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.