Tuesday 30 August 2016

Into Garrucha under Sail (Terry)


We left the small harbor anchorage of Aguilas at around 9am last Friday looking forward to a gentle sail south and a little west.  We were fooled once again by that forecast thing that promised wind from the NE.  Nope, this is the Med so it was from the SW, right where we were going, although with a tiny bit of allowance for a beat.  Exiting the harbour, our gearbox made some grumbling protests, combined with some clanking and groaning and I turned to go back to the fisherman’s harbour.  However, the noise stopped and all returned to normality, same as it has been for the last 5 years.

We’d made about 38 miles and were off Carboneras when I realised that our forward progress had sharply reduced from 5/6 knots to 3 knots to 2 then to 0.  With wind on the nose and no drive, we had no choice but to look for a safe harbour for repairs. Carboneras was no help – it is a private port and has no facilities for yachts, and the fishing harbour did not respond to requests for assistance.

Garrucha was our next best option and was downwind, so with some hope we headed that way, 12 miles distant.

Of course, as soon as we turned for Garrucha, the wind turned also and was once again on our nose.  I was less than impressed but as I do not believe in any sky fairies it was pointless blaming one or another.

It took us from 17:00 to 12:15 to make the harbour at Garrucha.  We had emailed our friend David in Cartagena for some land-based assistance and he had confirmed with Garrucha that they were standing by.  However, we understood this to be dinghy assistance into the docks, as we could not manoeuvre at all.  Not to be – the marinero was on the docks with a torch waving us in but we could not get “in”, we could only skim past then turn around and head for sea again before we hit the beach.  Without being able to see, and with no propulsion, we had no choice but to anchor in less than ideal conditions off the beach.
A small section of the 1,500m marble banisters along the promenade
The swell didn’t allow for sleep and by 7am we were still in some trouble, with the swell irritating and the wind scheduled to build.  We managed to get the anchor up, though not completely, and made for some deeper water to begin tacking for the harbour.  Luckily, the wind was not quite NE by this stage but more ENE, putting it on our starboard beam.  We made good progress over the last 2 miles to the harbour entrance and laid the last tack for the right of the harbour, then eased away as we moved inside and lost wind.  We pulled the genoa down about 100 yards from the dock, and coasted to the jetty.  Cal undid the gates and stepped off to tie us up.  Nobody had responded to our calls on #9 so there was no welcoming party.  We secured and went below for a proper sleep for a few hours.  First time we have ever entered a marina under full sail and tied up.

When we went in to the marina office, the young guy there on day shift rang the mechanic for us and organised for him to come on Monday morning.

He arrived just after 11am and we went through the issues of the previous day/s.  The windlass was an easy fix, it had just come loose under strain and we tightened this easily – a couple of test drops of the anchor to the marina floor and all in that area was found to be ok.

The drive problem was more of an issue, with some testing to be done.  Engine was determined to be in good order, gearbox too.  Clutch was also found to be OK.  Jhoan, the mechanic, needed to eliminate a problem so I had to dive on the prop and see if I could move it by hand, either way.  Of course, my reg was nowhere to be found and required the removal of the entire contents of both lazarettes to turn it up.  Then, of course, it decided it needed a service and would either free-flow or not flow at all.  Eventually, I hit the water and did the required fiddling then packed everything on the deck (but did not put it away) and went to tell Jhoan the results.  He said he had hoped this was the case and said he’d come the next day to extract what he now knew to be the offending parts.  He didn’t come – he’s under some pressure work-wise – but came the next day and removed a section of the drive train that I did not recognize.  He wanted the Yanmar manual, examined it, found that the piece he had was not in it and declared it to be “optional”.  I have no idea what this means but the housing seemed to contain some sort of reduction box arrangement which was all burnt out.

He took it away with him and has ordered replacement parts from a firm in Madrid.  Hopefully, they will arrive in a day or two.
Looking towards town
So, where are we?  We are in the holiday resort of Garrucha, just into Almeria province.  The marinero tells us it is the dividing line between Costa Calida and Costa del Sol.  It’s a pleasant enough town but has absolutely zero things of interest for tourists.  It is for Madrilenos to come on their annual holiday and they are here in their thousands.  The dozens of restaurants are full every night, the fun park lights are shining all night and everyone is having a great time.  There is a general feeling of relaxation and enjoyment – the hung parliament and endless reruns of elections in Madrid seem a long way away
Our noisy neighbours


The harbour is host to a very large Gypsum operation, with one or two bulk carriers in constantly.  Because we can’t move, we are on the outer palanca on our own, with all the other yachts two or three pontoons away.  We have front row seats to the work going on on the freight wharf.  Hundreds of truck trips go on every day, with 18-wheelers racing along the outer wharf with their loads.  They do a 60km round trip, as the gypsum comes from a town called Sorbas, a little inland from here.  They dump their cargo on the ground, bulldozers round it up and drop it into conveyors which load the freighters.  It is a little noisy at times but we’re used to this from Cartagena and it does add some interest to the surroundings.

The harbour water, out where we are, is quite clean so we are able to step off the back for a swim in the heat of the day.

Loading gypsum

Today, Friday, was Market Day!  Big news in any Mediterranean town and this is a big one.  The first, top street, was all clothes, mostly female as they supposedly purchase 80% of fashion items.  The second street, and the connecting street, were all fruit, vegetables, meats, nuts, chips, roast chicken vans etc etc.  It was wonderful – certainly one of the better markets we’ve encountered.  We walked away with home-made potato chips, roast chicken, a huge jar of Orange Blossom honey from Murcia, asparagus, bananas, cherries.  Nothing from the Jamon van – there were about 20 people around it waiting.

Hopefully, we will be back under way in a few days and will head directly for Gib and organise flights home from there instead of from Rabat.

We might not always get to where we thought we were going, and we might very often end up somewhere we have never heard of before but you can’t say it’s boring.

Many thanks to David of the Moody “Golden Hours” for some reassuring shore support during the ordeal.

 

Sunday 28 August 2016

50 Shades of Green



It’s a spectacular contrast to fly from the parched golden-brown of a Spanish summer to the vivid green fields and forests of the Emerald Isle. A patchwork of greens, bordered by darker green hedgerows and dotted with stone houses and barns – are we caught in the opening credits of ‘Father Ted’? Padraig kindly collected us from Dublin airport and we drove up to Newry, just across the border in Northern Ireland. By the way, there is now an expressway to Dublin, no longer the ‘rocky road’ of the old Republican anthems. Next day we woke to the sounds of birdsong, the sight of more green fields, hills and grand trees and the incomparable taste of Irish wheaten bread, Irish butter and a proper cup of tea! We were settled snugly in Padraig’s little stone house along with Caroline who was preparing to swim the North Channel, and Patrick and his son who were having a camping adventure in the camper van parked out the front. Up the road was another stone cottage, home to Padraig’s folks, Mickey and Bridgeen along with assorted grandkids, mates and family at various times. This was one of those great places where you never knew who was going to turn up to dinner, but they would be welcome anyway!
Bridgeen outside her cottage

Padraig was busy with the channel-swimming crew so we took the train into Belfast for the day - and what a welcome surprise that was. I think we must have been under the influence of newsreels of the Troubles from the 70s, but we were expecting a grim, grey wasteland of a city and it turned out to be anything but. Not that the past has been forgotten, but it has been integrated into a handsome and reinvigorated city. At this time of the year it was also filled with flowers, with each city block trying to outdo the others with planter boxes, hanging baskets and flower-filled parks. There are fine historic buildings and even the old hotspots of the Falls Road and the Shankhill Road are brightened by shops and cafes and of course their famous murals. The docklands are an interesting place, and a museum there commemorates the building of the Titanic (‘Sure she was in fine shape when she left here!’) On Bridgeen’s recommendation we headed for the Smithfield Markets for lunch, where we found all sorts of goodies including locally made pies, cakes, sausages and curries. Back for a lovely quiet night in the Newry countryside…










The next day Bridgeen took us in hand for a visit to the Cooley Mountains, commanding a great view from Slieve Foy over Carlingford and Greenore (yes, with the song running through our heads – ‘… and I’ll say farewell to Carlingford, and farewell to Greenore/ And I’ll think of you both day and night, until I return once more’).  And by the way, we had an excellent view across the ford to where ‘the mountains of Mourne run down to the sea’. There’s a lot to be said for knowing your Irish folk songs and stories by way of enriching your travels! The mountains remain quite wild, with wild flax, blackberries, raspberries and beautiful heather, along with peat bogs that are still harvested by hand. On a fine day you can see six counties from the summit. We enjoyed a delicious lunch down at Ruby Ellen’s Tearooms in Carlingford village, and I heartily regret not leaving enough room for cake, though I have it on good authority that the cakes are outstanding. We had a wander around the historic old town and introduced Bridgeen and Caroline to the art of Geocaching with a couple of good finds.
Peat harvest - wild flax



















Sunday was a big day, with Mickey competing in the Belfast Iron Man and Bridgeen in the Belfast Harbour Swim. Both performed like champions, then, rather than collapsing for the afternoon they took us around to enjoy some of their favourite Belfast experiences – the Cathedral, a couple of beautiful historic pubs and hotels, and some great murals celebrating local culture.






On our remaining days in Newry we visited Camlough Lake, Padraig’s local swimming hole and site of the world record relay swim (one of his many remarkable achievements, along with solo English Channel and North Channel swims, ice swimming and much else); Bridgeen’s highly successful childcare centre, also the building site for Padraig’s newest venture, a pool and swim school; an ancient church and burial ground; a picturesque ruined castle – and of course several fine eateries. We spent the evenings around the Mallon’s ever-expanding dining table, or at one of the two favoured local pubs. On our final night we celebrated Caroline’s successful solo crossing of the North Channel (Ireland to Scotland) at Doyle’s Pub, which is also a funeral parlour! According to Padraig, it boasts Northern Ireland’s Grumpiest Publican, and he was in fine form. On our way out, he nodded towards five of his faithful customers and suggested that we take “this shower of shite” back with us to Australia – though on reflection he decided that they were such damaged goods they wouldn’t last five minutes - even the sharks wouldn’t have them. They all loved it of course!




When it came time to leave on the train to Dublin, we really felt as though we were leaving family. If all goes to plan, however, we’ll meet up again in Lanzarote in December!

The train journey took us along the coast and through more delightful green fields. We found our way to another great Airbnb, this time a lovely modern apartment right on the banks of the Liffey next to Phoenix Park. Getting to know our host, Cristina, a multi-lingual biochemist from Brazil, was one of the many pleasures of our stay in Dublin.
The Liffey


For me, Dublin is a city of literature, and of course it makes the most of this in targeting tourists, though many of its literary greats were not appreciated in their day. We saw the Abbey Theatre where playgoers rioted after John Synge’s “Playboy of the Western World” and again during Sean O’Casey’s plays - Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw avoided Irish audiences by staging most of theirs in England and Beckett saw himself as an internationalist; the many pubs that claim a connection with James Joyce, his alcoholic father, or his most famous character Leopold Bloom from Ulysses. Then there’s Yeats, Brendan Behan (more pubs), Oliver Goldsmith and my personal favourite, Jonathan Swift, so a pilgrimage to St Patrick’s Cathedral was essential. Swift was Dean of St Patrick’s and he is buried there, beneath the famous Latin epitaph that translates as “savage indignation can no longer tear his heart”. The church also holds several manuscripts and death masks, which somehow make the great satirist seem very present. We visited the Writers’ Museum which celebrates all these remarkable writers and more.  I learned that Laurence Sterne, another personal favourite and author of Tristram Shandy, also wrote in Ireland. Later we found the strange and remarkable poet Gerard Manley Hopkins’ grave in the Jesuit corner of Glasnevin Cemetery. I’ve always wondered how one small place managed to produce such a disproportionate number of writers (not even counting the songwriters) but just wandering the streets listening to the musical language, the humour and wordplay in conversations and shop signs, you start to get a sense of where it might originate.


Spring in Temple Bar


St Patrick's Cathedral

If you look carefully, she copped a bullet above the collar bone during the Easter Rising in 1916


Dublin is another wonderfully walkable human-scale city, full of cosy pubs, fine buildings, monuments and landmarks that recall its often tragic and violent past. We enjoyed a production of the musical Once and the classic pub night with traditional music at Nancy Hands, our local. And of course there was a lot we didn’t get to see – the massive Guinness factory from the inside, the Book of Kells at Trinity College, lots more theatre and music, not to mention seeing more of the countryside and the west coast – so we have no choice but to come back next year in the camper van!
Nancy Hands