We're blockaded in Brest by 2 low pressure systems making the Chenal du Four a bit too taxing for us. There were 25 kn of wind in the marina yesterday and the beating of unfrapped halyards against aluminium masts sounded like a Ukrainian percussion section on speed, trying to play the samba but getting it all wrong. It needed my spoons player to make sense of it all. It usually starts with one, setting up a promising rhythm that invites cooperation, but then the rest of them start and some of them don't get it. When the rigging in the marina starts howling like a cartoon wolf at full moon it's time to start looking at the cinema schedules.

The pic is of a 100 ft Spirit called Gaia moored just along from us. The after deck is the size of a football pitch, and the fenders are held on with leather-covered clamps which I think have her name engraved on them. But as it's pelting down with rain, I'm not walking along to check. In the bqsin there are also 2 white ensigns, and a trimaran the size of a reasonably long-distance spaceship. So if I manage to blag an aperitif tonight I trust it will be in a proper glass. Possibly served by a waiter in a white coat who's run away to sea after an embarrassing incident with a client involving diving equipment, a pet chihuaha and some ostrich-feather baggywrinkles. You do meet all sorts at sea.