It’s always easy to identify the nationality of a boat, you don’t need to see a flag or hear the crew speak you can tell by their traits in an anchorage. British boats, as soon as the anchor goes down, up goes the anchor ball; if the boat is from the Nordics the crew are beautiful and they sail until the very last possible moment; American have the glossiest brightwork and radar reflectors up their rigging. We then we come to the onion wielding, beret wearing surrender monkeys - The French.*

We blasted south from Barbuda with the luck of old Jack. Squalls marauded behind us unleashing their fury on Balvenie and in front of us Antigua was drenched and then, when we arrived, soaked in bright sunshine. This was Caribbean sailing at its best.

In Antigua our stop was fleeting but memorable. After we’d anchored the ground literally moved. Iain was not working some of his love making magic with Fiona, the ground was literally moving. Buildings shook, palm trees waved and a grumble was emanated from deep within the bowels of the earth. We were experiencing our first ever earthquake and a 5.8 quake at that.

With no Tsunami wreaking devastation we continued our trip south. Once again our luck held and squalls passed blissfully all around us, never dropping a drip on Ruffian and we were now in the land of yummy bread, even yummier cheese, the yummiest pastries and worryingly French cruisers and their scary anchoring antics.

We knew a French boat was coming into anchorage as the sun was well below the horizon and we could hear a couple of engines screaming. Impervious to we were, or our anchor was, a huge lagoon catamaran had anchored just feet from us. They were so close that not only could we talk to them, if we wanted to; we could have simply stepped on board. We needed no flag to work out that we had to repeat ‘You need to move, this boat, over there.’ in our finest French.

Thinking that 3 feet was ample clearance between boats the skipper was not happy with us. He protested that anchoring in the dark was difficult and this was a crowded anchorage, as if any of that was either our fault or more importantly our problem. Finally, to get rid of us, he relented and like an upset 5 year old stomped his feet, started his engines and was off to practice his French anchoring technique of being too close to other boats elsewhere.

With dawn we really knew we were in France. Smells wafted across the anchorage that would make the fullest of tummies rumble. It was too much for Iain to bear and so he ventured ashore all on his own to hunt ‘n gather. The patisserie was calling and in his best French Iain ordered a couple of baguettes and a few croissants. On his return Fiona was pretty unimpressed as Iain failed to score an apple turnover. In hindsight it was all because he was asking for Pomme de Terre and not just Pomme. Whoops.

After more miles and more pitstops we finally arrived in Dominica in time for Christmas. Dominica is like the Garden of Eden with natural wonders around every corner and trees heavy with every type of fruit imaginable. We’re just going to have to find an orange tree and some cloves to get ourselves into the Christmas spirit.

* This is all in jest. We actually really like the French and at least they don’t anchor naked like Germans would.**

** This is completely true. Germans seem to love doing everything naked.

Bye bye brilliant Balvenie.


That is a light that we don’t like seeing on. Time to head out to sea.


It’s the usual Caribbean blast reaching.


Guadeloupe; the cursed island is cursed as usual.


But it’s an island of hills,


And rainbows.


No ‘green flash’ tonight. There’s a pesky island in the way.


Iain on the high side.


And yep it’s windy.


But at least it’s warm and blue.


It’s like taking a step into the past in Dominica.


Another island, another, flag, another customs appointment.