Arriving at the Basque country

After Arachon we had a brief stop at Cap Breton but it would have given Blacpool a run for its money so we moved on pretty quickly. Heading for the Basque country we passed Biarritz on our left. What once might have been a very classy seaside resort for the French elite is now a rather horrid concrete jungle. As the whole of this coast is known for its surf we did not anchor off and go ashore (there is no harbour); our pink dinghy does not surf well!








It was just 20 miles to the point where the coast turned west and the Basque mountains loomed large.

Just before pulling into the river that splits France and Spain we passed this rather super chateaux built in 1880 by a frenchman who spoke 17 languages and had done a lot of travelling; the whole of the inside was decorated in weird and wonderful designs from all over the world!

We moored up on the French side of the river (first mate and little helper at the helm) - this would be the last opportunity for the rather super pastries that we have enjoyed and would miss! 

The Basque region is fiercly independant  (remember the Eta bombings of the '70's?) and the people (and local language) are certainly different from other regions of France and Spain. The Basques are said to be descendants of a Celtic tribe (the one that didn't end up in Scotland, Ireland or Brittany!) drive over the Pyrenees by the Romans in the 1st century BC.
The pilot book told us of an interesting conundrum about mooring here. It is courteous and common practice to fly the flag of the nation you are visiting in the rigging; some also fly regional flags which should be flown immediately below the national flag. So the choices if moored in the Rio Bidasoa on either side are:-
1. Fly the French flag with the Basque flag below - and upset the Basques and the Spanish
2. Fly the Spanish flag with the Basques flag below and upset the Basques and the French
3. Fly the Basques flag and upset the both the French and the Spanish
4. Fly no flag at all and upset everybody - !!!
We plumped for the Spanish flag as we intended to moor on that side but ended up on the French side with our Spanish courtesy flag up so I think we added a 5th line!

We noticed early on in France that the French authorities do like their rules- they are even worse than the Germans! I particularly liked this sign at the trail head of the coastal foot path in Hendeye, the French side of the river.

No dogs (on or off the lead)
No bikes
No cars (on the coastal footpath) or motorbikes 
No matches
No tenting or sleeping outside
No wandering off the footpath

- the game is to spot what you are allowed to do.

However, what I love about the French is that they just ignore them all!

The other thing we have noticed here is how slim they all are, very few over weight people - cheese and red wine must be the answer (not forgetting the afternoon snooze)!

Not having had any mountains for a few weeks we hired a car and headed inland to do some walking in the Pyrenees Mountains. They have their very own Snowdon here, 3000' high, a few miles in from the coast, it even has a Victorian rack and pinion railway! The other similarity it had was the people, thousands of them despite picking a back route up! Oh well, it as a lovely day in the mountains.

 We have had our first sortie into Spain. Cycling over the river the change was extraordinary with everything looking distinctly poorer. However it did also look very Spanish! I am looking forward to exploring the rest of this coast.

Things that go bump in the night

Our next stop after St Nazaire was the pretty island Ile d’Yeu. We have struggled with nice anchorages off the west coast of France because there are so few natural inlets and coves so we have been forced back on marinas. We found just the place to anchor on the south coast of the island but even here the swell snuck round the corner somehow so I lifted the keel and tucked right in close inside a load of moorings for what we hoped would be a good nights sleep far from the madding crowd. We did have a lovely barbecue on the beach where Woody discovered a taste for Stella and pistachio nuts! 

Our quiet night however was not to be. At 3 o’clock we were woken by a gentle ‘thump, thump’ at the back of the boat – I knew that sound , it was the rudders nibbling the rocks! I shot out of bed and sure enough the tide was very low, the wind had changed direction and left us a little too close to the rocky shoreline. Wearing nothing but a quickly donned jumper and a smile I jumped into the dinghy tied conveniently to the back of the boat with the outboard engine on and pulled the boat away from the rocks. There are several things that need doing before the boat can move so Melanie whizzed round getting things ready as I held the boat away from the rocks with the dinghy; ‘nearly there’ she shouted - just as the dinghy engine cut – I was out of petrol. Now we would have to move fast or we would be right back where we started and the tide was still falling. I leapt back on board as Melanie went for the anchor, up it came and we motored out beyond the mooring to resume our nights sleep. Alls well that ends well!

After a good walk on the island we raised the anchor and headed for Ile de Re and La Rochelle. France has suddenly become very Mediterranean here; the water has warmed up to pleasant swimming temperature, we are surrounded by pine trees and crickets and the houses are all white with clay half round tiles. Unfortunately it has also become very, very busy – the whole of France seems to be on holiday here! Marinas are full, beaches are packed and bike paths are like rush hour. We did manage to find a couple of places at this little sea food bar on our bike ride of the island. 

Langustine for lunch and I bought a small bag of oysters for tea!

Wanting to try and escape at least the crowds of yachts by going to a less holiday cruise friendly place we decided to make a big hop to Arachon, 100 miles south of La Rochelle; an easy overnight passage. The Gironde just south of La Rochelle and the gateway to Bordeaux is the last big river on the French Atlantic coast. From there the coast is long and straight with only a couple of harbours before Spain, Arachon being the first so we are now very much on our way to Spain. With a couple of days in each of the two harbours on the way we should be there in about a week. I am excited; it will be different and rather more adventurous than France, it is not a common cruising ground.

Wind has been hard to come by since things turned warm . We waited until about midday before leaving in the hopes of getting a sea breeze but it was a long time coming – look at the surface of the water -I have seldom set out on passage with quite so little wind! 

Although late starting the breeze did pick up in the early afternoon giving us a pleasant sail for the first 40 miles doing 4 knots over a calm sea. Sundowners under the colourful spinnaker on the fore deck as we slipped slowly south – it can be a tough life at sea!

As the sun dropped we were joined by a school of dolphins that played in the bow wave for a while, always a magical moment. The wind dropped with the sun and we had to motor the rest of the way.

Arachons’ claim to fame is Europes largest sand dune at just over 300’ high. We walked easily up the gentle slop of the seaward side but the lee side is steep and apparently skied down! 

Later in the day the hordes descended and it looked just like a sand hill covered in ants!

At last we did find the perfect anchorage behind a long sand island, pretty and, once all the day trippers had left, quiet. A beautiful scene as the day drew to an end, the sand dunes on one sides and the sunset on the other. 

However, you guessed it, even here our perfect anchorage was not to be. We were woken at 6 o’clock by cockle boats literally going in circles round us! We had anchored in a little inlet out of the current and I guess the cockles had picked the inlet for the same reason and the fishermen knew it!

After breakfast we headed ashore with our bikes and left the dinghy tied to the railing of some steps. You would have thought that as it was the top of the beach it was a reasonable assumption that it would also be the top of the tide. A reasonable assumption but wrong as we found out upon our return to find the dinghy rope under several feet of water! Oh well, I was looking forward to a dip anyway and it had to happen sometime – better here than in Scotland! The high tide also meant that getting our gear back into the dinghy was quite a drama with a 2’ swell coming onto what little beach there was but we got everything back to the boat over 3 trips by coming alongside a slipway between rollers, throwing a bike on board and making a run for it!

From Arachon we are bound for Spain with a quick stop at Cap Breton, the only harbour on the final 100 mile stretch to Spain. Late afternoon the mountains of the Spanish Basque country loomed up out of the haze as we pulled into Cap Breton for the night.

A most unpleasant swim

The day before Melanie arrived back Woody and I went for a bike ride to explore an area of salt ‘farm’.

In the middle ages this area to the west of Vannes became wealthy from its salt resources. There is a low lying area behind a peninsular well protected from the sea that the tide just covered at very high tides. Myriad little dykes were made to trap the salt in rectangular ‘farms’ then subdivided into little pools. The trapped water was then evaporated off in the sun until the salt could no longer stay in suspension and it settled out; the salt was then scrapped from the bottom of the pool, allowed to dry and barrowed off.

You can see the salt settled out in the picture to the left.

Incredibly this is still an industry today, done exactly as it was 500 years ago using the very same pools, beautifully maintained. This is the sort of thing you expect to see in the rice paddies of Asia, not first world France! Still, it must make them a living. Many of the ‘farms’ seem to be private, a few of them selling salt at the side of the road at £1 Euro per kg – hardly gold dust!

I picked up Melanie from the train station in Vannes on Friday and we went to explore the city of Nantes. It was rather disappointing after some of the beautiful old places we have seen so far in Brittany. 

There was however this rather supper castle built in the 1500’s that took over as the base for the final years for the dukes of Brittany.

France has an odd attitude to dogs. The majority of people shy away from Woody and we heard one mother telling her child to keep away from him. We guess because they are worried about rabies. No dogs on beaches, no dogs in castles and certainly no dogs in cathedrals. However, we have a solution! Bought to carry Woody on longer walks as puppies should not walk more than half an hour in the first six months, we have a dog ruck sack that has become our Woody smuggling bag. Once tucked up inside you would never know he was there; it got us into the chateaux no problem and has even had Woody inside Notre Dame in Paris – not a lot of dogs can say they have been in there!

We locked the bikes on the dockside overnight as we were going to use them the next day. In the morning my heart sank as we rounded the corner in the dinghy to see my grey bike hanging over the water by the lock and Melanies bike gone except the front wheel still secured by the lock. I had taken the precaution of removing the saddle posts to make them useless to a joy rider. With no seat, no wheel, useless to anyone I decided Melanies bike could not have been stolen but must have been thrown in the dock just for the hell of it. I was very puzzled that they had managed to get the wheel off Melanies bike; I realised later that they had found the spanner in my bike bag and used that. What lengths they had gone to for this mindless vandelism.

The corner of the dock was a smelly mess of froth and rotting detritus. If I was right then the bike was below that lot. The bikes are too precious not to have on board; I knew from the boat depth gauge the water was only about 12' deep, I was going to have to try and retrieve it. Ear plugs in and mouth firmly closed I slipped into the stinking water after brushing a dead eel out of the way. Taking a deep breath I went down feet first, dreading what the bottom was going to be like. I didn’t get very far, I bottled it. Back on the surface I gave myself a stiff talking to, took another deep breath and duck dived down, down – it went dark – my hands touched the bottom - I groped around – nothing – back up. On the second attempt I touched a metal frame – bingo! I tied my rope around it, shot to the surface in triumph but as soon as I started to pull I knew it was not the bike, it was too heavy – I had found a portable railing. Check the spot – down again – more metal – this time I knew I had it, I felt the spokes. Tie the rope on and back to the surface – I had got it.

Back on the boat I cleaned the bike up and all was well. Not so with my bike sadly, the back wheel was badly buckled, it would need a new wheel. Still, if there’s one thing that can be repaired anywhere in the world it is a bike. I soon had a new wheel from the local bike shop, new rear cogs as well because my cogs didn’t fit the french wheel and we were back on the road.

When Woody had been with us for a month or so we went to dog training classes. One of the things we were told about was to brush a dogs teeth from time to time. Yeh right. Can you imagine – open and say aaahh while I scrub you teeth and gums! You can imagine the result, it wasn’t going to happen. 

We are realising that Woody can be quite smart when he wants to be, usually when food is at stake but he must have taken on board some of this talk. A toothbrush is a good cleaning tool to get in awkward places on the boat and I left mine on the deck one day. Woody spotted it and – yes, away he went -top teeth, bottom teeth, molars – !

After a few days with this tooth brush however he decided it was not for him, he found himself a real mans tooth brush!

More reminders of a terrible war not so long ago

From the Golf of Morbihan I sailed the 30 odd miles to St Nazaire at the mouth of the Loire river where I would pick up Melanie on Friday. The coast is exposed here so there is little option other than marinas; at St Nazaire the 'marina' is in the ship building basin. I had to go through a lock to get in, always a bit of a tense procedure but doubly so single handed. I picked a tide time when there would be minimum water flow in the lock which is what throws the boat around - difficult to control with two - impossible on your own. It passed peacefully enough and I tied up alongside the most enormous pile of German concrete I have seen anywhere.

St Nazaire was the base for the German Atlantic U boat fleet. A massive reinforced concrete pen was built to house the submarines and protect them from enemy air attack; now the concrete is pealing away on the outer service the incredible amount of steel reinforcing can be seen - impressive indeed and quite an achievement to have built it in such a short time. I estimate that each of the tunnels would take 4 submarines.

The docks were ugly and noisy waking me at 6 with the sound of jet washing reverberating around inside the submarine pens. I decided to hop it and take my chance anchoring; happily the wind is northerly unusually so I am sheltered. I anchored in a very shallow bay to get out of the swell and will dry out tonight - an advantage to a lifting keel!

St Nazaire is a sole less town having been bombed to annihilation in the war and rebuilt in the 1950's but it is at least practical with a very American layout. What a comparison with the medieval towns I have been enjoying so much; no doubt St Nazaire was the same before the war. What a tragedy to loose so much history in such a short time.

St Nazaire was the scene of a famous commando raid during the war. The harbour contained the only dry dock on the Atlantic seaboard large enough to take big battleships; the loss of the dock would force any large German warship in need of repairs, such as the Tirpitz, to return to home waters via the heavily guarded English channel. This is a view along the dry dock now used to construct and repair passenger liners, most notably the Queen Mary 2 - it is a BIG dock! The outer gate is at the far end.

The obsolete destroyer HMS Cambeltown, accompanied by 18 smaller craft, crossed the English Channel  and was rammed into the  dock gates. The ship had been packed with delayed-action explosives, well hidden within a steel and concrete case, that detonated later that day, putting the dock out of service for the remainder of the war. This is the mouth of the dock with the now repaired gate-I'm afraid the photo gives no idea of the size. The gate retracts back into the channel in the foreground to open the dock.

A force of commandos landed to destroy machinery and other structures. Heavy German gunfire sank, set ablaze or immobilised all the small craft intended to transport the commandos back to England; the commandos had to fight their way out through the town to try to escape overland. They were forced to surrender when their ammunition was expended and they were surrounded.

After the raid 228 men of the force of 611 returned to Britain; 169 were killed and 215 became prisoners of war. This memorial stands in memory of those who died.

Not so far from the madding crowd

Just as promised there was no beating for a very pleasant 30 mile sail from Quimper to Ile de Groix just off Lorient; we were looking forward to a pleasant evening in a quiet island harbour. What we hadn’t factored in was Bastille day. 200 years later they still go nuts for the sacking of the monarchy and the start of a head chopping fest (all bourgeois pigs of course!) It was 7 o’clock as we pulled into the little harbour in Port Tudy on Ile de Groix and we weren’t the first, I've never seen mooring quqite like this before!  We muscled in amongst the hoards and tied up alongside one of the throng; Melanie put the dinner on and on came the music from some mega speakers ashore; this would be a long night! Partying ‘till the wee hours is not really our thing so we decided to high tail it out of there, passing a battery of fireworks on the quay as we left. We had a lovely evening sail for a couple of hours to the mainland where we arrived in a little anchorage behind the old fort at Port Louis just as it was getting dark to be greeted by hundreds of people at the quay waiting for their fireworks. It was a spectacular display in our front row seats swinging to an anchor. It was a tragedy to hear about the mindless slaughter in Nice the following day.

Next we hopped over to Sauzon on Belle Isle; a delightful island where we were also not the first – we are definitely into peak sailing season for the French, there will be no deserted anchorages for us until we reach Spain! Not wanting to stay in a crowded rather rolly anchorage we headed over to the Gulf of Morbihan, a large inland sea dotted with little islands – and every sailing and motor boat in France out for the holiday weekend!

Cider making is big in these parts; it is rather cloudier and more earthy than ours but a pleasant drop. Melanie had found out about a cider festival a little way back up the coast that we wanted to see. We hired a car and drove the 50 odd miles to Fouesnant. Bagpipes are so synonymous with Scotland it was something of a surprise to hear their distinctive drone warming up as we arrived. The roots here are in fact very Celtic; the last strong holds of the Celts being Wales, Scotland Ireland and as it turns out Brittany. We watched the big parade with everybody in traditional Breton costume; there were many similarities to the Welsh dress and even the language, still spoken here and on every sign post as well as French, is similar.

After the parade we were treated to a Breton rock concert; check out the guy with the shades. At least the sun was out!

On Monday Melanie headed home for another cough hospital and Mum visit. I went exploring Vannes, a  medieval walled town.

Vannes is still packed with old timber framed houses; its an odd combination, 21^st century shop fronts on the ground floor with medieval timber above. 

A nice touch was  a Mr Vannes (I couldn't find out who he was), who had a portrait of he and his wife carved into the front of his new house!

This morning Woody and I headed out early for a bike ride before it got to hot. A 7 o’clock start had us at the magnificent Chateau de Suscinio long before the doors opened. Built in 1200 it was more of a castle

 than a chateau; it was the home of the dukes of Brittany for several centuries.






The butter is melting at a frightening speed here now – but I gather you’ve got the same at home – it is 32 degrees as I write this. But just as we are thinking its getting hot, spare a thought for this poor fellow in his thick winter coat!

Beware, wherever you go below Woody is watching you!

Head south 'till the butter melts!

For the last wek in June more miserable weather had us holed up in Aber Wrach on the north west corner of the Brest peninsular. We got out for a bike ride and a walk then headed for Paris for the weekend. Our best man Craig and his family were over from Oz on a holiday so we went up to meet them. We had a lovely dinner on the a boat on the Seine and did the usual sights of Paris. 

Not so usual was the Gay Pride parade we stumbled across; 

this gave a whole new meaning to gay Paris!

On the Sunday evening after drinks by the spectacular Alexander bridge on the Seine  we went to the Champs de Mars beneath the Eiffel tower where huge screens had been set up for the football with the tower as a back drop – pretty spectacular – the giant football is lit up with the flag of the country that wins that day. We saw France beat Iceland standing in the drizzle - a great atmosphere!

Melanie then went home for a few days for her cough clinic (she is taking part in the trial for a drug that will hopefully stop the cough – July to August – right through the sailing!) and to see her Mum.

I was joined by uni friend, Nigel, who brought with him …… the sunshine! Wall to wall for 5 days – marvelous – but poor Melanie missing it!

We set off to Ouissant (Ushant in English), an island off the tip off Brittany and the turning point to head – yes, really south – keep going ‘till the butter melts! From here to the med we are promised down wind sailing; could life at 30 degrees really be over?? Sadly we could’t land at Ouissant because of the Swell but we did go ashore on the smaller neighbouring island of Molene, a very pretty little island. We skipped Brest that Melanie and I had passed through on the way to Paris, a rather ugly city that was flattened and rebuilt after the war and found a lovely anchorage at Camaret. A nice coastal walk took us past a huge gun emplacement from the war that had been turned into a museum; outside flew the flags of France, England, America and, which I found rather surprising, Germany. Put the past behind you, kiss and make up and move on I suppose; good for the French, I am not sure I could have done it.

Two cracking days sailing took us through the Raz de Seine, a pretty vicious tidal race where we had to fight a 4 knot tide as we got there earlier than expected and round to the Odet river and the delightful town of Quimper. The were some rather splendid chateaux on the river bank!

Nigel left me here and I picked Melanie up from the train.

Pronounced Compaire (with a french accent!) Quimper saw its hey day in the middle ages and many of the buildings still stand today. Although we have our fair share of these lovely old timber framed buildings in England, France does seem to have them in greater density. These wonderful buildings surrounded the magnificent cathedral.

Its difficult to get you head round this ornate monument to God being built 800 years ago (and even more difficult to get you head around the general poverty when money was being spent like this!)

At the end of any good days sight seeing one should, well, eat ice cream – the blackcurrant sorbet was fabulous!

Woody has truly taken to being a sea dog. He loves to stand with his face into the wind and take charge of the deck; he has taken to doing his Titanic bit keeping lookout from the bows!