We left Barcelona at 0915 on Tuesday, having bought 150 litres of fuel. The fuel dock in Port Vell is not that easy to manoeuvre on and off, being tucked under the bows of an imposing array of super-yachts, the crews of which all rush forward when they hear you revving in reverse to avoid blowing any possible excess on your insurance policy. Our first adventure of the day.
Our original plan had been to mosey north, stopping at Blanes and Cap Lligat; we wanted to meet up with our old friends Glynn and Lionel, and maybe even find Ruth & Pete on Mudskipper sheltering in a cala before skipping to Corsica. But the weather forecast showed southerlies up to F5 for Tuesday and Wednesday, following by a tramontana of Force 7+ settling in on Thursday at least till the weekend. So we decided to do the 150 miles direct to S�te in one go.
Barcelona from the sea is splendid. You get the most amazing perspective on the passion fa�ade of the Sagrada Familia; it's quite difficult to get the full view from the ground, as you cannot get far enough back. On the water you get the full blast and an even greater respect for the vision that propels the entire fantastic project. There's also a good view of the massive solar panel which powers the Forum, the biggest in Europe. Unfortunately, we were a bit far off for our camera to capture it all; when we go back we can sail closer in (and hope to see Glynn and Lionel on that trip instead.)
About lunchtime the promised southerly arrived, bringing with it quite a big swell that knocked us about. We made fantastic speed, motorsailing (as we did the whole way) at 6.5 to 7.5 knots. Gradually we reduced sail to a small scrap of genoa and a reef in the main, so that our trusty autohelm (named Polly - that's another story) could do her job. We were getting very tired, especially Sarah, and considering anchoring for a while before pushing on across the open water to France.
A trawler came by and we manoeuvred to avoid him. A swell caught us and we jibed heavily; the block on the main sheet that attaches the sheet to the traveller parted with a bang. Sarah caught it just before it swung outboard, and didn't even break her glasses. We shackled it all back together, but that decided us to stop for a few hours. We chose Cala Aguiblava, just south of Cap Begur, which gets a great write up in the pilot book; it took a little finding but we got there, covering 60 miles that day. (Another irritating problem on this trip is that for some reason the GPS has stopped communicating with our electronic chart plotter; not a disaster but annoying.)
This Cala does offer good shelter, even from the swell and despite some downdraughts off the cliffs, but the best areas are silted up with moorings and little boats. It did us well though, providing a good holding. We took turns sleeping in the cockpit in case we dragged, set the reefed mizzen to steady us, and had a good few hours recovery time. The spare block and cleat went on the main, and an extra turn on the boom brake strengthened it against jibing in the swell. At 0615, the anchor came up clean and we set off the remaining 90 miles.
The first few hours were calm motorsailing, flat sea, hot sun. Pip had a shower on deck. Sarah dyed her hair. The wind gradually shifted aft to the promised afternoon southerly. We took the mizzen down, then reefed the main, pulled in a little genoa. Clouds formed ahead of us, and we eyed them apprehensively. The Golfe du Leon has a fearsome reputation for sudden, vicious storms and steep seas. The wind stayed east of north, which was comforting; it didn't look like the tramontana was coming early.
The wind, though, backed to the north east, and stayed there, putting us on a close hauled course. The swell stayed south easterly, contending with the wind-driven north-easterly waves. The sea turned gun-metal grey, streaked with white breakers, growling noisily. Every second, Roaring Girl dipped and swayed through the confused waters; sometimes an extra big wave would arrive, a confluence of wind and sea, which would hit us harder. We even took one really big wave right across the foredeck, over Bridget (the dinghy) and thumping against the clear plastic of our rigid dodger. That's never happened before, even in Biscay or the North Sea. The wind built to 25 knots; we plodded along, ticking off the miles as we hurried to France
Although it was rather uncomfortable, we were never in any danger or seriously scared. It didn't rain, it wasn't dark, the wind was pretty steady and Roaring Girl behaved like the effective, experienced vessel that she is, and that we rely on. The oddest thing was the refusal of France to appear; we have got used to the dramatic cliffs of Spain and North Africa; this is a low-lying marshy coast, barely detectable even by the radar in places. We were within three miles of S�te before we could see land.
Coming in to the port here is straightforward, and luckily we didn't intersect with any commercial traffic, who have right of way. We lowered our hardworking mainsail in the shelter of the breakwater. The Vieux Bassin, where the marina is, is behind the lighthouse, and very well sheltered (though you can rocked by passing big ships). The moorings are closely packed, all bows/stern to. A new arrangement for us is to pick up the ring on a buoy as you come in. It was not at all easy to moor; not our most elegant arrival!
We're safe here now, and have tracked down our friends Dee and Liz in Belbeze and Mary and Bernard in La Capelle Marivel. Depending on their plans and relative prices between here and Port Camargue, we will decide what to do over the next two weeks.
France is our fifth country on Roaring Girl this year (Spain, Portugal, Gibraltar, Morocco). S�te is our 21st port. Counting our land trips to Vejer, Cordoba, Fes and Granada, it's the 25th place we've visited. We're very excited about exploring somewhere new.