Catching the tide can be an unpleasant business, and this morning we needed to depart at 8am. We're not used to these early starts! The sea state looked calm, with little wind and no rain, but anticipating the worst, we made all fast below (that means stashing everything away so it doesn't crash around) and put on our full oilskin suits - top and bottom.

Another visiting yacht was preparing to leave Crookhaven too, and we waved as we sailed past, down this lovely finger of water which is bordered by a dramatic cliff on one side, and a low headland on the other. At one point, Crookhaven was the landing point for all mail to Ireland from America, and the departure point of goods for export. The water was full of these ships and numerous fishing boats, and there land dotted with houses of pilots, ships agents and custom officials. Not much evidence of this cosmopolitan past now in the sleepy hamlet.

Rounding Streek Head and out into the sea, we saw first Brow Head and then, in the distance, Mizen Head. This would mark the most South-Western point in our voyage, and once past it, we'd be truly in the Atlantic and therefore ocean sailors.

The rain had started, and continued for most of our passage, sometimes quite heavy but mercifully coming straight down, rather than straight at us. Initially, we had only a little help from the wind, but once past Mizen, our more Easterly course placed the wind well into the sails, and the engine was turned off. With big swells mostly behind us (the mornings' preparations proved their worth!) we were making 5 - 6 knots over the ground, on a near-perfect line towards our destination.

Charlie continued on his mission to spare the fishes of Ireland, and got his rod out and cast a long line set with several lures. As the boat heeled to port, he swore loudly. The handle from his reel had fallen out, and hopped right over the side!! He let the line trail behind us anyway, and sure enough, there was an abrupt tug on the end of the rod. Excitedly gathering in a great length of line by hand, he could feel 'something big' at the end of it. Shortly before the end reached the boat, however, the line came slack, and the end product was that " some *&@# fish has taken the lure right off!" Probably an act of evenge for having been hit on the head with a reel handle.

Past Three Castle Head we were crossing Dunmanus Bay, the first of the great long bays which mark the South-West coast of Ireland. These are drowned river valleys - the correct term is Ria - the same post-glaciation formation as Milford Haven, which we look over from our windows at home. We passed right across the mouth of Dunmanus Bay - the waterway extending far from view into the blue mist between the hills.

The tip of the peninsula north of Dunmanus Bay is 'Sheep's Head', and there were indeed sheep as well as wonderful twisted folds of green-grey limestone and purplish sandstone in the cliffs below. This is the closest land-point to the 1985 explosion of an Air India passenger plane bound from Canada to Heathrow, and the peaceful green headland has a memorial monument.

And then we were in Bantry Bay - famous for its oysters, though we only saw a couple of red fishing boats, trailing spotty ribbons of seagulls and cormorants. With the wind still in our favour, we skimmed across the mouth of the bay, rounded Bere island and (under engine) tucked ourselves into port of Castletownbere about 12.30. Anchoring was accomplished without a great deal of drama, other than running into the mud and getting slightly aground in the low tide. A heron was watching us from about 15m away on the sea-weed covered shore, when he saw we were going to stay, he stalked rather huffily about 20m further away. He probably didn't want Charlie throwing rod handles and scaring away the fish!

Castletownbere (or Castletown Bearhaven, as it's called on the maps, for reasons best known to cartographers) is a busy fishing port. Fishing boats up to 50m in length bristle from the quay, where they are anchored stern-in. The very few recreational boats like us are relegated to a shallow area, clear of the fishing boats, ferry and lifeboat.

The polychromatic houses of the village are dominated by a huge and ugly grey breeze-block church, placed on a slight hill so it really looms over the town. Charlie peered through the binoculars, and reported that right at the top of the landing slipway was a supermarket, a fish shop, a pub and A LAUNDRY!!! Pastures of Plenty!

After wrapping ourselves round a tasty and warming stew ('Here's one I made earlier') , we caught up on some of the sleep we'd missed last night, sorted ourselves out, and puttered over to town in the dinghy. The fish shop was closed, but the laundry still open, and I gladly handed over three carrier bags of clothes, bedding etc for the ladies there to work their magic. Charlie, meanwhile, wandered all over Castletownbere docks looking for a rubbish skip and recycling, but found none and in the end our garbage went into the litter bin on the town square.

This is definitely not a tourist town, and we liked that about it. It does however have one famous landmark - the very same eponymous bar that Pete McCarthy is standing outside, in the photo on the front of his best selling book. (We didn't know it was a best selling book, or even that there WAS such a book until we found it in a second hand bookshop in Pembroke Dock, while we were waiting for Tricia to arrive by ferry from Ireland.)

Anyway, it really is a gem of a pub, with a splendid red and black exterior, and inside there is a grocery store at the front - with a fine little snug by the front door, and tables to drink at - and a bar at the back. Best-selling-book-cover fame does not seem to have spoiled it, the locals seem to use it (though it seems beer is a better seller than groceries) and we tucked ourselves in for a pint of Beamish while our clothes were made marvelously clean down the road. Life is good, isn't it?