Things seem to have moved on apace. It's now six weeks on (19th July) and we're in Kas in Turkey. What follows will, you'll be ecstatic to hear, need to be seriously condensed. It will also be in several parts.
So here's part one.
Light winds and smooth seas it was and Kithnos provided an idyllic anchorage. We'd have liked to have stayed on a bit, but what with the various delays and disasters we thought we'd better keep moving in order to get through the Cyclades before the Meltemi kicked in (of which more later). So the next morning we up anchored and sailed on to Paros, to another well sheltered anchorage. The met had indicated yet another blow coming up, so we looked at the marina in Paros, with a view to sitting it out there. Unfortunately it wasn't so much a marina, more a tiny, half built harbour with the only Birvidik-sized area cordoned off, so we set off for Naxos, which promised better shelter.
Naxos was better, which was just as well as, with one thing and another, we were there for a day shy of a fortnight. This was due to the expected blow (force 7-8), which lasted nearly that long, and another little snag that turned up.
Having been very strictly potty trained, Bob carries out full engine checks after every day's use. On checking the level of transmission fluid in the gearbox he was disturbed to find out that it was a smidgeon low. Further investigation showed that it was leaking from around the selector mechanism and pooling in the bottom of the engine bay.
A series of expensive mobile phone calls to The Blessed Bill Keating in Jersey (May his name be praised) pointed us to a worn O-ring which needed to be replaced, so we employed the services of a local diesel mechanic, who took out the selector shaft, toddled off to get and fit the appropriate O-ring and then brought it back and re-fitted it. Bob watched all of this closely, treating it as a free course in transmission maintenance - which was just as well as things turned out.
Said mechanic was a short, stocky troglodyte with a mass of curly, greying hair and a beard that looked as if it might be home to an entire ecosystem of birds and small mammals. He was a reduced version of Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid. Now, Bob was aware that the pressures in hydraulic gearboxes tended to be a tad on the high side, but he was surprised when mini-Hagrid did up the bolts using all of his considerable strength aided by a socket wrench which could have doubled as a tyre lever for a tractor.
After testing for leaks with the engine running, he wriggled out and pronounced the job done, adding that the gear lever might be a bit stiff for a while, until the O-ring bedded in. He took his 90 euros and toddled off.
When Bob tried the gear selector, he found that 'a bit stiff' was very much an understatement. It required both arms and the leverage of one foot against the bulkhead to get the thing to shift gear.
Bob then underwent a crash course in hydraulic transmission engineering, with the aid of several more mobile phone calls to The Blessed Bill Keating. The problem was eventually solved by redoing everything the mechanic had done, takings one bit out and putting some extra bits in and bolting the whole thing back together again. (Full boring technical details available under plain cover upon application). So, as Bob had to do the entire job himself in the end, it turned out that he'd effectively paid 90 euros for a 20 pence O-ring. Never mind, look upon it as a learning experience.
Despite the disasters, we can thoroughly recommend Naxos. It's the largest of the Cyclades, with lots to see and do. There are concerts on most nights up in the Castle, including a local music and dance evening which was carried out with genuine pride and enthusiasm, in contrast to the tourist pastiches that so often masquerade as local culture. The harbour is well sheltered, apart form some unusual motions induced by ferry wash, and the guy in charge, Kostas, is brilliant - really helpful. When we came to pay he said that he'd give us a special price, and he did. 5 euros a night, including water and electricity. Bargain.
We set off from Naxos to Patmos, with Bob nervously checking the gearbox every hour for signs of leakage or catastrophic collapse, but all was well. By the end of the day we were tied up in Patmos, having crossed the Cyclades and, hopefully, escaped the worst area for the Meltemi.
Now for a potter around the Dodecanese and then on to Turkey.
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We transited the canal behind a large coaster at 08:00 the next morning. It was a spectacular experience, passing between walls 80 metres high cut into the limestone. At times the canal seemed barely wide enough for us, let alone the large coasters and liners that pass through. No wonder parts of the wall are covered in streaks of different coloured paint, just like the sharp turns by the ramps in multi-storey car parks. It would have looked even more spectacular had we passed through later in the day when the sun was higher.
We paid 173 euros for the transit, which works out at about 6 euros a minute, or 3 euros for every 100 metres.
Having paid at the other end, and having narrowly avoided being rammed into the quay by an unexpected current we motored the 15 miles to Korfos. We tied up to a taverna quay, where we had another seriously average and not cheap meal. The Met indicated a bit of a blow coming up in a couple of days' time, so we motored on the next day to Poros and dropped the hook.
The forecast the next day was still doom-mongering about force 7-8 from the South, so we decided to make our way over to the pontoon and tie up securely there. We pottered over in ideal conditions and tied up alongside the pontoon, the same as all the other boats. This was ideal for the forecast blow, leaving us secure alongside the leeward side of the pontoon. Having access to water again, we set about basic boatkeeping; sorting out laundry, hoovering the saloon, cleaning the cooker, shower and toilets etc. You didn't realise that cruising was quite such a glamorous lifestyle, did you.
At this point along comes the harbour official. "Good morrow, harbour official chappie" gestures Bob with a smile and a wave, expecting the usual cheery welcome and demand for money. The actual reply was a scowl, a grunt and a "You can't lay alongside. Lay out an anchor and go bows-to!" Then, as an afterthought, "Now!"
We thought this a little unreasonable. We could see the point if it was high season and there were boats backing up as far as Athens trying to get in, but this was Monday the first of June and there were empty spaces everywhere. However, being British, and therefore meek, law-abiding and deferent to authority, we complied with bad grace.
We made her fast and then went for a wander around Poros, which was a very pleasant and picturesque town. On our return, we found that the wind had increased and swung round, and Birvidik was attempting to climb nose first up onto the pontoon. The stern anchor had dragged. The pilot did mention that the holding was a bit iffy here. We pulled her back off and the anchor seemed to bite, but we fixed a couple of large fenders between the bow and the pontoon, just in case. Just as well because the stern anchor slowly dragged again.
During this time, it became apparent that few, if any, of the other boats had taken any notice whatsoever of Mr. Jobsworth's instruction not to go alongside. In fact, six other boats had come in and gone alongside.
This pattern continued over the next few days. The wind rose, the stern anchor dragged and more and more boats came in and laid alongside. By now they were rafted up two or even three deep and no-one took a blind bit of notice of Mr. Jobsworth. Take a look at the accompanying photograph. Note all the boats snugly laying alongside, not having to rely on a stern anchor in crap holding. Note there is only one boat bows-to, standing out like a sore thumb. Yes, bloody Birvidik.
The wind continued to climb to a 7 gusting gale 8 but at least it was now, as forecast, blowing us off the pontoon. We were, however, stuck. If the stern anchor had bitten then we'd have been in real trouble trying to get out in the restricted space, so staying put was the best option as long as the wind stayed from the South. If it shifted to the North and the anchor hadn't bitten it would have been carnage. We worked out ever more elaborate plans to reduce the worst effects should the wind switch. Luckily they weren't needed. Just as well as the wind continued to climb until it was gusting 45 kts at times (force 9).
Boats came limping in to try and hide from the weather and those of us already tied up formed chain gangs to help them in. The forces on the ropes were incredible. At one point it took 8 men pulling on 2 ropes, plus the boat's engine on full power to hold a 10 metre boat against the wind. Great care had to be taken to ensure that we all came away with the same number of fingers as we started with. The noise of the wind was so overpowering that all communication had to be by sign language, which is difficult if you're holding onto a rope like grim death with both hands.
In the middle of all this a large Ro-Ro car ferry arrived and tried to manoeuvre into position. It presented such a huge windage that it was virtually uncontrollable. On a couple of occasions it was carried sideways by the wind across the bay and started drifting sideways down onto the boats in the anchorage. At full power, judging by the smoke from the funnels, it just managed to claw itself off before mowing down the anchored yachts. It must have been terrifying for them. At its closest it got to what looked like 20 metres or so from the nearest yacht before a lull enabled it to power off to windward. After the second instance of this several yachts decided it was safer to raise anchor and face the gale at sea rather than wait to be crushed into the water by the ferry.
Then the wind rose even higher and the ferry got into further difficulties and looked as if it was going to plough into us, taking out three pontoons, about 30 boats, including Birvidik, and God knows how many people, including us. It just managed to claw off once more. After that it gave up and sailed back to Athens. I suppose there's a limit to how long its fuel will last under those conditions. In the middle of all this, Bob was helping boats tie up while Liz was on board keeping an eye on Birvidik. Not that there was a lot she could do should disaster strike, as became apparent when the snatch forces on the mooring ropes became so powerful that one of our backup lines ripped a fairlead off the boat, taking a large chunk of capping rail with it.
The wind eased a little that night and Liz doubled her dose of blood pressure tablets.
The wind eased over the next couple of days and we decided to water up and move off to the anchorage for the night before heading out for the Island of Kithnos.
As the wind had shifted again and was blowing us onto the pontoon, we let out the stern anchor line and tied up alongside. Then we winched in the stern anchor which slid smoothly across the bottom and came up as clean as a whistle. It hadn't bitten at all. This was true of all the other boats that tried laying out an anchor. I don't know what the seabed was, but I suspect greased sheet metal.
Never mind - the forecast is for light winds and smooth seas.
We'll see.
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As it turned out, we didn't stay in Andikirron. We went round and had a look, but the only mooring spaces available seemed to have had lazy lines fitted and then hacked off. This posed the problem of our having to use a stern anchor where it might have got snagged on old mooring blocks and chains, so we turned round and headed off to Corinth, for a second attempt at the orthodontos.
We arrived there and anchored off in the spot indicated in the pilot, just outside the yacht harbour (of which more later).
The next morning the wind had dropped, the sun was reflecting off the calm water onto the roof of the aft cabin, and we were snugged down for a lazy lie-in after the long day before.
You know that pleasant, hazy semi-dream state as you drift in and out of sleep on a morning like that? This doesn't last long if someone blasts a fog horn at point-blank range, making the whole boat vibrate shaking the screws out of the woodwork and blasting 120 dB down your ears, leaving them ringing.
Three times.
When we peeled ourselves of the cabin roof we scrambled outside to see what the hell was going on, noticing en passant that it was 6:30 in the morning.
"Where's the sun gone?" we thought, before we realised it had been blotted out by the 50 metre high wall of steel that towered above us. It seemed that an 8000 ton Ro-Ro cargo ship wanted to manoeuvre backwards into the commercial dock, and had decided that we were in its way (see photo, taken later when it was docked. At this time it was about 30 metres from us). How were we to know? There was no little legend in the pilot book saying "Excellent anchoring spot unless some great steel leviathan wants to execute a pirouette".
You've never seen anyone weigh anchor and skedaddle into shallower water faster. After that we decided that, as we were up, we might as well go into the harbour and see if there was a space. There wasn't. So we went back out and tied up on the commercial quay, at which point a load of boats all left the harbour, so in we went and tied up.
First job was to explore Corinth, get a map, find the train station and book the aforementioned orthodontos.
The rough guide said that there was a very helpful tourist police office in Ermou 5. "We could get a map there" we thought. Trouble is, how do we find Ermou without said map. Internet - sorted. Good stuff this mobile connect business.
Unfortunately Ermou 5 was boarded up and derelict, with no helpful sign saying where the helpful tourist police could now be found. Helpful.
Back to the boat and find train station on map. Two, in fact, in the middle of the city, not far from the port. Bingo! Off we went.
Now, Greece has a fairly rudimentary train system. There are only 2 lines really, and one of them is narrow gauge. Corinth, however, is at the crossroads of the two lines, and has rail links with all the other major cities - Athens, Thessaloniki, Patras, Kalamata. It's also a large, important city in its own right.
So, what do Greek Railways do with these two highly convenient stations right in the middle of the city and near the port area? Yup - they close them down and leave them to go to rack and ruin. A tattered, fly-blown notice on the paint-peeling broken window of the station said that access to trains, tickets and advance reservations could now be arranged at the new, 'suburban' train station. No indication of where they might have hidden this, of course. So, back to the boat for the internet.
I always thought that 'suburban' meant 'in the built-up, residential areas immediately adjacent to the outskirts of a city or other large conurbation'. Not in Greek it doesn't. In Greek, it means '4 kilometres outside the city limits in a blasted and barren landscape, with the only buildings in sight being 2 large hypermarkets and a car dealership'. Nothing beside remained. They had re-sited the train station as far as possible from any potential customers, so that the only people who could get a train would have to have a car (no bus service, of course). But if you've got a car, what would you want to get a bloody train for? No wonder the place looked deserted.
However, having cycled our way there we approached the reservations office. The chap was extremely helpful and friendly. It was extremely popular you know (yes, we knew). There were only three trains a day in each direction and it only ran on Saturdays and Sundays you know. (Yup - knew that too). "Did he have any tickets on Saturday or Sunday?", we asked plaintively.
There was much waggling of mouse and tapping of keys, frowning at the monitor and more waggling and tapping. Then some scribbling on scraps of paper.
Finally, with a broad smile and a flourish, he said "Yes! I can get you two tickets going up at 14:10 on Sunday afternoon!". "Knockout!" We said "And trains from here to the orthodontos and back?" "Yes" he said "I can do that too.". We're on a roll here. "And what time is the return orthodontos down the mountain?".
"Ah", he said.
You know that 'Ah' sound, don't you.
"Ah. All the return seats are full"
"So when can we get seats for the 22 km down the side of a mountain?"
"The next Saturday."
Not wishing to spend 6 days stuck at the top of a mountain we declined and cycled back.
The inability to take the orthodontos made us reconsider our immediate plans. Neither of us really took to Corinth too much. Unlike most other places in Greece that we had visited, it had a slightly seedy, delinquent atmosphere, an air of shady characters and feral youth about it. Not quite as feral youthy as Jersey, but getting that way. As an indication, before cycling off we had padlocked all the lockers and the outboard, something we've not considered doing anywhere else in Greece.
We decided to cut our losses and leave through the Corinth Canal the next morning. This decision was justified later that evening. We'd just had dinner when a couple of lads, about 14/15, came along the pier on a bicycle. They got off and went just past us to the end of the pier. There was some muttering, and then a red distress flare fired off, lighting up the area and enveloping all the nearby boats, us included, in smoke. They got back on the bike and hi-tailed it off.
A bit later they returned, more muttering, and then an orange smoke flare goes off. We were beginning to wonder what sort of arsenal they got access to, or whether they'd broken into a boat and stolen the distress flares. A bit later they returned with a gun. Turned out to be a BB gun and not a proper firearm, but we spent the night wondering when they were going to turn up with the Rocket-Propelled Grenade Launcher.
Never mind - the canal tomorrow and into the Aegean.
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