Released, at last, from the ignominy of a life on terra firma the good ship XII Bar Blues has found her way to Cavalaire via La Ciotat, Port Cros, Anse de Gau and Le Lavandou.

During the crews' run ashore in Le Lavandou it became known that the summer solstice was to be celebrated, amongst other ways, by a National Day of Musique.
As the Nation of Napoléon fancy themselves as being a bit cultured one might have expected a recital of Claude Debussy's work or even some stuff from Jean Michel Jarre. Not a bit of it ! The good citizens of Le Lavandou had laid on a rock concert on the beach with a (pretty good) band fronted by Provence's answer to Ozzy Osbourne. Now, in fairness, Birmingham's local hero is rather younger looking and in markedly better shape than our man here. He's also a better singer, but notwithstanding all that nit-picking, tolerably decent renditions of the usual rock classics were turned out with much enthusiasm and enjoyed by the crew who, having taken in a couple of other venues, were forced to take an early night at 0300 because of troublesome commitments the following day.

An unarmed recce takes place on the morrow in order to investigate how many of the ageing hippies who seem to run most of the more interesting bars in St Tropez have made it through the four years since the crew were last here.

After a bit of fiddling around with that electric interweb thing the skipper had managed to obtain a booking for a buoy in Cabrera (the island nature reserve just off the bottom right hand corner of Mallorca) and with fresh OAPs as crew was looking forward to a pleasant 20 mile fetch from Porto Petro in the forecast westerly F4. The sou'sou'westerly F6 that turned up instead put the destination in the eye of the wind but never mind, the good ship XII Bar Blues goes to weather like a witch. After about an hour of bracing stuff it seemed that the crew were not universally possessed of such spiritual qualities and talk on board turned to discussions about whether this bunch of oldies were covered by the maxim that "Gentlemen do not sail to windward".

Notwithstanding eligibility under maxims and what was written in The Plan, course was set for the northeast and a quick trip back to Porto Petro or nearby Portocolom. Both full it turned out, so an anchorage, some 40 miles away, south of Alcudia was selected and speedy passage made downwind to Cala Es Caló which turns out to be a delightful spot with an unspoiled mountain backdrop and pretty much free of the curse of motor boats and wally rockets. Wine was taken aboard as it probably was by the residents of Alcudia who had, that day, been subject to a local weather phenomenon known as a meteotsunami which results in the sea running around their streets instead of being confined to its proper place.

All this charging up and down the east coast had resulted in some neglect of B&R research responsibilities. Back then to Portocolom to catch up on that obligation and do a bit of trippering before setting off in the general direction of France. Given that "France" in this context implies lots of work in pursuit of what yotties like to think of as "laying up" there was deemed to be little hurry and a route via the Costa Brava was preferred over the direct course.

An overnight passage with a cracking reach on the skipper's watch saw Roses as a sensible landfall and first anchorage. After a bizarre exchange with a Belgian in a Spanish-registered boat the crew enjoyed the pleasures of being near a holiday beach. Most of the crew thought that the wild gesticulations by the Belgian were intended to convey a warning to the effect that we were about to drop anchor in an area of great danger. It turned out that all he wanted to know was whether we could see him on AIS and seemed the happiest of chaps when given that confirmation.

The pleasures of being near a holiday beach including close-up views of The Monster, a waterborne device designed to scare tourists to the point of screaming, were not, it seemed to the skipper, fully appreciated by the OAPs; so as a mutiny-avoidance measure an early departure for Cadaqués was scheduled for the next morning.

Cadaqués might be in Spain in your atlas from schooldays but better at the moment to think of it as being in Catalonia, particularly if you have in mind getting served in a bar.

The fiercer members of the crew managed to gain us entrance to Salvador Dali's summer residence now set up as a museum of sorts with timed visits for small groups of half a dozen or so. There's only two unfinished paintings of his in the house but the styling and decor are really quite extraordinary as is the metal sculpture in the garden. Anyway, the walk over the hill to and from Portlligat fully justifies the day's beer ration.

Crossing the Golf de Lion feels like the nautical equivalent of wandering about on an artillery range with the ever-present thought of the dreaded Mistral at the back, indeed the forefront, of navigators’ minds. Our passage was pleasantly boring conducted entirely under engine in flat calm conditions with an hour or so of thick fog the only challenge.

A last night at anchor preceded the return to Port Napoléon and all that work mentioned earlier. All up a trip of just shy of 1000 Miles - not bad for OAPs !

It’s a mere hop from Santa Ponsa to Puerto de Andratx, well within the capabilities of a few OAPs at a loose end one morning. The outer harbour is rather shallow and is now entirely given over to swinging moorings operated by the local yacht club. This works well. The marineros are friendly and helpful, the moorings seem well specified and maintained, the prices reasonable and the surrounding village is delightful. At least it’s delightful for those whose inclination is to investigate the many bars and restaurants that line the harbour’s edge. It’s fair to say that it lacks the peace and isolation of, say, the Western Isles. It also lacks the weather of that part of Scotland which the skipper is minded to see as a plus point.

The Plan (you remember The Plan) called for a rendezvous with land-based OAPs conducting their own adventure and, through the magic of modern communications, this important manoeuvre was completed and a notable rise in the cheerfulness index was seen. Meanwhile financial indices went in the other direction adding to the fin de siecle atmosphere of the whole thing.

Fortified by all this jollity the OAPs struck out bound for the Mallorcan capital of Palma via anchorages in Santa Ponsa and Palma Nova. A berth was allocated on the new pontoon just by the clubhouse of the Real Club Nautico Palma. This impressive institution was celebrating its seventieth birthday - somewhere around 600 people on their terraces all having a jolly time.

The central location of the RCNP makes it an ideal base for unfit oldies to explore the many bars and restaurants in the old part of the city. These establishments, by and large, knock spots off the equivalent establishments a few hundred miles northeast on the French Riviera where cooking is unimaginative, prices are high and the idea of service has yet to take root.

Palma also has shops. The female members of the crew set off to exploit this opportunity to the best of their ability (which the skipper believes is probably considerable). The skipper’s log showed (well, it would if he could be bothered to keep one) that the number of wardrobe and cosmetics bulletins on board were greatly reduced that day. His reaction to this phenomenon is a closely guarded secret - careless talk costs lives you know.

The land-based contingent had not, meanwhile, been idle and had organised a lunch trip to Puerto es Molinar, one of a few small fishing villages just east of Palma. The proximity to Palma and the charm of once-modest fishermen’s cottages has had the usual effect on property prices but not on the price of lunch. Local freshly-caught fish and the house wines provided much enjoyment and good value.

The crew of XII Bar Blues were able to give a cheery wave to the good ship Maltese Falcon as they left Palma bound for Porto Petro where the skipper would have a brief taste of the monastic lifestyle whilst fresh OAPs were sought for the return to France.

The last attempt, two years ago, to visit Formentera was thwarted by an electrical gremlin that had snuck aboard XII Bar Blues resulting in an expensive sojourn in the marina at Santa Eulalia whilst the parts and an electrician were found. Also found was a very pleasant sky bar so it wasn’t all bad.

The “posidonia” buoys laid just west of Puerto Sabina were reached via an overnight and very rolly anchorage at Cala San Vincente on the east coast of Ibiza. There’s what appears to be a thriving industry in transporting people from Ibiza to Formentera by fast ferry so that they can experience the doubtful pleasures of renting Vespas and other brands of scooters. There must be a dozen or so firms engaged in this type of enterprise and each seems to have perhaps a hundred of the two-wheeled wonders - the skipper would like sight of the accident statistics. Given this inexperienced hoard weaving about on their newly-rented machines a prudent approach to risk management was required and shelter sought in a welcoming Italian restaurant on the shore of the shallow lagoon of Estanque del Paix.

A little way south is the mostly delightful anchorage at Cala Sohana. What makes it “mostly” rather than, say, “entirely” is the now flourishing trade of day charters from Ibiza. This trade is exemplified by biggish motor boats with big sound systems. Clearly these systems are seen as a source of competitive advantage and play music loudly all day before they retreat to their bases with their by-now sozzled guests. The term “music” is used here in a rather loose sense. What we’re talking about is “house” which may not, at first blast, be recognised as music by persons of the skipper’s generation.

The crew decided to retreat north to Ensenada de la Canal on Ibiza, where the day charter pest was,thankfully, much reduced, in order to await a fair wind for the return to Mallorca. The far wind duly arrived within a few days but turned out to be rather feeble so Santa Ponsa was regained courtesy of Messrs Yanmar’s excellent machinery.