Med Bound Blog 11 (The length of Portugal accompanied by girl power and later Jimmy)
In the last blog we said that Saturday and Sunday were set aside for a passage to Porto. Well that did not happen. The Portuguese Trade winds siesta became an extended sleep and turned into a fog fiesta. To save money, after we had spent a day in the marina doing the washing and going for a pretty amazing walk around the ramparts of the Castello, we headed back across the bay to our little anchorage. The intention was to leave from there the next morning but we awoke to thick fog and the distant slow rhythmic drone of a fog horn in the approaches to Vigo. Veronica went for a run and I went into town. When we got back, we could not see the boat. Forever optimists, we thought we would leave after lunch but no way José. We spent another 2 nights in the environs of Baiona. One night on the anchorage in Panxon and one in the very “gooch” marina under the castle ramparts, with a magnificent restaurant on the extension to the castle wall which extended into the harbour.
We were now getting into a bit of a time squeeze for picking up Tayo and Josie in Porto. The day before we were to meet them we headed out in trepidation as there was still a feeling of fog in the air. We motored the circa 60Nm to Povoa de Varzim, 15Nm short of Porto and 20km from the airport, and on the Metro line, so convenient for the airport.
As we arrived in Povoa de Varzim there was smoke and a loud staccato gunfire- like noise on the quayside. The waterfront was absolutely jammed with people and it was a Monday. Perhaps Portugal was having another revolution? It turns out it was a public holiday in Portugal, a navigational themed one at that. It is a colourful romaria held on 15 August to commemorate those lost at sea. In some strange way this felt like an appropriate day to arrive in our first Portuguese port and be reminded of the importance that is still placed on their maritime heritage. We caught the last of the colourful and deeply Catholic processions that were trooping down the street. Some streets had been carpeted in flower petals and there were a lot of jolly people in the throng.
Tayo landed at 09.00 the next morning, and we departed together for Porto arriving early afternoon, well in time for Josie’s evening arrival. Tayo took the helm as we turned into the Douro River and took us upriver. The Marina is about 1NM upstream and as we came abeam of the marina, the marina staff raced out in their high speed rib. We were grateful for their welcoming gesture but told them we were first going to do our own Douro River boat trip, under the 60m clearance bridge and up to the centre of town just short of the famous and impressive Ponte Dom Luis I. The river was busy with tourist tripping boats, helicopters and fishing types. We pushed a roaring spring tide ebb on the way up and were rewarded handsomely by the sights and the fanfare.
Josie Thorne arrived at 9 pm and we had celebratory Carva, boat gourmet and a late night.
After Veronica and I took an Uber to the Sports megastore on an unsuccessful quest to purchase an inflateable Stand Up Paddleboard (SUP), we pick up the girls and spent the day walking between the many attractions of Porto. We took the funicular up, walk over the impressive bridge and took the cable car down to the quay adjacent to all the famous Port houses. We had a tasting before the long hot walk down the south bank of the river back to the Marina. In the local village we stumbled upon a little local grocery store. Veronica had dressed too warmly and it was a hot day, her sense of humour was failing. We got into the grocery store just as it opened after siesta. As we filled a basket with a few odds and ends, the shop filled with local fish wives (literally). It was a narrow shop and there was a rush for the till, a cacophony of argy-bargy and despite us being there first, no decorum. We both lost patience, hot and bothered and fed up of been jostled in the narrow passage in front of the till. We left our basket and walked out.
It is just over 70NM to Figuiera do Foz. There is another port in between Aveiro but it was described as difficult to enter and not particularly attractive, in any case, we wanted to make miles south. At first light the young crew stayed in their pits, this was to be Josie’s first real sail and Veronica and I cast off, taking the racing spring ebb into the doom of a fog that became thicker at the land sea interface. The challenge was exacerbated by many small craft sports fishermen, drift fishing in the entrance of the river. We got out and had at least 2 hours of staring at the radar and AIS, occasionally blowing the foghorn. Through the morning the visibility gradually increased and by about 11.00 we had quit motoring and started sailing in bright sunshine. We played tag with a French flagged Onvi 39 all the way. As we approached F do Foz the wind started dropping, we hoisted the gennaker but eventually succumbed to the motor for the last 5NM. As the pilot guide had warned, when we rounded the point there was one of the densest minefields of lobster pots we had yet experienced. With the Onvi at close quarter, we pick our way to the river entrance. Another entry into the spring ebb and a hive of small craft and chaotic drift fishing, followed by the usual hum drum for formalities in which every marina wants to see all your passports, the boats registration papers and insurance.
Fig do Foz was unspectacular or perhaps we did not pay it enough attention. It had a nice beach but the beachfront was 1970s style apartment bocks, showing their age. Perhaps it was that our perception was dulled by another morning fog. We had breakfast and coffee in a very local café and then found an impressive municipal market selling a fine selection of fresh fish and vegtables. Veronica bought some sardines which she later fried and served to us with out gutting them. She did not know you needed to, she claimed, clearly too supermarket- softened. [Apologies all round although they were delicious!]
We left for Nazaré, a short 25NM mile hop down the coast at lunchtime when the wind came up and the fog cleared. There was much discussion about the famous surf spot, where the largest wave in the world was ridden in 2012. For me it was intriguing from geological, oceanographic and surfing perspective. There is a submarine canyon at Nazaré that is claimed (and I have no reason to disbelieve it) to be the only submarine canyon in the world that comes right up to the coast. We witnessed this as we rounded the famous and visually impressive Nazaré headland. We passed within 300m of the take-off point for the surfing. Fortunately on the day the swell was a little smaller than the 30m that became famous in the Red Bull extreme and other videos of the big wave surfing. As we rounded the point, 0.5km off the headland the bathymetry contours went over an underwater cliff edge, from 22m to over 600m deep in the space of 300m. As we approached the harbour entrance, the depth remained over 100m to within 500m of the port and starboard markers on the breakwater. I doubt there are many other harbours in the world like this.
The next morning we walked along the beach and took the funicular up the hill. The funicular actually runs up the same eroded fault plane that we crossed the day before offshore. Now this is a place worth visiting! The upper and the lower town are quaint and the views from the top of the funicular are epic. We of course made the pilgrimage to the spot where the Red Bull Big wave footage was filmed from.
We left at 11.00 for Peniche, where we were to have a day off. For a change we had clear visibility and a following wind that increased from 12knot to about 20 as the afternoon progressed, and perfect direction. The girls wanted to go to the islands of Peniche. They are the westernmost islands in Europe, dramatic pieces of rock jutting skywards. The largest, Ilha da Berlenge, was the home of a 15th century monastery. It is apparently the home of some impressive defences and underground tunnels built to thwart the efforts of marauding pirates of the age.
We broad reached into the anchorage doing 7.5 knots, greeted by an impressive Portuguese 4-mast tall ship. The island was equally impressive skirted by imposing cliffs with forts built onto, and hewn out of, the rockfaces. The anchorage was a mayhem of tourist tripping boats and mooring buoys with FO notices and the names of tourist trippers boats. The swell was hectic and the wind approaching 20 knots. We did a few circuits and took pictures and then set sail for the 5NM distant Peniche.
The plan was to have a day off and visit the historic walled city of Obidos. It was a very hot day however and bus ride was complicated. The crew voted for the beach. I took them around there in the dingy, motoring around the outside of the break water. That evening, a large multihull came into the harbour, there was no room in the marina. We were their only option and it was predicted to be a light wind night so we let them raft against us so long as they took independent lines to shore. They invited us aboard. It was a Lagoon 45 that they had taken delivery of in Les Sablons, France and were on there way to sail the ARC. They were from Vancouver and we were to see them in quite a few places further on. We had drinks and heard some of the trial and tribulations of getting used to a new boat. I have to say it was quite a brave undertaking although they were getting help from their respective offspring along the way.
We left Peniche at 11.00, as the fog was clearing, so we thought. About an hour out, the fog closed and we motored about 30NM in thick fog. It was nerve-wracking stuff, staring at the radar and the AIS screen and worst of all dodging fishing pot buoys. At one stage we experienced a new level of these. No flags and just the minutest corks or inverted plastic bottles in an incredibly dense pattern. Miraculously and not without panic, we worked ourselves out of at least two of these minefields, which were a new level to the occasional, widely spaced big buoy and flag.
As we rounded Cabo de Roca, Europe’s westernmost point the wind filled in and above us the lighthouse, which Veronica and I had stood at during our cycling trip in 1994, jumped out of a hole in the fog. We rounded the corner and the wind built quite rapidly to 22 knots.
Jimmy was waiting for us in Cascais, so we ordered cold beer ahead. It was a swish marina under the old fort. Cascais is like the French Riveria of Portugal. There was action for the brats, with a different band every night on the water front and very attractive town with a lively summer holiday vibe. We celebrated Tayo’s 19th birthday in a very nice sushi restaurant. The waiter was a blond Brazillian, he sent us to the German beer garden afterwards and this set of a discussion about the Boys from Brazil on the walk there. After that, we left Tayo, Josie and Jimmy to their own devices and headed back to the boat.
We had two long legs to get to the Algarve and there was much studying of GRIB files to decided the best strategy. Looking at the weather and the fact that the only possible intermediary stop was Sines, which was a long way into the bay, also that on second day there was a significant CAPE layer developing (possible thunder and lightning) and unfavourable wind as you rounded the bottom of Portugal, so we decided to do an overnight trip. This had the added advantage of staying outside the 200m bathometric contour and avoiding the dreaded lobster pot hazard. The GRIB predicted a max windspeed of 17 knots at 19h00 and for the rest of the time the perfect 12 knots on the aft quarter only dropping to less than 10 knots in the wee hours before twilight. Let’s just say that thankfully some things on the GRIB file forecast were right. During the day we had the gennaker up. The wind built all afternoon and by 22.00 we were two reefs in and on half a staysail. Jimmy and I had a 22.00 to 01.00 watch. An hour into that the wind was doing nearly 30knots and we had the third reef in and no foresail with an uncomfortable following short sea. On the upside, the stars were magnificent. We struggled to find the best strategy as going directly to the waypoint was to have the wind at 180deg with the risk of gybing all the time. It was a two hour struggle in inky darkness, and then …… someone turned the fan off. In the space of about 10 minutes the wind went from 26 to 10 knots. The GRIB forecast had predicted that although they had the magnitudes wrong. I was thankful for this as the girls’ 3-hour watch was spent with less than 8 knots of wind, a moonlit sea and motoring to the waypoint. We were timing this so that we closed on the coast as dawn broke, allowing us to see lobster pots as we approached the feasibility depth for them.
As I close this blog, we are in our second Algarve port, actually, we are anchored off a magnificent beach in Portimaó. We spent a night in Lagos(h), pronounced with a golly gosh sound. It was a quaint town that can suck you in and very English. We went out with the kids to a roof top bar after supper on the boat. We left them, ….. they went big! Last night we went ashore in the dingy after the washing up to a wonderful open air beach restaurant. There was a band, we drank Sangria, the atmoshphere was chilled that air and the water are warm and it feels that we have arrived in the area that was the purpose of the jouney. More about this next time.
We were now getting into a bit of a time squeeze for picking up Tayo and Josie in Porto. The day before we were to meet them we headed out in trepidation as there was still a feeling of fog in the air. We motored the circa 60Nm to Povoa de Varzim, 15Nm short of Porto and 20km from the airport, and on the Metro line, so convenient for the airport.
As we arrived in Povoa de Varzim there was smoke and a loud staccato gunfire- like noise on the quayside. The waterfront was absolutely jammed with people and it was a Monday. Perhaps Portugal was having another revolution? It turns out it was a public holiday in Portugal, a navigational themed one at that. It is a colourful romaria held on 15 August to commemorate those lost at sea. In some strange way this felt like an appropriate day to arrive in our first Portuguese port and be reminded of the importance that is still placed on their maritime heritage. We caught the last of the colourful and deeply Catholic processions that were trooping down the street. Some streets had been carpeted in flower petals and there were a lot of jolly people in the throng.
Tayo landed at 09.00 the next morning, and we departed together for Porto arriving early afternoon, well in time for Josie’s evening arrival. Tayo took the helm as we turned into the Douro River and took us upriver. The Marina is about 1NM upstream and as we came abeam of the marina, the marina staff raced out in their high speed rib. We were grateful for their welcoming gesture but told them we were first going to do our own Douro River boat trip, under the 60m clearance bridge and up to the centre of town just short of the famous and impressive Ponte Dom Luis I. The river was busy with tourist tripping boats, helicopters and fishing types. We pushed a roaring spring tide ebb on the way up and were rewarded handsomely by the sights and the fanfare.
Josie Thorne arrived at 9 pm and we had celebratory Carva, boat gourmet and a late night.
After Veronica and I took an Uber to the Sports megastore on an unsuccessful quest to purchase an inflateable Stand Up Paddleboard (SUP), we pick up the girls and spent the day walking between the many attractions of Porto. We took the funicular up, walk over the impressive bridge and took the cable car down to the quay adjacent to all the famous Port houses. We had a tasting before the long hot walk down the south bank of the river back to the Marina. In the local village we stumbled upon a little local grocery store. Veronica had dressed too warmly and it was a hot day, her sense of humour was failing. We got into the grocery store just as it opened after siesta. As we filled a basket with a few odds and ends, the shop filled with local fish wives (literally). It was a narrow shop and there was a rush for the till, a cacophony of argy-bargy and despite us being there first, no decorum. We both lost patience, hot and bothered and fed up of been jostled in the narrow passage in front of the till. We left our basket and walked out.
It is just over 70NM to Figuiera do Foz. There is another port in between Aveiro but it was described as difficult to enter and not particularly attractive, in any case, we wanted to make miles south. At first light the young crew stayed in their pits, this was to be Josie’s first real sail and Veronica and I cast off, taking the racing spring ebb into the doom of a fog that became thicker at the land sea interface. The challenge was exacerbated by many small craft sports fishermen, drift fishing in the entrance of the river. We got out and had at least 2 hours of staring at the radar and AIS, occasionally blowing the foghorn. Through the morning the visibility gradually increased and by about 11.00 we had quit motoring and started sailing in bright sunshine. We played tag with a French flagged Onvi 39 all the way. As we approached F do Foz the wind started dropping, we hoisted the gennaker but eventually succumbed to the motor for the last 5NM. As the pilot guide had warned, when we rounded the point there was one of the densest minefields of lobster pots we had yet experienced. With the Onvi at close quarter, we pick our way to the river entrance. Another entry into the spring ebb and a hive of small craft and chaotic drift fishing, followed by the usual hum drum for formalities in which every marina wants to see all your passports, the boats registration papers and insurance.
Fig do Foz was unspectacular or perhaps we did not pay it enough attention. It had a nice beach but the beachfront was 1970s style apartment bocks, showing their age. Perhaps it was that our perception was dulled by another morning fog. We had breakfast and coffee in a very local café and then found an impressive municipal market selling a fine selection of fresh fish and vegtables. Veronica bought some sardines which she later fried and served to us with out gutting them. She did not know you needed to, she claimed, clearly too supermarket- softened. [Apologies all round although they were delicious!]
We left for Nazaré, a short 25NM mile hop down the coast at lunchtime when the wind came up and the fog cleared. There was much discussion about the famous surf spot, where the largest wave in the world was ridden in 2012. For me it was intriguing from geological, oceanographic and surfing perspective. There is a submarine canyon at Nazaré that is claimed (and I have no reason to disbelieve it) to be the only submarine canyon in the world that comes right up to the coast. We witnessed this as we rounded the famous and visually impressive Nazaré headland. We passed within 300m of the take-off point for the surfing. Fortunately on the day the swell was a little smaller than the 30m that became famous in the Red Bull extreme and other videos of the big wave surfing. As we rounded the point, 0.5km off the headland the bathymetry contours went over an underwater cliff edge, from 22m to over 600m deep in the space of 300m. As we approached the harbour entrance, the depth remained over 100m to within 500m of the port and starboard markers on the breakwater. I doubt there are many other harbours in the world like this.
The next morning we walked along the beach and took the funicular up the hill. The funicular actually runs up the same eroded fault plane that we crossed the day before offshore. Now this is a place worth visiting! The upper and the lower town are quaint and the views from the top of the funicular are epic. We of course made the pilgrimage to the spot where the Red Bull Big wave footage was filmed from.
We left at 11.00 for Peniche, where we were to have a day off. For a change we had clear visibility and a following wind that increased from 12knot to about 20 as the afternoon progressed, and perfect direction. The girls wanted to go to the islands of Peniche. They are the westernmost islands in Europe, dramatic pieces of rock jutting skywards. The largest, Ilha da Berlenge, was the home of a 15th century monastery. It is apparently the home of some impressive defences and underground tunnels built to thwart the efforts of marauding pirates of the age.
We broad reached into the anchorage doing 7.5 knots, greeted by an impressive Portuguese 4-mast tall ship. The island was equally impressive skirted by imposing cliffs with forts built onto, and hewn out of, the rockfaces. The anchorage was a mayhem of tourist tripping boats and mooring buoys with FO notices and the names of tourist trippers boats. The swell was hectic and the wind approaching 20 knots. We did a few circuits and took pictures and then set sail for the 5NM distant Peniche.
The plan was to have a day off and visit the historic walled city of Obidos. It was a very hot day however and bus ride was complicated. The crew voted for the beach. I took them around there in the dingy, motoring around the outside of the break water. That evening, a large multihull came into the harbour, there was no room in the marina. We were their only option and it was predicted to be a light wind night so we let them raft against us so long as they took independent lines to shore. They invited us aboard. It was a Lagoon 45 that they had taken delivery of in Les Sablons, France and were on there way to sail the ARC. They were from Vancouver and we were to see them in quite a few places further on. We had drinks and heard some of the trial and tribulations of getting used to a new boat. I have to say it was quite a brave undertaking although they were getting help from their respective offspring along the way.
We left Peniche at 11.00, as the fog was clearing, so we thought. About an hour out, the fog closed and we motored about 30NM in thick fog. It was nerve-wracking stuff, staring at the radar and the AIS screen and worst of all dodging fishing pot buoys. At one stage we experienced a new level of these. No flags and just the minutest corks or inverted plastic bottles in an incredibly dense pattern. Miraculously and not without panic, we worked ourselves out of at least two of these minefields, which were a new level to the occasional, widely spaced big buoy and flag.
As we rounded Cabo de Roca, Europe’s westernmost point the wind filled in and above us the lighthouse, which Veronica and I had stood at during our cycling trip in 1994, jumped out of a hole in the fog. We rounded the corner and the wind built quite rapidly to 22 knots.
Jimmy was waiting for us in Cascais, so we ordered cold beer ahead. It was a swish marina under the old fort. Cascais is like the French Riveria of Portugal. There was action for the brats, with a different band every night on the water front and very attractive town with a lively summer holiday vibe. We celebrated Tayo’s 19th birthday in a very nice sushi restaurant. The waiter was a blond Brazillian, he sent us to the German beer garden afterwards and this set of a discussion about the Boys from Brazil on the walk there. After that, we left Tayo, Josie and Jimmy to their own devices and headed back to the boat.
We had two long legs to get to the Algarve and there was much studying of GRIB files to decided the best strategy. Looking at the weather and the fact that the only possible intermediary stop was Sines, which was a long way into the bay, also that on second day there was a significant CAPE layer developing (possible thunder and lightning) and unfavourable wind as you rounded the bottom of Portugal, so we decided to do an overnight trip. This had the added advantage of staying outside the 200m bathometric contour and avoiding the dreaded lobster pot hazard. The GRIB predicted a max windspeed of 17 knots at 19h00 and for the rest of the time the perfect 12 knots on the aft quarter only dropping to less than 10 knots in the wee hours before twilight. Let’s just say that thankfully some things on the GRIB file forecast were right. During the day we had the gennaker up. The wind built all afternoon and by 22.00 we were two reefs in and on half a staysail. Jimmy and I had a 22.00 to 01.00 watch. An hour into that the wind was doing nearly 30knots and we had the third reef in and no foresail with an uncomfortable following short sea. On the upside, the stars were magnificent. We struggled to find the best strategy as going directly to the waypoint was to have the wind at 180deg with the risk of gybing all the time. It was a two hour struggle in inky darkness, and then …… someone turned the fan off. In the space of about 10 minutes the wind went from 26 to 10 knots. The GRIB forecast had predicted that although they had the magnitudes wrong. I was thankful for this as the girls’ 3-hour watch was spent with less than 8 knots of wind, a moonlit sea and motoring to the waypoint. We were timing this so that we closed on the coast as dawn broke, allowing us to see lobster pots as we approached the feasibility depth for them.
As I close this blog, we are in our second Algarve port, actually, we are anchored off a magnificent beach in Portimaó. We spent a night in Lagos(h), pronounced with a golly gosh sound. It was a quaint town that can suck you in and very English. We went out with the kids to a roof top bar after supper on the boat. We left them, ….. they went big! Last night we went ashore in the dingy after the washing up to a wonderful open air beach restaurant. There was a band, we drank Sangria, the atmoshphere was chilled that air and the water are warm and it feels that we have arrived in the area that was the purpose of the jouney. More about this next time.
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