Yacht Orion

Travel notes of a Dufour 32

[yachtorion]

Alderney to Hamble

Sunday 9 August 2015 

We awoke to a clear sky and a gentle , warm-hued sunrise. Several other boats were preparing to leave as we quietly slipped out of Braye Harbour. 

I was at first puzzled by an insistent throbbing sound in the distance, but then David explained that it was the bass from the Alderney Week quarry party that was clearly still going strong, after the fireworks of the previous night. 

Departing from Alderney was straightforward: we just lined up the leading lights, and headed out to sea past the breakwater and the submerged rubble off its end. 

The route back to the UK was also simple – we headed 020 degrees on the compass for most of the day. There was a weather window as the last ridge of high pressure created light north-westerlies while a nasty depression approached England. 

Our original plan had been to go to Poole for an overnight stop, going on to Hamble the next day, but we had calculated that if we could reach the Needles fairway buoy by 1800, we could slip up the Needles Channel with a fair tide and get all the way back to Hamble the same day, even if the last section might be in the dark. So we were keen to keep up our speed across the Channel. 

It was small neaps, but still we would be swept west then east by the tides, so we came up with the idea of measuring our progress north by minutes of latitude, setting a target for each hour – basically if we managed more than 5 minutes of latitude an hour, we were on track to get all the way in one day. 

The winds were still light, so to keep on schedule we had the engine on, furling the jib but keeping the main up for a little added drive. This worked well, our speed through the water was over 5 knots, and we started slightly ahead of our target speed. 

We took turns helming, an hour each, on a rota, and it was not until we had all had a turn, about 1000, that Alderney finally slipped below the horizon. The high land of Normandy’s Cap de la Hague, however, remained visible for another hour, topped by the distinctive outline of the Jobourg nuclear power plant. 

While David was helming, we crossed the first section of the shipping traffic zone, with a series of large vessels approaching from the west and heading for Cherbourg or Rotterdam. They all looked like they were on a collision course, but the AIS below reported that they would pass a mile or two ahead of us, and so they did. David only had to duck the last of the series, and then we entered the no man’s land of the central reservation. 

The sun was now high and hot, and there were few clouds in the sky. We listened to the weather report on the VHF, which confirmed another sunny day in the Channel Isles, but approaching cloud, wind and rain in the South West of England. Jersey, Dinard and Guernsey airports had reported their current weather conditions, but there was no data from Alderney, possibly because everyone on the island had been busy partying all night! 

Anticipating a long day, it made sense for those who were not helming or keeping watch to rest below, and catch up on some sleep. I’m slightly prone to seasickness and can’t read on a boat, so on my second rest period when I really didn’t feel tired I listened to an audiobook on my phone – a much better idea! 

We were making good progress across the chart, and hitting our target speed, so we switched the engine off and were able to sail for several hours, dodging the shipping traffic from the opposite direction. It’s surprisingly hard to spot a vessel on the horizon, especially into the sun, and work out which aspect it is showing and whether it is likely to be on a collision course. That is where the AIS is really valuable, and it also provides interesting additional information like the name, length and destination of the ship to while away the time. 

The first land we spotted was the Purbeck Hills, which rise 198m above St Alban’s head. They gradually grew larger, and then we could see the white cliffs of the Jurassic Coast. An hour or so later, we could see the Isle of Wight. 

The approaching depression did us a favour, and the wind picked up, so we were soon confident of getting to the Needles fairway in time to head straight for Hamble. 

Adrian got it into his head that we would do better with the cruising chute. This involved a good half-hour of foredeck fiddling for three people while I helmed, and a couple of hoists, before the vast blue and white striped sail was up. It did perhaps add a knot of speed for about 45 minutes, but then it acquired a twist, and he decided to drop it and chuck the tangled mass down below. 

As we approached the Needles fairway buoy the tide was still pushing us strongly east, so we put the engine on for extra power. Once past the jagged white cliffs of the Needles themselves, the tide was right behind us. 

Even though the conditions were very benign – 8-10 knots of wind, neap tides – the shallow waters on either side were disturbed, and we had to stay within a narrow corridor, dodging the inevitable container ship coming in the opposite direction. 

We made our way up the Needles channel, ticking off the marker buoys and marvelling at the angular coastline in the low sun. We sped past Hurst Castle and Yarmouth at 7 or 8 knots over the ground as the skies clouded up and the wind rose. We had a preventer on the main which provided me with a sense of security on the helm as we were now sailing dead downwind. 

Adrian and David dipped below to make some hot pasta, as it was after 1900 and we still had 10 miles to go. It made a welcome meal as we put George on the helm. The wind had picked up, so we were able to sail the last section towards Southampton Water, which was busy with vast craft as it was now high water.

The tide was just turning against us, but we had enough speed to get all the way to Hamble Point under sail. 

Tying up at 2030, we had covered 80 miles in just over 14 hours, and averaged 5.7 knots – a pretty speedy crossing. My first thought was to head for the showers; emerging half an hour later as a different person. After a quick drink in the Waterside Bar, which seemed to be bobbing around in a slightly disturbing manner, we crashed about 2200, delighted to have made the final journey in just one day.

[yachtorion]

Marooned in Alderney mayhem

Thurs 6 - Sat 8 August 2015

After a grey start, the skies cleared mid-morning, and we all hired bikes for the day with the plan to cycle round the island. 

First stop was Corblets, with very little beach on show as it was high water. 

The Alderney Race was on frothy form – after our surreal experience the day before we knew to treat it with respect. 

We spotted a yacht sailing round the eastern tip of Alderney suddenly stop dead as it reached the fort and remain stationary for ten minutes while we watched from the road. 

After stopping at the Old Barn for a coffee, we set up camp on the dry sand of Longis Bay, tucked under the sea wall out of the north-westerly breeze. 

We scoffed our lunch as the waters dropped, and eventually the causeway out to the abandoned fort dried enough to permit a Land Rover to cross. 

It was a long hot slog up the steep hill to St Anne’s, so we celebrated with ice-creams sitting out on the open green of the Buttes, next to a vast pyre of pallets ready for the bonfire marking the end of Alderney Week. 

Alderney Week seems to be a licence for madness and mayhem to descend on the otherwise quiet island. As well as the usual talent contests, raft race, human powered flight, canine assault course, fun run and face painting, they organise a semi-pagan torchlight procession, and a series of alcohol-fuelled activities, gigs and parties running round the clock. 

David and Jonny were particularly interested in the Bunker parties, which run from when the pubs close through to 7am, and convert the abandoned German fortifications into makeshift nightclubs. Just that morning I had overheard a young medic who had mislaid his elder brother bemoaning the number of teenagers overcome with alcohol at the party he had attended on Wed night.

Past the bunker , and some jolly piglets, we stared out over the noisy gannet stacks, and airy views out to Casquets and Burhou – before enjoying an exhilarating long downhill ride all the way back to Braye. 

The skies cleared and the evening light over the harbour was warm and mellow as we walked over to Cantina no 6 for a classy and tasty Mediterranean-styled dinner. This was Sam’s last night on the Channel Islands as he had requested evacuation by plane to the UK to get started on a coding project. 

The night was calm and the stars were numerous; while David and Jonny deployed the flopper stopper in the dusk Sam and I stayed in the cockpit and spotted several shooting stars, and the faint haze of the Milky Way. 

Friday 

Sam and I took the water taxi this morning, as he had a huge bag and didn’t want to entrust his laptop to Betelgeuse. 

A friendly taxi took us the short distance to Alderney’s miniscule and quirky airport. All the twenty or so seats on Sam’s flight to Southampton had windows. 

I walked back into town from the airport; a hot 10 minutes, spotted a classic Bentley and wandered back down to Braye beach to join the others. 

Sam’s plane landed soon after, and he got home to Stamford by about 4pm. It was so hot I retreated to the cool shade of the sailing club while Adrian, David and Jonny roasted themselves on the beach, and edited photos while half-listening to the idle chat among the regulars about the half-baked plans for a marina, and the more concrete events scheduled for Alderney Week. 

Once it had cooled down a little, we walked along the beach and up to the remains of the Victorian fort to take in the stunning views of the rest of the island. 

Sadly the idyllic weather looked like it was going to trap us in Alderney: our original plan had been to sail across the Channel on Saturday – but the forecast was for light north-easterlies, which would mean a dismal day of motoring into the wind. Sunday looked a better prospect – still light but with westerly breeze.

David and Jonny flirted with the idea of going to the Friday night bunker party, but then thought better of it, and we contented ourselves with burgers, fish and chips at the convivial chippy and another glorious sunset view. 

Saturday 

Alderney Week crunched into top gear today – amid sweltering heat. Braye beach was unusually crowded, with families busily creating seriously impressive sandcastles for a competition very loosely themed on “Cowboys vs Aliens”. 

We walked round to idyllic Saye bay for a lunch picnic....

and then returned to catch the aftermath of the Daft Raft race: various eccentric creations were gradually disintegrating on the waters edge, having been commandeered by the younger kids. 

Meanwhile a long line of teenagers assembled on the pier, daring each other to jump into the clear but cool water. 

After some people-watching, I retired to the sailing club, which was far busier than usual as the crews from a yacht race from Guernsey were noisily assembling. Adrian, David and Jonny dinghied out to Orion to get her ready for the Channel crossing the next morning. We now had a neighbour on our mooring buoy, but some buoys had three or even four yachts. 

The race crews drank and ate at the club – they were clearly planning to stay overnight. We walked up the hill towards the Butte and sat on the bench next to the bonfire as music from a pop-up bar in the harbour wafted up. Dinner was a tasty burger in the smart Georgian pub garden, heaving with locals and visitors keyed up for the torch-lit procession. As dusk arrived, we joined the crowds lined up along the cobbled streets as Alderney’s solo policeman removed the barriers. 

Then as it grew dark, the line of blazing torches marched down Victoria Street, led by the mayor and Miss Alderney. 

They kept coming and coming – there must have been thousands holding long flames aloft. 

We followed the crowd to the Buttes, where the bonfire was already blazing madly, as the participants calmly took turns to hurl their torches into the blaze.

We decided to give the party a miss, and walked down in the near-dark to the sailing club, arriving just as the fireworks began: a seriously impressive display given an extra edge by the delay between the visual explosion and the sound – which then echoed off the stone breakwater and the fort opposite. Once all was calm we took the water taxi across to Orion as the bonfire burned out and the music began.

[yachtorion]

Guernsey to Alderney

Wed 5 August 2015

The challenge for our next passage, to Alderney, was too much tide. We had to time our departure from St Peter Port so as not to have more than a couple of knots with us going through the Little Russell between Herm and Guernsey. Although having a fair tide of 4-5 knots sounds great, it can be dangerous with lots of buoys and reefs. 

The skies were grey and threatening as we left the marina about 0845, and gingerly motored north. Sam kept a close watch below on the chart-plotter and we all looked out for Brehon, Roustel, Platt and the other marks until we felt we had made it safely through the channel. 

Unfortunately, just as we set our course for the waypoint south of Alderney, the rain began. First Adrian, then David, then I helmed in the drizzle – we could barely see Guernsey slip away behind us and there was no sight of Alderney. But at least we were able to sail, and with a fair tide, we were averaging 6-7 knots over the ground. 

We had decided to approach Braye from the east coast of Alderney, to avoid the rough water in the Swinge between Braye and Burhou, but that meant we would have to deal with the Alderney Race, where tides can reach 8-10 knots, enough to overwhelm any small yacht. 

As we approached Alderney’s South coast, the yacht began to speed up, first exceeding 10 knots over the ground, and peaking at just over 11 knots, when we were only achieving 6 knots through the water. At one level the unaccustomed speed was exhilarating, but at the same time it was also disturbing: would we be able to make our left turn to reach the north coast of Alderney? 

For a while we had the bizarre experience of heading west according to the compass while the track of the boat on the GPS was moving north. So Orion was heading to the south coast of Alderney and we were moving towards the north coast. 

Once our VMG fell below 1.5 knots we started the engine, and gradually made our way to the waypoint outside Braye, feeling relieved when we spotted the leading lights and slowly entered the harbour. The moorings were chock-full, so we were delighted when David spotted a yacht that was just leaving, and we managed to capture a prime spot next to the breakwater and reasonably far in.

It was 1pm, so we ate our pasties in the cockpit before pumping up Betelgeuse. There was a huge (for Alderney) crowd in the inner harbour, and a series of cheers went up. We realised later that this was the man-powered flight competition, part of the festive Alderney Week. 

We shipped the crew onto land, dropped our spare gear in the ever-friendly Alderney sailing club, and walked up the hill to town, amused by the quirky, eclectic small shops and the bizarre activities planned for Alderney Week. The skies were grey as Sam and I walked along Braye Beach and round to the ruined forts on the headland. 

The rain started soon after we returned to the sailing club, which had somewhat the air of a refugee camp as wet and bedraggled yacht crews showed up, opened up laptops, ordered beers and pondered the weather. However, after one ominous thunderclap, the rain cleared, and we ordered fish and chips from the nearby Braye Chippy, to ferry back to Orion and eat in the saloon. 

The rocks by the breakwater wall seemed far closer now than before. After dinner, the boat started to roll ominously, so David, Jonny and Adrian rigged up the dinghy as a “flopper stopper” to prevent the waves finding the yacht’s resonant frequency. This took half an hour, and large quantities of string, and looked faintly ridiculous, but did actually make quite a difference to the sickening roll.

[yachtorion]

Surf, Showers and Shakespeare in Guernsey

Mon 3 - Tue 4 August 2015

Monday morning was, as predicted, grey and rainy, so we had no particular plans. I decamped to the Boathouse café to update the blog, and Adrian got on with passage planning and provisioning. 

About 2pm the rain started to ease off, and I set off for a steep walk up the cobbled streets to the Candie gardens, the flowers bright while still dripping with rain. We ate in a cheerful Italian restaurant – La Perla – a filling three-course meal for just £10.99. 

Tuesday 

A much brighter morning, although with a strong westerly breeze, and again very high spring tides. 

We caught a bus to Vazon Bay to coincide with high water, and watched the surf crash against the sea wall. 

After a blustery coffee on the top deck, we walked round the promontory to Cobo Bay. 

The sun was strong, and once out of the wind it was quite warm. But the wind was whipping the surf up into a milky, frothing morass, and the sea was heaving in the small rocky coves. 

We walked along the length of Cobo Bay before buying fish and chips to eat on an old cobblestone slipway. 

Back in the marina the sea had completely disappeared, and the sill looked more like a scrappy beach than anything a yacht might be able to sail over. 

We had tickets for a production of Merchant of Venice in Castle Cornet, and I had been anxiously watching the weather, so we brought waterproofs. The set was simple, and the cast was limited, necessitating many quick costume changes. The rain started to fall in the interval, and after a short respite, settled in heavily during the court scene, making Portia’s speech comparing mercy with the “gentle rain” quite apposite. As well as being weather hardened, the company deftly turned a complex text into an entertaining and moving evening.

[yachtorion]

Sark by Sail

Sunday 2nd August 2015

Sunday promised to be the best weather for some time, so I had thought it would be a good day for a trip to Sark. However, the ferry prices were pretty steep: at £28.50 a head (and no discount for students) it would cost too much for all five of us. 

So I had the idea of sailing there, since we had high water morning and evening for leaving and re-entering the marina and the beaches would be exposed by the low tide during the day. But as usual in the Channel Islands, even a short passage requires detailed planning. 

The tides rip through both the Little Russell and Great Russell, and since Sunday was super-high springs, they could reach 5-6 knots. So we had to time our crossing for half-tide, when these tidal streams would be less massive. 

Plus Sark is infested with offshore rocks and craggy cliffs, with pilotage relying on lining up transits of rocks and onshore natural landmarks, as there are no buoys or markers. 

Adrian and I spent a couple of anxious hours studying the pilot books, exploring the digital and paper charts, and I drew my own diagram for the final approach to our chosen anchorage. 

Leaving the marina at about 1000, we filled up with diesel before poking our nose out of the harbour. As the wind was south-easterly, and the tidal stream in the channel was pushing us north when we wanted to go south, we chose to motor south at first, following the coast and staying in the shallowest water, until we felt it safe to tack and try sailing east towards Lower Heads cardinal.

The tide swept us a good ten degrees north of our intended course, so after fifteen minutes or so it became clear we weren’t going to be able to stay south of the cardinal, so we had to put in a correcting tack. The next tack took us across the Big Russell and towards Breqhou, the small island to the west of Sark that was bought by the Barclay brothers a few years ago. 

For the final approach it seemed prudent to furl the jib, drop the main and motor. First we had to get on the 070 degrees transit with the monument high up on the cliff, to avoid the promontory of Pierre Norman and the offshore rocks in the bay of La Grand Greve. I kept checking both the iPad charts and the old chartplotter, plus the paper charts and my own diagram for good measure, before letting Adrian know it was safe to head for the anchorage, where a couple of yachts were already bobbing. 

We were arriving about 3 hours after high water, and planned to stay until after low water, so there would be a drop of 5-6m during our stay. We played safe and anchored in 11m, with over 30m of chain. I felt relieved to have arrived, and a sense of achievement as we had lunch on board under the blue skies and looking across to the 100m sheer cliffs and rapidly growing golden sandy beach. 

After lunch, we pumped up the dinghy, and David acted as ferryman, taking us across the bay to the beach, scattered with lumpen rocks and criss-crossed with rivers draining rock-pools down to the waters edge. 

Sam and I chose to ascend the 278 steep steps up to the rocky arête called La Coupee that joins the peninsula of Little Sark to the rest of the island – a fairly punishing climb but rewarded with a dramatic view across to Jersey and the Normandy coast. 

Sark is a peculiar time-warp: a mostly feudal community of 600 souls, with a small dash of democracy and a large dash of eccentricity. There are no cars, not much electricity, and a real sense of isolation. Up on the plateau, you might forget there is any sea – the landscape is undulating, more like a bit of central Devon, with placid cows, lush grass, vegetable gardens and stone farmhouses.

We had tea in a private garden that transforms into a tea-room in the summer, and meandered back along leafy lanes back to La Coupee. 

Even descending the 278 steps was mildly challenging: some were slippery and the metal handrail was hot from the day’s sun. After a last paddle we shipped the crew back to Orion in the dinghy, and cleared up ready for the return journey. 

The wind was now behind us, so we poled out the jib, and for a while we travelled at over 5 knots. But then, as we approached the Lower Heads buoy the wind died, and the tide started sweeping us north, which wasn’t as predicted in the tidal stream atlas. 

We sailed past a couple of unnervingly smooth patches, and some very disturbed pieces of water as we passed south of Herm, maybe created when the tidal streams in the Little and Big Russell merge. It seemed prudent to put the engine on, and lose the jib, but still we ended up far closer to the cardinal than we would have liked. 

We reached the harbour about 1830, knowing the marina staff would start unloading the waiting pontoon about 1900. We were directed to a spot, and were soon surrounded by rafted yachts. 

It seemed a good idea to cook a pasta supper and not expect to be moving for a while. Eventually though we were called and secured a finger berth – a bit close to the road but not too bad. That evening was the highest spring tide – 9.9m, and about 2100 the water in the marina came within 10cm or so of the car park, lapping gently at the top of the stone steps, and pushing the pontoon walkways beyond horizontal.

[yachtorion]

A picnic and walk on Herm

Saturday 1st August 2015

High cloud this morning – and a cool north-westerly breeze, but it was forecast to get sunny later. As it was my birthday, Adrian had decorated the boat with code flags, carefully organised in a nonsense order so as not to send out any unintended messages. 

After collecting a pre-ordered picnic from the deli, we joined the queue for the ferry to Herm about 1000. 

The crossing took only about half an hour, and it was nice to just look at the view and not worry about the pilotage between the terrifying rocks surrounding Herm. 

Since it was big spring tides, the ferry had to stop at Rosaire steps rather than the main harbour, so we disembarked onto sea-washed white steps and climbed slowly up to the main path. Herm is privately owned, but run as a bit of a national park for locals and visitors – so it is immaculately maintained and permits no cars - but has plenty of unobtrusive cafes and restaurants. 

We followed the sandy beach road past open grass-covered slopes, quiet white sand beaches and bright fishing boats, finally stopping on the long strand of Shell beach for a coffee, and to hire a beach umbrella. 

As the tide dropped, the motorboats and a few intrepid shoal draught yachts appeared, and their crews spilled onto the beach. 

After our upmarket picnic, we followed the path round to Belvoir, more of a sandy cove, for local ice-cream. The water was clear and it was easy to spot the sea-weed flowing in the tidal currents. 

Sam and I took a rather hot walk around the southern coast. Though we weren’t as hot as some of the 68 assorted fun runners we encountered puffing their way in the opposite direction. 

Rounding the southern tip of the island, we descended to the Rosaire steps, and spotted plenty of yachts dried out on the sandy flats between the sharp rocky reefs. 

As we reached the harbour the runners were just being clapped home to the finish. We took a wooded walk back uphill over the spine of the island, past self-catering apartments and the ancient church, before descending again through woods to Belvoir. By the time we returned to Rosaire steps for the afternoon ferry, the sea had risen a couple of metres and many of the formerly dried out yachts were awash again. 

The evening was balmy and we enjoyed a delicious Japanese dinner in Hobo restaurant to celebrate my birthday – highly recommended!

[yachtorion]

Moulin Huet, a scramble and a Castle picnic

Friday 31 July 2015

We moved berth early this morning, before most folk were up and about. I had slept badly, as we were right next to the road and a rather annoying pedestrian crossing. High water was early morning, and the weather was good, so several yachts departed promptly, and we secured a much better berth further away from the road. 

With high pressure in charge it looked like it would be a scorching day, so I picked a walk on the wooded southern cliffs that might provide some shade as well as beaches. 

We caught a bus to Old Mill, and followed a charming stone path that was half a stream, steeply downhill to Moulin Huet Bay, beloved of and famously painted by Renoir. 

The tea-room overlooking the bay, all subdued pastels and shell mobiles, was impossible to pass by without taking coffee on their sunny lawn overlooking the jagged rocks amid colourful rhododendrons. 

It was 1230 and low water was about 1300, so rather than climbing back up the cliff to reach the next sandy bay, Petit Bot, we made the rather rash decision to scramble over the rocks instead. This proved much more energetic than anticipated. 

Several times we had to retrace our steps after reaching the summit of one crest, as the descent was a sheer drop. After about twenty minutes we were seemingly not much nearer, and though the glimpses of blue sea between the rocks were very attractive, the ascents and descents were slippery and rough on the hands. 

Jonny had already gone barefoot and stripped to his pants, so he waded round the last headland. It was practically waist deep, but Adrian and I decided to do the same, and dry out later. Sam and David continued with the rock scramble. We passed a cormorant, just feet away – it hardly seemed troubled by our presence. 

Assembling dripping on the sandy beach, we wolfed our pasties and did our best to dry out. The steps ascending back to the cliff path were not that appealing, but there really was no option now. 

Sam and I counted them as we climbed: 313. But the views from the top were stunning. 

We followed the cliff path round the headland – spotting Alderney and even the high land of Cap de la Hague off to the North East – and then met up with David, Jonny and Adrian for tea and ice-cream at Fermain beach café. 

Around 6pm, armed with a Marks & Spencer picnic, we joined the queue of people waiting to gain entrance to Castle Cornet for a free picnic with music – apparently a summer Friday night staple. We were perhaps the thousandth to arrive, and there was very little floor space left. 

We had to climb right up to the top lawn for a scrap of grass for our picnic – but the views of the town and the castle walls were fabulous. There were a selection of local bands – nothing special, but the location made it a great evening’s entertainment, and we saw another great sunset.

[yachtorion]

Jersey to Guernsey

30 July 2015

It was a slightly antisocial tidal slot for the passage. The alarm went off at 0420; it was barely light, and we quickly tidied up the boat and motored out of the marina under dark blue skies. Once past the rocky obstacles in St Aubin’s Bay, though, the sun came up behind us. 

We had to avoid a large Condor ferry, which of course arrived just as we were negotiating the narrowest gap between the rocky shore and a cardinal mark. With a knot or two of tide with us and a north-westerly breeze we were able to sail past the indented sandy bays of south Jersey past Passage Rock cardinal at a good pace. 

Soon we reached Corbiere lighthouse, looking a good deal more peaceable than it had a couple of days earlier, but there was still a sizeable swell and the boat had to climb up and down the waves. While on the helm, I was delighted to catch a glimpse of a dolphin jumping just feet away from our stern, but as usual it disappeared before we could find a camera. 

By now it was 0630, so we started a piecemeal breakfast – the usual marmite rolls and boiled eggs. The wind direction was not that helpful – pretty much north west – and our course was about 320 degrees, so we continued due west, close-hauled away from Jersey, before tacking north. 

Sark, Herm and Guernsey were all visible on the horizon. 

We still had a little tide helping us north, but we were concerned to reach the Lower Heads cardinal south of Herm by 0950, as after that the tide would start to roar south through the Little Russell Channel between Guernsey and Herm and we would have little chance of making much headway. 

So once the wind died, the engine went on and we motor-sailed up towards Guernsey. 

We used the shallows of the great bank to minimise the tide, and finally arrived, a little tired, under blue skies, to the familiar chaos of the St Peter Port waiting pontoon. 

The sill was not due to open till 1655. Sam and I jumped ship and followed the pontoon bridge to the Boathouse café for strong coffee, light lunch and an internet fix, before walking out past Castle Cornet and Havelet bay, and through the shady woods of the coast path to Fermain Bay and the welcome calm of the beach café. 

Adrian, David and Jonny stayed on the boat, moving to the waiting pontoon queue, and soaking up some sunshine in the queue. Here’s the view of the sill at low water.

They eventually made it in soon after 1700, but unfortunately to a very tight finger berth right next to the main coast road. 

After a welcome round of showers, Sam, David and I caught a bus to Cobo beach, as it looked like there would be an awesome sunset. 

We joined a friendly queue at the fish and chip kiosk, and ate it at high water on the shrunken beach looking out at dark knobbly rocks and bobbing fishing boats. 

The sun slipped just below the waterline almost exactly as the bus arrived to ferry us back to the marina.

[yachtorion]

Orang-utans and other animals

Wed 29 July 2015

The consolation prize for having to delay our passage to Guernsey till Thursday morning was the chance to visit the Durrell conservation trust, set up by the eponymous Gerald of “My family and other animals” fame. Despite being the number one tourist attraction in Jersey, which usually promises crowds and under-delivery, it really is worth the effort. 

The trust focuses on a handful of at risk species, creating suitable habitats where they can breed in captive, with the intention of re-populating in the wild. From tortoises to gorillas, orang-utans, meerkats and fruit bats, each has a carefully designed expansive living zone to reflect their home environment. 

Our bus was full – standing room only – and dropped us at the gates at 1030. But inside there was plenty of room to watch the animals, take pictures and meander around the beautifully constructed habitats. 

Colourful chameleons and slightly moulting komodo dragons watched warily amid their tropical foliage and carefully prepared salad lunches. 

Venerable Galapagos and Madagascar tortoises stepped delicately around their dusty paddock. 

Tiny meerkats peered around at the tourists watching them from a space age plastic bubble. 

Careful gorillas paced their territory and caught vegetables thrown by a friendly keeper while the baby of the family cartwheeled down slopes and swung lazily from ropes. 

Wary orang-utan elders peered out from under sacking, while their more brazen younger relations swung along ropes and swarmed up ladders. 

A colony of fruit bats like prehistoric make-believe creatures clambered across their netting ceiling, stretching their vast latex-like wings and occasionally swooping low over the foliage before returning to roost and wrapping themselves tightly. 

It was just as amusing watching the human visitors observing the animals - and the kids taking as much delight in the playground and the sandpit as their primate cousins.

We caught bus no 13 the short distance to Gorey harbour for a picnic on the beach in intermittent sunshine followed by an indulgent cream tea.

Back in St Helier we spent the afternoon under bright blue skies preparing for the early morning passage the next day.

[yachtorion]

Weatherbound in Jersey

Sunday 26 - Tue 28 July 2015

The wind arrived during the night, rocking Orion on its lines, and the rain started with a vengeance about 7am. Venturing outside was not an appealing option, so we spent the morning down below catching up on tasks and reading. It was no surprise to hear that the America’s Cup heat in Portsmouth had been cancelled on account of the weather. The weather station high above the marina displayed a ball and cone gale warning. 

Mid afternoon, the skies gradually cleared, and the sun shone intensely for an hour or so, although the breeze was still pretty stiff. Sam and I walked east from the marina, past a restored dazzle boat painted with fake, shadowed prows to confuse the enemy. That protective quality was never proven in combat, although the paint effect did apparently make the crew feel safer. 

We followed a path through some lush gardens and round to a slightly more sheltered bay, although out to sea the rocky reef was stirring up white frothy foam. 

The waves were washing along the concrete walls of the old and distinctly un-gorgeous lido. The respite was short-lived, though, as about 6pm the rain came again, so we hunkered down for pasta and chocolate. 

Monday 

Next day dawned grey but not raining, although westerly winds of Force 6-7 were forecast. We carefully picked a walk along the scenic North coast from Boulay Bay to Rozell. Dropped just next to the Water’s Edge hotel, we climbed a flight of wooden stairs below overhanging stunted trees, so it took a while to realise that it had started drizzling. 

As we wound up a vertiginous coast path through heather and gorse, the rain worsened, and it became hard to see the next headland. After half a mile, we reluctantly decided to turn back, and squander all the height gained. As partially drowned rats we crept into the smart hotel the back route and bought coffee to justify drying out and sneaky use of their wifi. 

After half an hour, the outlook had improved, so we re-started the walk, following a switchback path along steep valleys and rocky promontories, passing white-washed makeshift navigation marks, Victorian turreted follies and small farming hamlets, before descending into Rozell harbour, with the usual stone pier, fleet of fishing boats and run of pastel-coloured 18th century cottages, just as the sun ventured out. 

Rozell is famous for its Hungry Man kiosk, founded 1947, and we willingly joined the queue for generous burgers and crab sandwiches. The wind got up, and then the rain arrived again, so all the customers quickly decamped from the picnic tables by the harbour wall and crowded into a tiny covered area reminiscent of a bus shelter. The food was worth the slight discomfort though.

And then the sun really did come out and we were able to pass some relaxed time on the beach, sheltered from the frothy and choppy conditions out at sea, before being rescued by the bus and taken back to St Helier. 

Adrian went off to the airport to meet David and Jonny, and that evening we had an enjoyable dinner catching up on the news of their travels to Crete and Hong Kong. 

Tuesday 

More big winds and big seas in the forecast today, so we reluctantly postponed our passage to Guernsey to Thursday morning, calling for more research of the Jersey guidebooks and maps to identify new activities for the next couple of days. Still, I suppose there are worse places to be weather bound than Jersey…

With a 20 knot westerly expected today, we decided to face up to it and travel to Jersey’s biggest beach, St Ouen, which is exposed to the west and has a reputation for surfing. Tipped out of the bus at La Pulente, we walked across acres of yellow sand looking out to a Jersey tower and a veritable maze of rocky reefs – as it was low water. 

A group of sand yachts were circling to and fro, their loosely tethered mainsheets allowing them to tack and gybe without intervention as their drivers steered the low three-wheelers around a simple course. In the frothy waves, there were no surfers, just some chilled-looking body-boarders, and a couple of kite-surfers skimming through the shallows. 

After an impromptu long jump competition, we retired for coffee to a very smart canteen style joint, La Tico, where long benches allowed an extensive beach and sea view. There was some rain coming in off the sea, but it seemed to be dodging south, so we decided to walk along the coast path to Corbiere lighthouse, checking out some classy Aston Martins with very friendly owners in the car park en route. 

The causeway out to Corbiere was still dry, but with the tide coming in and the waves smashing around the rocks, it wasn’t an appealing route. While we ate our lunch in the lee of an old German bunker, we spotted a yacht sailing crazily close to the lighthouse, amid frothing waves crashing on the submerged spiky reef. 

They made it out the other side, but it didn’t look like a pleasant passage for the crew as it pitched in the rough chop. Dark grey skies on the horizon and a few warning drops of rain prompted a scramble to the sanctuary of the well-positioned Corbiere Phare restaurant, with a glass-fronted dining room which felt more like a ship’s bridge. 

The rain was so intense it almost obscured the lighthouse. Along with other refugees, we drank tea and dried out, till the squall had passed. By now the causeway had disappeared and Corbiere was an island again. 

We caught the bus back to the marina, fearing slightly for the washing we had done that morning and draped around the boat. But our neighbours on the pontoon had kindly rescued it in time and tucked it all under the spray-hood.

[yachtorion]

St Malo to Jersey

Saturday 25 July 2015

So charmed were we by St Malo we would have happily stayed more days, but the weather looked to be deteriorating rapidly. A fierce-looking depression was due on Sunday that would make a return passage untenable for a couple of days, and we had more crew flying into Jersey on Monday afternoon.

Inspecting the weather charts, a transient ridge of high pressure would pass over the Channel on Saturday, before all hell broke loose on Sunday. So reluctantly we made plans to return to Jersey. The other constraint was the Vauban lock, which wouldn’t open till 1150 French time. The passage of 42 miles would take 8 hours or so, allowing us to arrive at St Helier in daylight. 

At least the enforced later departure allowed us a relaxed morning. It had been a windy and rainy night so I was quite surprised to emerge to a blue sky at breakfast time. After preparing the boat – and a picnic – we had time for a final shopping trip and rampart circuit – during which I managed to lose my sunglasses, not the smartest move with a sunny day’s sailing in prospect. 

We slipped the lines at 1030, and pootled around the Bassin Vauban in company with other yachts keen to exit the lock. Our departure was delayed slightly by the road bridge being open, but then it swung away, and we followed a couple of old traditional wooden yachts into the lock. 

This time we managed to moor alongside one of them, thus avoiding the horror of long ropes attached to the wall. And the other occupants were polite enough not to run their engines, so there were no suffocating diesel fumes. Slowly the waters dropped, the lock gate opened, and the yachts scattered. Little did we know this was the calm before the storm. 

As we entered the main St Malo shipping channel, straight into a head wind (of course) we were met with a fierce chop that shook the boat around, clearly the vestige of the previous night’s wind and rain. There was little option but to motor through it, slapping down noisily on the larger waves, as St Malo slipped gracefully away in the bright sunlight. 

Some of the yachts around us hoisted their mains, and a couple of madmen tried tacking their way out. Then the Condor catamaran powered out of the port, and we all quickly got out of the way. It seemed to take ages to get as far as the Grand Jardin lighthouse, marking the outer reaches of the St Malo approach zone. The waves were crashing against its lower walls as we passed.

I made a short trip below to check the final navigation out of St Malo, and this tipped me over the edge into nausea. Sam had already disappeared onto the saloon berth, with headphones on and eyes closed. 

Adrian wrestled the main up and added a reef: nothing was simple in this bucking sea. We partially unrolled the jib and set off on a close reach for the northern channel round the Iles Chausey. We were doing over 7 knots through the water, so put in a second reef, which made the motion slightly less manic. Slowly, slowly the Breton coast receded, and the waves began to settle. It felt like lunchtime so we started consuming our sandwiches by instalments, taking turns to helm. 

The wind, which had been 16-18 knots apparent at the start, slightly eased, so we shook out the second reef, and later the first, and finally unrolled the jib. It was small neaps, so we had very little help from the tide, but we were averaging a respectable 6 knots over the ground. 

By mid afternoon we had passed Chausey and left the Minquiers to the east, so gradually headed up to close-hauled. The wind had been forecast to go round to the west, but for now stayed stubbornly north-west, so we had to tack. 

Sam emerged, enjoying a respite from seasickness, and curated a series of piano concertos to enhance our passage, from Grieg to Bartok and Prokofiev. We caught a glimpse of the elusive rocky Minquiers off to the west, as we were now close to low water. 

Around 1800, we got tired of our pathetic VMG and put the engine on, rolling away the jib. Motor-sailing is less purist, but allows an angle of 15 degrees or so to the wind, better than the 35 degrees of sailing close-hauled when the objective is upwind. 

We negotiated the final approach into St Helier, dodging the inevitable Condor catamaran, which roared past us, and rafted up on the waiting Albert pontoon alongside other yachts until the marina sill opened about 2230. Sam got off the boat at the first possible moment and did a quick recce of the marina: there were plenty of finger berths available.

I cooked up some pasta, which we ate below, willing other arriving yachts not to moor alongside. After a quick post-pasta sunset walk, we settled in to wait for the tide to rise. 

Around 2230, in full darkness, the sill opened, with 2.0m clearance (we were after 2.3m or more). Sam went ashore, armed with mobile, and we negotiated untying with our neighbours. A couple of yachts glided in confidently, and we slipped over the sill at 2.3m, with Sam talking us into a vacant finger berth on E pontoon. With the storm expected early morning, it felt good to be snugly tied up.

[yachtorion]

St Malo & Mont St Michel

Thursday 23 and Friday 24 July 2015

The morning was still, crisp and blue-skied, with the moored yachts lined up against the city walls reflecting in glassy water. Revelling in the view, we breakfasted on fresh pain chocolat and floury baguettes. 

The tourist info centre was heaving with questioning queues and itinerant wifi leeches, sitting on the low inner walls earnestly peering at perched laptops and tiny phone screens. My plan had been to take a bus to Mont St Michel, but there were two obstacles – one, there was a strike of French farmers and a “manifestation” right near the site; and two, we were still on BST and had missed the bus for that day anyway. The friendly lady at the desk assured me that the strike would be over by the next day, in the same casual and habituated manner one might use for a weather forecast. 

So instead we set off to tour the ramparts of St Malo – mostly still the original medieval construction used to protect the town from invasion. However, even on a calm day, the numerous rocks and small islets and huge tidal range do a pretty good job of deterring a seaward attack. 

The views are stunning – across the bay towards Dinard, over to the many small castles and forts on the larger islands, and across the sandy beaches eastwards. 

The natives of St Malo were independent of France for centuries, and made their fortunes through a mix of exploration, exploitation and privateering – or officially condoned piracy. With these ill-gotten gains they constructed the famous gracious tall buildings of St Malo. During the liberation of France in 1944, the Germans holed up in St Malo, and the subsequent Allied bombardment flattened the town. It was later reconstructed by public subscription to its former glory, creating a maze of cobbled streets and a landscape of complex tiled roofs viewed from the ramparts. 

It truly deserves its tourist appeal – the tall buildings housing gracious apartments and hotels; the streets crammed with brasseries, bistros and creperies plus endless shops and cafes. 

With one of the biggest tidal ranges in Europe, each walk along the ramparts delivers a different view as causeways and beaches are uncovered and submerged. The Malouins also work to a very specific, almost tidal, timetable. At midday, all the shops close, and the restaurants are packed with “dejeunists.” 

We collated picnic ingredients and retreated to Orion’s cockpit with its great view of the Intra Muros city. By 1400 the shops opened again, and we idled around the streets inhaling chocolate and caramel and poking about in bookshops and art galleries. 

Tactically, we ate early, at 7pm, in the creperie “Corps de la Garde”, its terrace perched up high just inside the ramparts, with extensive views out to sea. We did linger over our sweet crepes and coffee, while a long queue developed, then ambled round the ramparts watching tourists visiting the outlying forts get caught out by the tide, having to remove shoes and wade across the quickly flooding causeway back to the beach, observed by barbecuing groups perched on the rocks below the ramparts. 

Friday 

It felt like an early start this morning – as we planned to catch the 0915 bus to Mont St Michel – in French time! The weather was forecast to deteriorate during the day – and the skies were already full of high cloud, so we packed waterproofs and a picnic. We wound through the “ordinary” districts of St Malo, and then emerged into the suburbs of the adjacent seaside town, Parame. Soon we were driving along the vast open bay of Mont St Michel: wide grassy plains verging on the sand flats, grazed by flocks of sheep; evidence of mussel farms with jetties out in the shallows, and tin shacks and tractors onshore for processing. And acres and acres of sky, now featuring more blue than grey, and with the pyramid of our destination shadowed on the horizon. 

The coach dropped us in a very recently constructed parking area, and we followed a wide, tree-edged path north with a distant view of the Mont to our North. Several panels along the way explained the recently completed project to make Mont St Michel more of an “island”. The causeway constructed in the 1870s had turned into a vast car park, disfiguring the views of the Mont, and new deposition of sand and mud had joined it more permanently to the mainland. So the French government had built a barrage to manage the river flow, relocated the car parks further inland, and built an all tide, wooden, pedestrian walkway out to the Mont, with “navettes” shuttling for those unwilling to walk. 

Today was neaps and not long after low water, so the final stages of the bridge arched over sand, but at high water springs the Mont is encircled by sea and the final step is via ferry. It’s a great improvement, although there was controversy over the cost. 

The medieval Abbaye was built first, on the peak of the rock, 80m above sea-level, and then the town developed on the lower slopes, encircled by ramparts and a walkway. The town has predictably developed into a tourist emporium, with endless snack bars, souvenirs and cafes vying for attention. But looking up across the complex rooflines provides a bit of time-travel back to its medieval heyday. 

We followed the ramparts, up steep stone flights of stairs, and looked out from overhanging parapets across miles of featureless sand, with tiny distant figures of walking groups recreating low tide pilgrimages. An array of smart hotels and restaurants had dining terraces overlooking the ramparts, and as it was already midday, keen groups of diners were already tucking into moules frites and dainty salads. 

We endured a lengthy queue winding up steep stone steps to enter the Abbaye itself – long enough to make a start on our picnic lunch, and at least the surroundings had architectural interest. Tickets finally in hand, we hauled up one last endless stone staircase, and then emerged on a large open terrace with the most breath-taking views just as the sun came out. 

From this vantage point we could see far inland over the flats near the river, out across the sands to Cancale and the Breton coast, and, far out to sea, glimpse the Iles Chausey. 

Plus there was a dizzying view down to the causeway and the entrance gate, and of course a close-up of the spire of the Abbaye itself. 

We entered the cool dark vastness of the Abbaye and easily forgot it was perched upon a rock in the sea. Mass was in progress, invigilated by monks in dark robes and nuns in white. The sound of a flute disappeared upwards following the tall columns to the roof. 

Next door was the Cloister, possibly my favourite space – a central bright garden encased by double pillars, designed to be light so as not to overload the structures beneath. 

Glass sensibly encased the open view westwards with its precipitous drop to the gardens and rocks below. 

Gradually winding downwards, we passed the refectory, another vast airy building, and then the crypt with its fat pillars supporting the Abbaye above. A large-scale wooden hamster wheel used to haul provisions from the town below recalled the building’s period as a prison post-Revolution. 

The whole edifice is a testament to the architectural and building skills of the middle ages – wrapping a monastery of this scale and grandeur around a spiky rock would test today’s architects and designers. 

We finished off our picnic in a tiny garden perched above the ramparts, and walked back along the new causeway just as the rain finally arrived: sharp-edged showers and fresh winds, interspersed with bright sunshine. 

A couple of times on the bus journey back the windows were drenched with water, and as we alighted back in St Malo the sea was churned up and visibility was nil. Yet moments later the sun blazed out again, as we picked our way across large slippery cobbles partially flooded with rainwater, to recce some restaurants for that evening. 

Our choice was Bistro de Jean – a small establishment with a slim, efficient, blonde proprietrice so detail obsessed she corrected the positioning of our plates so that the logo was exactly at 12 o-clock, and spent minutes precisely polishing each glass. It was traditional French fare: moules, calamares, scallops, tuna, and a big slab of bloody duck breast, all in rich, deep-flavoured sauces, followed by a miscellany of local cheese and intense, sticky chocolate and caramel, all delivered with precise service and gallic charm. One by one all the tables filled up with dripping wet diners, and we lingered in this bubble of warmth before dashing through the rain back to the boat.

[yachtorion]

Jersey to St Malo

Wednesday 22 July 2015

There was a sense of Groundhog Day as we got the boat ready this morning under grey skies, but this time the engine started smoothly, and we crossed the marina sill just after 0800 as planned. The next obstacle was getting out past port control, which took a few minutes as a couple of ferries docked. 

St Helier is surrounded by rocky reefs, so we had to negotiate several cardinals and marks for a few miles outside the harbour. It was almost high water, but there were still some malevolent-looking lumpy bits with waves breaking to our left. 

Once clear of the reefs, at the last cardinal, Frouquier, we settled on a course heading about south east. Between Jersey and St Malo there are two main obstacles: the French Iles Chausey, which have a hotel, beaches and many holiday houses, and the Channel Islands owned Les Minquiers, a low-lying, inhospitable reef with valuable fishing rights and, famously, the most southerly toilet in the British Isles. 

Our plan was to follow the tide to the east of the Minquiers and then go west of Iles Chausey, before approaching the rocky reefs outside St Malo. The tide was with us for the first leg, and the wind was 10-12 knots SW, so we were able to romp along at 5-6 knots through the water and more than 7 over the ground. A dolphin or two teased us with a few jumps, but promptly disappeared as soon as I got my camera out. 

Once we sighted the Iles Chausey, however, the tide turned against us, and we had to sail south west, which made it a beat and very slow progress. At one point our VMG (velocity made good) to the next waypoint was under a knot. But at least the view of the rocky islets and beaches was diverting. 

Past the Chausey archipelago, the wind veered round to almost due west, so we were able to bear away, and set a course of around 210 degrees to the entrance to St Malo. As this was 15 miles away, and there were no hazards, we set up the autohelm, George, to allow us all to relax. 

Adrian tweaked the sails for speed, Sam lay on the saloon berth below listening to Radiohead albums, and I made a start on Donna Tartt’s latest novel ‘The Goldfinch”; excellent so far! 

Soon we could see the Brittany coast, and very quickly the intimidating offshore rocks and long sandy beach of St Malo. We had decided to take the simplest channel in, past the huge Grand Jardin lighthouse. The only snag with this approach is large commercial shipping. 

As we were well ahead of schedule, and knew we would have to wait on a mooring buoy before being able to go into the lock, we dropped the jib and continued just with the main. But now the wind was dead behind us and had freshened to 12 knots, so we had to factor in gybes. One of the terrifying Condor catamarans sped up behind us just as we were approaching the Grand Jardin, and seemed determined to choose the same side of the channel as us. In the end we started the engine to get out of the way. The wash after it had passed really shook Orion around. 

Next was a long and stately approach to St Malo itself, following a couple of vast traditional wooden ships with long bowsprits and numerous sails. We dropped the main just outside the harbour and ventured in, hoping to spot mooring buoys to wait till the lock opened. 

Unexpectedly the yacht shuddered to a halt – and there was a sharp sound of impact – we had hit something below the water. Adrian quickly reversed away and we checked under the floorboards for an ingress of water. Somewhat shaken as the depth had been showing as 5m, we found a spare mooring buoy and tied up quickly. Pulling up all the floorboards, we ran the bilge pump and checked the keel bolts – there was no obvious damage. 

A Frenchwoman in a small rib labelled “Pilot” hailed us and explained we would have to move mooring buoys. During that process Adrian dropped the boathook in the water and we watched it float out of reach. The depth here was only 0.8m, but we calculated there was just 0.6m of further drop to go till low water. 

The French pilot returned with one of the huge traditional yachts and proceeded to help it moor on two of the buoys, deftly manhandling the vast warps fore and aft. Once she was finished I asked her to retrieve our boathook, however she claimed to have no knowledge of the mystery object that we had hit. The lock was not due to open until 3 hours before high water – 2044 BST – so we had some tea and cake to steady our nerves, and settled down for a longish wait. I cooked pasta for supper as the sun sank below the town ramparts. 

All of a sudden we spotted a yacht heading for the lock. It must be open. The other moored yachts unlatched themselves and scrambled to enter. Deep in the lock we lined up, and gruff port hands threw ropes down wordlessly, to be attached to our own warps. The gates closed, and the water rose very gradually. I was almost choked by the fumes from the yacht in front, which insisted on running its engine. It took about 15 mins to rise to the top and detach the ropes. 

The inner gates opened and there was a similar scrum heading for the marina berths. Larger yachts were directed to the wall by a young woman with long dark hair and a clipboard in a small rib. “Nous sommes dix metres” I called to her, and we were permitted to berth on the new (short) finger pontoons. 

The sun was just setting as we walked in through the super-sized stone entrance gates of the old town, past a funfair and into an open courtyard busy with pavement brasseries, portrait artists and a jazz quartet. We caught the last glimpse of the sunset from the ramparts, the sea swirling around the offshore rocks and forts, and drank a welcome glass of wine listening to the jazz band. All the effort of the day’s passage now seemed worth while.

[yachtorion]

Jersey: tides, harbours & coast paths

Sat 18 - Mon 21 July 2015

St Helier’s marina isn’t perhaps in the best position for a quiet night, being right next to the main youth drinking zone of town. I was awoken at 0200 or so by some French youths having an animated argument on the street nearby, which continued for almost an hour before they dispersed. Then we had to get up at 0640 to move the boat to let our neighbours out. 

The upside of that early start was that I spotted a vacant finger berth on the next pontoon which we quickly snaffled, avoiding future neighbourly disturbances, and then went back to sleep. 

After some admin and provisioning in St Helier – not the most attractive of towns with an uneasy mix of run-down regency buildings, tall financial office blocks and uninspired municipal concrete – we headed out west along the big curve of St Aubin’s Bay aiming for the old port on its western edge. 

The tide had retreated, leaving abundant green weed on the sea wall steps and across the vast expanse of sand. The promenade above us was punctuated with cafes and bus shelters – a mix of gracious 18th and 19th century villas and brash glassy modern residences looking out over the rock-strewn bay to ancient Fort Elizabeth and the tree-covered cliffs to the west. 

The old port of St Aubin, in contrast to St Helier’s urban sprawl, is quite charming. Stuccoed villas piled up against the cliff, a small harbour packed with dried out fishing vessels and yachts, and a tidal causeway leading out to medieval Fort Aubin. The front was packed with seafood restaurants, bars and cafes, all busy with the weekend lunch trade. 

As it was now low water, we squelched across the sand to the Fort Aubin causeway, wet cement between rock pools teeming with seaweed and tiny fish. The red and green channel markers for the main harbour sat forlornly on the sand, awaiting the return of the sea. South of the fort was a sandy beach and a couple of yachts at anchor that still seemed to be more or less afloat. 

We toured an eclectic collection of art and craft in a gallery based in converted warehouses, and refuelled with tea and home made cake in the friendly upstairs café. Emerging outdoors, the rain had started, so rather than walk back along the damp beach, we caught a bus. It barely moved faster than walking pace in the clogged up Jersey traffic, but at least it had a roof. 

Back at the marina, we toured the Maritime Museum, a beautifully designed and interactive treasure trove of things nautical. As the deluge continued outside, we amused ourselves learning about how tidal levels vary in the Channel, how the wind creates sand dunes, and the importance of seaborne global trade for the tiny Channel Islands. Highly recommended even if you aren’t a sailing enthusiast. 

Sunday 

A grey start but the weather forecast promised better, so with a picnic packed, we caught a bus from the convenient Liberation station to St John to walk part of the rugged north coast. The journey started very slowly, with a crazy traffic jam caused by a triathlon, but soon we were winding through residential streets of stuccoed regency terraces, and uphill out of town along narrow roads surrounded by farmland, dropping us at the church of St John in a far more rural setting, feeling completely different to busy developed St Helier. 

The sun came out as we reached the coast path – a spectacular switchback route along the steep rocky coves of the North coast of Jersey. Too inaccessible to be developed as harbours, they retain a delightful wildness.

Rounding the Fremont headland, we had a gull’s eye view of Bonne Nuit harbour, before descending endless wooden steps to find a busy but friendly beach café for a coffee while watching fishermen retrieve boats laden with buckets of shiny silver mackerel, and a small girl dig an impressively deep hole in the sand. It was a long haul up the road before finding the narrow path down to La Crete and its diminutive 19th century fort. 

The track wound uphill through bracken-covered slopes and we had a glorious view of a rocky, deserted cove for our picnic. 

The sky had cleared, so the next ascent to La Belle Hougue was hot work, but from the top we could see the Normandy coastline and the rocky reef and yellow sand of Les Ecrehous a few miles offshore. 

The track wound inland through lush dense trees, providing welcome shade, but the air was still hot and humid as we kept ascending, finally emerging high above Bouley Bay, a gravelly cove popular with smugglers in past centuries. 

A long, winding, wooden staircase took us down to the beach, with a tiny pier, a genteel hotel and a simple beach café. It’s a popular dive site, as there are some old wrecks in the bay and more recent deliberate scuttling to provide interest, and dive groups trouped past in full regalia. 

We hadn’t been looking forward to the long walk up the steep valley to catch the bus, but luckily in the summer it makes a special detour to Bouley Bay, so with other grateful visitors we were able to get aboard at 1630 and sneak back to the boat just as the rain began again. 

Monday 

The rain had stopped in the night but it was still grey this morning. In the hopes of later improvements, we caught a bus to St Catherine’s breakwater on the east side of the island. It was built in the mid 19th century as part of defensive plans against France, and to protect the ship building industry in the bay. 

The breakwater was busy with fishermen, having some success with catching mackerel, but their chances were being reduced by a pod of dolphins playing in the disturbed waters around the breakwater. 

We followed a simple path right along the coast, just inside the sea wall and winding across shingle beaches, rocky outcrops and past squat round Jersey towers, built in the 18th and 19th century as defensive outposts. 

After a tasty pasty picnic on the shingle and sand beach at Port Anne, we followed a steep zig zag path up the hill, passing another Jersey Tower and old farmhouses that looked suspiciously like former barracks. 

Down a small grassy lane was an ancient dolmen, or passage tomb, a mind-bending 6000 years old, which had small side chambers used for burial and a central chamber at the end where a vast stone block balanced as a roof on three small points. The whole complex would have been covered by an earth mound. It was eerily intact, as if it were only centuries old not millennia. 

The descent down to Gorey harbour was steep, but with fabulous views of Mount Orgeuil castle on its rocky promontory. The core was medieval, and then it was extended and further fortified every subsequent century. The pretty sandy drying harbour was full of fishing and pleasure vessels, and the Georgian flat fronted houses were virtually all bars and restaurants. 

Out to the south were the rocky reefs of the southern corner of Jersey, now exposed by the falling tide and marked by another squat tower. We saw the rain coming in off the next headland, so sheltered in the port café for a mug of tea and then caught the bus back to St Helier. I went off to the airport via bus to meet Sam off his flight: Jersey airport was surprisingly busy for an island with a population of 90,000. We briefed Sam on the passage plan to St Malo and went out for a pub dinner in warm but wet rain. 

Tuesday 

We were all set to leave St Helier marina at 0730 this morning when the lock opened: picnic made, passage plan plotted and cabins tidy, but the engine decided not to play. It wasn’t charging the batteries or showing the rev counter. We got as far as leaving the marina, then it wobbled again and we decided to return “indoors” and bring in some help, postponing our trip till the next day. Sam and I decided to go for a walk – we took our picnic and caught a bus to St Aubin. As it was now high water the vast beach was covered, and the boats in the tiny stone harbour were floating. 

We climbed up a steep road past high stone walls, overhanging trees and gracious 18th century villas, emerging amid fields on the top of the cliff. It was already warm and the next section, between cooling pine and holm oak trees, provided welcome shade. Soon the path opened out onto a gorse and heather covered cliff top, with German batteries and bunkers and spectacular views over to St Helier. 

We rounded the promontory and crossed above Portelet Bay, turquoise seas below and a procession of yachts heading to Guernsey. Following the road between modern holiday apartments and established millionaire pads, we found another open cliff-top heath with fantastical rock crags, wide expanses of lusciously purple heather, and steep staircase footpaths through an ancient echoing quarry. 

Nearby was La Cotte de St Brelade, a Palaeolithic cave where nomads drove mammoths over the cliff 200,000 years ago and stored their bones. Made the 6,000 year old dolmen from the previous day seem positively contemporary. 

We crossed the idyllic golden sand of St Brelade and had our picnic looking out over the seaside resort amid cooling tall pine trees. 

Climbing back up the hill above the noise and clamour of holidaymakers, we passed several huge modern glassy villas with enviable sea views and exquisite semi-tropical gardens. The steep brick and stone walls of the narrow steep roads provided essential cooling shade. We followed a shady track along a disused railway under grand stone arches all the way back to St Aubin, where tea and homemade cakes in the gallery café refuelled us. 

Rather than catch the bus, we cut the corner of St Aubin Bay by walking across the slightly damp, green weed encrusted and lugworm cast decorated beach, detouring past a series of small rivers and passing a vast seawater swimming pool that was almost deserted. Back at the boat, Adrian seemed to believe the engine problem had been solved – it was apparently a blown fuse. So we were on for a passage to St Malo on Wednesday morning.

[yachtorion]

Guernsey to Jersey

Friday 17 July 2015

The ideal tide for the passage to Jersey meant that we couldn’t leave till after 1330 on Friday, but local high water was 0820, so we had to exit the main marina about 0930 and perch on a pontoon outside. Extricating Orion from the marina berth was not trivial – the channel was so narrow we had just an inch or two to spare between the boats on either side. The trick was to use the mooring ropes to edge her backwards out into the channel before finally slipping free, and then reversing out stern into the wind. 

Luckily the outside pontoon where we rafted alongside a larger yacht was connected to the land, so we were able to do some last minute shopping, email checking and fit in a walk along the Castle Cornet causeway to check the hazards in the channel. 

After a quick lunch, we motored gently out, raised the main (with one reef) in the harbour and ventured into the main channel, where an enormous cruise ship was anchored. I was expecting a rapid tidal stream, but it was only 2-3 knots southwards. We tried to avoid the shallow bank directly outside the harbour, as the wind was SW and it looked choppy. Depth went down to 7m, but not too bad. 

As we breathed a sigh of relief, unfurled the jib and shut off the engine, I spotted the enormous Condor hydrofoil booming towards us at 34 knots. We headed up, and it turned to port to speed past us in just a few moments, creating a foaming wake behind. 

Once past the cardinal marking the last hazard of the channel, we set a course for Jersey – 18 miles to go, and we were now on a fast beam reach. Gradually Guernsey, tiny Herm, and rocky Sark slipped away behind us, and the grey skies lightened a little. 

The tide was setting us to starboard, so though we steered 150 degrees we were tracking 160, correct for our waypoint. Adrian shook out the reef, and we were soon doing 5.5 knots over big rolling waves, not bad in 10 knots or so of wind. Slowly the miles ticked down, and I could just see the outline of Jersey’s rocky northern coastline on the horizon. 

We started to catch up a couple of other yachts on a similar course, and trying to maximise speed to pass them helped focus my helming efforts. Sailing through a massive mat of green weed that caught on the rudder didn’t help, but the waves soon loosened it. 

The clouds cleared and the sun came out as we approached Point Corbiere, and with the tide now helping us, we were doing 7 knots over the ground.

Turning more or less east to make our approach into St Helier, Adrian rigged a preventer as we expected to be on a run, but the tide followed us round, so we were in the bizarre position of heading towards the coast on a beam reach while the tide swept us quickly eastwards. 

After passing through a terrifyingly narrow gap between a striped stumpy lighthouse on land and a north cardinal, we ticked off the various buoys marking nasty rocks, and entered the concrete jungle of St Helier marina – not easy to judge where visiting yachts should go. 

The tide was high, so we could motor right into the marina, and chose a spot rafted next to a 42 foot Oyster, as there were no finger berths free. The crew explained they were leaving for Guernsey at 0700 but we had no other options so resigned ourselves to some early morning manoeuvring.

The sun came out and we were able to explore the marina which was right next to the maritime museum.

[yachtorion]

Guernsey: beaches, causeway & shipwrecks

Wed 15 and Thur 16 July 2015

Wednesday morning was grey and drizzly, so we devoted it to provisioning. St Peter Port has a great selection of frankly upmarket shops – so we bought our groceries in Marks & Spencers and spent some time exploring the cobbled streets raised high above the quay by steep stone staircases. 

Under grey skies we walked past the tiny beach next to Castle Cornet and through some lush municipal gardens to the small and delightfully quirky underground military museum. In long tunnels blasted into the rock by the German occupying forces were a series of somewhat haphazard cases stuffed full of memorabilia, telling a terrifying story in a very understated manner.

Demilitarised by the British and attacked by the Germans in an unexpected bombardment, the islanders were suddenly placed under military rule. A few had managed to evacuate to the UK, but many were deported by the Germans and interned in camps on the continent. Those who remained had to comply with curfews and multiple other restrictions: cars and vans were requisitioned, and licences were required for innocuous activities such as fishing or collecting seaweed. 

Stark notices on the walls revealed the harsh penalties – listening to the radio or reading “enemy propaganda” dropped by Allied planes could result in execution. Nevertheless, many islanders built their own simple crystal set radios. Communication with the UK was very limited, and there were several examples of the Red Cross personal message forms (limited to 25 words) that were the only means to stay in touch with evacuated family members. 

Emerging from the museum, the weather had cheered up, although Sark was still misty. It was now low water, so we took a quick look at the marina sill - a nasty jagged area not to be trifled with.

After lunch on the boat, we followed the coast path to Fermain Bay, climbing and descending steep paths through lush dark woodland, occasionally opening out to yet more batteries and lookouts from the last three centuries. Smart villas with enviable views, often with huge glass windows and elevated balconies, or folly-like thatched roofs or tall turrets, reminded us that this was millionaire’s row. 

The air was hot and humid, and while we were in sunshine, there was a bank of sea fog south of Sark between our island and Jersey. A long, damp stone staircase took us down to the sheltered Fermain Bay, and its charming beach café with tables looking right out to sea and a solitary anchored yacht. 

We returned via the steep road that twisted up past a luxury hotel built into the valley with balconies looking over the tall trees and out to sea. Once at the top of the cliff we turned right and followed a more suburban street back into town, passing the hairpin bends of the ascent road, planned venue for a hill climb motorsport event at the weekend. 

Back in the marina, it was high tide, so there was a scuttle of new arrivals finding berths – a good time to be on the boat and ready to catch lines and fend off. 

At six-thirty, we met Vicky, a former colleague of Adrian’s who had recently moved to the island as head of English at the grammar school. She took us on a rapid tour of the island, passing the airport, the deserted former glasshouses from the tomato growing trade, now overgrown, and out to the rocky and more rugged west coast. 

We stopped at Vazon, where the high tide crashed against the sea wall and a raggle taggle bunch of teenagers frolicked in the waves. We walked out to the inevitable German fortification on the point and gazed out to sea. Sadly the sky had greyed over again, so there was no dramatic sunset. 

Vicky continued the car tour of the island, past pretty Cobo beach and the “industrial north” around St Sampson. Her husband Steve had recently been hired as head of Guernsey Water, prompting their relocation, and his latest project, building a sewage pipeline outfall, was evident in the Little Russell; it was the platform we had avoided on our way in to the harbour the day before.

After a quick tea in Vicky’s house, we cooked a simple meal on board and checked the passage plan for Jersey for Friday afternoon. Vicky also put us onto the local weather forecasting guru, the Guernsey weather fox. http://www.guernseyweatherfox.com/

Friday 

Mist again this morning. After breakfast I spent an hour using the Boathouse brasserie as an internet café while Adrian did boat jobs. At 1130 we caught a bus from the nearby terminal to the other side of the island. The Guernsey bus system is excellent – comprehensive coverage and a flat £1 fare to anywhere.

We were dropped off at L’Eree, the headland just next to Lihou, a tidal island and the site of a Benedictine monastery in the 12th century which is now a nature reserve. Today was close to springs, so low water was 1400 and the causeway was open 1230-1515. A large group of school kids were trekking across the causeway, with their bags being carried by a tractor just ahead of them. This was the last week of school term, so most kids were out and about on activity days. 

The causeway was just usable – much of it beautifully cobbled but a few sections still covered by an inch or two of sea water. We picked our way between spiky rocks, lurid green seaweed and abundant shellfish. I was wearing my walking boots: a perfect choice as I could splash carefree through the shallows. 

Arriving on the island proper, we encountered the school group; they headed left so we went right, taking a grassy path along the coast, past extensive spiky rocks and raucous gulls. Lihou is tiny, so after a quick picnic stop, we rediscovered the kids, who were bathing and shrieking in the deep Venus Pool.

A little further on, a more sedate group, perched on the ruins of the monastery, were listening to a guide recounting stories of the history of the island. Within minutes, we had reached the 19th century youth hostel, with an enviable view from its lounge across the rocky bay towards the Houmiet lighthouse. 

Back across the causeway, we briefly explored an ancient Neolithic chamber tomb, just high enough to stand up in, with a conch shell appropriately wedged in a high corner. Then we crossed the long sandy beach, liberally endowed with seaweed and shells, towards Fort Grey. Several fishing boats waited at jaunty angles on the sand, for the distant water to return at high tide. 

Fort Grey was built around 1804 as part of the fortifications against a possible French invasion, and staffed by local militiamen – farmers and fisherfolk - pressed into unpaid military service by the government. We learnt this from a guide dressed up in full regalia with musket, who told his story with great gusto.

The fort’s cannons never fired a shot in anger, although they had a great lookout across the bay towards Lihou and the lighthouse. 

We explored the shipwreck museum, telling of centuries of wrecks on Guernsey’s west coast, and the items recovered by divers. 

After a quick pot of tea at the nearby Guernsey Pearl cafe, we took the bus back to town. It was now high tide, and the waiting pontoon outside the marina was rafted up to six deep on both sides. It seemed unlikely that all the boats would make it into the marina, but somehow they did. 

Dinner was a surprisingly authentic Japanese meal at Hojo on the quay front, near the bus station and the fish market – highly recommended.

[yachtorion]

Alderney to Guernsey

Tues 14 July 2015

The wind was whistling in the rigging when I woke, and a sneaky look from the cockpit confirmed that the weather was not ideal for our passage: it was drizzling and visibility was just a few hundred metres. The far side of the harbour was blurred and grey. 

But by the time we had finished breakfast at least the wind had abated to about 15 knots. There’s a small window of slack water in the Swinge channel between Alderney and Burhou, which also coincides with favourable tides all the way to Guernsey. We had calculated that we needed to be in the Swinge at 0945, so there was no option of waiting for the mist to clear. 

Our neighbours had made similar decisions, so a small party of yachts slipped moorings, raised mains and migrated out of the harbour, using the leading lights as a reverse transit to avoid the hazard of the submerged breakwater. We had the waypoints planned into the iPad and the old chartplotter, and both were plumbed into the GPS, so we could track our position quite reliably. But I still felt nervous as we motored gently out into the mist. 

The sea was quite disturbed, so it was hard for Adrian to keep a steady course. I peered into the inscrutable grey trying to spot familiar landmarks from our coastal walks. We passed the rocky promontory of Fort Tourgis, with all its off shore boulders. On our right lurked Burhou, with its many submerged reefs. 

After what seemed like ages, but maybe was only half an hour, we reached our next waypoint, and were able to bear away slightly. The visibility had improved slightly, and we could see the outlines of Fort Clonque on its causeway and the gannet-infested Les Etacs to the southeast. Gradually the clouds lifted, and we could just spot the Casquets lighthouse out to the west. We unfurled the jib and gradually turned down the engine, switching it off as we passed the danger zone for the isolated rock Pierre de Vraic. 

The sea was lumpy, but we were soon able to settle on a close-hauled course, heading more or less south, and with 12 miles of fairly clear water till the approach to Guernsey. The decision to use 2 reefs and the small jib seemed a good one, as we were making 5-6 knots through the water in 20 knots of apparent wind, and weren’t excessively heeled. 

One of the yachts that had left Braye just ahead of us, a Sunfast 36, had just one reef and a full jib. They spent almost an hour trying to overtake us, and finally managed it. In the gusts they were well heeled over, so again we felt we had made the right choice. 

Gradually we approached Guernsey, but of course we couldn’t see the island as it was still quite misty. We had worked out some clearing bearings to avoid various hazards, so were tacking up a funnel shape keeping the bearing to the next waypoint between 240 and 220 degrees. Then suddenly we heard a sharp edged noise aloft and realised that the jib had ripped. We quickly furled it, and continued with the motor and just the main. 

The seas were still disturbed and the wind if anything had picked up as we approached the Little Russell, touching 24 knots apparent at times. To our left were the nasty rocky outlying reefs of Herm, next to a deceptively innocent sandy beach. To the right was a cluster of murky rocks off the coast of Guernsey, some topped with lighthouses. 

We spotted the big tripod of Roustel, and then the squat tower of Brehon, familiar from the pilot book. We settled onto the transit of around 220 degrees heading towards Castle Cornet and gradually made our way into the Little Russell. The tide under us soon built to 3 knots, so even with the engine making just 4 knots through the water, we were skipping past the land at 7 knots. 

Well ahead of us was a vast cruise ship, seemingly at anchor. Then a fast Condor catamaran sped into St Peter Port. And several tugs or fishing boats were heading in random directions. We dropped the main, to be more manoeuvrable, but for a few minutes it was hard to judge which course to take. And at that moment the wind picked up and the water became very choppy. 

At last we gained the safety of the harbour, the sea grew flat and the wind abated. We tied up to a floating waiting pontoon just outside the marina. The tidal ranges here are so vast that most marinas have sills, so yachts can only enter and exit around high water. I took a photo (see below) and promptly dropped my polarising filter and lens cap overboard! 

Relieved to have arrived, we had a celebratory pasty, then took down and packed away the troublesome little jib. The sun came out and in the shelter of the harbour it was hard to believe how trying the passage had been. By 430pm the tide had risen, and the harbour master in his tiny launch escorted the waiting yachts to their marina berths. I went ashore in search of a branch of Jessops and replaced my lost camera accessories. A friendly sail-repairer came to collect the jib, and we felt the days work had been done. 

We took a short walk out to Castle Cornet, but then the skies greyed over and the drizzle arrived. We took refuge in the buzzy Boathouse brasserie for dinner, just a short sprint from the boat. Adrian was convinced the room was moving around – think he has spent too much time on the water!