The forecast winds were from the South, so we decided to head North-east to Samos. Naturally we had light Northeasterlies on the nose and had to motorsail all the way. We anchored in Pythagorias on the South coast, named after its famous son. Nice little town, but not a right angle in sight.
Pythagorias used to be the capital of the 6th Century B.C. tyrant Polykrates (roughly translates as 'Big Boss'). He decided to make his mark by instigating great public works (a harbour and a 1040 metre aqueduct bored through the mountain) and persecuting Pythagoras, who responded by disappearing off into a cave on the West of the island.
Samos is one of the bigger islands in the Eastern Med, so we hired a car to take a look around.
At Potami on the North coast was a walk along a gorge with a river running through it - cool, shaded and wooded - absolutely exquisite. At the head of this a steep and ramshackle set of wooden steps climbed to a treetop restaurant with views over the woods and out to sea. No disabled access here.
The next target was a deserted village and a church in a cave up in the mountains. Liz likes mountains. Here we came up against the Greek tradition of misleading signposts. This, we suspect, is designed to confuse invading Turkish troops and usually follows a pattern.
Firstly, the existence of some not to be missed site is marked on a map or guide book. As you approach in the car a sign is usually found at a multiple junction, cunningly placed so that it could, depending on the exact angle you view it, feasibly point in any of the 5 possible directions leading from said junction. Positioning a sign in precisely this way is very difficult and requires 3D geometric skills of the highest order. There's probably an entire department in the University of Athens dedicated to it.
Having overcome this first hurdle by employing all available Y chromosome spatial cognition abilities and finding the correct road you come across tactic 2. This involves placing the second sign just after the relevant junction and adding a frisson of a challenge by planting a large bush in front of it.
Level three of the game follows with a long stretch of road with no signs to your desired destination at all. This stretch of road is specifically chosen for having most of its junctions such that it is impossible to determine which road is the main road and which are the subsidiaries. If you manage to overcome all of this they reward you with a sign saying "Churchy villagey thing this way - 5 Km". Soon after that they play their trump card and the road just peters out into a narrow, rutted, boulder-strewn track bordered by precipitous drops.
Not to be outdone we, or more precisely Liz, determined that we should press on on foot. Bob concurred with his usual good grace.
It got hotter and stickier. We became sweatier and more dust covered. The swarms of flies became thicker and more irritating. After 3 kilometres (as measured by the pedometers) we came across another sign: "Churchy villagey thing this way - 5 Km". Were we disheartened? Well, Liz wasn't. Onward and upward we went.
Then Bob played his trump card. Whilst panting his way up a particularly steep, dusty, fly infested section he managed to inhale a rather large flying insect, which promptly lodged itself in the back of his throat. Understandably, it did not wish to disappear further into the hot, damp maw gaping before it, and so it sank its mandibles into where his tonsils would have been had he had any, and hung on for grim death. Which is what it got when he hawked, coughed, chewed and spat it out.
It came out mangled but, unfortunately, sans mandibles, which remained firmly embedded. Further hawking and coughing managed to loosen them a little but not completely dislodge them. It also managed to produce quite copious quantities of blood.
We'd been unable to determine what sort of insect it had been, as it was distinctly mangled by the time it came out, so we didn't know whether it had a sting or not. Both of us at this stage thought of the possibility that it might trigger a swelling of the tissues in the throat and compromise breathing. Neither of us, of course, mentioned this to the other.
So we abandoned the expedition and started to make our way back to the car. The things he'll do to get out of one of Liz's expeditions.
We tramped the track back to the car, with Liz surreptitiously checking Bob out every time he slowed or coughed out more blood. She had all sorts of horror scenarios running through here mind. Trying to get help from up a mountain in a pine forest in the middle of nowhere, especially in Greek would not have been easy. Bob didn't tell here that that particular problem wouldn't arise as he'd surreptitiously checked his mobile and there wasn't a signal there anyway.
Luckily there was no swelling and the bleeding had all but stopped by the time we got back to the car. We called it a day and went back to the boat.
Onwards to Kalymnos and Kos in the next, unedifying, instalment.
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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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