Arwen, a welsford 'navigator'

Ragusa Ilba

High on a narrow limestone hill surrounded by deep river gorges, the older part of Ragusa is a maze of cobbled streets and light cream coloured limestone buildings adorned with balconies, statues and shutters. It is very old and rightly a world UNESCO heritage site. The square in front of the cathedral slopes steeply upwards towards the cathedral steps and narrow alleyways twist and turn linked by narrow steep flights of steps up and down the hillslopes. Around every corner are stunning views across terracotta tile roof tops and roof terraces.

Streets come alive in lower Ragusa around the main cathedral piazza from seven in evening. Children play in the street, football, Italian style.....ignoring tourists, lots of yelling, gesticulating, dives onto the floor and good natured argument. Teenage girls and boys chat each other up with much laughter and many smiles, mobile phones glued to their hands. It is fascinating to watch teenage courtship rituals ongoing whilst each furtively look at their mobile phones frequently......they call it romance. I think I am getting old!

As the sun sets and the streets are bathed in warm lamplight, more people come out. They sit on street chairs, on pavements, below fountains. Animated chatter and lots and lots of laughter, for Italians have such a zest for life. Heads bowed towards each other, intent eye contact, smiles, shrugs of shoulders, waving of arms. Glasses tinkle at pavement ristorante.

Italians, of course, dress with flair and style. They make the simplest clothes look so chic. Evenings are a fashion parade as well as a social gathering with family.  

In the meantime, a wizened, grey haired, stooped elderly grandfather sits on a public bench, his young granddaughters at his feet as he tells them stories. They are transfixed for he is a good story teller. His hand lovingly pats the head of one and then fingers brush lightly the cheek of another and he is rewarded with beaming smiles. They clearly dote on him.

Family life at sunset, shared on the streets of Ragusa.

Our first Sicilian night................

Pollo di Mazza, our first agriturismo was out on a flat country plain surrounded by fields but hidden by trees and palms. Built of honey coloured limestone that was crumbling with age, the rooms were simple and clean with oak furnishings of a deep dark rich brown. A wooden beam roof with simple murals painted on walls made it very romantic, so I’m told. Terracotta tiled floors were cool on the feet. The outdoor swimming pool was divine and we had it to ourselves.

The breakfast/evening meal terrace

Later, as the sun started to sink and the temperature dropped to a bearable 28C, we went off in search of food. A five kilometre drive to the coast led to a small beachside bar. Sat on a small cliff top wooden bar patio surrounded by local Italian family and friends, teenagers played table football animatedly but with good humour. The low limestone cliffs stretching either side were layered giving easy access to the water. Large rocks over centuries had collapsed into the crystal clear azure seas. Italians lounged on towels sunbathing in the early evening sun. Our diet cokes on ice slipped down nicely as we admired the views; the peninsula to the north dotted with individual terracotta roofed houses.

Prickly Pears

An invasive species that came from India/China and seems to be doing very well across the Mediterranean region. You often see the pears for sale on roadside fruit and veg stalls. 

Back on our little terrace we peeled fresh oranges bought from a local roadside fruit stall we found and mixed them with divine kiwi fruits and a pack of TUC biscuits. I know how to treat a girl to a good night out!

One of the little outrooms

Dry stone walling Sicilian style

Guilt......

guilt. I hate it. It niggles away at me.......and creates moral dilemmas.......like

Tomorrow I put aside as a 'get ready for work' day. Wednesday too. I start back to school on Thursday.  BUT........tomorrow will be a nice day with sunshine, light winds, and well Plymouth Sound is calling......the last sail of the season......but tomorrow was for planning all my Yr 7, 8, 9 work and Wednesday, my GCSE and A Level prep.

But then I am back next week to working Sunday's and two or three hours each night again. So surely I should treat myself.....and go sailing tomorrow?  But if aI skip a day it means working all day Sunday ..........jeez!

I'll go sailing tomorrow and think about what decision I should have made............

Dinghy cruising back from Fowey.......the return journey

and then there was the return.....................

White flecked water surged from midway under her hull to be deflected away in an outward 'V'; the grey waves delicately topped with lacy swirls that coalesced and receded in a silvery wake rolled beneath her flattened hull. Beneath these slate grey waves, centreboard and sharply pointed bow, cut through the surface layers, adding a musical sound track of hisses and gurgles to the embroidery above. The rhythmic rise and fall as hull lifted over waves and leather clad spars creaked and squealed against mast were the final percussion to her melodic symphony. Arwen was moving, a slight leeward tilt, her sails full, a steady 4.5 knots. 

Her rhythm and soundscape can induce a hypnotic tranquility, both a blessing and a curse. They can induce a sense of calm, peace and serenity into which the unwary can fall, soothed, carefree; a timeless period of relaxation and spiritual inner ease. Slumbering in tranquility lowers a sailors alertness to the real dangers, the rising winds, the unexpected gusts swooping down from unseen valleys hidden by headlands to slam into hull and sails like a giant unseen malevolent hand; the rocky outcrops marked by wasp like cardinal marks, their bells and horns unheeded by the stupefied. 

As early morning stretched towards midday, that lull was a real danger. Arwen sped along at a consistent 4.5 knots, powered by the steady NNW breezes. It was too easy to cleat the main-sheet, set the tiller tamer and trim the sails so that she sailed herself on a steady course; to lie back against the coaming, feet on the thwart opposite and survey out to far horizons where grey sky and sea meet; to ponder on the meaning of life and one's place in the great multiverse.

But on this day, her skipper was alert to these traps. He knew the coast, those swooping winds, the reversing deadly headland currents. And although he thought about reefing, he didn't; for the winds were steady and the gusts easy to spot as they scudded across wave tops darkening the sea and wrinkling its surface. And so he attentively trimmed sails, kept hand loosely on tiller and main-sheet and scanned the windward horizons. His eyes flickered a regular course - luff, leech telltales, course ahead, compass, windward horizon. His body astutely tuned itself to the changing motions of sea and wind. 

He never did master the sail trimming bit. He never does! The physics and mechanics of which string does what to which part of a sail confuse his brain. But he catches the gusts well, his compass course remained true and his pilotage ETA's along the coastal checkpoints were pretty much bang on.

On this day, he was happy to settle for that. 

Sail trimming? 

Well it looks like it will be a life long learning curve, one he will never quite seem to master! And, shock, horror,  he's pretty relaxed about that too!

Dinghy cruising down to Fowey: part two

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDUJ7RVu_0E

within this video are blue box annotations and information cards

We are trying some new YouTube gizmos not used before.

Hope Arwen and I captured the mood on the day. Enjoy and if you have any comments, do let us know. We always welcome constructive feedback, sailing advice and help. 

Dinghy cruising: Sailing to Fowey

At least this time I remembered to 'throw up' over the leeward rail. I learn't that 'bitter' lesson a couple of years ago in Wembury Bay! Never, never hurl over the windward rail!! But wait, I get ahead of myself. Perhaps, we should start at the beginning.

You take the days when you can after balancing family commitments. You also take the good weather days too. I read somewhere that gentleman sailors never go to windward. I really have no idea what it means but I took it to suggest 'avoid going into the wind if you can to stop bouncing'. And so two days arrived with weather and tide fates aligned. SSE winds with tidal flows going east and an outgoing tide on one day;  winds from NNE and tidal flows heading east for the bulk of the second day so a beam or close reach back. It wasn't what I would have liked (I'd have preferred a few days in Falmouth.....but heyho.......next time). 

So winds would be east..... on the first day. A downwind sail.  Northerly and a beam reach on day two. Well, in two days it could only be one place...............Fowey was calling. 

I like Fowey. It's atmospheric shops, wonderful valley scenery, quaintness. Of course I knew it would be packed but some coastal cruising was needed! Sometimes its just 'therapy' for the soul.

As I rarely cruise offshore I have to go through a process of passage planning re-familiarization. I use a checklist I created sometime ago. I complete tidal information on heights, times and streams; I mark charts with escape routes, danger marks etc and then eventually mark on waypoints, magnetic bearings etc. I make pilotage notes in my waterproof book including sketch maps and buoy details, call channels and other useful details. I plan ETA's and possible mooring, anchoring  and grounding sites. It takes time but I enjoy it. It helps me get my head around safety issues and alternative courses of action.

Tuesday dawned. Arwen was loaded, gear stowed in hatches, trim checked.  There is something liberating and soaring about setting sail in a small boat on a 'micro adventure'. The near empty horizon beckons, the blue skies with cirrus mares tails a good omen for the days ahead. Steaming ahead and escorting us out, our flagship HMS Bulwark and her escorts. It's going to be a good two days. I can feel it in my bones!

Sails raised just beyond Mountbatten breakwater, they filled rapidly in the force 3 breeze and she surges forward, helped by the outgoing spring tide. Gurgling white water run down her sides, her bow digs into small waves and eagerly Arwen points her bowsprit south west towards the Draystone Buoy and Penlee Point. Departing at 1030 and several sunfish later, we make Rame Head at 1130. 

As we cross the headland race, small dolphins briefly accompany us, before they become bored and head off to find bigger, more animated playfellows. 

With visibility good, I plot half hourly chart updates, more for experience and practice than real need. Four miles away the shoreline slips by; Freathy cliff huts, Tregantle Fort, the coastal villages of Downderry and Portwrinkle, a row of visual checkpoints on which I can take bearings. 

Sailing downwind takes immense concentration. Big waves roll in from behind lifting Arwen's transom and then rolling beneath her to suddenly lift her bow as well. Broaching in the deeper troughs is a real risk. Of greater difficulty is the corkscrewing motion. It insidiously sneaks up on you. My stomach gave me my first warning. Try food I thought. A sandwich and a cuppa. Maybe the constant bending down to fix plots and update log notes on the chart strapped to the starboard centre thwart was to blame. Maybe that perpetual corkscrewing motion but I was soooo sick off Polperro. On the bright side, I was ill off the lee side for a change. A lesson learned!

After that the passage was wonderful. I feel better; Arwen still rolls, surfs and corkscrews but I cope. Sunfish, a shark fin sighting and so many diving gannets keep me focused. At one point the sea positively boils with mackerel and fry hunted from below and driven upwards to the wheeling gannets. They circle above us, rather 'hitchcock' like, plunging like missiles into the surface waters to return with sand eel and small fish. The natural world is pretty brutal if you are one of the tiddlers.

Our bearing of 272 held. Our drift, minimal as far as I could work out. 

Out on the ocean horizon there is minimal boat traffic. Ahead only lobster pot buoys to avoid. easily spotted, they have large danbuoy posts with tattered plastic bag flags. Udder Rock cardinal mark passes a kilometre away on our starboard side. Gammon Head is clearly visible. The White House on the cliff should soon appear giving warning of the approaching Fowey harbour entrance. 

We pass the Castle around 1530. Five hours and around 24nm. And that included a twenty minute stop for you know what!

A quick offshore sail

managed to snatch two unexpected days so heading to Fowey and overnighting there before heading back tomorrow. Passage planning done. All being well should be F3/4 from SSE today and the tomorrow it should be F4/5 NNW. Tides are springs with HT around 1000 this morning at Devonport.
Will post updates tonight and tomorrow as I go.

the sad news that Ken Duxbury has passed away.......

http://lodestarbooks.com/ken-duxbury-1923-2016/

Sadly, at the age of 92, Ken Duxbury has passed away. With his wife B, he sailed a drascombe from Greece back to the Uk. The Lugworm Chronicles is the book I am reading now. An obituary can be found at the above website address

Ragusa Ilba........

High on a narrow limestone hill surrounded by deep river gorges, the older part of Ragusa is a maze of cobbled streets and honey coloured limestone buildings adorned with balconies, statues and shutters. It is very old and rightly a world UNESCO heritage site. The square in front of the cathedral slopes steeply upwards towards the cathedral steps. Narrow alleyways twist and turn linked by narrow steep flights of steps up and down the hill slopes. Around every corner are stunning views across terracotta tile roof tops and roof terraces.

Streets come alive in lower Ragusa around the main cathedral piazza from seven in evening. Children play in the street, football, Italian style.....ignoring tourists, lots of yelling, gesticulating, dives onto the floor and good natured argument. Teenage girls and boys chat each other up with much laughter and many smiles, mobile phones glued to their hands. It is fascinating to watch teenage courtship rituals ongoing whilst each furtively look at their mobile phones, frequently......they call it romance. I think I am getting old!

As the sun sets and the streets are bathed in warm lamplight, more people come out. They sit on street chairs, on pavements, below fountains. Animated chatter and lots and lots of laughter, Italians have such a zest for life. Heads bowed towards each other, intent eye contact, smiles, shrugs of shoulders, waving of arms. Glasses tinkle at pavement ristorante.

Italians, of course, dress with flair and style. They make the simplest clothes look so chic. Evenings are a fashion parade as well as a social gathering with family.  In the meantime, a wizened, grey haired, stooped elderly grandfather sits on a public bench, his young granddaughters at his feet as he tells them stories. They are transfixed for he is a good story teller. His hand lovingly pats the head of one and then fingers brush lightly the cheek of another and he is rewarded with beaming smiles. They clearly dote on him.

Family life at sunset, shared on the streets of Ragusa.

Lost and running out of time................

Syracuse was the aim. Straight off the plane, we picked up the car (a Toyota Agra, tiny 1lt red, um! Not much power there but it will have to suffice). It took a few minutes to adjust to driving on the right. More traumatic was the realisation that Sicilian drivers had no understanding of road rules, staying on their side of the road seemed an alien concept. Still, we managed to negotiate the labyrinth of airport slip roads out onto the Autostrada. Fifty kms to Syracuse.

We didn’t stop long! Syracuse proved a nightmare for naïve UK drivers! Narrow lanes, confusing bridges, satnav hissy inducing one way systems. And what are the conventions for parking your car? Where can you do it? Where do you pay?

We found a quayside car park and took a ticket. Ortygia, ancient Syracuse, was a rabbit warren of small medieval side streets. Narrow alleyways with tall three and four story housing either side, we were soon lost. Our misery was compounded when we discovered the ticket was for one hour only!

We only just made it back and took the joint decision that maybe, on reflection, stepping off a plane and driving immediately into an ancient city was probably ambitious!

Pollo di Mazza, our first agriturismo was out on a flat country plain surrounded by fields but hidden by trees and palms. Built of honey coloured limestone that was crumbling with age, the rooms were simple and clean with oak furnishings of a deep dark rich brown. A wooden beam roof with simple murals painted on walls made it very romantic, so I’m told. Terracotta tiled floors were cool on the feet. The outdoor swimming pool was divine and we had it to ourselves.

Later, as the sun started to sink and the temperature dropped to a bearable 28C, we went off in search of food. A five kilometre drive to the coast led to a small beachside bar. Sat on a small cliff top wooden bar patio surrounded by local Italian family and friends, teenagers played table football animatedly but with good humour. The low limestone cliffs stretching either side were layered giving easy access to the water. Large rocks over centuries had collapsed into the crystal clear azure seas. Italians lounged on towels sunbathing in the early evening sun. Our diet cokes on ice slipped down nicely as we admired the views; the peninsula to the north dotted with individual terracotta roofed houses.

Back on our little terrace we peeled fresh oranges bought from a local roadside fruit stall we found and mixed them with divine kiwi fruits and a pack of TUC biscuits. I know how to treat a girl to a good night out!

The Sicilian stand-off

Taking advantage of our indecision at the small road junction, he stepped into the road. He stood blocking our way, kneecaps on our bumper. Wizened, wiry, deeply tanned, he sucked air through missing teeth gaps whilst his brown eyes scrutinized us over the top of ancient golden wire rimmed round glasses. His face wrinkled, weather beaten and lined, the product of years out in mountain fields. Old, well-worn and patched trousers held up with a cracked leather belt, a light blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Clearly we were a novelty, something unusual, out of place, an unusual phenomenon penetrating the sleepy monotony of another sunny afternoon siesta high in the remote mountain interior. We stared back, unsure how to proceed, our way blocked by a septuagenarian Sicilian of the hills.   A Sicilian stand-off.  “You did lock us in darling, didn’t you?”  whispered a hushed ,small voice in my ear.

Then, suddenly, as always has been the case everywhere we have gone in Sicily, a huge smile broke out on the leathery face and arms were thrown wide in welcome. We had passed muster, our village sentry was a happy man. Waved on, we parked up in a sunlit village piazza lined with mulberry trees under which in the cool shade, residents sat, chatting. Smiles, the odd wave and nodded greeting.  We were invited to see the geological museum. Although closed for the afternoon siesta, they were happy to open it. There would be no charge. "Prego, prego". Welcome.  

"Had we visited the Cliffside necropolis?” “Would we like a guide or just see it ourselves?” It would be no trouble either way. “Had we eaten, would we like some mineral water?”  “Did we know Wolverhampton in England?” The family had a home there and occasionally visited it. “Feel free to wander; any questions, please come and ask”. We were the only visitors so far, and “if we could be so kind, please sign the visitors’ book on the way out”, if we have time and it was not delaying us on our travels. 

A sting in the tail

The forecast promised sun, light winds around 8 knots and warmth. A mini heatwave for Plymouth and the Missus fancied a day on the water having just returned from two weeks in Sicily. A rare occurrence, the Missus wanting to sail, so who am I to refuse.

16 knots at western breakwater. Gusts to 24 knots. Winds from SSE. Cloudy skies, warmish wind, temperature around 19C and it wasn't quite what she or I was expecting! She has recently been use to cobalt and aquamarine green blue seas, temps of 34C+ and warm Mediterranean breezes.

Still we pottered under jib and Mizzen inside the Sound and went for a jolly up the Tamar. Needing a quick loo stop, we put in at the nearest place, The Royal William Yard. It is very small, we didn't see any no access signs and we avoided taking someone's finger pontoon birth. We also avoided mooring where the small ferries stop. We were there for only six minutes or so, moored on the end of a large pontoon out of the way of everything but an elderly gentleman from the harbour office pointed out we should have phoned in advance. "We do try to be accommodating but we are small and there are the paying berth holders to consider Sir" and..........."I'm afraid I do have to charge you £5. Thank you sir, God bless now".  We didn't even use their loos.....we used a restaurant's loos which we occasionally frequent down there and they are very friendly and accommodating. The restaurant that is, not the loos, although they are rather nice loos too.

He was terribly polite, the elderly harbour man, but then joking and laughing in hearing shot with a berth holder that he'd  just stung us a fiver.......well there we are.......nough said I guess.  I can see their viewpoint wanting to discourage small boats from popping in.......but all he had to do was explain that. We were so quickly on our way and of no inconvenience whatsoever......and in future I would have known not to call in there.........hey ho!

https://youtu.be/Vuf9Bze3640

Some further reflections from Roger Barnes

https://youtu.be/IqwhUHjeCeE