A Toe in the Maghreb

Cafe des Delices looking down to the port

We left Pantelleria after doing the weather analysis bit to death and were rewarded with exactly what we expected, 15 - 20 knot winds on the beam and a rocky 18 hours in a short sea. We gave Cap Bon on the north eastern tip of Tunisia a very wide berth, having noted the prevalence of wrecks on the chart, and found ourselves in the middle of the gulf of Tunis at sunrise. The marina at Sidi Bou Said was unresponsive on the VHF and a silted entrance meant approaching without some understanding of the state of the dredged chanel was a dicey business. Thanks to Mohamed, who we met in Pantelleria, we had the harbour master’s personal phone number and he sorted out our arrival in no time at all. We were tucked into a quiet and very protected space and asked to visit the customs and marina office when we were ready. The police and customs could not have been friendlier or more efficient and I have to say it irks me how people write spurious stuff about them and how they are all on the take. Of course French is the other main language here and, once again, it rather helps to use it. A warmer reception we have seldom experienced and everyone we saw not only said hello but wished us ‘La bienvenue’. We called Mohamed to thank him for arranging the berth and indicated we wanted to reciprocate in some form.

Zitouna Mosque

It being Ramadan now, we were not sure of what to suggest. He in turn said it was no effort at all and suggested we join his family for a meal to break fast that evening. I have been in other muslim countries during Ramadan  (notably Indonesia) so I had some inkling of what to expect. Nevertheless to be invited to a family dinner is hospitality squared. We went into the medina and ate on the roof terrace of M’Rabet just near the Zitouna Mosque. We were served brik a l’oeuf while we were bathed in the glorious scent of charcoal grilled lamb. It was delicious if a little rushed though as even the waiters and cooks pushed the pace, given that they could only eat once the guests had finished. Fasting is for the resolute, that is for certain. We returned to the relative calm of the marina, after battling through some mad traffic, and opened the fridge, I say no more...

The glorious Bardo Museum

The next morning we made an excursion into Tunis, which would not be complete without a visit to the Bardo museum. So, shrugging off the offer of a limousine, we hopped into a local taxi that had obviously some wheel alignment issues. Our driver bravely kept his failing car on the road by coaxing the wheel constantly to port then immediately to starboard as if he had been schooled in yaw damping from an early age. We had pre-negotiated what seemed a fair price for the ride, but the settlement was not complete until he tried to levy the agreed fare on each of us. He good-naturedly laughed off his own attempt at a last gasp negotiation and we crossed a crazily busy road to enter the sanctuary of the museum. Only a few years ago though an atrocity played out here and it was all but a sanctuary in March 2015, but life moves on and even in the heightened security, a state of relative calm has been restored.

The Bardo is an expansive and overwhelming place that has a concentration of antiquity on display that takes some time to digest. It seems absurd too that one studies these breathtaking ancient artifacts, while walking on byzantine mosaic floors (in fact just about all the exhibits are unprotected), but it is a rare occurrence that we chose to savour and not question in this instance.

Baptism in style

The span of millenia and cultures presented encompasses the Greek, Roman, early Christian, Jewish and Islamic worlds. It is perhaps not without small surprise that the state of preservation of some of these artifacts from the other two Abrahamic religions are in such pristine condition and presented with such respect. Clearly there is a barrier of prejudice a bit further to our north whose existence is not supported by the evidence on the ground here. Most of our journey over the past few years can be characterised as having had its roots in The Idea of South, which I have borrowed (antithetically) from Glenn Gould’s 1967 documentary ‘The Idea of North’ from his Solitude Trilogy. As we venture to the southern reaches of Europe though, we are presented with the truth that there is a southern perimeter which has more to do with boundaries of preference and bias than any real borders. We sit most of the year in Sicily, which itself is on part of the African Mediterranean plate and whose history is entirely intertwined with the Maghreb. The reasons found in polite society, not to do such journeys are numerous, but in reality they are the only way one can dispel these myths. Flying to these places is not the same as us sailing along at 5 or 6 knots and tracking our progress painstakingly slowly between Europe and Africa. The sea is the same sea, fishing vessels large and small form a practically contiguous activity between the Christian north and Islamic South and their co-existence is as beneficial as it has ever been.

Ulysses

Having reached saturation point we made our way to the tram and caught the number three to Tunis Marine. This same Alstom tram is to be found in many large EU cities, but usually rather less packed full of people. On the subsequent train journey to Sidi Bou Said we realised again why travelling in a limo or even taxi, hermetically seals you from experiencing these new surroundings first hand. One is warned about pickpockets, but in reality the people watching opportunity far outweighs the risk of losing a few Dinars, which we at no stage felt we were in danger of doing anyway. I am not sure that on the London Underground for instance you will see a youngster jumping up to give his seat to an old man, not me I hasten to add, or complete strangers trying to make a connection with tourists and each other through constant conversation in French, Tunisian, Arabic, English, and smatterings of German. My Tunisian is non-existent, of course, but I would bet a penny to a pound that Solitude is not a much used word here.
This bohemian village, Sidi Bou Said, sits on the top of hill above the port and presents a totally different picture and atmosphere to that of most of the capital, Tunis. It is very picturesque and its whitewashed walls, decorated (mostly blue) doors, Moucharabiehs, opulent bougainvilleas and fragrant jasmine, create an aesthetic and luminescence that has attracted artists for over a century.

Paul Klee, August Macke and Louis Moilliet visited here just over a hundred years ago and were captivated by its luminous quality - it has been billed as the visit that changed modern art. The sea breeze and prevailing winds mean that the air is clear and fresh providing relief from the soaring summer temperatures, which approach 50 degrees in August.
Whether or not the reputation as an artists’ hub is valid today is a matter for conjecture, but certainly production ceramics are on offer all over, making for an unnecessarily commercial sight. After we met a man with a Falcon whose photogenic bird came at a price, we stopped at the Cafe de Delices, of Patrick Bruel fame. It stands at the top of Les 365 Marches, which lead down to the port, and provides a glorious view of the gulf and sadly, probably, the promise of the North. We decided to visit Tunisia on a whim, but leave in the certain knowledge that it was an essential thing to do. We head now to familiar waters again, but I am certain with a new perspective.

Our Current Location

Setting Sail Again

MdR - the obvious allure

Finally our 2018 sailing season has started with our departure from Marina di Ragusa on Sunday. After months of being tied up there is always the slight hesitation as to whether everything will work as it should.  As most of us are blessed with a fair dose of OCD, we tend to triple check things and then invent another list to re-check. Suffice it to say, if something doesn't work by the time you leave, you have very bad luck.
My last minute headache that I discovered quite by chance was the autopilot hydraulic pump that stopped working. It characteristically sits in a position best visited by 2 ft high engineers with #13 sockets and a hook wrench. Since, outside of French boatyards (this is a French boat), these are in short supply, I was forced to improvise with the aid of much blue air and the suspension of my claustrophobia.  Luckily the, again French, manufacturer of said hydraulic cylinder was able to send me a new set of seals almost quicker than you can say 140 Euros. I fear that this new found-skill of rebuilding hydraulic linear drives will have a somewhat limited application, nevertheless it is worth the one-off effort when balanced against the prospect of hand steering for 27 hours to Tunisia in the sometimes rough Sicilian channel.  This was my final task before I got into the realms of inventing things and upon Catherine's return from some work, and a slight pause to have a birthday meal with friends, we set off, I a year older,  west for a gentle day sail to be sure, to be sure that all was well.

Chiesa del Carmine - Sciacca

We anchored outside Licata once again and agreed that our sea-legs must have improved somewhat as the rolling in a moderate swell had no discernable negative effect upon morale. The water is still a touch chilly, but clean and clear enough for me to dive to see that below the water-line all quite free of fouling and even the anode was relatively intact. Ian of Linea persuaded me to buy a galvanic isolator which I installed last year and has saved me the enormous cost of a 4 Euro anode. I jest of course, as the extent of the saving is more like the difference between the propeller staying a 3 blade one and not becoming a 2 blade version.  This may sound a bit dramatic, but certain retail habits require  special justification.

We had had in mind to sail to Mazara del Vallo early the next morning, but along the way, after 9 hours of heavy swell and a 30 knot wind, we decided that, the cobwebs sufficiently cleared, we would stop in Sciacca instead; foregoing another 5 hours of being battered about. The mooring up in Nautico Corallo was relatively painless despite the very heavy cross wind. The Ormeggiatore was super helpful and we managed to tie up with no dented egos or scratched gel-coat. I must have been digesting Giorgio of Amalfi's boat handling skills all winter.

Bentivegna -  1 of 20,000

Ceramic lined streets

Awaiting a tourist

After we cleared our heads of the wind we headed up to the town which is at the top of 200 steps, or so they say. One is greeted by an expansive piazza overlooking the port and surrounded by a combination of typical Sicilian Baroque and some younger less illustrious architecture with cobbled streets going further up a steep hill. We soon found, what turned out to be an excellent Pizzeria, very aptly named Bellavista and enjoyed a lovely meal served by a very friendly and attentive waiter.  I had an inkling that we would stay here for more time than we had planned.

Castello Incantato - Sciacca

In the morning, the wind had abated and the sun returned with a vengeance. The heat made for a welcome change and we headed back up the steps for a gelato. Our next stop was a hat stop as I thought a panama hat would be a suitable accoutrement to try again after the previous one I bought on Naxos was swept away hours after having bought it. We stepped into a vignette of Sicilian life as we crossed the threshold of this milliner's store. The hat purchase out of the way, we got talking to the father and daughter owners and covered subjects as far ranging as the occupation of Sicily by the Bourbonnes to the benefits of Durum wheat in the bread of the south.  It struck us that there is an eloquence here that illustrates a knowledge of the historical as well as contemporary context of Sicily beyond what we are used to experiencing at home. I am still a relative bystander in these conversations as my Italian progresses to marginally beyond the 'negotiate a mooring with the Ormeggiatore' level, nevertheless I am glad that I understand a lot more now and am not tempted to try and switch into English.  It is an important journey in the road to acceptance here albeit that dialect has a strong presence and is quite unfathomable.

This encounter left us feeling that Sicily is a series of short stories that one seems to walk into.  Our next one was, perhaps somewhat predictably, in a wine shop.  It was already nearly 1pm and, what looked like a well stocked wine boutique was about to close. He said he would stay open for a few minutes while we looked around though and we scoured the shelves for familiar and new labels. He happened to have a particular red that we enjoy very much but that we seldom find. We said we might stop by later in the afternoon as we didn't feel like carrying bottles in the heat down to the port. He said, 'oh, you're in a boat... are you at Lega Navale or Corallo?'. 'Corallo', I said. 'Well I have a boat there too, I will bring the wine to you this evening'.  You fish then, I guessed. Yes! and out came the phone with pictures of his prize catches, the last one being a 90kg Swordfish just about as big as him.  The importance of his lunch hour receded as we discussed the state of the sea between Sciacca and Tunisia and where the Tuna are to be found since the Swordfish population has dwindled.  Again a short story encounter. Someone who, on the face of it, is a wine shop proprietor, but whose passion is clearly fishing, his motor boat and getting on the water.

More heads

Our next excursion was to an open air museum a short ride away. While at the bus stop a spritely octogenarian started talking to me asking where I was from. It was a ruse of course, as he had no real intention of remembering. He had worked in the textile industry in Arnhem in the Netherlands for many years and was able to compress his life's story into the 12 minute bus wait. I figured out that he had a 180 second memory as every three minutes he asked 'Di dove sei?' followed by the obligatory reference to a northern language joke 'Warum Banane krumm?'.   The arrival of the number 4 bus brought the encounter to a tidy close and we headed towards Castello Incantato the home of one of Sciacca's famous and eccentric sons, Filippo Bentivegna.  I like sculpture as much as the next guy, but his feat of having carved 20,000 heads during his lifetime seemed to the lay person a triumph of quantity over quality. A bit hard to copy though, so he gets gold in the originality department.

We left Sciacca full of impressions, mostly pleasant but also with a touch of melancholy for the slightly run-down nature of it all. The dearth of tourists though is also a blessing and perhaps the balance is just right.

Panama and Fiat

Lago di Venere

Hippies in town again

Our next stop was Pantelleria, a small volcanic island 65 nautical miles SW and a short sail from the East coast of Tunisia. Despite being June already, the harbour was relatively empty and we were able to tie up without any problem...or charge.  We hired a car for a couple of days and explored this rocky, yet verdant place.  Its proximity to Africa and the Maghreb is palpable and the Dammusi (houses) with their characteristic dry stone walls and whitewashed dome roofs give it an other worldly feel.

Scauri on Pantelleria - Wonderful food, but dodgy mooring

There is a disproportionate number of good  restaurants here it seems and we mostly ate out savouring some really good Rascasse with our neighbours on the quay.  There are thermal springs that flow into the sea and we enjoyed the incongruous sensation of 40 degree celcius pools a few feet away from what is still a chilly sea.  Another sight is the Lago di Venere, a very shallow thermal lake with temperatures rising to above 50 degrees in places.  It would not be like me not to mention that the local desert wine from the Zibibbo grape, Passito, is particularly delectable and a number of well-known wineries such as Pellegrino and the picturesque Donnafugata have a significant presence here.

Donnafugata Winery

Architecture that divides opinion

Flora for volcanoes

With an eye on an approaching weather pattern, our plan was to head next to a convenient port in Tunisia. Coincidentally a yacht from Sidi Boussaid  - just near Tunis, was moored up almost next to us and we got chatting to the crew who said they could arrange a berth in what is otherwise a very busy marina.  This is just next to the historical site of Carthage and seemed like the ideal place to be.  While it is not very far, probably 14 - 16 hours sail, finding a weather window is more of a challenge with the Sicilian channel throwing up all sorts of obstacles.  We decided upon an overnight Wednesday to Thursday and busied ourselves with some boat preparation tasks while we waited for the wind to change direction. The next post, and I had not thought I would say this, will be from Africa... a presto!

Tropea, Scilla, Siracusa back to Marina di Ragusa

Santa Maria del Isola - Tropea

We arrived at Tropea quite early in the day having left Cetraro just after 2 am having successfully managed to dodge a couple of thunderstorms in the Tyrrhenian sea along the way.  I have a thing about lightning and do whatever I can to avoid it, evidenced by any amount of apps I have that pinpoint strikes. As we bobbed about for a while deciding whether to anchor out or go into the marina we were buzzed by the Guardia di Finanza in a menacing speedboat. They chose the wrong moment and person (not me) as they were told to back off and follow us in if they wanted to see any paperwork. They duly obeyed and hovered around us for ages before they got our documents and then took the best part of an hour to decipher the difference between our surnames and first names. If it were not for the fact that they can cause untold grief one may have made an attempt at more humour.
Tropea held many pleasant memories for us after our last visit almost exactly a year ago and we enjoyed revisiting its picturesque cobbled alleyways at the top of a ridiculous number of steps. I really wanted to go back to the fishing tackle shop and notify the owner that his recommendation of a particular lure, after having ridiculed me for what I had been using, had been useless, as in almost 1800 nautical miles I had caught nothing. Nothing. Ok, so I hadn't put the line out for most of the time, but still, there was no need to poke fun at me. His shop was closed though, probably went out of business,  poetic justice I thought to myself.

Scilla 

Our next stop a few days later was Scilla, which we had tried to visit last year, but were unable to find a spot. We called in advance this time and got just about the last buoy as things were winding down for the end of the season.  We were really glad we were able to stop here as it is a beautiful place. We stayed for a few days avoiding the bad weather that was ahead of us and tried to get the timing right for the Messina Strait this time around. It can go 5.5 knots for or against you if you don't pay attention and last year we had not paid attention.
We then made our way south towards Taormina, but the swell was so huge that we gave up on the idea of anchoring or being on a buoy there and headed on to Riposto which we reached after an eight hour day of rolling seas. The harbour is a combination of derelict pontoons and a quite well organised marina, the former being signs of an ownership dispute and the complexities of local politics about which one tends not to speak too openly in Sicily. This fronting a relatively tourist-free working town with buzzing fish markets, all under Etna's slopes. Etna was quite active last year even causing flights to be cancelled, but it was dormant and barely visible under a table cloth of cloud when we were there. Whereas we turn to the hose to clean our decks after a sandy desert rainfall, the winter liveaboards in Riposto reach for their vacuum cleaners when Etna's ash regularly creates a sooty layer on their boats.

Serious music in Siracusa

The bohemian quarter

Tuna man in Cossack gear

Our luck with the weather persisted and we left for Siracusa, arriving after they had had a week of rain, the very wet kind. The historical centre of Siracusa is on the small island of Ortygia, which is connected to the modern city by two bridges across a narrow canal. It has a very rich history dating back some 2700 years to Greek times and was a powerful city state then as well as the birthplace of Archimedes. It is a beautiful bustling city today with a lively market and lots of tourists. We have visited the market before and made a beeline for our favourite deli to stock up on all sorts of tasty delights. A deli in which you are sure to lose your heart if not your wallet as well. The gradual migration back to winter moorings meant we saw more and more friends along the way and in the Porto Grande in Siracusa. When we arrived Peter from Paikea welcomed us. We were also anchored near Susan and Tom of Sirena as well as Luda and Dave of Bobcat and we met up for a great evening together at a pizzeria under the entrance of the Duomo.

The old and the very old

Our favourite deli

End of season clouds

With only 60 or so nautical miles left to sail back to Marina di Ragusa now, we took our time and stopped off halfway in Portopalo at the south eastern tip of Sicily, and enjoyed a lovely sunset and meal as the sailing season drew to a close.  We had a calm last night at anchor nestled in the small harbour in the company of Dakini who had just sailed a long stretch and What's the Rush who we had been sailing alongside more or less since Amalfi. Next day we tried our best to sail in very light winds and, having time on our side, kept the engine off to enjoy the silence of a gentle, albeit slow sail.  The calm conditions made mooring up a relaxed affair and it was lovely to be greeted by familiar faces on the dock as we came in to our winter mooring on L dock.

Back in time for olive picking

Although the days are shorter now there is still no shortage of sunshine and the beach and outdoors still beckon. We had a relaxed week of preparing the boat for some of the winter tasks ahead interspersed with violin practice (for an upcoming project), olive picking at Giles', as well, of course, catching up with friends and swapping summer stories. I intentionally left our sails on before heading to Menton for two weeks, hoping the weather would be good enough for some extra sailing when we got back, either for a lunch at anchor somewhere along the coast or an excursion to Malta perhaps,  conditions permitting. Someone forgot to warn us that this is addictive.

Next destination, Menton

Rome, Amalfi Coast and Calabria

After an interminable study of the weather and considering every permutation, we left Porto Vecchio and set off for Rome at eight in the morning. The benign conditions soon turned rough and very lumpy with some four to five meter waves breaking on our stern quarter making for a tiring and sleepless crossing. 27 hours later we were glad to be tied up in Porto di Roma situated just a few hundred meters south of the mouth of the Tiber river and on the outskirts of Ostia. The marina is a sprawling place with hundreds and hundreds of boats, yet it looks a little forlorn. The story goes that in 1975 the film director and writer Paolo Pasolini was murdered here in Ostia and his body dumped in wasteland next to where the marina was built. Ostia is still not very salubrious but in contrast the marina staff are very friendly and this provided an excellent stopover for visiting the eternal city as well as Ostia Antica. The centre of Rome is not far by train and Metro and we went in a few times to imbibe the sights and cuisine. Again the experience of the crowds and people hustling to sell you tickets to avoid queues is a novelty I am happy to dispense with. For all that I have travelled, weirdly I have never been to Rome before. Immersing oneself in the scale and significance of the historical buildings and ruins is something to behold and it is not possible to get more than a glimpse of the importance of the place in a few days.  A couple of days turned into a week as we lingered, partly just enjoying the visit and partly waiting for a repair to our mainsail that suffered a touch from the crossing.


The temperature had been dropping steadily and, having seen that only 12 hours sail further south it was a good 7° warmer, we left and headed for the island of Ponza. Probably impossible in August, it was not too busy at all now and we found a calm anchorage just a short dinghy ride from the harbour and centre of the village. Well short dinghy ride assuming your outboard engine is working perfectly - enough said. The island itself is very narrow and a short walk up a steep hill soon takes you to the other side providing spectacular views of colourful cliffs dropping down to glorious beaches. In the peak season these are fed by a constant stream of ferries bringing in mostly Romans who soak up the sun and push up the prices. Nevertheless it remains a picturesque and charming place whose natural beauty is able to successfully shrug off the ill effects of the tourist trade.

Ponza

Ponza anchorage

Deserted beaches

Again we bumped in to cruising friends, Peter and Christene whom we met in Bonifacio and realised we were all headed to Ischia the next morning. The race was on and binoculars out prepared to check exhausts for any signs of cheating. We departed at dawn and my excuse for falling behind is our tonnage and that I was too lazy to take the dinghy out of the water, whereas they have davits and an X Yacht, the latter point being rather an advantage. After several attempts, a few in weeds and one picking up half the bow of a wooden fishing vessel, we anchored south of the castle on the east coast just next to Ischia town. The night ended up being very rocky as if the whole of the bay of Naples was out for revenge, so we gave up on going to Procida and made our way towards Capri.

Ischia anchorage - calm during the day, less so at night!

Our cunning plan was to arrive really early and maximise the time in the marina which we knew to be expensive. The € 230 charge however is strictly for 24 hours which starts at 2pm sharp. Of course we were really early and would have had to bob about in a rough inhospitable sea for over four hours before we could enter the marina. Since that seemed like a stupid idea we pocketed the marina fee and went on to Amalfi. We have only known the Amalfi coast over the years by road and as spectacular as that sight is, it does not compare with the view from the water. The steep cliffs with impossibly perched villages present a truly dramatic vista. Of course for those of us constantly concerned about the weather it also provides the perfect opportunity to say katabatic and anabatic in the same sentence and seem as if you really know what you are talking about. We circled around a bit and looked to see if an anchorage that I had read about was viable. It was not long before we realised it wasn’t and as if by magic Giulio appeared in his red RIB, sidled up to us and asked if we wanted a berth. After a touch of haggling we said yes and, without any further ado, he clipped his dinghy on to our stern, hopped on board and drove us in. What followed was a true masterclass in boat handling. He took us into an impossibly tight spot with no hesitation or even the slightest touching of fenders. Later we witnessed even greater feats when put boats in places no one believed possible. The skippers on the pontoon, jaws dropped, applauded enviously. He, Giulio, took it in his stride of course, his ultra casual attitude only slightly masking him basking in the glory of it all. I got talking to him and he had all sorts of advice for me about my spare outboard engine that I had stripped and whose carburettor I was cleaning. The gist of it was that I should chuck it in a deep section of the harbour and call my insurance. I fear there may be more to his idea than I would care to admit.

Picture

Postcard

Amalfi

Leaving Amalfi a couple of days later, we ventured south into, for us, unexplored territory. There are not many ports of refuge between here and Tropea 130 nm to the south and the ones that are there, do not respond to phone calls or the radio. Given that some silt up badly, some communication would be nice, if not essential. Anyway, we headed for Acciaroli and getting no response at all and after navigating through 70cm of water below the keel we moored up alongside the fuel berth where we were not bothered, except for the fuel man who pointedly said 'do not reverse!' - seems we had already found the deepest part of the harbour. We have a running joke about places that are described as 'gems' in the pilot book, but turn out to be a euphemism for something else, like 'this could be a gem if someone cared', or 'once was a gem but not in living memory', or 'define gem'. Acciaroli, however, 'is a gem'. The buildings are beautiful, it is mostly pedestrianised, has quaint boutiques and restaurants, not a single piece of litter and not a fridge magnet shop in sight. We ate at a lovely restaurant where the menu was simply a basis for one to discuss the construction of a meal. Even the wine list was only a guideline, as the owner having carefully listened to my order of a particular red, brought a white from a different region, because his choice was going to be better. Obviously, it was.

Tight spaces in Amalfi

Accioroli

Scario

Our next two stops were Scario and Cetraro, neither of which we spent much time in as we were aiming to get back to Tropea, and the familiar edginess of Calabria. We last visited almost exactly a year ago and, since it is so famous for its glorious red onions 'Cipolla Rossa di Tropea', I though I might even try onion ice cream this time.