An Adriatic Season

Crotone's past

The observant among you will have spotted that I sneaked this post in anachronistically, as the year to which it belongs is one we all would rather have forgotten about. I also failed to exploit the word anachronistic while in Greece last time around, so unashamedly I do so now. Our grand idea for 2021, the one where the phrase 'the best-laid plans, of mice and men' comes from, was to sail to Venice, tie up in San Giorgio Maggiore Yacht Harbour and sip Prosecchi while watching the passing traffic in the Canale Grande.  This, after exploring the length of the east coast of Italy.

Wedded to Bari?

Well, after a friend's boat sank on the way to Greece just as the season started, we approached long passages with some trepidation and in my mind's eye I could see short day hops of 50 to 60 nautical miles shaping our summer.  Our first shakedown sail to Portopalo however, which is on the SE tip of Sicily and a minor staging post for cruisers to head east, went very smoothly. So smoothly in fact that we sailed the next 36-hour leg to Crotone in Calabria unfazed by the idea we might hit a semi-submerged container and sink. A lot of mind games in this sailing business. 

Crotone was not only on the way but was a stop for some necessary out of the water maintenance, which was overdue as a consequence of the dreaded plague delaying things.  The boatyard visit coincided with a minor heatwave and we found ourselves two meters above the concrete storage heater, the yard floor, in 38° Celsius heat for 10 days. My blood must have thinned a lot recently, as I don't remember it worrying me that much. Well, aside from the one afternoon when I was doing something on the electrics and the sweat pouring off my forehead just about shorted out the batteries.

After being very well looked after by Elio and his team we sailed away the following week, noticeably slippery and achieving much better speeds. We charted some familiar waters and ports along the way stopping briefly at Gallipoli, Santa Maria di Leuca and Otranto before we got to Brindisi, where we moored just under the steps at the end  - or the beginning - of the Appian Way. No cheap jokes about all roads leading to Rome here. Many centuries of opposing rulers have left their mark here too and while there are many beautiful buildings, it is a hard-working port and the grime and some ugly architecture of the twentieth century tend to dilute the beauty. Nevertheless, there are some gems nestled between the concrete and one's eye focuses on them.

Final touches before re-launching	Some salutary lessons there
San Giovanni al Sepolcro - Brindisi	An ugly rudder to fallen sailors - Brindisi

The Appian Way - Brindisi

The harbour, in the shape of a deer's head, supposedly where the name originates is a fantastically well-protected place so we took the opportunity to leave the boat and catch a train a little way up the coast to visit Monopoli, which we intended to do anyway, but which has a time limit on the harbour wall.  It is a real picture-postcard village and its pedestrian zone is like an extended boutique, quaint as it is crowded. We had a very pleasant lunch in the company of hugely affable strangers, all bound by the same desire to celebrate the good life. We returned by boat a couple of days later and made use of the harbour wall, which is slightly limiting in that strictly speaking one person has to remain on the boat at any one given time.

Heading further northwest up the coast we passed Polignano a Mare, where we had hoped to stop and anchor, but the conditions made it untenable. Polignano is one of those ridiculously picturesque places that looks entirely different from sea level than when photographed from a drone at the golden hour for Instagram.  This 'beauty-on-demand' feature is not good for expectations that are tempered by reality. 

Our plan B was Mola di Bari, which I only mention fleetingly as a favour to fellow sailors because I would advise you to avoid it if at all humanly possible. Despite the new harbour breakwater which imparts a sense of confidence and protection, the swell came in around the corner to such an extent that in the night we thought we may capsize. In the end, the only damage was to a picture that came off the wall and our judgement which had been thrown into doubt. We left before dawn to escape and find shelter in Bari. The drama, we thought, would end the minute we entered the old harbour and, we were at least half right.  The quay in the harbour is not controlled and is supposedly free to boats in transit for 72 hours, while the rest of the basin is too shallow for us to anchor.   We stayed for 2 nights and were grateful for the shelter and even the bizarre company of the fishermen who unloaded the bowels of their vessels right next to us at all hours. During the early hours of the third night, my sixth sense picked up that we were moving.  I got up very quickly and saw that we were untied and drifting toward the shallow end of the harbour and beyond that the open sea. Someone had released our lines and while it felt pretty dramatic at the time, we were only about a boat length away from our original spot.  I hurriedly started the engine and nudged us back averting any further drama. Neither of us got any sleep after that and as soon as was sensible we headed for a marina a mile or two away in the new harbour.

Pasta Ladies of Bari Vecchia	Square of the Inamorati - Bari
Table with a view - Vrnik	Croatian Sailrite convention

This inauspicious start to our stay led to a surprisingly memorable week for all the right reasons.  The old town is a vibrant place with lots of activity day and night. The cobbled alleyways opposite the imposing Norman Fort, host a number of ladies who sit at makeshift stations outside their homes making mostly Orecchiette pasta and Taralli.  It is a slightly contrived scene, yet they supply tourists and restaurants alike.  At night the Piazzas come alive with street food and informal restaurants, frequented by locals and tourists. The local families spill out of their homes and watch the unfolding spectacle. The modern 'Murat' quarter is as McDonalised as any other city so we gave that a miss to hire a car and spend some time inland.  We ended up in Altamura, which has an ancient baking tradition, a beautiful Cathedral and is where Mercadante was born.  You can gloss over this last fact if you didn't study music history or play the flute.  We pushed on to Matera after savouring a delectable Foccacia and spent the rest of the day wandering up and down the warren of alleys connecting these iconic erstwhile cave dwellings. Situated on the side of two steep canyons this otherworldly place was host to a troglodyte population from pre-historic times until it was evacuated in 1952 due to squalor, disease and crumbling structures.  Predictably, it is now home to numerous boutique hotels and Airbnb properties.  

Bari Cathedral

Some 20 nautical miles further west-northwest along the coast lies Trani, our next stop.  I have to admit it is a city of which I was as ignorant, as I was pleasantly surprised. Visually it is stunning and the locally quarried limestone has a tinge with a special warm luminance that mimics the photographer's golden hour, but all day long.  It is one of Italy's smaller cities and along with its charm it has a rich and interesting history. The Cattedrale di San Nicola Pellegrino stands out and, in my mind, aesthetically has few equals.  Less obvious is the history of the Jewish community here, which reached a peak in the Middle Ages and four synagogues served the significant minority population. This until the fall of Apulia to the Kingdom of Naples, when all remaining Jews were forced to convert to Christianity and the synagogues were converted into Churches. The 13th Century Scola Nova Synagogue was handed back to the Jewish community only a couple of dozen years ago and is now the oldest functioning synagogue in Europe.

Our stay in Trani was only two days, leaving us with an appetite to return.  We did need to move on, however, as it was becoming increasingly clear that the weather was against us more frequently than it was for our plan of pushing on to Venice. Local opinion, in each marina, echoed the view that one should cross over to Croatia to be in the lee of the wind.

Santa Maria Assunta - Altamura	Altamura DOP Durum wheat
Matera - Basilicata	Vieste - looking towards Croatia

We decided to go as far as Vieste which sits on the eastern promontory of the mainland and hosts the Gargano National park. Once a battleground for all the usual marauders, today it asserts itself as a tourist destination, with long clean beaches and leafy campsites.  Our intention to anchor until we made a decision about our next stop was, once again, thwarted by an uncomfortable swell from which we could not escape.  The Tremiti islands as idyllic as they look, are a fairweather destination and we soon realised that sailing up the east coast to Venice in this weather pattern was a fool's errand. We could have motored, but the idea of that didn't seem appealing at all.  So, with little hesitation, we changed our minds and headed straight across the Adriatic to Croatia and, after a glorious sail, arrived at Lastovo.  This tiny island is part of an archipelago that has national park status and as a result, is as clean as it is pricey. The check-in process was painless, contrary to much that is written about it. The customs agent arrived within an hour of us calling him and the harbourmaster was friendly enough given we were going to separate him from his Friday afternoon sundowner. Grumpy tidings of the need for cash and the complexity of the cruising tax,  are not to be believed and we were soon able to head a mere mile away to a gloriously peaceful and clean cove with plenty of space to ourselves, in water that was crystal clear.  Such was the sense of calm there that we stayed for over a week before setting off for a small bay on the north of the island where we moored up on the jetty of a restaurant that offered completely free shelter in exchange for expensive food. Well, not that expensive, given that they served the tastiest lobster linguini ever.  Truth be told, I could have stayed here for the duration of our prepaid month's cruising tax, but one doesn't sail alone and being sedentary doesn't sit well with all of us.

Croatia as a sailing destination is a story of two halves. One is free and one is not. Seeking out the former is part of the sport and since we had paid to be in the national park for nearly two weeks, we looked for shelter where there were no fees.  We started at the northwest end of Korcula for a night until the NW wind came in and we had to move to a little bay replete with a beach bar and mini-market.  Uvala Prizba played host to us for a week, during which time few other yachts came to share the anchorage, just leaving the lively beach, windsurfing school and occasional jet-ski to compete with the calm.  Languid days of swimming, eating and the occasional land visit flew by until a forecast South Easterly made us move to Vrnik, a little island just opposite a place called Lumbarda where, completely coincidentally, we had spent a while more than a decade ago doing a stay and sail course.  

 

Yachties generally agree that places can be categorised as A, B or C spots.  Predominantly we avoid A spots.  They cause budget recalibration and the people who feel comfortable there are usually not the type around whom we feel at home. Vrnik was probably a C spot nevertheless, we spent the best part of a week there again.  The islet itself is pretty inaccessible and that is part of the appeal. We took the dinghy around the north side for a wander the one day as there are no paths to cross it and found a quaint, run-down tavern to enjoy a glass of local white.  I think that the saying Caveat Emptor was coined on this shore, as when we got the bill for the wine and mineral water, I had to check the exchange rate again to make sure I understood that it amounted to €60.  The philosophical side of me reckoned the only way to get over the shock was to tell the story about 12 fold and assign a nominal €5 return to each time. I feel much better after that and am down to about €45. 

Okuklje - as good as it gets.

This habit of a week here and a week there soon had an impact on the number of days remaining in our month and we needed to make a decision about what to do. Until that point, we had pretty much excluded the northwest from our agenda, although for a figurative minute we were distracted by an offer of concerts that Catherine received, which would have meant a sail to Split for the airport. This lasted for as long as the logistics proved to be just too tricky, so we reverted to the original arc of our journey and focused on moving southeast. We had had Mljet in our sights before, but I mistakenly thought the whole island was a national park, where the fees can be KN800 a night to moor somewhere.  Well, firstly, only the northwest is a park and anyway, 800 sounds worse than it is when you get a calculator out and convert it to real money.  We headed to another Konoba (Tavern with a jetty) in a little place called Okuklje. Pleasing for a number of reasons; shelter, tranquillity and unusually a better balance between vowels and consonants.  When you visit places like Vrnik, or especially Krk, you start to worry about the vowels. 

This was definitely a B spot and, until the charter boats arrived on day 3, we were completely alone. Their arrival coincided with the approach of some gloomy weather being forecast in the coming days, so we sought shelter a few miles away at a tiny upmarket C spot in the bay of Kobas. Known for its fantastic shellfish and proximity to Ston, we savoured the delights of Luka's Konoba, both the excellent food (especially oysters) as well as his sardonic humour. Sadly we missed the opportunity to visit Ston. The weather and time were not in our favour and, against a backdrop of promises to visit it next season, we made a semi dash past Dubrovnik and anchored at Cavtat near the border. 

Our Lady of the Rock - Kotor Montenegro

By this time we had decided to go to Montenegro and Cavtat, being a port of entry, gave us the most convenient place to clear out of Croatia and sail against the wind for a not unreasonable 8 hours in order to get to Porto Montenegro.  Thunderstorms were on the horizon, literally, so the easy check-in at the marina was very welcome. We stayed in this safe berth for two days while the storm blew over. 

Either the forecasts have been very reliable, or our ability to read them much improved, whichever the case we knew that being tied up in a marina that Saturday night was an essential idea. 

This was reinforced when we went out to dinner and within minutes were just about blown off our feet by the squall that came through, disrupting the power supply to the restaurant and leaving us with a chance candlelit meal. Better than the anchoring alternative on this occasion. 

While at the hugely upmarket marina in Tivat we took the opportunity to stock up and have a look around.  This marina was voted the best superyacht marina of the year and is host to some well-known oligarch toys - all a bit irrelevant to us.  It was not long at all after arriving before we were offered a winter mooring and we were tempted for a few minutes. The setting of the high mountains all around is a clue to the fact that there are fierce katabatic winds here and in the winter the shower blocks close at night as the pipes freeze. That last point on its own is enough to turn any fairweather resident away. 

 Escaping the glitz and glamour, we made our way a mile or two south to a quiet anchorage next to an island that is overgrown now but once housed a Club Med before the war.   Both Croatia and Montenegro have visible reminders of the conflict: from submarine pens to pockmarked and derelict buildings to badly camouflaged fortifications. With little industry to speak of the need for tourism is clearly understood here.  Everything in the bay of Kotor is a day's sail away, so we decided to base ourselves here. Tivat was an easy dinghy ride, so provisioning was easy. 

It came time to leave through a combination of weather and our cruising tax coming to an end. The trip back was just over 500 nautical miles, but as with all such return journeys, it seemed shorter.  With one wary eye on the storm forecast, we visited some familiar haunts;  Brucoli, Catania, Marzamemi and finally our home berth in Marina di Ragusa.  We didn't make Venice this year, but we know there is still a spot at the San Giorgio Maggiore yacht harbour waiting for us, it is only a question of how the wind blows next time.

If we are in Marzamemi we are nearly home

  

Cassilda - a Medicane in the mix

Anchored next to Lazareto Island at Vathy

After the events of mid September, it is not hard to fathom why it took the King of Ithaca, Odysseus, so many years to return home. Our near brush with drama there was averted through a healthy dose of luck and some judgement, I would like to think. We were in Vathy, when we saw the low pressure system off Libya develop into Category 1 storm Cassilda (alternately named Ianos) and, as sheltered as our position seemed, we realised that if either of the weather models we were following were correct, this was not the place to be. A subliminal clue too, which I admit to missing at the time, was that the chapel on the islet, Lazareto, next to which we were anchored is named the 'Transfiguration of the Saviour'. Beware of omens, sailor! The German and European weather models diverged as to how far north the eye of the storm would travel, so deciding not to bet either way on that, we headed for the best shelter as far east as we could reach in the time we had available. 

Messolonghi 'Channel' marker

Despite being the place where Lord Byron died, we felt that present-day Messolonghi probably offered better succour than it did him. Getting there was bumpy though as the wind funneling out of the Gulf of Patras proved to be as unpleasant as the swell and waves. We spent a long day outrunning the sense of foreboding if not the storm itself, which was still two days away. By sunset we approached the familiar entrance to Messolonghi, northwards in its narrow channel dredged for two and a half nautical miles in amongst expansive marshlands bordered by mostly derelict fishermen’s houses on precarious looking stilts. 

The channel opens up into a basin that has not suffered from any town-planning. A muddy beach to the east overlooks the industrial town quay where heavy machinery is strewn waiting for a tanker to arrive: while to the west the marina with its run down brutal architecture hardly looks like the safe haven that it purports to be. As we had a day in hand now, we anchored with 5 or 6 boats that looked like they were there for the duration. The holding is fantastic and the bottom is heavy clay that would surely hold in just about any wind. Despite this, we opted to go into the marina the next morning, the prospect of not leaving the boat for a few days to get any respite from the storm and being at constant anchor watch, swaying us.

Banksy's Byron Pilgrimage

By the time we entered the marina there was already a fierce North Easterly fuelling the Medicane and mooring up was a challenge in the cross wind. I reversed in and Catherine took the mooring line to the bow  after which we switched positions and I went forward to pull it in. These ropes are not called slime lines for nothing and it was a task getting it tight in the increasing wind and chop. Someone jumped on board to lend a hand and we tugged at it together.  All secured we looked at each other to shake hands, but we were both covered in thick slimy mud. I introduced myself and thanked him.  'I am Dimitrious', he said, 'but my hands are full of your mud, so call me Mimis, we are friends now'. 

It is not always safer to be tied up, but the Marina Sunset Cafe run by Mimis  just near the pontoons provided welcome relief from the incessant howling of the storm. We secured ourselves to the pontoon with more lines than really necessary and observed the approaching eye of the storm on the weather radar from the comfort of the bar. It hovered over Cephalonia and Ithaca for hours with very high wind speeds and biblical amounts of rain causing havoc. Boats were tossed on their sides and crushed in Argostoli and in Euphemia a number ended their sailing days as they were unceremoniously planted on the town quay. The resulting four casualties were from the flooding in homes and a car buried in rubble -  miraculously no one on a boat. Some of our friends suffered recoverable damage to their yachts, although they remain shaken.

Euphemia

Fiskardo

Argostoli

At anchor in Petelas 

As we drew breath after the storm we headed back into the Ionian via Petelas, which is a little island inhabited only by goats and which provides great shelter from the prevailing winds in an eerie lunar-like setting. The silence there leaves your ears ringing and is the perfect place to escape to. In the night of our third day there, another storm came in from the north and transformed the calm into a cauldron for a few minutes.  Sudden horizontal rain accompanied by high winds and lightning left us with no visibility and in an instant one is completely disorientated.  Our anchor dragged a hundred meters or so and just as I re-anchored it was completely calm again.  That same night in Corfu a number of people ended up with their boats on the beach in the squall measuring over 60 knots.  In the long summer days you are easily lulled into forgetting the forces at play here, but in the space of a week we were provided with some stark reminders.

The next day we gingerly headed back to Vathy and anchored in just over 5 Meters, letting out much more chain than was necessary. We met up with friends for dinner at Nikos' famous restaurant and plotted the end of the season together over hearty fare and average wine.  

Tranquil Kastos

Some friends saw a gap in the weather big enough for the three day passage back to Sicily and promptly left the next day. According to them, they had a “lively” sea, which we were not at all sorry to have missed, our appetite for unpredictable weather being somewhat diminished. 

Late breakfast Kastos

Mid-summer-like conditions invited us to make a brief return visit to Kastos, an island which has taken on the moniker of 'our happy place'. Turquoise water, good company and the odd Monemvasia wine filled our time.  Its protection from the SE is not great though so after a few days we sailed north through the Lefkas canal to the Amvrakikos or Ambracian gulf to enjoy some time in its lagoon-like surroundings while we patiently waited for a good opportunity for our crossing to Sicily.

Fixer-upper opportunity

We stopped a few miles west of Preveza at Vonitsa, a small town of around 5,000 people, which is dominated by a Venetian fortress on the hill above that has presided over nearly a thousand years of occupation by different rulers, most notably the Ottomans and Greeks. The last of the hostilities were towards the end of the Greek war of independence when the Ottomans finally departed in 1828 leaving behind crumbling ruins in an otherwise beautifully verdant setting.  Little information is available after a millennium of history and preservation is obviously not near the top of the application list for EU funding. For such a small place, it has a surfeit of good tavernas and we ate really well for very modest amounts of money. By this time the charter yacht fleets had thinned out and we mostly had familiar neighbours in the anchorage. We had a 'Braai' (South African BBQ) with Saffers we know who were just near to us and tried to avoid too much discussion about storms and weather windows.  We were more or less successful in that regard and wrapped up what felt like being close to the end of the season by leaving for Preveza Marina in the morning.

Remnants of the Garrison's quarters

Looking East to the Vonitsa anchorage

Cleopatra's Thousand Sentinels South of Preveza

Lerici, Rome and home to Sicily

Lerici in the Gulf of Poets

We remained at anchor in Lerici for another week, continuing to enjoy Fabian’s company and resisting the urge to head south, but Catherine had an appointment with a plane in Rome and we wanted to see Elba before that. So, we eventually set off and made for Livorno. Its English name, Leghorn, seems odd, but is the name for the breed of Chicken named after the town, or the egg, I can’t remember which comes first. The town has a long history and the 17th Century canals are just about navigable, if you ignore the wall to wall cento cavalli parked on either bank. We took our dinghy and spent a couple of hours discovering this seat of Medici influence. As friendly as the Ormeggiatore at the Livorno Yacht Club was, the fee reflected that one was was in Tuscany now, leading us to move on swiftly the following day.

Being serenaded from the bandstand	Ferrying Fabs to rehearsals
Time for a project	Bay of Poets from above Lerici

Elba is about 9 hours due South from Livorno at our pace and we arrived in the mid afternoon in the bay of Portoferraio. While safe with great holding, the water is not exactly pristine, given that Sardinia sets the standard. Even though this is difficult to match, the bay is definitely not somewhere I would swim voluntarily. Aside from the Medici, Portoferraio’s other famous resident was Napoleon. Although he was only here from the spring of 1814 to the beginning of 1815 when he ‘escaped’, the Bonaparte brand permeates town as if he had been here a lifetime. His accomplishments in that short space of time were breathtaking and would that modern organisers had the ability to mobilise a society to affect such change and momentum. He got the mines working (he was the beneficiary of their output, of course), animated the building of a theatre and sparked the rise of countless fridge magnet kiosks on the wharf to name but few of his achievements .

Entrance to the Livorno Canals	Renaissance fortifications
Napoleon's view of Portoferraio	Medici's town

As a westerly was headed our way, we sailed around to Porto Azzurro, which is only open to the east. The name is slightly misleading, the Azzurro part I mean, but it is a charming and a somewhat upmarket place, no doubt from having been graced with Tuscan discretionary spend over many decades. We visited a few more anchorages before deciding that trying to recapture the idyllic nature of Sardinia was only possible by sailing back to there. So, instead, we left for Cala Galera just near the Island of Giglio - where the Costa Concordia ran aground in 2012. We were in the middle of a 100 nautical mile trip to get to Rome so we decided not to hang about and left there in the morning and stopped just south of Civitavecchia at Santa Marinella. Both names are misleadingly evocative of romance and charm, yet are part of a coastline punctuated by an incongruous mix of industrial developments and Roman weekend swimmers.
Our approach into the mouth of the Tiber at Fiumicino and Darsena Traiano reminded one of what had been thrown into the river in centuries past. While very convenient and managed by the hugely affable Gianni, it was a congregation point for every single stray piece of bamboo you can imagine  - as well as some other things you would rather not imagine. I stayed there for two weeks and, despite the debris, I had a very enjoyable time. This was capped by a short road trip to fetch Catherine after her concert and meet up with Pete and Jayne over a great meal at I Miei Sapori in Pisa. We drove back to Rome the day after the ORR concert of the Verdi Requiem in the Duomo, which I passed on mainly because it was sold-out, but also as I was not in a Verdi Requiem sort of mood - of course I missed what must have been a special performance as evidenced by the prolonged applause practically audible from the terrace bar of our hotel overlooking the Duomo and the leaning tower. We passed by Calera Galera and Porto Ercole, Santa Marinella etc. all rather swiftly in the car of course. The juxtaposition of these two different paces of life creating some pause for thought. The conclusion in favour of the more leisurely one is hardly a surprise.

The view over my glass of prosecco

Porto Azzurro on Elba

The weather was in our favour to leave the next day, so after returning the car we set off for Anzio and then Gaeta a day later where, in the shadow of the USS Mount Whitney, we got battered about in a Force 8 while at anchor. After a bit of a sleepless night, despite not dragging at all, we relented and went into the marina Flavio Gioia and swapped a wad of Euros for a couple of nights good sleep. It seemed, now in the last few days of September, to be the turning point of the weather for the season. Our friends on Vesna decided to high-tail it all the way back to Marina di Ragusa the next day, which I remember remarking to myself probably meant they knew something we didn’t! We braved the increasingly unsettled weather for another three weeks though and while we had some uncertain moments, we were also rewarded with some charming anchorages and lasting memories. Previously we had skirted around the bay of Naples favouring Ischia and heading south past Capri, but we found a very safe anchorage in Porto Miseno for a night, before the weekend pleasure-craft brigade arrived and created a parking lot of motor boats. While one might feel as if everyone is encroaching upon one’s personal space, there is no hint of that in truth. Indeed only a live let-live atmosphere. In this part of the world the people right next to you leave you completely alone and do not point out what they may think you ought to do or make you aware of any rules or regulations: in return they expect you to leave them alone and get on with enjoying life too. This, vivi e lascia vivere, is a very good arrangement and a large part of the reason that we return time and time again.

Acciaroli

I have written about Acciaroli before as we visited this time last season. Foodies will know this area for its proximity to Pioppi and Delia Morinelli's restaurant there. We, however, found our way to an altogether more humble yet quaint restaurant that we visited last year, where the sulky owner had corrected our choice of wine and brought a more appropriate tipple. Obviously we weren’t immediately recognised, but the story resonated with him. Probably illustrating his habitual sullenness rather than a dawning realisation of who we were. This time he cheered up somewhat especially when we spoke of fishing and and he was able to ridicule my mixed fortunes. The next morning we chanced to see him in the village in an ill-fitting suit with his very glamorously attired wife leading the way. They were off to a staff member’s wedding, he obviously quite reluctantly. We said well, when it is over come and have a drink with us on board and kick off your shoes. That evening the crews from Kady and Bobcat were on board and after 9 we got a knock on the hull - it was Annamaria from Tartana and her husband with a bottle of prosecco in tow. Next time we will have to figure a way to get me a job in the kitchen - no point in rushing these things.
We were on the transit berth for a number of days, the local young man responsible seeming to worry less about our presence than the prospect of having to become officious. The trick is to put on your best camouflage behaviour and only speak when you are spoken to. This served us well for several days beyond the allotted time, allowing to enjoy this lovely place again. Bobcat (Dave and Luda) acted as our scouts and found a good anchorage just a few hours away at Palinuro, which gave us good protection from the south easterly that was still hounding us. This coastline is familiar to us by now and so too are its thunderstorms at this time of the year. We deftly avoided any trouble by spending the following night at Cetraro, which unfortunately does not have many other redeeming features than offering a fuel pontoon and quite good protection. We left early the next day successfully leaving a thunderstorm right behind us and headed the 9 hours south to Vibo - where we anchored with Cath and Ray on Kady.

Vibo - flattering to deceive

Getting through the Straits of Messina is a matter of timing. Having the tidal flow against you will set you back up to five and half knots, so we opted to spend night in the slightly bizarre port of Gioia Tauro. This is a huge container port stretching for over two miles, lined with more tetrapods than in a Spielberg movie and with only a tiny corner reserved for a visiting yacht or maximum two. Our 10 hour sail southwards to Giardini Naxos through the Messina Strait had us reaching nearly 10 knots at one stage through the effervescent water that is overlooked by Scylla to the east and Charybdis to the west. From Magna Grecia onwards, 2,700 years of civilisation has been witness to this coastline and it still has not lost its allure. In the shadow of Mount Etna there is a palpably different climate, with lush green and palm trees conspiring to create the illusion of proximity to the tropics rather than the deserts of North Africa. This year the usually unsettled weather at this time of the season decided to show us a thing or two as a tropical-like cyclone ‘Zorba’ played havoc with the plans of many of our friends. As soon as a storm is christened, you know you have to pay attention. Even our yacht insurance has conditions attached to named storms, so for all my light-hearted banter about this, it will remain a lasting memory for some. Luckily we were more on the periphery though and we avoided any drama by patiently waiting for safe weather windows and following at a safe distance. Siracusa had been close to the path of Zorba but we got there in time only to witness the remnants, being tons of bamboo floating in the bay. We anchored safely for a day and then moved to the town quay as some last gasp wind came in to remind us of who was in charge here. The town quay at Ortigia on the edge of Siracusa is a welcoming place with its labyrinth of small alleys all leading to one gelateria better than the last and a fresh market that is a destination in its own right and one of favourite haunts. While the temperature is still very pleasant, one learns that riding a bicycle after the pouring rain is a red rag to a bull when it comes to trucks and puddles, and getting drenched tends to lower the temperature rapidly. The reward after a wet 20 minute cycle, however, is cheap beer from Lidl, so context becomes everything.

Weather planning notes - don't ask!

A week flew by when it felt time to leave. Rather than stop at Portopalo on the southeastern tip of Sicily as we normally would have, we decided to sail the 50 or so nautical miles back to our winter home in one go. Again, partly because we had seen a storm coming in, but also due to our reluctance to play this cat and mouse game with the weather for much longer. Much as we knew that after a short period of being tied up we would rue having stopped the season when we did, the prospect of being sedentary for a while after nearly two thousand nautical miles and over fifty bays and anchorages in just under five months was a very welcome one. A small convoy of us left Siracusa and mostly motor-sailed quite uneventfully south and then west arriving at MdR in the sunny late afternoon. Tying up at our usual berth on L pontoon, we were welcomed by a number of friends who had returned already. This meant there was a surfeit of working and stocked fridges and we took full advantage of that.

MdR

Liguria - Imperia to La Spezia

Cervo - summer home of Sandor Vegh

We tore ourselves away from Sanremo - eventually - and made our way to a rendezvous with Gwendoline and Glenn of SY Pardela in Savona.  Along the way  we passed by Cervo, where our mentor Sandor Vegh had had a summer residence and where we played concerts early in our careers.  We threw anchor at the private island of Gallinara just south of Albenga for a swim way to try and escape the heat as well as the somewhat industrialised coastline.
Savona has a Darsena Vecchia (old dock) in the heart of the town, but also in the heart of the heat, so we all opted to remain at anchor in the bay so we could cool ourselves down in the water - cool wasn’t exactly possible though with the sea being above 32 degrees celsius! Pardela’s dinghy provided transport into the town a mile or so away past the eerie backdrop of disused loading wharfs and derelict fishermen's huts.  This was once the seat of the iron-ore industry, but foundries are cold now and only rusting remnants remain.  It is all rather on the quaint side of run-down though and we enjoyed three slightly well-oiled and gloriously fed days with G and G. Mutual friends will understand the obvious understatement. Aside from finding a really good chandler, we also found a memorable Indian restaurant where we doused the heat rather laconically with a Vindaloo and Indian beer somewhat oddly named - Kamasutra.
As Pardela sailed further west we continued east to our next port, Genoa. Not just a port of call, but a serious port in terms of size, traffic and, sadly, water pollution. It was Saturday and there must have been 5 or 6 very large cruise liners docked at any one given moment, yet it is such a huge and sprawling place that there is no sense of being cramped, only thrown about by the wash a little.

Molo Vecchio Genoa from our bow

Evidence of former Genovese glory was represented by a faux Galleon in the Porto Antico, but more interestingly in the museums, notably those a little way up the hill on Via Garibaldi - yes what a surprisingly unique name for a street. The Palazzi, Rosso and Bianco, now art museums, house more square metres of Renaissance paintings than one can sensibly absorb in a short visit and it is not long before one gets Caravaggio saturation. Our, predictable, interest though was that of the Paganini collection in the Palazzo Tursi. His Guarneri del Gesu hangs forlornly in a glass cabinet never to be played, or indeed cleaned,  again and a small collection of artifacts including his Vuillaume half fill display cabinets. The slightly meagre collection is evidence of his unhappy dalliance with gambling. I have an aversion to these important instruments lying dormant in museums like this and it rather puts me off. It was pointed out to me, rather sharply, by Catherine that, since I have never practiced Paganini Caprices, I have no idea what I am talking about. She is about 50% correct there, but rather than create a scene, I suggested Gelato and all was well again.

Paganini's Guarneri del Gesu

As I started to have visions of massive growth build-up on our hull, I suggested we head for cleaner waters so we set off for Portofino. It was, rather unsurprisingly, blocked by three superyachts on the dock and several more anchored just off. After a controlled period of tut-tutting we headed a couple of miles further north to Santa Margherita Ligure and anchored in its small bay. It is as entirely charming as its name suggests and provides the perfect setting for a relaxing few days. It is more reminiscent of a film or opera set than a town and sitting at a bar along the waterfront or Lungomare, one is entertained by unfolding dramas every few minutes.

This is a centre of food too of course and delicatessen after wine boutique provided much retail distraction. We found a great little pasta shop on Corso Matteotti where the proprietor spent as much time and effort selling his wares as he spent ensuring that one cooks them to perfection and only with a sauce of which he approves. We went back after the first lot of fish ravioli turned out to be fantastically delicious only to be treated to further delights and waistline enhancing delicacies.  We also found a butcher who was prepared to part with a Bistecca Fiorentina for mere coins. Later it dignified our BBQ and we were in a carnivorous stupor in no time.

Santa Margherita Ligure

To say that time was pressing would be have been inaccurate, but even we can have too much of a good thing.  So, we headed to Sestri Levante a mere 2 hours away, but when we anchored we were thrown about with a tremendous swell that came into the bay. Seeing a vacant fuel dock we tied up there on the pretext of wanting to fill up in the morning when it opened again. Luckily the coast guard was in a good or distracted mood when he gruffly reiterated what was obviously stated on the red sign right next to us. Stopping, tieing-up, loitering, hanging about: prohibited at night. In the end the diesel was very a very good price, but the fuel guy told us that we were lucky as usually the coast guard levies a €2,000 fine for berthing there!  As it happened they had a whole team of divers leaving to detonate an unexploded bomb, so fortunately our otherwise serious transgression was lost in the figurative noise of it all. The next day the swell was as bad so we backtracked to Santa Margherita to sit it out before heading to La Spezia.

Our plan for the Ligurian coast which  encompasses Imperia, Savona, Genova and La Spezia, was to get to Lerici near La Spezia where Fabian was going to be playing at a festival in August. The coastline of the Cinque Terre, between levante and Porto Venere is breathtakingly full of small craft and day-tripper boats this close to the main Italian holiday of Ferragosto.  I would hazard a guess that the assumption of Mary into Heaven at the end of her earthly life did not take place exactly here, but you would be hard pushed to find a better setting, if you were to follow the same fate.

Porto Venere, at the western tip of the Gulf of La Spezia, has a two thousand year old  history, but thanks to tourist dollars it looks as if it was painted just last weekend. We sailed a bit further into the Gulf of La Spezia and into the little bay of Le Grazie. This muddy inlet provides fantastic protection, which was just as well given the weather we were expecting.  That night all hell broke loose and we experienced hours of eyelid piercing sheet lightning.  We packed our spare electronics in the oven for protection and sat it out somewhat fatalistically. The next morning, August 14th, the Ponte Morandi in Genoa collapsed spectacularly. Even though there was much written about its poor state of repair, it would be surprising for any structure to withstand that kind of force of nature.

Porto Venere

The weather cleared just about as quickly as it had appeared and we sailed the short distance to the bay at Lerici. While there are scores of motor boats moored on buoys, there are very few yachts yet we found ample place to anchor within a short dinghy ride of the town and the final resting place of both Percy Bysshe Shelley and our Yamaha outboard engine. Fabian's accommodation was a bit far away, so he stayed on board with us for the first while, which provided a wonderful opportunity to catch up on things as well as buy a new outboard. Our new Suzuki started straight away and ticked over gently and quietly making the mourning period for the Yamaha commensurately short. It is notable that having gone through my entire life never having owned something made by Suzuki, yet having being aware of the brand for decades, speaks to a determined marketing campaign on their part. I feel almost guilty for the amount I paid.... almost.