Birvidik

Circumnavigation of Sardinia almost complete, we're now in Cagliari. It took a month and it still wasn't nearly long enough.

The wind continued to blow in the anchorage, especially at night. This culminated one night when a Greek boat dragged its anchor at about 3:30 in the morning and dragged down on us, banging its way down the side. Bob woke at this and helped fend off until it had dragged well past us into deeper water and was able to re-anchor. Bob's smugness knows no bounds now (does the word 'hubris' mean anything to you classical scholars out there?) as Liz managed to sleep through the whole episode. She will no longer be able to recount the story of Bob's sleeping through a grounding with quite her usual brio. We had a look the next morning and there doesn't seem to be any significant damage. Bob causes more during an average mooring procedure.

Fed up with the wind, which was easing slightly, we decided to poke our noses out of Cugnana with a view to heading on down the East coast. When we got out of the anchorage, however, the wind dropped almost completely and it was a beautiful day with smooth seas. It seems that we'd been sitting out a purely local weather phenomenon, probably caused by the local topography, and we could have left days before.

The wind picked up, unusually from just the right direction, and we had an excellent sail down to Isola Tavola, hoping to pick up one of the AMP mooring buoys that the pilot book assured us were there. They weren't. What was there were a load of little day-tripper motor boats anchored in all the prime sites. We had one go at anchoring, but ended up too close to other boats and gave up. I don't know, scruffy cheap little things stopping proper big boats like us from anchoring - shouldn't be allowed.

The pilot also mentioned another two places that should have had AMP mooring buoys, but they were conspicuous by their absence in both places. As the charts showed these to be part of a marine reserve, with free anchoring prohibited, we gave up and headed on to La Caletta on a cracking sail, averaging about 6 knots. We arrived about 5 p.m., having made several unsuccessful attempts to rouse the harbour authorities on the radio.

We went into the harbour and milled around, hoping that someone would notice us and take pity upon us, but we continued to be ignored. There was an English boat at the end of a rather dilapidated pontoon and we edged close enough to have a conversation. It would seem that it's pointless trying to call up the marina as they never answer and anyway are probably still at lunch. The English boat was on a freebie, an old pontoon (see photos) with no charges, but equally no facilities.

There was another pier that was also free without facilities. The drawback was that you had to moor med style, with an anchor holding you off. We weren't set up for this yet, and didn't feel like trying it now, but lacking any response from the marine the pier seemed our only option. There was a large space on it, so we went alongside, thinking that should draw the authorities out of their hidey holes. It didn't, so we stayed there.

La Calletta is a delightfully ramshackle sort of place, with the air of somewhere that's going places but they haven't quite got round to doing much about it yet. It also appears to be a hotbed of Sardinian Independence Fervour. All along the breakwater were slogans and symbols, and the phrase 'I am not Italian' written in a multitude of different languages but not, rather pointedly we felt, Italian.

There was a large catamaran next to us, British registered, but definitely Italian. It was crewed by a Grandfather and Granddaughter who seemed to have a very vocal and volatile relationship. She spoke some English and always came out to help any boat moor up. Grandfather, by contrast, just stood there running down their boat handling techniques and shouting out obvious and unnecessary advice in loud, voluble Italian. We're now pretty sure what the Italian is for 'Oooh, you don't want to do it like that, you want to do it like this you incompetent load of foreigners'.

The next day the couple from the English boat dropped by, Maurice (French) and Barbara (English). We got on really well and were having a lovely time when the Harbour Master appeared blinking out of whichever hole he'd been hiding in and told us in no uncertain terms and Italian that we couldn't moor alongside, we had to moor stern to with an anchor off. Oh dear.

Maurice and Barbara offered to help, an offer that was rapidly and gratefully accepted. We tied lots of really long ropes together and ran them over the quarters (back corners) to Maurice and Barbara and then motored off the quay while M&B hung grimly into the lines, keeping our stern in. On the second attempt we successfully dropped the bow anchor and M&B hauled us back into position. Barbara said she particularly appreciated Grandfather's advice as she struggled to heave 16 tons of boat back in, and no, he didn't help.

Up early the next day and no problem getting out of the berth as the wind had dropped completely. We set off and motored towards Arbatax. You can see Arbatax from a long way off as someone appears to have left an oil rig laying on its side there. Despite this, it is a beautiful place. The marina is in a spectacular setting, surrounded by hills and mountains. The offices and a small bar/restaurante are built of clapboard and painted in beautiful shades of blue and white. Bushes of oleander and bougainvillea add to the colourful picture, offset against the ever-blue sky and sea. Big sigh - perfect.

Question - how do the Newburys spend the hottest day so far (40 degrees C and not a breath of wind)? Doing washing and servicing the engine (oil change, filter changes etc).

After putting �600 of diesel into the tanks we set of for Cala Pira, which, looking at the chart and pilot, promised to be a beautiful anchorage, well sheltered from the forecast NW winds and open only to the SE.

The setting was, as promised, lovely. The wind (and swell) however were not as promised and came straight out of the SE. Until the evening. Then the wind backed to the NE, which put us beam on to the swell. Both of us felt a little sea sick for the first time in months.

Giving up on Cala Pira we set off the next morning for the short trip to as more promising anchorage at Capo Carbonara. Just as we were leaving the autopilot went into a sulk, said "drivestop" and refused to play any more. We'd forgotten quite what a pain it was having to hand steer all the time.

It was a beautiful anchorage, a white sandy strip of beach backed by what looks like vines and hills covered in maquis and prickly pear. The sea once again is that gin-clear turquoise blue. Bob contorted himself into the cockpit locker in a vain attempt to fix the autopilot. The cockpit lockers, although large, are not a place of comfort for someone of Bob's size and the residue heat from the engine, combined with the 38 degree ambient temperature just about finished him off. He 'phoned Raymarine, but even with their help couldn't resolve the problem, so he got the phone number of the main Italian Raymarine distributors. So we had to leave this idyllic spot and head in to a hot marina in Cagliari to try and get the autopilot fixed.

Bob 'phoned ahead and booked the marina berth for two days. We reckoned that as it was August and the whole of Europe was on holiday, our chances of getting it fixed quickly were minimal. We also feared that we'd need a new drive unit at a cost of about �900 as Bob had narrowed the source of the problem down to the drive unit clutch.

Bob went to the marina office, sorted out the formalities and payment, and explained the problem with the autopilot. The woman in the office was fantastic. She 'phoned the main Raymarine distributors in Milan and got the details of the two agents in Caglieri. She then 'phoned them and explained the problem.

The agent sent a mechanic over within 15 minutes. He was about a foot taller than Bob, but still managed to squeeze himself into the locker. Feeling guilty, as it was again about 38 degrees, Bob set up two fans and blasted as much air into the locker as possible.

Two hours later, he emerged triumphant. The problem was a linkage inside the unit, a grub screw had worked loose and disconnected the drive motor from the electromagnetic clutch. What we had feared would take 3 weeks and cost nearly a thousand quid ended up taking a total of 3 hours and costing us �75. I don't know where the Italians get their totally undeserved reputation for disorganisation. All through our time in Sardinia they have been efficient, helpful, friendly and hospitable (with the exception of Granddad). Bloody marvellous.