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‘Swimfasting’ and paddleboard jeopardy

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I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. I haven’t been in the sea since Wednesday and it feels like I’ve lost a limb. Faced with a month without swimming, last week I took every opportunity to get in or on the water – one of the days turned out to be a bit of an expedition and a lesson in tide and winds…

I got addicted to swimming this April, after I signed up for a six-week course of ‘chill swimming’ at the local beach. It was a mad moment, which felt even more crazy on the first morning session when grey clouds loomed and I stared down at the deserted sands framed by a distinctly chilly looking sea.

The group of swimmers was easy to spot, all in woolly hats and colourful changing robes. Our group leader was a lovely guy called Paul who ticked off our names on a clip board, checked on our health and swimming experience and asked us to share a bit about ourselves. The idea of cold water swimming is that it is good for your general wellbeing, creating physical and emotional resilience and it is said to improve your mental health. Paul proceeded to tell us more of this as the weeks went by and we all agreed the chill ‘swimming’ was a highlight of our week.

On the first week, after a brief warm up jumping around on the sand feeling a bit silly, we waded into the sea. Most of us were wearing swim hats, wetsuit gloves, shoes and swimming costumes. The water was 11 degrees. It felt cold. We all went swimming briefly and only spent 10 minutes in the water before we were out, wrapping ourselves in robes and sipping hot drinks. I drove home and jumped in the shower. I felt very cold, but it had been invigorating and I felt more alive and prepared for the rest of the day.

As the weeks went on we stayed in longer and longer, put our heads under, swam a bit and chatted lots. A little community of buddies was being born – the ‘Nippy Dippers.’

What I have loved is the camaraderie of this disparate group of people. We’re mainly women, although we are joined by various chaps at times. The course finished some weeks ago and we have continued to gather at least once or twice a week. Sometimes the sun is out and the water is sparkling blue, at other times it’s grey or even raining and the mist rolls in across the bay. Most memorable times have been those golden summer evenings with the sun sprinkling its rays across the water. Lately the sea temperature varies from 15 degrees to 19 on the warmest days – in April it was 11 degrees – so it’s always warmer than when we started. The waves are there to dive through some weeks and at other times the sea is like glass. But the feeling is always the same, as each of us sink into the water or duck our heads below the surface, the worries and strains of the week fade away, as if the sea itself is refreshing us from the inside out.

Although I’m sad that I can’t be in the water for a few weeks due to an eye operation, I will be reliving one of last week’s sea activities for some time…

It was a sunny afternoon and four of us planned a little paddleboard expedition down the tidal river which ends at Bantham and Bigbury on Sea. All prepared with beers, snacks and water, we set off down the magical Avon river, paddling quite hard against an unexpected wind and enjoying the sights of this peaceful valley, where trees dip their branches into the dark green water and there are hidden delights at every turn. As the current and outgoing tide picked us up we began to glide more freely, and we all managed to bounce through some small waves created by a circling speed boat. 

At the picturesque lagoon just up from the mouth of the estuary, we rafted together and enjoyed our beers as we continued to drift seaward. The sun was sending its final rays across the water and I couldn’t think of anything more beautiful. There was some discussion about staying close to one side to avoid being whisked out to sea by the outgoing tide and we were all cool with that, until we all stood up and rounded the corner.

The entrance was much choppier than expected with the waves kicking up a pace, so we all headed for the beach, which happened to be on the wrong side of the river. Pulling our boards onto the sand, someone said we’d just have to wait for the tide to go out a bit before we crossed over. We were all fairly competent paddle boarders, but only one of us was good in breaking waves. And the waves were between us and our car. Meanwhile a red sun was sinking into the cliffs and it would soon be dark.

While we waited for the tide and waves to drop off, the surfer among us headed off to ‘play’. Three of us stood on the sand and looked at the waves and the stretch of water we needed to navigate. We had a choice – strike out and try to get across now, hoping we didn’t get knocked off our boards by the waves and caught by the rip pulling us out to sea, or wait till it calmed and there was a shorter stretch of water, but cross in the dark.

The Avon estuary entrance at
Bantham and Bigbury on Sea in the winter

My instinct was to “give it a go” now as I would rather not be lost at sea in the dark. My other concern was that I was struggling to see as it was and I wasn’t quite clear where the beach actually was, so I figured any more loss of light would be like paddleboarding blind. Two minutes later, beneath a faintly pink sky and fading light, we headed into the waves, kneeling on our boards and trying to make our way to the far shore, despite waves and the current pushing us out. Shouted instructions about trying to head ‘upstream’, were lost on me and I just kept paddling towards what looked like a shore or a gap in the rocks, hoping for the best. My heart stopped pounding once we got to the beach safely and one of us said: “Of course, it wouldn’t be a Farmer adventure without a bit of jeopardy!” 

The next evening as I enjoyed my last sea swim, just along the beach from where we’d landed the night before, the conditions couldn’t have been more different. No wind meant the sea was pretty flat and that night we wouldn’t have had much trouble making our way across the estuary… but then we wouldn’t have had such an exhilarating evening and a story to share.

Now I can’t wait until my eye recovers and we can set out on some more adventures – at least this time I should be able to see where the dangers are!

Lost in the jungle – just for an afternoon

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How hard can it be walking down a hill for a few hours? Well throw in a jungle, 37 degree heat and a lack of signs and it turns out to be quite difficult…

Last month I found myself staying for a few nights in Penang – a small island off Malaysia. It was meant to be a mini break with a colleague, which we had tagged onto the back of a week of work meetings in Kuala Lumpur. We had both decided it would be nice to take some time to explore a little of Malaysia and take some time to relax.

The word ‘relax’ didn’t fit too well into the first morning. Due to the extreme heat, we decided to pick up a ‘grab’ (Asian uber) at 7am and head to the historic George Town before the temperatures overtook us. We enjoyed meandering round the streets filled with murals that reminded me of Banksy and enjoyed photographing a huge variety of doors and ornate buildings, along with a stroll through the ramshackle market stalls on the jetties.

As the heat started to crank up we caught another grab to the foot of Penang Hill and bought tickets for the funicular railway which would take us to the top. The plan was to enjoy the shade of the trees and cooler air higher up as well as the views and the wildlife. 

The journey on the train was a little longer than I had envisaged – after all this was just a hill. And as it rose higher through the trees we could see paths and steps descending below. I wondered how long it would take us to walk down.

After enjoying lunch Malaysian-style with the vista of George town spread out below, slightly obscured by the clouds, we started to look for the start of the path down. The monkeys chattering overhead distracted us for a while and we eventually had to ask a passing man in running gear and trainers if he knew the way down the ‘hill’.

“You walking?” he asked. We nodded enthusiastically. He was looking at our feet – both displaying less than sturdy sandals.

“You can go that way, but probably the jeep track is best.” And he pointed at our shoes… or lack of them.

My colleague, Annette, is from New Zealand and didn’t fancy a track used by cars.

“How bad can it be?” she said. And so we followed the path down.

The jungle lined trail zig zagged down the hillside and we were encouraged by meeting other hikers coming up. They gave us breathless greetings and carried on in their trainers and walking poles. We continued to slither a bit in sandals.

There were some intersections at various points without any signs, we followed our noses, which took us to someone’s house. So, we trailed back up the hill, breathing heavily as sweat began to drip down our faces. We didn’t want to make any more navigation errors in this heat. But half an hour later we found ourselves back at a gateway, with images of guard dogs on the entrance.

As we retraced our steps yet again, I told Annette I had seen the pictures of an animal higher up on a tree but, as I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had thought it was a tiger – which is more worrying a tiger or a guard dog?

The lack of signs and the apparent inaccuracies of the map we’d taken a photo of higher up, were beginning to become frustrating. As we finally began heading on what we thought was the right path, a young man in trainers bounded across to us and asked if we knew the way. We felt confident we’d found the trail at last and he seemed to agree and quickly overtook us. We saw him pause at yet another junction in the path lower down, before turning left. We followed on, which turned out to be a mistake. The path became narrow and steep. But there were ropes built into the trees to hold onto and the trail quickly evolved into a kind of assault course, where we had to descend backwards, holding the ropes and at some points swing ourselves round steep rocky drops to the path below. The sandals were doing their best, but they were only sandals.

We’d been going sometime now and occasionally had glimpses of the train through the trees or heard it rumbling by up above. The climbing ropes eventually joined the proper path we should have taken and there were several more dead ends before we finally came out into a clearing where we could see one of the midway railway stations and the houses and town below seemed a little closer.

It was gone two in the afternoon and the sun was intense. We could hear voices on the other side of the railway and began to fear we were on the wrong path again. A narrow trail led left and right below. Which was the right way? We were very tired and hot. The water was running low and we needed a sign. 

“Oh God, please give us a sign!” I said, and it was a kind of prayer. We stepped towards the path leading directly down and passed under a wooden arch. As we turned to look back, we saw the sign for the Penang Hill Trail directly over our heads. We had found the official path at last.

However, finding the path was just the beginning of a very long walk downhill filled with steps that seemed to go on forever. Our legs were becoming very wobbly, and we started counting to 20 steps and then stopping for a rest, but the mosquitoes soon had us moving on again.

When we finally found our way back we headed for cool drinks in a café and nursed our aching limbs as we waited for a grab to take us back to the apartment. Plans for an evening out on the town were on hold, in favour of a bit of a lie down in a cool room!

Penang ‘Hill’ turned out to be more of an adventure than we had planned and it took some time for our muscles to recover from that afternoon stroll through the Malaysian jungle. 

I am not sure Malaysians use the word ‘hill’ in the same way as us at all – we’re calling it ‘Penang Mountain’ because that’s what it felt like that afternoon.

Labours of love?

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I’m sitting in the only space in the house that isn’t either covered in dust or stacked with furniture… another renovation day dawns!

Why is it that however modestly your building project begins, it will inevitably grow legs and morph itself into a full blown construction job? And not only will it go on far longer than predicted, it will also come with a hefty price tag.

In early January we set out to make a few improvements to one half of the house… two months on and I’ve just sat down after loading up scraps of carpet into five bin liners. I’m sitting down because I’m not attracted by the next job, which involves lugging each of the bags to the garage through the Devon drizzle. So, instead I’m playing on my phone.. very “millennial” I know!

This building lark should be very familiar to me after many years working on a number of building projects both in our own homes and more recently in the homes of our children.
So, what have I learned?

Concrete burns are a thing. After a session mixing concrete on a hot day a couple of years ago, part of my over enthusiastic shovel fulls into the bucket must have slid down the inside of my wellies, below my cut offs. Several hours later I discovered a red patch on my leg that started to blister… long story, but I ended up with quite a serious concrete burn which took some time to heal and was quite painful. It turns out the burning chemical in concrete goes on working – eating into your skin – unless it’s rinsed off quickly. So beware!

Bricklaying is an art. During Easter 2020 while many of us enjoyed the sunshine amidst the first pandemic lockdown, our daughter-in-law taught herself how to build a wall, to finish off their house extension which had been started a few months earlier. Her self-taught skills left us all in awe – because it wasn’t an ordinary wall. The completed stepped back design, specified by our architect son, in traditional London stock bricks, is a work of art. And still standing!

Plumbing can be fun. One of our very dearest friends is a plumber who mixes his work with fun. When he visited us for various plumbing jobs he used to create musical instruments from left over copper pipes for the children to play with during his tea break. My own forays into plumbing began in 2020 assisting with the first London house renovation/rebuild. A couple of years on I had a chance to see if I’d remembered the skills I’d picked up, working on another house renovation, this time with our youngest son and his wife. Whether it was laying plastic pipes up walls or under floorboards, attempting to straighten the bendy tubes without kinking them, labelling hot and cold and fitting valves and stoppers – it was fiddly and sometimes frustrating. But it also had its funny moments – if you didn’t laugh you’d cry… In the end it was quite satisfying to think that we had laid the pipes and when the real plumber came to test the system they didn’t leak!

And then there’s the dust. Dust gets everywhere, even in the rooms you’ve sealed off. Also it lives forever. A few days after you’ve cleaned everywhere thoroughly, you wake up to find more has landed overnight, covering everything with a white film. This time I had forgotten the dust. Perhaps I just wanted to blank it out, thinking it will be less this time, as it’s in the other half of the house and there’s a big door between us… but it is back. Dust on the tables, on the cups on the shelf, even on the hoover, and it goes on. Even if you cover everything with dust sheets or polythene, it finds a way in. There is no escaping it, so if you are embarking on a building project it might be time to embrace the dusty look and think of desert storms and living in shades of grey for a while.

Although I have been a concrete mixer, a plumber’s mate, a roof resin mixer and a wall insulation fitter in the past – I am now mostly a cleaner and a decorator. These are lower risk roles, but ones which have a degree of satisfaction for a few hours at least. 

My dream is to see all the building materials packed away, furniture unstacked and being able to clean and decorate the new rooms at last, so that we can welcome some guests. 

Knowing how things go, it may be a few weeks yet, so I will slide on my “ear defenders” and get back to sweeping up another dusty room, with dreams of Spring and potting out flowers to drown out the noise of the drills and electric saws.

Getting life in focus

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Something odd has been happening these past few months. It crept up on me gradually, but the other week I was forced to take notice and take action.

Looking up on a clear starry night a couple of weeks ago, I was fascinated by what appeared to be a very unusual star. It was a star surrounded by other stars, almost like a mini firework sparkling up in the inky sky above us. I pointed it out to the others getting out of the car, wondering what special planet it might be. They shook their heads and chuckled.
“It’s just a star, Rachel. It’s quite bright, but there are no fireworks round it.”
Was I seeing things? It felt a little worrying.

The next day I began my usual trail around the local supermarket. I didn’t have that much to buy, but there were a few key items I was in search of, one being cottage cheese. I scanned the shelves on either side and realised I couldn’t read the labels and there was no way to distinguish between cartons of cottage cheese, yoghurt or cream. I stepped right up to the shelves and peered closer and at last I could read the labels, although I still couldn’t find the cheese. Sauntering down the aisle with the cereals I had to admit to myself it was all a blur… Shreddies became Frosties and Weetabix might as well be Cornflakes for all I could see. I was beginning to get frustrated. It’s definitely time to book an eye test.

It was still a bit of a shock a few days later to discover I had become short sighted and was in need of glasses for driving and watching TV… in fact if I wanted to see things clearly, I was going to have to wear glasses to go shopping!

It should all be very straightforward from this point on… you buy a pair of glasses and get the lenses made, and ‘hey presto’ you can see clearly. It turns out choosing glasses is not easy. 

I’ve been quite happy buying ‘ready readers’ online to help with reading in poor light and at £10 a shot it was no problem buying two or three pairs. If they got squashed or lost it wasn’t such an issue. This glasses decision was a little bigger at more than £150 a pop, it was worth getting right.

Over the following week I took a keen interest in anyone wearing glasses, wondering which ones might suit me and what the glasses said about me. Was my face round or oval or even square? Should I go frameless or make a statement with big bold frames? Should I buy varifocals or what about contact lenses or even laser surgery? Too many choices. 

A friend let me try hers on and her husband listened with his head tilted thoughtfully, while I explained how hard it was to decide what I liked.
“It doesn’t matter if you like yourself in them or not, it won’t be you looking at them,” he said, without a quiver of a smile. He had a point… but then I do look in the mirror sometimes.

Over the next few days I spent several sessions picking up pair after pair of different glasses at different prices in a number of opticians. I was beginning to despair of ever being happy with my choice. One morning a builder working on our house, even offered me his glasses to test the bi focal lenses… they weren’t right, unsurprisingly! 

  • Before
  • After

After another frustrating blurred shopping session, I had to make a decision and eventually found a pair I was happy with. Perhaps it’s like shoes that you slip on and immediately they’re comfortable. This pair just felt like me, sort of, and I didn’t have to think too hard whether they were right. I picked the glasses up two days ago and it was a little bit like magic. Staring round Tesco’s aisles I could read the items on the shelves, outside the branches of trees were crisp and signs were no longer fuzzy. Life had suddenly come into focus. Last night I watched an episode of Silent Witness and felt my face relax as I realised it was all completely clear, instead of all the actors being in slightly soft focus. Why had I waited so long?

Now, I’m waiting for the next starry night to see if my ‘magic’ glasses will put ‘star gazing’ back to normal… although if I prefer the starburst effect, I can always take them off.

Not exactly what we’d planned

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How do you deal with disappointments? I’ve been asking myself that question over the past few days. Sometimes things just don’t work out how we’d planned or hoped and it can be a hard pill to swallow…

I’d been looking forward to this Christmas for some months. The whole family was excited to be coming together to celebrate this special time in our own home, where we had just moved to a couple of months earlier. It had felt a long time coming, after Christmas family gatherings ruined by Covid and subsequently re arranging the following year. I was so happy to be welcoming our growing family of children, partners and grandchildren It would be the first time for these little ones to have Christmas at our house and their 95-year-old great grandmother was also joining us.

A few days before the arrivals were due, we’d bought the tree, decorated the house and hosted a pre-Christmas meal for some new local friends. We were in the seasonal mood and looking forward to the week ahead.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of a simple text from our neighbours asking if we had water, as they had lost theirs. Within 24 hours we had no running water and a stack of water bottles had been delivered by South West Water. That day as I stood in the kitchen attempting to wash my hands and clean the sink with a bottle of water, I began to wonder how this was going to work … Christmas dinner for nine adults and three children…was it even possible with no running water?

After lots of phone calls and the failure of the water company to fix all the leaks and reconnect us to the mains, a mini tank of water was eventually delivered to our drive – toilets could now be flushed and showers used sparingly. Christmas wasn’t cancelled, although it wasn’t going to be quite as relaxed as we’d hoped.

As the family arrived in stages and Christmas Eve approached the next seasonal “missile” hit us, when one of the family went down with a bug, followed by another and another… From Christmas Eve to beyond Boxing Day, there was always someone absent, struck down and not eating, while others were in recovery!

However, Christmas 2022 did happen in our house. Santa paid a visit and stockings were opened amid sighs and squeals of delight. Everyone was together, most of the time. We served up delicious meals, for some. At least one or two games were played and a few Christmas films watched beside the fire.

As the first branch of the family attempted to depart, they discovered their car steering had given up. And so the final straw this Christmas came in the form of a breakdown relay truck that transported our son, daughter-in-law and their 15 month old son back to London. Thankfully the youngest member was thrilled about a ride in a truck, even if his parents were less sure!

We all know things don’t always work out how we’d hoped and the danger of looking forward to something so much, is that we can be left feeling disappointed when things don’t live up to our expectations. So, do we look for someone to blame? Do we try to find a positive and be thankful for what we have in comparison to so many others? Maybe easier said than done!

One of the family muttered the essence of this verse during the unfolding daily dramas.. “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope..”

As I swallow down my disappointment and the visible sadness of the rest of the family, I’m trying to remain hopeful for happier family gatherings in the future, because I’ve certainly been enduring something!

On the positive side, there were no arguments or fall outs – we were too busy fighting sickness and refilling water tanks!

Homeward bound

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My straw hat is squashed in the overhead locker and I’ve wrapped a scarf around my bare legs to keep warm – we’re definitely going home!

After almost two months living in the “med” we will soon be landing back in England, where I may be in need of that jacket I decided not to pack.

Our time onboard yacht Riou came to a close with a rather dramatic storm in the end. On our penultimate night afloat, we watched a red sun sink behind distant blue islands, while we spent a peaceful night as the only boat anchored off one of our favourite uninhabited islands. But it wasn’t long before the rest of Greece woke up and joined us. A morning walk on the deserted beach had been too good to last. By lunchtime we were surrounded by dozens of boats which had anchored around us and flooded the untouched sand and crystal waters with day trippers.

As we headed into port for our final night, we were pleased to find a space on the jetty as the clouds began to gather. Later that night we listened to the wind howling round the rigging and heard the rain pelting against the hatches. It wasn’t long before I felt water dripping on my feet and we discovered a leak above us. We didn’t sleep so well that night, what with balancing bowls to catch the drips, securing extra lines in the dark and pouring rain “just in case”. This was the skipper’s job of course, while I watched from below and called out halfhearted offers of ‘do you need me to help?’ as gangplanks clattered and ropes squeaked on deck. There was lightening and thunder too – it turned out to be a loud and wet farewell to the Sporades. Although we were sad to leave, dragging our luggage through the rain made it a little easier to say goodbye as we headed to the airport.

We’ve now had time to rest and reflect during a week in Cyprus, revisiting favourite spots and renewing friendships, thanks to the hospitality of my sister and brother-in-law. It’s felt odd not checking the wind and forecast each day and swimming out from the beach, we’ve found ourselves looking for “our” boat.

“We’ve become land lubbers!” We said to each other as we strolled by the coast and stared out at white capped waves in the distance.

I’m not sure we like it…

Our return to the “homeland” feels even more sombre as the country is in mourning for our wonderful Queen. We were shocked to hear the news from a Turkish immigration officer, as we re-crossed the border into the south of Cyprus at the end of a day out. After being handed our passports last Thursday evening – the customs man had stared at us and simply said, “Queen dead.” It was hard to understand at first, until it sank in. His face was serious and he repeated the words – suddenly we realised it was our Queen he was talking about. The last time we’d seen a photo of her a couple of days earlier, she was shaking hands with our new prime minister – we couldn’t believe she had suddenly died.

So this week was a big moment in history for the UK and many across the world marking the end of the Elizabethan era and the dawning of a new one with a new King Charles – as he will now be known. Meanwhile, here we are marking the end of something too.

For now it’s ‘back to business’ or ‘busyness’ with work to catch up on, family to hug and help, a house to move into and boxes to unpack.

I’m happy to be heading home. I’m certain there will be many more adventures to come, both on and off the water. Next time though, I will be packing a jumper and rethinking short dungarees as travel wear! Brrr…

Where am I?

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Do you ever have that feeling of waking up and wondering where you are? It’s happened to me on and off over the years – sleeping in strange beds and plenty of unfamiliar rooms for a variety of reasons!

Although we’re always on board the same boat, outside the locations change and so do our neighbours. The other day I woke up to the sound of New Zealand accents on the adjacent yacht and popping my head out on deck, I was greeted by a friendly voice, “How are you this morning?” A few days earlier it had been German accents and before that French.

Our neighbours over the past few weeks have been varied and many. It’s been one of the many joys of this extended trip, getting to meet so many sailors from different parts of the world and often mooring up beside them again at different anchorages and greeting them like old friends, sharing stories of where we’ve been in between and what we’ve seen, along with the inevitable sailing nightmare tales! They’ve also been on hand to help with ropes and getting moored in harbours in various strengths of wind, everyone has been helpful and kind.

The other morning I woke up in the saloon of the boat, as the cabin had got too hot in the night. I couldn’t remember where we were and even more confusing was hearing the twang of “Kiwi accents” again. I’d forgotten that having left this friendly family behind a few days earlier, we’d found ourselves moored next to them again the previous afternoon in a new location.

I’ve loved the friendliness of fellow sailors. The other day, the skipper of a boat anchored across from us in a bay swam over to chat about our sun canopy. He explained how he and his wife had sailed here from Brittany. We talked about our Devon flag and places he loved in England, especially Cornwall. When left he said, “We’re practically cousins!”

In our favourite port on the island of Alonnisos we found our new neighbours were a couple who’d been stranded in Australia during lockdown, and their lovely wooden boat had been damaged, but they hadn’t been able to get back to it. He was a native greek with a shock of white hair and he and his Australian partner shared tips with us on easy meals to cook on board along with sailing tales from around the islands. We nicknamed her ‘Shirley Valentine’ and wished them well with their boat rebuilding in the coming months as we upped anchor and set sail again.

Today we chatted with our new Danish neighbours about places to visit and last night we were back onboard yacht Zigzag – sharing a few glasses of wine with a Cornish couple, we keep meeting up with and who are now anchored a few metres away in this idyllic bay.

When we swam before breakfast this morning, it felt as if we were in our own giant swimming pool. Even in the deep water around the boat the seabed was so clear you could see each little pebble and rock far below.

As we move into the twilight of our time in Greece, for now, it’s clear our little boat is in need of some repair work. Over the past few weeks we’ve both become intimately acquainted with a sponge and bucket that has been filled up daily after each trip from water leaking down below! I’m thinking of buying one as a reminder of the adventure.

In the meantime, I’m gazing across at lush pine trees lining the shore above a bank of white rocks reflecting in the sparkling water. Apart from the heat and the temperature of the water, we could be anchored down the Fal in Cornwall! And I’m reminded that we have plenty of beautiful places to rediscover on our return home.

I’m also wondering how strange it will feel sleeping in a real bed that doesn’t rock and has space to move, or taking a long shower without being worried about using too much water.

But I may well wake up in a couple of weeks and wonder where on earth I am!

Incognito angel to the rescue

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It was the kind of anchor drama I’d been dreading. The man in a snorkel mask treading water by our boat said the words neither of us wanted to hear, “It’s stuck hard, I can’t move it. You’ll need to get professional divers.” A neighbouring skipper had volunteered to dive down and see if he could free our anchor, now stuck six metres down wedged under, what looked like some kind of metal frame.

Less than an hour earlier we’d arrived at the distant marine reserve island after a six hour passage in pretty heavy seas and gusty winds. We were already tired. The waves had mounted steadily during the course of the passage. At their height we were being pushed, tipped and rolled around, with four metre waves breaking onto the boat. We were both completely soaked after an hour or so and I wished I hadn’t bothered with shorts and T-shirt and stayed in a bikini. After we’d put in another reef, we settled into the lurching and rolling motion. I was glad the trip across wasn’t any longer, because although we were making great progress at 7.5 knots, six hours in a rolling sea felt quite a while!

After we’d dropped anchor at the island in a quiet bay, there was yet another semi daunting task to be completed. Due to the location and wind direction we needed to take lines ashore to tie us to the rocks. I was dreading this, as on previous Mediterranean holidays it’s been a task for “the boys” – this time it was down to me to paddle board over with lots of rope, negotiate the spiky rocks and sea urchins, and worst of all tie bowlines to make everything secure. (I’m only good at these 70 per cent of the time!)

Sometime later, after swearing, “I’m never doing this again”, “I hate doing this” and “I can’t do this”, and then the inevitable sea urchin encounter on my left hand… I swam back to what I thought was a secure boat, at last. But a final check of the anchor had almost been the final straw, when we saw, instead of wedged in the sand, it was jammed under some iron debris on the seabed.

Tension was rising. We were in a nature reserve at the north end of the Sporades islands, it was beautifully quiet and remote with no phone signal whatsoever. So, how would we call for divers? And what would it cost to free our anchor? The skipper took the paddle board ashore and climbed a nearby hill in search of phone signal. There were plenty of bleating goats, but still no signal. His face was grim when he returned to the boat. There were various options to consider, none of which we wanted to do, involving leaving the anchor and returning with divers, deploying a kedge anchor and trying to free it ourselves somehow… a few prayers were said.

The answer came quite quickly in the end in the form of a “Greek angel” called Nasos.

Nasos, a skipper on another yacht in the bay, was woken up from an afternoon rest by his crew, who’d been alerted to our dilemma and plea for help. It wasn’t long before he was alongside in his dinghy, snorkel and flippers to the ready.

“Where have you come from?” He asked.

“England,” we said!

“No, today I mean!”

We explained we’d sailed from Halkidiki and he was surprised, as he’d also sailed across from the same port an hour earlier. He said we must be tired, as it has been quite a tiring crossing.

“I will try and help you,” he said. “ Are you with a flotilla?”

“No,” we answered. “We’re on our own, that’s the problem.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nasos.“ You are not alone anymore, Nasos is here. We will solve it together!”

What a lovely thing to hear!

A few minutes later after carefully examining the anchor position through his mask he dived down. Very soon after he reappeared and said the magic words, “It’s free!” He explained the anchor had dragged and been caught in what was actually an old bed frame on the seabed and he had been able to yank it free.

We were so relieved and grateful, but as we’d only just met him and we were all wearing very little, we couldn’t hug and kiss him, instead we gave him a bottle of gin! Nasos, the incognito angel, even helped us re-anchor and re do our lines without too much stress. What a difference it makes when you have a “friend” to tackle a problem together.

After a restful and peaceful night on anchor we went to thank Nasos again and enjoyed real Greek coffee and sweet treats on his boat with his crew. We laughed about being caught by a bed and wondered how it had ever come to be on the bottom of the sea in such a remote place.

I’m not sure what to rename this little bay. It could be ‘Bedframe Bay’ but perhaps ‘Angel Bay’ would be more appropriate? We hope to catch up with Nasos again before he heads back north, if only to find out what other “angel missions” he’s been called to 😉.

Halkidiki revisited

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A few days ago we travelled back to where we spent our first Greek holiday – 35 years ago. But instead of travelling via plane and coach we arrived by boat.

Back in the 1980s, and newly married, we had scraped together enough to book a kind of bargain B&B package holiday in Greece… somewhere! We knew we would be staying in a B&B nearish the beach on the Halkidiki peninsular – the rest was a mystery. The room and location would be chosen by the tour operator – filling empty rooms we guessed.

We had landed at night in Thessaloniki and piled onto a bus, while the travel guide told us we would be dropped at our “surprise” hotels! We asked where we were going but it was just a name and we weren’t any the wiser. After lots of stops and as the coach got emptier and emptier, our names were called as the bus drew into what appeared to be the middle of nowhere! As we stepped off the coach into the balmy Mediterranean night, we could make out a square three story building with a few lights on at the entrance. We were ushered to our room with a balcony and as we fell asleep we wondered what we would wake up to the next day. We hoped it might be a little bit of paradise – a million miles from our little terrace in Nottinghamshire.

When we woke up bleary eyed the next morning, the light streamed in. From our balcony we could catch a glimpse of the turquoise water on the other side of the Taverna. I remember the water was so clear and such an amazing colour, with the sun shimmering across it, the sand soft and hot. We ate meals under the trees, walked a few kilometres to the nearest town along a wide road and enjoyed boat trips, scooter rides and lazy siestas in our room. We were very happy to be located out of the town in what felt like the countryside.

Locating this little country Taverna 35 years later turned out to be tricky! For one thing it turned out to be on the westerly peninsular called Kassandra, rather than the middle one, as we had imagined. And from google earth, there also seemed to be buildings all along the quiet beach we remembered. Could it have changed so much in 35 years? After a long search on google earth and street view, scouring our memories for distinguishing features on the landscape we reckoned we’d located it – the balcony and shape of the building matching our memories of photographs of me, in the days of stringy bikinis!

Setting sail from Porto Koufo we set our course on the far peninsular – little more than a blue haze on the horizon. What felt a long time later we were both scouring the shore with binoculars trying to pinpoint the right part of the beach. Eventually we spotted the only square flat roofed building the right distance from the town, but no longer on its own, it was one of a string of buildings on a busy umbrella-laden beach.

Once anchored off we paddled boarded to the beach still not quite sure if this really was the place. But as we wandered to the front of the building behind the beach it all fell into place. Although there’d been changes, it was still recognisably the place we had stayed in 1987.

A friendly member of staff asked if we needed anything and we unfolded our story. He was delighted we’d made it back. Yes, they were one of the first hotels in the area and had been all alone by the main road, until more development popped up over the years and a new main road was built. In fact his grandfather had built the place and it was still a family run business.

We enjoyed a frappe overlooking the beach, just as we had when we’d stayed there. But this time instead of looking out on the water wishing we could be on it, we were looking across at yacht Riou – bobbing on the bright blue sea in front of us.

It wasn’t quite as beautiful and tranquil as it was all those years ago, but it was a lovely trip down memory lane and we were pleased, having come all that way, to have found our little piece of history together.

Then it was back to the boat to catch the wind for the distant shore, where further adventures awaited.

Into the deep

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What are you scared of? I guess we don’t know the answer until we’re faced with something that makes our stomach turn upside down.

I love swimming but a few days ago we tied up in a little harbour after a long sail and walked along the quay to the beach. The water was crisp and clear and you could see right down to the sloping white sand below. We both plunged in to cool off.

“Wow!” came the exclamation, “that’s deep!” The skipper a few metres further out than me, pointed below. I stuck my head down and saw a steep bank of sand disappearing into blue and deeper blue and more blue! The steeply shelving beach had the feeling of stepping off a precipice. My stomach did a tumble as I back paddled away.

We can both swim well and in deep water, but there was something different about this, like standing close to a cliff, as if I was suspended above the drop. Neither of us felt keen to venture over the drop which we called “the deep”. It was quite ridiculous considering we’ve jumped into the sea mid sail hundreds of times in much deeper water and felt fine.

After our trip to the beach we met a Greek sailor who told us some of the secrets of this hidden harbour on the south of Halkidiki’s middle peninsula.

He told us it had been a secret submarine base during the Second World War. The deep natural harbour with its hidden entrance between the cliffs had even had a metal net across the entrance to stop enemy boats getting in. All around the surrounding hills had been huge canons standing watch. He said one of these now lay on the sea bed below.

The story of the submarines somehow confirmed my deepest fears of something unknown lurking unseen below, a bit like the Loch Ness monster!

After a few days sailing around the peninsulas, we returned to Porto Koufo yesterday and went back to the beach.

“Let’s go into the deep,” I said.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes we have to face our fears!”

We laughed and both put our heads down and headed out. Through my goggles I could see the sand slipping away and the blue below becoming bluer. We both looked up and trod water – no giant squids snapped at our toes, no monsters bared their teeth below us. We were still OK. Nothing to be afraid of really! Still after a few minutes we headed back to the safety of the sand and enjoyed the feel of something solid between our toes.

Last night in the restaurant we heard more stories from would-be psychology student, 17-year-old Nicole, our waitress for the evening. Her grandfather had set up the first Taverna here after the war. There were tales of bombs being made in a cellar and tunnels in the hillside where you can still see the remains of the Nazi control rooms.

This is a place of history and beauty. We love the ramshackle quay, with its huge metal bollards for ropes, the fishermen waiting patiently all night by their rods and feeding stray cats with the unwanted catches.

Tomorrow we will leave Porto Koufo and “the deep” behind us to make the passage back to the Sporades islands. We will be heading into another kind of “deep” hoping for fair winds. The unknown is always a little scary, whether it’s new places or fresh challenges. I get a little nervous each time we come into a new anchorage or port, uncertain how we’ll do tying up or getting our anchor set. But each time we swim over the edge and face the fear we get a little bolder and braver, hopefully!

Although facing my fears doesn’t help me being rubbish at lassoing ropes over bollards ( Thank you to the old sailor who helped us tie up yesterday, reassuring me as I ‘misthrew’ the rope yet again, by saying, “Slow, slow, slow, no rush – we sailors have all the time in the world”! ) I should have taken his advice this morning too as I rushed up the boat steps for the umpteenth time and tripped re grazing my shin, all before breakfast! My body is now tattooed with the stories from this trip, a selection of tell tale bruises, scars and mosquito bites.

Listening to the wind whistling through the mast today, I am sure there will be more to come!