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...