What people Eat

Berber & Donkey in Tetouan Medina

The Blue streets of Chez Chouan

Moroccan Bazaar

Gypsy Moth IV Sailing off the coast of Morocco

Morocco 23rd - 27th Oct

The following day Nick and I set sail for Smir in Morocco. The Blue Water Rally was also out sailing and we past close by to the newly restored Gypsy Moth IV, the little ketch that Francis Chichester made his record breaking solo circumnavigation in the 1960’s. . She looked lovely with headsails, main and mizzen all brimming with the steady westerly wind. It was a glorious sail, dry, fast and flat with heaps to look at. Smir marina is beautiful but unfortunately completely deserted as the Moroccan estates with their vast clandestine gardens surrounded by luxurious two story villas only open for two months in the summer every year. The beaches are golden and wide with blue clear water. Again, eerily deserted.

On Monday in Smir we went for a bike ride to the nearest town 8 km to the east. We took on some arduous back alleys that were so steep my back wheel was spinning in my lowest gear. The little Muslim kids getting quite exited by our mission. Next we rode out to the end of a steep cape, climbing to the summit and taking ultra steep forest single tracks down again. We came across a little band of young boys, all below 12 at a guess, clearing the path with child size hatchets. Nick engaged them in deciding when his back tire had enough air in it. They stood around chattering and arguing, leaning in to feel the tyre as Nick pumped. Little noisy cuties. By the time we had done a lap of the fish market and got back onto the highway home we were too weary to pay much attention to the camels and Moroccan architecture that so delighted us on the way out.

On Tuesday Nick got the kite surfer out and I sprinted up and down the beach under Nicks loud instructions trying to save the kite from crashing and getting tangled up in the thatched beach shelters. He got three runs in before deciding it was too light, but that’s enough about Tuesday if you get my drift.

Wednesday.
Nick, Bill, Fran and I piled into the blue Mercedes taxi and Mustafa, our driver for the day, shut the doors. Nick had talked Bill and Fran into the trip the day before after they had sailed into Smir in their Contessa 32, British Tiger. Fist we went to Tetuan, puling up outside the old city (medina) walls at one of the seven gates that lead into the maze of little alleys inside. Mohammad, the English speaking guide, joined us there and gave us a brief rundown on Morocco via great sprays of spit. There are 29 million people in Morocco, Casablanca is the largest city with 6 million. The majority of people are Muslim (mostly Sunni, not Shiite), then Jewish then Catholic: everyone lives happily together. In 1956 when the French and Spanish moved out, Rabat replaced Fez as the new capital. The Berber people who inhabit the mountains make exquisite carpets as they have for centuries. We were led through the market. It was a very local scene with no other tourists. Cloaked and weather beaten people rested against the walls with their goods in piles around all along the narrow alleys of the inner city. There were donkeys loaded with firewood being led by men in long hooded jalabas, vocal melodious cries from the mosque and the smell of wood-smoke from the bathhouse. The medina is cool in summer and warm in winter, because the two story whitewashed buildings are linked by archways and only separated with narrow crooked alleys.
Mohammad took us into the Arabian Bazaar which was a co-operative shop between many different families who make carpets, leather lamps, foot-cushions, glassware, silver wear and ceramics It was incredibly colourful, the art was so uniquely ….Moroccan!
We were shown the rooftop view before being seated in a cushioned cove, given mint tea and shown a wonderful assortment of carpets. Each one a masterpiece, all hand woven from goat, silk , cashmere or camel and coloured with natural dyes made from turmeric, henna, indigo etc. Fran purchased a beautiful silk tablecloth before we escaped to the Berber bazaar. Same thing again, except this time I could not avoid purchasing a gorgeous big carpet made from “the hairs from the neck of the goat”! I love it and for 150 Euros I think everyone probably did well.

Next we were driven high into the mountains to Chez Chuan, the amazing little medina at the foot of the Rift mountains, a trekking destination for the pierced, shaved and beaded backpacking set. We ate a traditional Moroccan meal, although the locals probably don’t have three courses by their looks, and mooched around this absolutely beautiful walled in city. The Berbers here paint their front alleys cornflour blue apparently to deter mosquitoes. Usually only the ground floor was painted and the upper story was either whitewashed or clay brick. Wrought iron balustrades and decorative lamps overhung the entrance archways to intriguing hotels and homes. Apparently the city has 1500 working hand looms churning out colourful, warm and functional garments, throws and carpets. We were limited in the time we could walk around because Mustafa, our driver was observing Ramadan, and like the rest of the local people had not eaten since 6 in the morning. Consequently he was ravenously hungry and did not want to be home later than 5.30 when he could eat again. Needless to say the race back down the mountain involved dodging kids, donkeys, old ladies wearing strange hats and overtaking ancient Citroens usually around blind corners – terrifying. Afterwards the four of us sat on PC, drank cold San Miguel beer and chatted till sundown sharing stories. Bill had some beauties but that’s another chapter altogether.

Monkey Madness

Nick and I vowed to climb the rock, so after a great morning “provisioning” (buying sickening amounts of chocolate, olives and muslei) in Spain which is just a quick dinghy ride around the border we asked Lance the kiwi fella off the big lime green racing cat if he would like to join us.

The three of us set off through the bustling paved pedestrian streets, full of duty free shops and shoppers then turned towards the cable car and through the botanic gardens. Lance had done the walk twice before so he knew the best route. Half way up at the admission gates we paid our 50p each and continued upward, stepping aside for the tourist vans that groaned past. The map of Gib that Nick and I had showed the summit (426m) at O’Haras Battery but this was on military land with no public access. The whole rock is fairly run down so it wasn’t an issue to climb through the gaping hole in the fence and to continue up. A modelling shoot was taking place at the fist gun emplacement we came too. We explored the huge concrete placemates and bunker type structures then scrambled to the summit over a concrete water-catchment, to where a huge canon was still in pretty good condition. Lance, being an engineer, dissected the mechanisms in detail with Nick while I admired the spectacular view across the straights to Africa where in times gone by the mountains were believed to hold up the heavens.

At the second big cannon perched on top of the rock we found a set of stairs leading below the battery. Nick gave me a torch and asked me what was down there. Once Id determined it was clear of Jerries and hollered something about the really cool bomb racks and gantries they piled down too and we scouted about the old war time rooms surveying the abandoned machinery. Back in the glare of sunlight talk of an ice-cream at the restaurant a bit further along quickened our pace. Lance, having visited before, was expecting the monkeys to assault him for his ice-cream and was prepared for battle. For Nick and I it came as a shock initially, but soon we saw the humour in it; Lance ducked as the monkeys leapt onto his head then in an instant it was hanging off his arm snatching at the ice-cream. Lance swapped the ice-cream to his other hand and spun around to give the monkey some g force. The hairy foul thing clung on as he flicked is arm to get it off. The fight went on for long enough to have Nick and I completely in awe. Lance won and if the shop hadn’t by then closed he would have repeated the performance for the video camera he’d brought along. We were very impressed. The path we chose down took in the Moorish castle and the backstreets of Gib, where the kids kicked soccer balls at each other in a concrete pen not much larger than a squash court, no grass, livestock, tadpoles, nothing.

The Happy crew of Seraphim!

Gibralter

Gibraltar, strategic English enclave on the southern tip of Spain, known for its impressive rock that is regarded in history as one of the pillars of Hercules guarding the gates of the known world. The night had been spectacular. In lightning storms and rainy squally conditions we came between 15 or so huge ships at anchor and turned at the rock into the broad bay; flood lit and decorated with clusters lights from the metropolis that clings to the more reasonable slopes of the base of the surrounding mountains. The clouds were spinning a fine toupee over the crest of the rock. Within the bay more ships at anchor twinkled and we dropped our sails to negotiate between them so as not to be knocked by the savage gusts rippling dark shadows across the water. Deeper in the bay an agglomerate of tiny lights bending as though they were dew droplets on bent grass and spiders threads gave the bay a magical feel. But as a seafarer, waking up in Gibraltar was, to be honest, disappointing. The rock has been adulterated to cater for the unsentimental demands of war, industry and population. It does not feel like you have entered the protection of civilised society, there is no human grandeur to match the topography- gone is the character of the days when Red Beard the pirate strode the rocky shores. I wasn’t expecting the high rise flats, off licences, tattoos and shiny tracksuits to be so numerous. Although English is the official language, the cross section of the population closely resembles London, so quite often English is a second language; the locals obviously choosing to eek out a existence in a warmer concrete tapestry than their London. Its farcical and sad that the billboards show sparkling yachts and young couples sipping wine in the spa under the words “Luxury apartments for sale”. They are reclaiming land and building residential blocks so there is the constant background clanging of pile drivers. At night, massive plumes of smoke billow scarves across the dimly lit sky. Across the checkpoint into Spain, more hideous council flats have been built along the front. Gas is refined here– hence the fairy lights we noticed during our arrival under darkness.

The English have controlled Gibralter since 1704. During the second world war all the residents were evacuated and their homes demolished to provide for military security in the way of tunnels and fortifications. The Gibraltarians returned after the war and were housed in high rise flats hurriedly constructed by the government. Hence the lack of appealing architecture here.

Nick and I have been in Gib for 10 days and have actually had a lovely time. Firstly, having enormous amounts of fun with Mark, Jean and Marisa off Mr Toad (bless him), touring the rock to see the naturalised population of monkeys, exploring the quaint shopping streets and spending the evenings with “the Mr T’s” on board their fabulous Grand Banks cruiser. The day after the Mr T’s left, John, Nicola and little Jack off Seraphim arrived. Nick and I had met “Seraphim” in Minorca when they put us in contact with the Mr T’s by asking us to deliver a message to them (the web of association grows). Seraphim may be crossing the Atlantic with 35 or so other yachts on the Blue Water Rally this year all things going well. Seraphim’s “to do” list looks a bit like ours. John and Nicola have fascinating stories of their last crossing on their previous boat “Moonshine”, getting wrecked by tropical hurricane Ivan in Grenada in 2004 along with 600 other yachts, and dealing with a 1 yo baby on board. We have been hearing these during delightful home made dinners on board.
Life at the moment is a pleasant mix of work and play with our only concerns being communication. Sailmail is playing up (already!) and our French mobile phone has run out of credit.

Mayon towards The Rock via Hippyland

We made an attempt to depart Mayon harbour, when we got to the southern corner of Minorca the wind had shifted and was blowing from where we wanted to go so we turned back for Mayon and caught a nice small tuna for tea just as the rain set in. It cleared up later in trhe afternoon and we shot ashore in the great little RIB (rigid hulled inflatable boat – or dinghy in this case) to tour the 1830 Spanish built Fortress Isle De Molo. This fortress is immense but it’s funny how you get a different first impression of things when travelling by boat. When we arrived at the protected anchorage in the Mayon Harbour on the Balearic Island of Minorca, we had been immediately impressed with the “fortress” walls on the south side of the bay, we had noticed the buildings on the hill to the north and a few of the cannon casemates but hadn’t taken to much notice. We spent much of our second evening in the bay staging a siege and trying to scale the vertical stone walls of the “fortress” on the south side to no avail, they were impenetrable. It wasn’t until we went on the organised tour of the real fortress that we realised the other walls were actually the remains of a leper colony and the walls had been designed to keep the lepers in not to keep us out! The real fortress was incredible. There was literally 100’s of cannon casemates and thousands of loopholes for rifle men. The fortress was built as a bolt hole for all of the forces and important people of Minorca in the event of an invasion, most likely from either the French or British forces. It succeeded as a deterrent and was never fired upon. One of the later instalments, following the dawn of armoured battle ships was a ginormous 380mm Vickers cannon situated with commanding views of the sea and the approach to Mayon harbour. The gun has a range of 35km, although has not been fired since 1996, not bad for a not rocket powered projectile I reckon.

We have had nice quiet trip west broken up with a 36 hour stop over at Formentera, a friendly laid back island just south of the uber nightclub scene on Ibeza. In fact Formentera could quite easily have been the birthplace of the hippie and true to this scene the bathing costumes were few and
far between on the beach, and what beaches, Formentera is also known as the Caribbean of the Med and the colour of the water was spectacular. During the day there was around 50 boats (mostly Miami Vice style) in the bay with us and then at an hour B4 sunset they were all gone, leaving us to enjoy our wine on the now deserted beach. We have been traveling since Minorca with Brits Mark and Jean and their 6 yo daughter Marisa. Their home for a years sabbatical away from the corporate strain of IBM is a motor boat, a Grand Banks 45 called Mr Toad. After sundowners on the beach Patti slapped together a fine meal for all on PC.

In the middle of the Mediterranean sea as we plodded along in the light winds we hooked up the new HF radio modem and tried it out. Low and behold it works wonderfully and we can now send and receive emails over the (free) radio waves albeit at baud rates that wouldn’t have impressed computer nerds 20 years ago. Using this system, known collectively as sailmail, we can access awesome weather info, we can subscribe with out cost to series of up to 10 day forecasts of winds, surface pressures, swell etc for customisable areas and we can request any of over 700 weather web pages which sailmail converts to plaintext (small files)and delivers to us.
As I write this we are 45 miles due East of the rock of Gibralter with sound effects of thunder booming and dolphins wheezing out of the dark silvery water in front of the bow. Night is falling on our third night at sea on this passage and we are due to arrive at the iconic Atlantic/Med gateway port at around 0100hrs, hopefully the rain that has been lurking around will hold of so that we can have enough visibility to enter he harbour in the dark. If not we might have to slow down a lot and wait until daylight.

Nick

More from the Med.

The French sailor on the pier opposite us in Marseilles offered to take us to the supermarket as he had a car and gave some interesting advice on good destinations in the Carib and Eastern Pacific. He also had some horrendous stories of abandoning his boat in a storm of New Zealand last year and being picked up by a container ship. Yuk.

The internet weather reports indicated it was going to be blowy but it surprised Nick and I how big the seas could get in the Mediterranean. The passage from Marseille to Mayon, the safe harbour of Minorca consisted of one leg heading south-south west across the Gulf of Lions which is notorious for its difficult sailing due to the strong Northerly Mistral winds or no wind at all. The forecast was for North-westerlies 5-6 going to 7’s and gusting to 8’s overnight and continuing with this force for the next 3 days. One thing Nick and I have had to adapt to is the consistent use of the Beaufort scale in Europe. No one talks in knots which makes is far easier to exaggerate the ferocity of the conditions, for example: Force 6 ranges from 22-27 knots (nautical miles per hour), which are slightly longer than land miles for an unbeknown reason) and is described as “strong breezes, large waves being to form, white foam crests, probably spray” and force 8 (34-40 knots) is described as “Gale, Moderately high waves, crests begin to break into spindrift”. We thought after the lovely downwind sail to Marseille that another fast downwind leg wouldn’t be bad so we set off mid morning. Leaving Marseille, we motored between the islands of Ile et Chateau D’If and Ile Ratonneau of the Frioul island group. These are very rocky with only sparse low vegetation, only a few seabirds and a hospital for black plague victims that is now in ruins. There appeared to be a charter yacht - Round the Island tour going on because we navigated through a fleet of Jeauneau’s going the other way. The glossy sea shifted in low rounded humps until we were at least 5 miles out to sea and free of the coastal day trippers, when a fresh westerly started to blow broad on the starboard bow.

Well the waves got bigger and steeper the more fetch they had. It was comfortable though as the wind swung so that it was aft of the beam. My watches include the hours from 1800-2200 then 0200-0600 during the darkness of night. This I am very thankful of because on awakening at 1000 the next morning to resume the watch from Nick I was slightly perturbed at the size of the following sea that I had blissfully navigated unaware the previous night. When its possible to see these great masses of latent energy approaching, there is apprehension of its arrival.

Nick got pooped twice. On two occasions a steep wave approached the stern broke before the boats transom could lift and allow the wave to slip underneath. I surfed down a very steep face reaching speeds of 12.5 knots. Good learning times. The auto pilot did a fantastic job of steering our coarse which allowed us to keep a good watch , trim sails (although I still don’t really know how to get the best performance from the great white scoopy things) and hang on.

We made our landfall after 32 hours of sailing. It wasn’t such a fast rip after all because the rough weather caused us to shorten sail to only a handkerchief of the headsail out.
Minorca is lovely though. The harbour of Mayon is deep and convoluted with many anchorages. This coast is indented with Calas (deep narrow coves or bays) that are suitable for anchoring. Mayon is also where Mayonnaise originated. The story goes something like this:

A Spanish queen, who’s king ate lots of aioli dressing, loved him but thought his breath always stank of garlic so she whipped up the corm free version and it went down a treat. Today I would like you all to make your own mayonnaise and think of us. Take 3 fresh hens eggs, divide the yolks and beat them with a pinch of salt until they are a little pale and creamy. Then introduce a tiny trickle of XV olive oil (4 tablespoons), still beating furiously (lucky you if you have 240 volt power and a food processor – Nicks arms just about fell off!). this should go quite thick and creamy. Then add 2 tablespoons of lemon juice and a bit more salt I think. If this goes runny then cube potatoes and pour it over them before baking with a stuffed tuna you have just caught and thick slices of eggplant crusted in herbs. Eat this hot with a glass of ambient chilled Rose overlooking the Ile de Molo fortress on a still shining night. Perfect.

G'day from Marseilles

That old adage that cruising is spent carrying out repairs and maintenance in exotic locations is pretty well right at this point in time. We have spent just under a week in Port Saint Louis at the mouth of the Rhone attacking “the List” and chasing mail from NZ and Perth. The area is called ‘Province’ and within it lies the Camague, known for it’s wild grey horses, rice growing and water birds. We rode 10 km to the beach one day over the flat marsh land that is the vast delta of the Rhone. Along the way, amongst the salt pans and brackish estuaries we counted 44 flamingos. The Mosquitoes here are worse than I have ever seen in an urban setting.

On Thursday morning at 7am we cast off for Marseilles. We had planned to leave at 4am in the morning but were pleasantly surprised to find it wasn’t 55 miles away as previously thought but only 25 miles. We had a fantastic sail, downwind with 20 knots and the full headsail out. A sail maker at Marseilles had said that his friend the rigger may be able to swage our NZ terminals so we went there in hope that we could finally get new rigging for PC.

Its pretty trippy sailing into a Rivearian setting like this. There are at least 3000 yachts in the marina which is situated centrally to this old port town. There are more olive skinned suits talking on mobiles and holding leather briefcases than there are crumbs in a croissant . Everyone groovy rides a scooter. Because the streets are pretty dirty and the air pollution smudges the edges of the blue sky, the city looks far better at night when the architecture is lit up and the bars set out their chairs and tables.

We now have new rigging and will be moving on this morning after a quick weather update.

We stumbled across and unsecured wireless network this morning and as such we are posting this from the comfort of PC’s saloon and Blue has just gone on deck to take a photo of the Marseille marina area to post as well.