We caught a bus from Palma airport and trailed our bags along the pier, almost 1km, in the morning heat to the Sun Charter base in Real Club Nautico. We were unreasonably early to collect our yacht but hoping that our physical presence would provide an incentive for them to hurry up with the cleaning so we could get onboard and catch up on some sleep after flying overnight. We sat in the small café watching the comings and goings of yacht owners, charter clients and the remaining crews who had participated in the Copa del Rey the week before. Some of the fabulous racing yachts were still there in the marina. It was amusing watching the well groomed enthusiastic yachties embarking on their charter week, compared with those on their way home – bronzed, disheveled clothing, hair all over the place and looking slightly worse for wear after the last night party but all looking like they’d had the holiday of a lifetime. Non sailors had found their sea legs, become experts at throwing lines and tying a clove hitch and balancing a beer whilst sailing upwind joined those of us who appreciate the delights of summer cruising in the Med.

Finally onboard the provisioning arrived and had to be put away, the Sun Charter rep arrived to do the check in, and our longing for sleep melted away as excitement over the beginning of another sailing week took over and we got ready to welcome our crew!

Everyone was heading to shore on their dinghies, so we joined the throng and found a delightful bar where Dimitri, the rather bad tempered barman, educated Philippe in the art of Mojito making. He had been taught by a Cuban vistor, so our Mojito’s had a sound heritage. We sat and drank them in deckchairs overlooking the yachts, then had another two just to be sure the subtle combination of mint, Bacardi, brown sugar and lime juice was to our liking. We zigzagged in the dinghy back to our yacht ‘Walrus’, which was on the outer edge of the bay, ostensibly to look at other yachts but it might have been the bacardi….

So that was the start of the Mojito story… and the smell of crushed mint leaves emanating from the galley around 4pm each day accompanied by some cools sounds on the i-pod signal Mojito o’clock for captain and co-skipper. Long may it last!!

Brindisi has an ancient looking harbour that reminded me of Alexandria, it rises from the base of a huge funnel-shaped inlet, divided in two sections (outpost and inner harbour) by the island of Sant’Andrea and a series of dams and was a key port in the Roman Empire. It marks the end of the Appian Way, and from the 2nd century B.C. became the port and the naval base for the wars in Macedonia, Greece and Asia Minor.

The ferry slipped silently past the markers for the inner and outer harbour and we watched from the deck with the throngs of Greeks and Italians, lovers, children, babies, and dogs who were enjoying the sociability of the journey camped on deck, as much as they would the destination.  We ate a rather solitary lunch in the restaurant (it seemed that most other people had packed substantial picnics prior to boarding), and retired to our double bunk cabin to catch up on some sleep. It had been Philippe’s childhood dream to sleep in the top bunk bed and he finally fulfilled it on the Corfu ferry!!

Late afternoon we were back on deck as the small islands north of Corfu appeared through the haze. Hillsides covered in pine and cypress swept down towards a startlingly blue sea and the white sails of elegant yachts caught the last of the days breeze as they headed for the next small port.

Corfu town is surprisingly elegant with an impressive fortress of honey coloured stone at the harbor entrance. The ship docked and we dragged our bags out into the chaos of family reunions and randomly parked taxis as the warm evening turned into another star filled night.

The late afternoon with the shadows lengthening and the sun giving everything a soft gold glow, is the perfect time to take the dinghy and head out for a swim. We had identified a massive rock with an interesting looking cave just past the beach where plump children were eating vast mounds of ice cream piled alarmingly on flimsy cornets and sylph like young girls frolicked in the wavelets.

As we approached the cave we could hear the shrieks of the crowd gathered at the bottom of the rock face on dinghies and pedaloes who on closer inspection were cheering encouragement as teenage boys climbed to varying heights and hurled themselves into the sea. The process involved a difficult climb followed by a moment of glory as each lithe and tanned youth opened his arms suspended in the moment of adulation before taking the leap into the translucent water below. The higher they climbed the louder the shrieks.

We beached the dinghy and continued to watch this spectacle whilst taking a swim. Alongside us a young Italian boy, no more than eight years, named Ricardo, messed about in the sea half watching the older boys. Already muscled and tanned, with a devastating smile and precocious beyond his age , the young girls gazed at him with big eyes as he teased them and showed off his diving skills in the waves breaking around the rocks. Is it nature or nurture, I don’t know, but it was fascinating to watch. Ricardo knew he had it all and that it was only a matter of time before he would be taking his turn on the rock face …..

As we sailed down the coast south of Cetraro we could see numerous steam vents pumping superheated blasts into the air, giving the impression that the entire region is a boiling mass of lava beneath the surface just looking for channels to vent its ferocity. Stromboli, a shadowy shape on the horizon exerted a magnetic attraction which we couldn’t wait to follow, and luckily the weather was kind to us so we made good progress.

We passed Stromboli in the late afternoon and could see puffs of smoke emitting from the crater on top. The volcano itself has sheer sides and offers no protection for a nightstop so we had decided to head to Panarea, about 10 nautical miles away, and watch proceedings in comfort.

Panarea is an uber cool place. A tiny town on a tiny island – St.Tropez meets Sicilian fishing village, bohemian chic meets designer linen. It is home to Hotel Raya built in the sixties which has drawn many celebrities to this small corner of civilization and continues to do so. We passed Georgio Armani accompanied by two bodyguards on the quayside making his way back to his enormous matt black megayacht anchored in the bay.

Sitting on the roof terrace of Hotel Raya sipping Mojito’s a gogo and watching the comings and goings in the harbour. To our delight, Stromboli did her thing and we watched the red lava flow brilliant against the night sky.

Philippe and I have differences of opinion regarding GPS on the Blackberry and physical maps, me being a fan of the latter as the stupid Google maps either can’t find a satellite at a critical moment or decides it can only give you your position within a couple 10 kilometers. Great!!!  Anyway we didn’t have a map and hence got stupidly lost at the start of our drive to Paris. Not to worry, we still had time, but that was before the accident (not us) and the monumental queues at the toll gate where hot angry lorry drivers were switching lanes every two seconds to try and get in the fastest moving line.

Bottom line – we missed our flight and things were a little tense to say the least by the time we arrived at Orly Airport. The Gods were with us that day for sure as there was another easyjet flight scheduled only three hours later which had space on and they agreed to change our ticket with only a small charge even though we had actually missed the flight. Unusual cooperation on the part of easyjet!  Also a huge thank you to Karim Saad who was at the end of the line researching the available flight options from mission control in Dubai whilst we were fighting with the traffic.

Things went fairly smoothly until we reached Napoli where our taxi driver quickly discovered that Philippe could speak pretty decent Italian. From that moment he didn’t stop talking, not for a second, for the entire three hour trip. Salerno, our destination, as you may know, is not three hours from Napoli, however we ended up at the wrong marina by which time I preferred the idea of walking and dragging our bags to getting back in the taxi….

Headache firmly in place, we arrived at the yacht, very tired and very late to find Marilyn sick in bed, Tania stressed about cabin allocation as she is claustrophobic and Vicky, positive as always sipping her glass of wine and enjoying the view.

We sorted out the cabin arrangement and fell into bed – the next morning the journey was forgotten and we were ready for a new adventure.

La Trinite is a glorious place stuffed full of yachts and not just the usual 30 to 40 ft variety, but amazing yachts built to win ocean races. Enormous catamarans and trimarans floating like colourful butterlies ready to take flight at a moment’s notice.

Les Hortensias is an old house with only six rooms and a perfect view of the marina, an excellent restaurant and a surprising bar called l’Arrosoir, the domain of Pierre, which is akin to a gentlemen’s club, filled with squashy chesterfields and photos of yachts and racing Jaguars. It is the perfect place to enjoy single malt after a good dinner – Pierre certainly knows his whiskies from the outer Hebrides to Japan!

Amongst the pictures in the bar are two of Loïc Caradec, 1948-1986 who was lost overboard from his 25.9m catamaran Royale II in singlehanded Trans Atlantic sailing race Route du Rhum.  His picture graces many walls of both public and private places in the town where there is a special exhibition in his memory. It was one of those stories that played on my mind, and made me think about the risks of all kinds that are faced at sea. Sometimes these take a different form as with another Frenchman, Bernard Moitissier who rounded Cape Horn in 1969 on his unique 39 foot steel ketch Joshua all set to finish first and fastest in the Sunday Times Golden Globe Race around the world. Believing that he had found his personal utopia, Moitessier changed course, headed eastward along the Roaring Forties  on a second nonstop circumnavigation, automatically dropping out of the Times race. In a message to his publisher he wrote, “I am going where you can tie up a boat where you want and the sun is free, and so is the air you breathe and the sea where you swim and you can roast yourself on a coral reef…. “. The sea is a compelling mistress.

From La Trinite we explored Quiberon (the Ayia Napa of Brittany), the stunning medieval towns of Auray and Vannes, and quaint Port Navalo. We visited all the tiny ports and watched the astonishing spectacle of the yachts going out and returning into Le Golfe du Morbihan on the tidal race which reaches around seven knots. It is a sailor’s paradise, although like the Solent, the weather has to be approached from the state of mind that it will rain, and if it doesn’t, that’s a bonus.

We made good friends during our short stay and our return is more about ‘when’ rather than ‘if’.

Oysters part two was a few days later on a drive back from Port Navalo to Auray. It was raining hard but the scenery is so picturesque that we stopped in Lamour Baden to take a few pictures, and then we saw it, nothing more than a shack really, but a shack full of fresh oysters. Philippe looked as though he was glimpsing heaven and entered into a detailed discussion with the man behind the oyster trays as to which combination of size and type would be the best to order.

In case you are not very up on oysters, there are two types – en francais,  ‘plat’ and ‘creuses’, you should not squeeze lemon onto the plat oysters as they have a very delicate flavor and the lemon overwhelms it. So we shared the first plate and ordered a second plate, then Philippe saw the “Happy Oyster’ notice which said if you order two plates, the third is free. I’d exhausted my desire to consume oysters by this point, but Philippe had turned into an oyster eating monster. By the time he had finished the third plate and you include the six oysters he eaten at lunch, the total came to 40 oysters. A personal record!

Once onboard it’s reminiscent of old Titanic films (not the iceberg bit) with everyone milling around looking for their deck although not many people were wearing hats (except Philippe with his Panama)and rather than a luxurious suite of cabins we had two sleeper seats on Deck 8. Once again the similarity with flying was not to be missed, economy seat, business class leg room. Oh, and the obligatory screaming children of course.

We watched as the huge ship slid slowly out of her berth, hardly moving in the choppy sea that had yachts heeled over and white horses galloping over the crests of the waves. We passed the forts, standing like silent guardians in the middle of the Solent . These forts, there are actually four of them, were built for the protection of Portsmouth and its harbour from sea attack and bombardment in the mid 1800’s. The most likely “enemy” was the French. They were never used in anger and have become known locally as “Palmerston’s Follies” after the Prime Minister of that era and by the time they had been completed, the “invasion” scare had long since passed.  These days they constitute just some of the hundreds of hazards waiting in the Solent for unprepared sailors.

As evening moved towards night we made our way out into the English Channel with The Needles bidding us a final farewell. And that was it, we had a sandwich and slept. The ship hardly moved and shortly after the dawn broke we docked in St. Malo ready for the Brittany adventure.

Cowes is gearing up for race week, with plenty of drilling and hammering as pavilions and marquees spring up amidst the yachts on the hardstanding. We wandered in and out of numerous yachtie clothing shops – all are there, Musto, Murphy and Nye, Henry Lloyd – well if you can’t sell yachtie clothing in Cowes, where can you sell it! We had to keep reminding ourselves that we have no spare space in our baggage which is a good basis on which to not spend lots of cash, but it’s a challenge. Despite all of this – Philippe managed to talk both of us into him buying some new racing shoes. I say both, because he paid for them, but I have to carry them as I offloaded about six unnecessary kilos from my baggage whilst in Somerset. Hmmm.

We walked past the Royal London Yacht Club and then the rather grand looking Cowes Castle, build by Henry VIII in 1539 to deter the French and now home to the Royal Yacht Squadron, the most prestigious yacht club in the UK.  Member yachts are given the suffix RYS to their names, and permitted to fly the White Ensign of the Royal Navy rather than the merchant Red Ensign flown by the majority of other UK registered vessels. The club’s patron is Queen Elizabeth II and the club’s Admiral is Prince Philip who is also a former club Commodore.

The RYS has an interesting history. It was founded in 1815 in London as ‘The Yacht Club’ by 42 gentlemen interested in sea yachting. The original members decided to meet in London and in Cowes twice a year, to discuss yachting over dinner. Membership was restricted to those who owned a vessel not under 10 tons.

The Club starting organising yacht racing as a principal feature of the Cowes Regatta (now known as Cowes Week), which was based on the annual licensing of the local pilot vessels and races between them, a popular spectator sport for the visitors.

The new club rapidly proved a focal point for yachtsmen already sailing in the Solent and elsewhere and members cruised in company to regattas along the coast and even across the Channel led by the first Commodore the Earl of Yarborough. Lord Yarborough was also a prodigious host giving magnificent parties aboard his yacht Falcon – the social side of the Regatta has been an important feature since its earliest days.

The early emphasis was on sailing together (i.e. the yachts manoeuvring together as a squadron) led by a commodore elected for the day. Club members were thus very interested in signaling. As well as the more usual signal communications between vessels the RYS Signals included such phrases to other yachts as ‘Can you lend me your band?’ and ‘Have you any ladies aboard?’ and to shore ‘Send me 300 oysters’.

In 1833 William IV renamed the club, The Royal Yacht Squadron. Its association with the Royal Navy began early and Nelson’s Captain at Trafalgar, Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy, headed the list of Naval members.  

In 1828, the rule requiring a yacht on the port tack to give way to another on starboard was introduced. Lord Crawford’s beautiful ship rigged yacht Valhalla cruised far afield and was a noted visitor in Cowes Week. Her owner, a member with a keen interest in astronomy, had sailed to Mauritius to observe the transit of Venus. During dinner in the Castle one night, Lord Crawford pointed to a star, observing that one day it may run into the earth. “If it does”, Sir Hercules Langrishe replied, “I hope we will be on the starboard tack”.

In 1851, the club’s Commodore, visiting the Great Exhibition, issued a challenge for the Squadron’s £100 Cup for a race around the Island. The New York based ‘America’, representing the New York Yacht Club triumphed in this race giving its name to one of the oldest and best known trophies The America’s Cup.

The Squadron Regatta became a dazzling yachting and social event under the aegis of the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, who became Commodore of the Club in 1882.World War I broke out inconsiderately during Cowes Week in 1914; both Squadron yachts and yachtsmen were to play their part in that conflict. The Second World War saw the RYS Castle as part of HMS Vectis and head-quarters of ‘J’ Force. After the War, at the suggestion of Peter Scott, King George VI presented the Britannia Cup, one of the most celebrated races of Cowes Week.

Today the view of the castle, with its red and white striped Platform roof, is known throughout the world and the club’s start line has seen the beginning and end of many of the world’s greatest yacht and power boat races. Now its William IV cannon, which once belonged to the Royal Adelaide, fires at five minute intervals to start 4,000 yachtsmen in their race around the island.

The Solent and Cowes in particular really is a mecca for yachtsmen and even on a chilly and extremely windy July day, it was great to spend a bit of time seeing the place we had heard so much about. There is a crew from DOSC racing in Cowes week this year which we were asked to join and the excitement of being part of that would have been an amazing experience – next year maybe! Time for lunch, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding at The Anchor, a pub frequented by international yacht crews from the nearby marina. We sat and listened to some very loud Spaniards at the next table who looked as though they had been at sea for several weeks and watched as a mixture of Cowes life wandered in and out for a lunchtime beer.

Good luck to Francis Carr and his crew next week – we’ll be thinking about you!