are a number of draws to the area as it's rich in prehistory and and the views are wide. It's big sky country and the wind from the west hurls sand from the dunes far inland. There was a particular spot I wanted to see close to. Brittany's oldest calvary is at Tronuen. Carved from granite in the mid 15th century, it's a holy place of pilgrimage and peace far from the shops and cafes of the bigger towns. Now, I'm not a much of a church goer but I do have belief in spirit and here on the edge of Europe, one is aware of an older time, an earlier time, of stones and trees, of gods and demons. Here the last two thousand years blow back like cheesecloth to reveal an ancient world where we tread like dancers. As soon as you've passed Pont l'abbey, the signs point to the fishing port of Saint Guénolé and the headland at la Torche, a mecca for surfers and bird watchers. The bell tower of the chapel begins to materialise above the swaying tamarisk and suddenly you top a rise to see the silhouette of ancient granite crosses against a ragged sky. I parked the tiny hire car on the grass and wandered across to the church.

There were other tourists there, in bright, acid coloured sports clothes and snuggy tops. It's not like the great cathedral sites like Chartres, nor the ordered politeness of our UK monuments. There were no signs, or instructions, except in the car park where laminated boards explained the big picture in French. This was low key and quiet. Very few people spoke or communicated and after briefly admiring the main feature, the calvary itself, hewn from 15th century lichen encrusted granite, I crept cautiously into the cool vaulted space of the chapel.

The interior was vast or seemed so. Dark and cold but with sunlight shafting through comparatively modern stained glass window. There was very little else, considering the excesses of other catholic churches I've seen. A simple desk stood right at the back selling guides and saintly gifts. Not for me. In front of the altar windows a tier of candles burned. I stood contemplating the scene for a moment or two then felt compelled to light a candle in memory of an old friend, recently gone from us. I placed my Euro in the box, picked a slender light and then stepped back having added it to the other offerings. It was serene, the right thing to do and as there was no clap of thunder, I felt strangely at peace there. I coughed and sticking my hands in my sea coat pockets I stalked back out into the light before a second tear had time to follow the first.

visitors

I hear on the jungle drums that we may be getting a visit from old shipmate, Ian Heard. He's a Cornishman, painter and aspiring writer from the Tamar valley back in Blighty. I have the crew keeping the deck tight with liberal buckets of sea water and polishing the brass, after months at sea and a lazy summer have allowed a dull patina to steal the reflections in the lamps and binnacles. Last time I saw him was in Fowey, singing in Gallants, to some French yachtsmen who were reduced to tears. I though his pronunciation was equally questionable. We'll do a few songs here I'm sure, once the langoustines have gone down and the calvados is glowing in the glass.

quiet day, ebb tide

Mid-day on The Promise. Tide is around half and ebbing so we're pointing upstream towards the woods and steep banks, our stern leaving a bubbly wake as we go nowhere. The weather has lost some of it's heat and turned dampy, light rain, though still very warm. It's shorts and tee shirt times. The crew sometimes making the most of our solitude, pad about the decks wearing little or less. They're rustling up a favorite lunch below. Courgettes, lightly done in Olive oil, on toast with grated good cheese, English. A little local Muscadet too. Perfect.

We've been making the best of the weather, touching up on a bit of varnishing, scrubbing off the waterline and checking rigging aloft. Other than that, pottering up and down in the punt and taking the air. There are creeks to explore off the main stream and I've used the time to build a picture for my book. Notes and references. Colours, architecture, sounds and scenes, all grist to the creative mill. There is little on the history though. The French don't do a National Trust, and their museums are either prehistoric or 19th century painters. You'd get the impression nothing happened here till then. Perhaps it didn't. However, I've heard of a place near Audierne, a manoir that will suit my story and so I need to organise a trip ashore, or take the ship as it's not far. More on that later.

I motored down to Ste. Marine, opposite the noisy fleshpots of Benodet last night. Passing under the high, modern bridge that spans the river there and hauling the punt up the slip to avoid fishermen and trippers. What transport east and west was like before the bridge can only be guessed. A long trip around Kemper would have been in the offing. I imagine there were ferries but there are few obvious crossing places. After a chat with the harbour man, I walked around the point as far as the great sweeping beach on the bay north of the village, passing by weekend retreats and holiday cottages, through dunes and pines and marram grasses until the sea and surf filled all my senses. It's a place of sea and sky. This is the northern edge of the bay of Biscay. The Iles de Glenan smudge the horizon and the white sands curve away into the distance where a lighthouse marks the edge of land and to where the sun would ultimately slide into the sea. I sat watching the sunset for a while then wandering back to the port, enjoyed a Pastis in a cafe and absorbed all this Frenchness as last minute dippers towelled off and dogs barked at nothing in the sky, just because that's what they do.

"We should be in Paris by now..."

WE SHOULD BE IN PARIS BY NOW

Many years ago, I signed on a small yacht for a trip to Brittany. This, I have to say, was before modern GPS technology, let alone, radar; depth finders; plotters; lap-tops; met-fax; SSB; EPIRB etc. We did have a state of the art Decca, wonderful in it’s day and the joy of the RAF but in the hands of initiates... More of that later. Still, we did have charts and compass, so we were bound to get there... Weren’t we?

The annual yacht club trip to Brittany had been planed well in advance. Ever since the Skipper had raised the suggestion of “Morlaix for breakfast”, we were packed and on board, at least mentally. We were the willing crew on the Little Breeze, and joined her on the pontoons off the club. Skipper, Tom; Navigator; Crew and me. We stowed the boat while keeping a weather ear on the radio forecast as It was still a little fresh along-side and the various yachts nosed and tugged at their mooring warps like ponies. Some of the bigger ones had gone the previous night to avoid a lumpy crossing but some would stay with the little fleet. The air of excitement was thick as treacle and sweet with the thought of a week or more in France.

We were clear of the moorings by late morning and made a polite call of intent to the coastguard. They in turn wished us well and though the sea piled astern, we felt safe in the sturdy little boat. Skipper had owned ‘Little Breeze’ for years. She was an easy sail and had been a weekend escape for as many summers as he could remember. Local stuff, but she had not crossed the channel and he was keen to go foreign The club cruise would be perfect.

We made a call to the commador’s yacht to check time and course, as we seemed to be sailing a little high, or they were freeing away south’erd for a better sail. Either way, a gap was slowly widening, though they were still well in sight and surging down the seas to Morlaix.

Our navigator, consummate and methodical tactician, suggested hourly fixes by Decca and Chart to cross refer. I was happy to see him bent over the saloon table as my own constitution was taking its time adjusting to the swell and Skipper cheerily let him get on.

‘And don’t go calling me “skipper”’, he laughed. ‘This boat’s a democracy’.

The navigator though, was not convinced the decca was accurate, as it seemed to be giving fixes that were, frankly, miles off. Soon he and Skipper were heads down, both below fiddling with the electronics and scratching their heads. In the cockpit and happiest steering and sailing, I was aware that the other yachts had disappeared and we were at one with the ocean. We all concluded that we would go by compass. The weather was easing, we were going well and we could almost smell the croissants and would catch the fleet later.

We slotted into our watch routine throughout the day and we kept ourselves warm and well fed, alternately chatting and silent in our own thoughts as is the pattern on passage. The shipping lanes, once so forbidding, were taken in our stride as evening progressed and Little Breeze seemed to bound along over a mercury like sea. Dusk descended slowly and the clear summer night wrapped its starry mantle over us. Sharing a watch with the other crew we perched in the cockpit in the small hours, silently in awe, as overhead the full moon, wearing Jupiter as an earing, cast a magical light over the seas.

Some hours later, anticipating landfall, I scoured the horizon for light. We calculated that we should be close but seemed to be taking a long time. Perhaps the log was misreading. Perhaps we weren’t quite as smart as we thought, but the simple sums of distance by speed put us well in sight of land, and land was not to be seen. Then, with a cheer, I spotted the loom of a light. Yes, yes there it was, clear as day. We pawed the chart. It must be Iles de Batz. We had made it, our first real channel crossing on our own. I slapped the navigator on the back.

‘Take us in Number One’, I saluted. ‘Now we know where we are’.

Less than convinced, he had fretted over sums all the way across and decided to stay awake till light to make absolutely sure. Relieved by Skipper, I turned in and crawled into one of the forepeak bunks to sleep the triumphant sleep of the just.

Watery sunlight streamed into the warm space as the crew shook me awake with a mug of tea.

‘Are we in?’ I smiled sleepily, imagining the quayside at Morlaix, with the elegant shops, the cafe’s, and the market crowding around the heels of the lofty viaduct.

‘No, not quite,’ she replied. ‘you might like to join us in the cockpit’

‘No?’ I fired, lunging out of the bunk. ‘We should be in bloody Paris by now.’

I scrambled out into the gray daylight. All sails were stowed and we were creeping ahead under power. A lowish coastline about two or three miles away met my bleary eyes and seemed to be almost encircling us. A bay? But which one? My companions addressed the charts.

‘It doesn’t make sense’, the navigator rubbed his face thoughtfully. ‘I suspected some error were likely, but where on earth are we now?’

‘Perhaps we could ask someone,’ I joked, ‘and if they reply in Dutch, we’re well lost’.

I went to reach for the pilot when the crew pointed and said,

‘See those fishing boats, they’re from Paimpol. I can see their registration, and they’re only crabbers, so they can’t be far from home”.

Her sharp young eyes had given us our first clue. Sure enough, not too far away were some local fishing boats busy pot-hauling.We scanned the horizon. It seemed to me, that out to starboard, a dent in the cliffs on the end of the bay was becoming into a distinct gap in the landscape.

‘There are some big islands out to the west’. I observed. ‘Where’s that chart?’

Skipper carefully started taking bearings with the hand-held.The only sizable islands on offer were Les Sept Iles off Perros Guirec, but we knew them, and these really weren’t that big. Our fingers coursed eastwards. Brehat? Surely not. They were miles away and way off our course. Even we couldn’t be forty miles out. The sums added up though. Time and distance put us deep in the bay of Paimpol, EAST of Isle de Brehat and in an area of known “magnetique anomalies”. We started searching for the charted towers that peppered the coast and before long, established once and for all that we were indeed to the east of Isle de Brehat and a very long way from our planned landfall in Morlaix. Though there is a channel inside Brehat, we decided to go outside to avoid the islands and their attendant rocks just to play safe. We knew the welcoming River Trieux would be around the corner where we would put in for a deserved rest and take stock. The sky was clearing now and the sun shone on sandy beaches and stone cottages. This was more like the Brittany we came for and thought perhaps life wasn’t so bad after all.

Once ashore we quickly established contact with the rest of the yacht club fleet and safely secured to the outer pontoons off the quay, we turned to the tricky business of establishing how four perfectly good sailors could be so far off course. We were all qualified enough, at least on paper, and though perhaps a little short on cross channel experience, we had all many years of salt in our veins and much good ol’ southwest weed below our collective waterlines. And therein could be found the seeds of our downfall.

So much, too much navigation was always done by eye over well trodden and familiar ground, with little recourse to actual sums. We rarely even looked at the compass. It was always there and certainly seemed to be doing its job, but over the years, it had slipped further and further behind and no-one noticed. I actually picked up a new hand bearing compass while we were in France and was horrified to find that either it, or the steering compass, was almost 45 degrees out and further experiments confirmed our suspicions. The poor old Decca had in fact been trying to tell us the truth, but like the bearer of bad tidings, we chose to ignore the message and trust to instinct alone. Dangerous. My sighting of the light on Ile de Batz was also grossly inaccurate. In my zeal to raise a light, I happily identified the wrong one (by forty miles). Thankfully, The navigator did not erupt with my enthusiasm and elected to stay on watch till he could identify the characteristics. Needless to say we were without GPS and radar then, though these oversights have also been addressed.

As it worked out, we never did join the fleet. We enjoyed a couple of nice days in Lezardrieux but the weather quickly turned foul. Rain on a hardened northerly set in for what seemed a dripping eternity, and we headed upriver to Pontrieux, where we decided to leave the Breeze in the capable hands of the harbour master while we legged it home, along with almost every other saturated holiday maker in France. We all had day jobs waiting in Blighty and had to get back. However, it meant we had a good excuse to retrieve the boat a few weeks later when the weather brightened up. As it surely did.

The homeward passage was a peach, and armed with a little up-to-date technology and a new compass, our pinpoint navigation only left us only with the choice of which side to take the buoy.

Haiku on Gray Mullet

Haiku on Gray Mullet

The fisherman waits

as gray mullet feeds on weed

that he has grown them

The tide turns in time

and slowly the boat circles

as fish and man graze

Tails stemming the stream

fins disturb the bright surface

creating ripples

He can just reach them

spinney dorsals stiff to touch

shining scales reflect

Shall he capture one

or will he let them swim free

for other hunters?

More tranquile to watch

the submariners repast

by evening light fall

The streets of Kemper

The tide was running deep and smooth and I allowed the tender to drift upstream on the flood before flashing up the outboard. I'd normally prefer not to motor, the peace of the wooded banks being too perfect, but I had a mile or two to make and the two-stroke would have to be engaged if I was to make the most of the time. The current on the bends of the Odet runs fierce and fast but further up, as the banks become more agrarian and more distant, the river eases it's grip and one can afford to dawdle. Before long, the quay where the steamers disembarked hoved into sight and I decided to be sensible and moor up, leave the punt and take the bus into the city.

Kemper is an old place, picturesquely pokey around the medieval centre, no modern symbolic office towers, no post-war concrete brutalism, though the boxy modern suburbs undulate the surrounding countryside, and hypermarkets bloom off every rondpoint like everywhere else in France. The skyline is dominated by St Corentin's cathedral. The market square from which it erupts used to be a jumble of shops and alleyways, right up to the gothic walls, but nowadays there is a pleasant open space, the uphill side of which is the Musée des Beaux Arts. There are still lots of half timbered buildings, cobbled side streets and pretty corners of geraniums.

I bought a newspaper with no intention of reading it, wandered into a cafe overlooking the square and sat quietly at an outside table to order a kir before looking for lunch. I was soon attended by a spikey haired, teenage waitress who politely took my order before spinning away, scribbling on a pad as she went to serve someone else. How French. Most businesslike. This nation and lunch are inseparable. I've known factory robots stop for it, along with shops, schools, medical services and port authorities. Nothing was going to happen now for a couple of hours, so it's eat or perambulate the quiet streets. Eat then. I spent a pleasant hour people watching. Local businessfolk, well dressed and urgent; families with trained children; Tourist of many nationalities, who were not sure of menu details and whispered like spies behind their cart du jour. One lady, American, in her later years and on her own, knew the system. I watched her eyeball a young, male waiter, ask in educated French, what was the best wine for escallopes and could she not have this, or that, but something else which she knew the chef would remember, as they were old friends, and he could mention her name to the Maitre. Merci cher. Classic, honey blonde, well dressed and canny, from somewhere like Philadelphia. I enjoyed my own curried moule frites and Muscadet with less bravado but as much pleasure, and a coffee later, strolled off to see the sights.

I could not resist the tranquil charms of the Musée des Beaux Arts. One of the finest provincial art galleries in the country, and currently exhibiting a Rodin. I once spent a week in Paris on someone else's expenses and discovered the exotic/erotic delights of Rodin's garden near the Invalides. I had my eyes opened to the sheer power of sculpture and have never looked at a piece the same way again. It's not something I have ever done, but I could toil and sweat for a hundred years and never get within a mile of his genius. There are always works by the Pont Aven groups, and other Bretton painters, traditionally figurative, and modern too, Like Soulanges, who's stark, black and white images are mysterious and moving. Enough art though. I had a tide to catch and was only playing at what I had come for; to explore historic Kemper, and see if it would tie in my mind, with an idea for a book I wanted to write, or finish. I left the cool gallery and walked out into the warm early summer afternoon.

North coast drawings

A few weeks ago, before we turned the big corner, The Promise cruised the norther coast of this rocky country. Chaucer wrote about Armorica in the fourteenth century and it's tides are no less forbidding today. These are sketches from a run ashore. See what you make of them.

Cloudy again but the weather is set to improve and so I plan an excursion tomorrow. The scheme is to take the tide to Kemper in the ships boat. It should be pleasant, as the river is said to be the most beautiful in France and I have some experience of it's charms. Many years ago, as a hand on a freighter carrying a hundred tons of Baltic timber, destined for the roof trusses and floor joists of the French weekend boom, I discovered myself on a lonely quayside with one faded phone number and a Levi's back pocket full of wages. An old shipmate was running a business here and said If I was ever holed up, to call the number, and we'd make a night of it. True to his word, we painted the town claret red and ended up in a swanky restaurant where he proceeded to impress the pretty waitress with his fluent language skills and I passed out in the heads. Shame. I never got me langoustines and to be honest, never found the place again. I woke up some hours later, face down in someone's garden with the hammers of hell banging my head and no idea where the ship was. I aim to be on that quay again tomorrow, with culture in mind and a nice lunch to look forward to. Great days though, when you're young.

From John Thurloe's letters

Madrid, August 18, 1655. [N. S.]

Vol. xxix. p. 150.

It is here said, that Blake hath order to take Spaniards since the first of this instant; and it is well found to be truth, for the last week two Dunkirk ships, which it is said were worth 300,000 ducats, these same fought one whole day, and sunk two of Blake's ships, but at last took them. Thursday, the 12th instant, came out of Cadiz the fleet, which the traders of Seville did set forth: it is compounded of 28 sail of men of war, and 6 fire-ships. They carry 6,000 men, brave soldiers, and 36 long boats. It is said, they would soon fight them, which we shall soon know. God help ours, and send the galleons in safety; so that I believe it will be a breach.

Cutter The Promise

Position: N47 55' 20" W4 07 00"

Odet River, southern Brittany

The river is quiet. It is around low water springs and the banks look perilous steep and close. The black hull of the cutter is beginning to swing on her anchor rode as the ebb becomes flow and the sleek, mercury coloured mullet, that suck and sip at the scum on our waterline, cruise stem to stern and idly hold station as the warm salt water from the sea lifts their gills. The forested banks of the Odet are dense with pines, oaks and laurels. There is a heronry in the trees and their calls echo along the waterway, making the tranquility sometimes less than peaceful. Egrets too, and cormorants haunt the river but we haven't seen much of mankind, as this is far from the cafés and bars of Benodet, and not yet close to the more cultured, cobbled streets of Kemper. I use the Breton word, to keep in character and to savour the sounds of a bygone time, and place, and people.

The weather has been kind. It is warm now, if a little overcast and May rain is in the offing. This southern coast is still liable to Atlantic tantrums, Though the English Channel is well to the north and the horizon we left to seaward is actually the Bay of Biscay, we are not south enough to feel a real difference. Not before high summer anyway. That is something to look forward to. To la Rochelle with its pantile roofs, shady arcades and palm trees. Now that is South. I can almost smell it. Meanwhile, we are in Finisterre, where they have only one word for blue and green - glas - and the land is as old as granite and as hard. The crew are ashore, shopping, victualing I imagine, or they have found the bar in the village open and locals to share a pastis and yarn with. Fine. The tide is too low and the ship's boat will be stranded high above the slippery river. They know that, and will enjoy stretching their legs a while longer. I shall brew another decent coffee for myself and take it easy. Plenty of time here. Plenty of time.