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One More Goodbye

I wasn’t being entirely truthful when I closed the last chapter. We did try to leave Greece but for reasons mainly to do with weather, though not entirely, we found ourselves back on the island of Corfu, albeit for one night only.

After spending longer than planned at anchor in Corfu while waiting for a few final jobs to be completed on Luna Blu, and generally enjoying what this island had to offer, we decided to make a farewell lap via the three small islands that mark Greece’s northwestern frontier: Ereikoussa, Othonoi, and Mathraki. It seemed a fitting way to close out our Greek odyssey.

It wasn’t.

Ereikoussa deserves the benefit of the doubt. The weather ruled out anchoring near the island’s only village on the southern tip, so we tucked into the northern end instead, hiding from a southerly breeze. Had it not been for the carcass of a Beneteau monohull lying on the rocks barely 500 metres from our anchorage, you could almost have called it idyllic. The sunset certainly did its best to convince us.

The next morning we sailed for Othonoi.

The little bay on the island’s southern tip had looked promising on the chart, but by the time we arrived it was already packed with boats that had either beaten us there or simply decided not to leave. There wasn’t enough room to squeeze us in, so we admitted defeat and backtracked to the last of the trio of islands, Mathraki.

Our Mathraki anchorage on the eastern side of the island offered reasonable shelter at first, but an overnight swell had built up soon turning it into an uncomfortable place to sleep. Worse still was the mysterious smell that drifted across the bay well into the night. We suspected the island’s sewage system was scheduled for a midnight pump out. The moment the sun appeared, so did our departure.

By then I was chasing something less ambitious than the perfect anchorage. I simply wanted one last proper Greek taverna meal. These three islands had promised, but failed to deliver, so we made the short 10-nautical-mile hop back to the westing side of Corfu, this time into the broad bay of Agios Georgios.

Summer was taking its hold and the heat was becoming relentless. We found a taverna ashore, melted ourselves into the brezzless shade, and slowly worked our way through one final Greek feast. Though by now neither our stomachs, nor hearts were really in the game. The previous few days had felt like Greece was nudging us toward the exit. Our last forgettable meal just ratified the message.

It was time to go.

Corfu to Sicily

The passage from Agios Georgios Bay in Corfu to Syracuse, sitting on the eastern side of the Italian island of Sicily, is about 260 nautical miles, as a crow eager for pizza would fly. It would take us a little less than 48 hours to cover the distance. A crow, on the other hand, could probably knock it over in half a day!

Having already crossed the Indian Ocean, overnight passages are no longer as daunting to us as they once were. In fact, I have come to rather enjoy being out on the open water. Partly because of the peace and quiet it can offer, but mainly because there are far fewer boats in your immediate vicinity to worry about.

An anchorage, with its protection from the weather and easy access to shoreside facilities, can be very appealing. But you rely heavily on the ability of others around you to anchor their boats properly. One poorly set anchor during a blow, followed by one boat collecting another as it drifts helplessly through the anchorage, can have cascading and catastrophic consequences.

That said, the onset of darkness on the first night of any passage still brings with it a certain sense of dread.

As daylight fades, so too does our ability to see what is happening immediately around us. Of course, the navigation instruments continue to tell us where we are, where we’re going and what is around us, to an extent, but there is something unsettling about no longer being able to see the surface of the sea.

A drifting shipping container, lurking just beneath the surface and invisible to radar, is one of those thoughts that inevitably comes to me as darkness descends.

Robert Redford’s arguably least impressive piece of work was the movie All Is Lost, in which a solo sailor collides with a submerged shipping container and, as the title rather ominously suggests, loses almost everything. The movie has had much the same psychological impact on sailors, certainly this one, as Jaws had on a generation of beachgoers.

During daylight, you can see the state of the sea around you. You can watch the waves approaching and, at least psychologically, prepare yourself for the occasional rogue wave that might knock Luna Blu around a little more than usual.

At night, all of that disappears.

I much prefer clear skies at night, of course, when the stars come out in their thousands, glittering across the sky, and the moon casts its glow over a surface that would otherwise be an impenetrable darkness. There is something comforting about being able to see the horizon, even if only faintly. Being able to see what lies ahead somehow makes the sea a lot less threatening.

And then, eventually, dawn arrives. Another night over. Another day ahead. New adventures.

Perhaps that is why, despite everything, I have come to appreciate the darkness. It forces you to rely less on sight and much more on your other senses. And there are few things I’ve experienced more glorious than the sound of a boat making her way through the night, the wind filling the sails and the rush of water as the hulls of Luna Blu push steadily onwards.

The passage toward Sicily was largely without incidence with both the winds and seas being favourable. The route took us almost entirely along the bottom of “The Boot” of the mainland and as the sun rose on the second day of the passage the silhouette of Mount Etna came into view along with plumes of smoke that it has been spewing into the air in recent days and weeks. The soot that Etna was throwing into the atmosphere would make it’s mark on Luna Blu as far afield as Malta, and bring into sharp focus the fact it had not rained, other than light useless drizzle, since we left Thailand. We dont like Etna and we want rain!

We eventually made into the expansive Bay of Syracuse, found our anchorage spot, and dropped the hook into what we would soon discover was thick, sticky mud, perfect for keeping Luna Blu, and the many boats around us, firmly in position!

Sicily: Syracuse & Ortigia

I knew very little of Sicily. I presumed it was still littered with uncollected rubbish. A throw back to the days where, in 2019, the Italian Government had made a ham fisted attempt at grappling control of the countries waste management efforts from the Mafia. I also knew that the island was the birthplace of Vito Corleone, who would later become a Mafia don, and who had a striking resemblance to Marlon Brando!

I knew even less of Syracuse, and less again still of the tourist island of Ortigia. Judging by the number of boats anchored in the harbour and the hords of human traffic that filled the streets, cafes, gelaterias, and restaurants, I was well and truly in the minority. This place was a tourist hot spot. Judging also by the language spoken, the majority of visitors were Italian, across from the mainland to buy up some tourist magnets, bottles of grossly inflated limoncello, some leather wear, glasswear or to restock their head scarf collection, thus was the prevalence of all of these such things in Ortigia.

Ortigia is a small island forming the historical centre of the City of Syracuse. Sitting prominantly in the centre of this island is the Cathedral of Syracuse (Duomo di Siracusa). Once you’ve taken a photograph in front of it, and admired it’s architecture, which is in fact impressive, then spent a small fortune at a cafe or restaurant looking across to the cathedral, and then walked some of the busy narrow cobbled laneways, your exprience of Ortigia is complete!

We stayed for a handfull of days, resting, restocking on some provisions, payed a frightfully expensive Eur 2.45/ltr for some diesel at the nearby marina and having our fill of Foccacia, Pizza, Pasta and Gelati. The place is incredibly busy and set-up for fleecing tourists who likely wont return again. It was a nice enough old town and I suppose I could understand adding Ortigia to a European Holiday program, so long as it was no more than a day, possibly two.

We’d certainly had our fill.

Our next stop was Malta, but about 3 hours after leaving Syracuse on our way south, we decided to turn back as all we were doing was fighting our way into a fierce head wind that wasn’t at all prominent on any of my weather prediction applications.

The next days weather looked much more agreeable, and so we weighed anchor early the next morning and left the comfort of the anchorage of Syracuse and began a push south, toward the small island country of Malta.

Malta

In fact Malta isn’t just one small island, it’s made up of three islands. Malta, being the main one and home to the country’s capital, Valletta. There is also the slightly smaller island of Gozo, and thirdly, the tiny little island of Comino, inhabited by only two people employed as island caretakers!

Located in the central Mediterranean between Sicily and the North African coast, Malta is a nation known for its historic sites and a revolving door of rulers, including the Romans, Moors, Knights of Saint John, French and British.

English is one of Malta’s official languages, which immediately made life easier for us. Maltese is the other official language, a unique Semitic language that evolved from Arabic, with heavy influences from Sicilian, Italian and English. It is the only Semitic language written in the Latin alphabet. On account of the country’s proximity to Italy, Italian is also widely spoken.

We made good time getting south to the entrance to Malta and the Grand Harbour, so much so that we had to slow to a virtual crawl in order to enter with the aid of some sunlight.

Such is the influence and popularity of Luna Blu in these parts, our arrival heralded the appearance of no fewer than five cruise ships, all jockeying for entry. We graciously allowed the Queen Victoria to enter before us, after which it was our turn to navigate the breakwaters and motor into the expansive Valletta Harbour beyond.

It had been recommended that we visit Rinella Bay, which was an immediate turn to port after entering through the breakwaters. Rinella was a small cove, and when we arrived it was completely empty.

Fortuitously, it was a Friday, not yet the weekend, and it was early!

The crowds would come to join us soon enough..

Once settled, we started to notice one or two small motor boats arriving into the bay. Then another, then another again. We were witnessing one of the great weekend motor yacht migrations. By mid atfernoon the little cove was full of motor craft, some anchoed alone, most tied up alongside each other. At it’s peak there was no fewer than 15 boats tied up alongside each other, forming a front lince defence of the beach beyond them! Then started a game of who can play their boom box louder. Thankfully the music was acceptable.

The bay was well protected from weather and we had a shorter than was probably appropriate amount of anchor chain in the water which limited our swing, and for good reason. There was just no more room to fill. Incredibly within a few short hours the bay was completely full of water craft. All very respectful of our space mind, but there was no more room at the saloon!

What followed was a wonderfully festive weekend.

Our visit here had coincided with The Feast of St Lawrence in Birgu, one of the historic Three Cities situated directly across the Grand Harbour from Valletta.

A deeply christian country, this is one of Malta’s oldest and most atmospheric feasts. The entire Birgu waterfront is illuminated, and the “10th August Pyrotechnic Association” hosts a massive fireworks display directly over the waters of the Grand Harbour. Ground and aerial fireworks are launched from barges, filling the harbor with light while brass bands march through the narrow, decorated streets.

The barges that were the launching pad for the fireworks were located about 500 meters from where we were anchored and what followed was three days of fireworks, the likes I have never seen before and likely will never see again. Throughout the day and night, fireworks were let of the noise of which was something quite indescribable. The boat would reverbirate with each explosion. These were loud fireworks. I’m not convinced of the necessity of fireworks during daylight, it all seems rather pointless, but the Maltese didnt worry about what i thought, they were celebrating, and it was through the mediun of a firework that they would continue to do so!

For three days, the fireworks went off, and this had me thinking. How could a church afford such a display? I started researching and quickly discovered that the art of pyrotechnics in Malta is a centuries-old tradition and serves as a vital part of the island’s cultural heritage.

Malta has 35 active fireworks factories and roughly 1,900 licensed pyrotechnicians who handcraft displays for traditional village feasts.

For generations the traditional craft of making fireworks has been proudly passed on from one generation to another. The skill of making fireworks is entrenched in their culture. This activity was encouraged by the military division of The Knights of St John and as early as the 16th century fireworks’ let offs were taken up by ecclesiastical authorities to celebrate these feasts. In the late 19th and early 20th century English and Italian fire masters exerted their influence on the local craftsmen, who in return gradually developed their own skills to create Malta’s renowned festa fireworks displays.

Pyrotechnics is a skill, an art, and a science. Year in year out dedicated men and women voluntarily manufacture fireworks at their factory purely as a hobby for the ‘festa’ of their beloved Saint and festa.

To my great surprise, Malta is the fireworks capital of the world, and we were sitting 500 meters from two barges from where the countries supply of pyrotechnics were being launch.

It was incredible!

After days of a this cacophony of booms, bangs and sparkles competing with the loud music onboard all the boats anchored in this little cove, the novelty had begun to wane and we were eager for some peace and quiet. So we left, for the relative tranquility of St Juliens Bay, only 3nm north west of Valletta Harbour.

A delightful bay that made up for its lack of barges for launching fireworks with a great number of varying sizes of yachts and boats. This was a busy little harbour, and we were discovering that Malta was a busy ittle island. Seemingly everyone owned a boat of some description, and weekends in particular were incredibly busy. Thankfully for today, on account it not being a weekend, things were slightly quieter than what it could have otherwose been. It wasn’t problematic finding enough room to drop our anchor.

The bay is ringed with bars and restaurants, some of which we set about visiting.

The real highlight of our visit to Malta though, were Michael and Maria. A couple of local Maltese we were introduced too and who took us under their wings and showed us around their home country. Lunch together followed by a visit to the fortified city of Mdina was a particular thrill! This was the island’s capital from antiquity to the medieval period.

Mdina remained the centre of the Maltese nobility and religious authorities, and property largely continues to be passed down in families from generation to generation. The city has never regained the importance it had before 1530, giving rise to the popular nickname the “Silent City” among both locals and visitors, but it is stunningly beautiful!

We stayed in St Julian’s for a couple of nights before deciding that the combination of Mount Etna spewing ash into the atmosphere and the persistent winds pushing it south, together with three days of fireworks, had left Luna Blu looking decidedly worse for wear.

She was blackened with a fine layer of volcanic dust and general fireworks-related grime, so some tender loving care was clearly required. We headed around to Roland Marina, where we tied up for two nights, connected a water hose and gave her a thorough hosing down. It was remarkable just how much black dust could accumulate on a white deck!

The marina also had the rather significant advantage of being within easy reach of the greatest chandlery store I have ever stepped into. Gauci Borda is spread over three levels and seems to stock just about anything a boat owner could possibly want, or, more importantly, anything they didn’t realise they needed until they saw it!

Even better, they were able to refill our Thai gas bottles. This had been something of a challenge up until now, as both bottles had long since been empty and their non-European fittings had made finding somewhere to refill them particularly difficult.

So, with no small amount of satisfaction, we left Malta with both cooking-gas bottles full and safely back on board Luna Blu.

Sometimes, in cruising, the little victories are the ones that make you happiest.

We then explored a number of other anchorages around Malta, including the famous Blue Lagoon, with its stunningly turquoise waters from which the name is derived. Located on the otherwise deserted little island of Comino, the lagoon was every bit as beautiful as its reputation suggested, although, as we were soon to discover, we were far from the only people who had heard about it!

From Comino, we headed across to the island of Gozo, where we spent another week exploring its coastline and considering our next move.

Malta had been a real highlight for us. The fact that English is one of the country’s official languages certainly made life easier, but it was the city of Valletta that really captured our attention. There were hints of Hong Kong in her steep, hilly terrain, mixed with the unmistakable remnants of its British colonial past. For us, it was a real hit!

But, once again, it was time to keep moving.

I had read plenty about the Straits of Messina, the narrow channel separating Sicily from the Italian mainland, and was keen to add a passage through it to our ever-growing list of boxes ticked.

A weather window presented itself, and so, with little hesitation, we pointed Luna Blu north once again.

Strait of Messina

“Now when she [Charybdis] spewed it out, she seethed and swirled like a cauldron over a blazing fire,
the spray she flung on high rained down on the tops of both cliffs.
But when she swallowed the sea water down,
you could see the whole abyss of the whirlpool boiling,
and the dark rock roared all around,
and the sea floor appeared amid the foam.”
(Odyssey 12.236–243, transl. E.V. Rieu, slightly adapted)

The Strait of Messina has haunted sailors since ancient times. This infamous waterway, mentioned in Homer’s Odyssey, is the setting for the perilous encounter with Scylla and Charybdis, mythological sea monsters said to guard its treacherous waters. Odysseus’s poetic description captures the imagination best, likening the Strait’s tumultuous waters to a cauldron boiling with intense fire.

The Strait of Messina is a narrow waterway separating Sicily from the Italian mainland, linking the Tyrrhenian Sea to the north with the Ionian Sea to the south. At its narrowest point, it is just 3km wide but widens to 14 km farther south, between Capo Scaletta and Punta Pellaro. It is a heavily trafficked route for both commercial shipping and recreational sailing.

The Strait’s reputation for treacherous navigation comes largely from its currents, eddies, and whirlpools

Tidal currents are caused by the difference in water level between the Tyrrhenian and Ionian seas and can reach speeds of 4-5 knots at the narrowest point

The whirlpools in the Strait of Messina are mainly caused by the interaction of strong tidal currents. The Strait connects two different bodies of water, the Ionian Sea and the Tyrrhenian Sea, which not only have different water levels, but also temperatures and salinity. When the currents from these two seas meet in the narrow strait, they mix, creating strong turbulence in the water.

In addition, differences in the density of the water cause the heavier water from one sea to sink and the lighter water to rise to the surface, which increases turbulence even more. This water movement leads to the formation of eddies, some of which are strong enough to pose a threat to smaller vessels.

The Strait’s topography channels winds primarily from the north or south. In the summer months, northerly winds dominate. In unsettled weather, the Strait often experiences violent squalls and storms, which are also intensified by the terrain.

The literature I had read strongly encouraged avoiding conditions where the wind was blowing against the current, as this combination can create a short, steep and breaking sea. Add the unpredictable eddies to the equation and this was clearly not somewhere you wanted to be caught out.

Having arrived back into Syracuse following our detour to Malta, we rested and monitored the weather and tides closely, looking for a window where wind and current would work in harmony. As soon as those two elements aligned, we slipped out of Syracuse Bay and headed north towards the Strait.

Hoping, praying, that no mythical sea creatures would trouble our short odyssey!

We were stunned by just how benign the conditions were as we approached the narrows. We had a light breeze behind us, though not nearly enough to sail, but enough to work in harmony with the northbound current we had timed our arrival to catch.

The trickiest part for us so far, up until the narrowest point of the Strait, was simply keeping a wide berth from the commercial traffic running between the mainland and Sicily. Aside from that inconvenience, everything had been remarkably smooth.

We did pass over a number of eddies which worked to redirect the bow, but they weren’t nearly as fierce as I had anticipated.

We continued north and, having passed through the narrowest part, began to breathe a sigh of relief that the worst was behind us.

Danger!

About two miles from the northern exit, the current, that until now had been marginal, suddenly picked up noticeably. Almost immediately, we were shooting along at 9 knots under the power of one engine at low revs. The current was taking us exactly where we wanted to go, but the sudden surge in speed continued all the way towards the exit.

Unceremoniously spat out of the straits northern exit at speed, we turned to port and rounded away from the northern end of the Strait. The breeze had began to strengthen.

Now well clear of the Strait’s, suddenly, and seemingly from out of nothing, the wind gusted to 15 knots, then 25, then 35 knots, all within the space of a minute or two.

By now we had already deployed the headsail, hoping to make use of the wind that had been pushing us north out of the Strait. There was now far too much sail deployed, and we needed to reef it in.

Reefing a headsail in those conditions is not easy.

With some added strength at the winch, suddenly a number of the fairleads along the deck gave way.

Bang!

Disaster.

We eventually managed to get some of the headsail back in, but not before damage had been done to both the deck hardware and the sail itself, which had spent far too long flapping violently in the strengthening wind while we struggled to bring it under control. Parts of both the leech and the foot were now torn.

And then, in the middle of all the commotion, it dawned on me that I had a rather impressive blisters forming on my hand that had been inflicted while desperately trying to get control of some loose lines.

It was a disaster.

The whole thing had happened so instantaneously that there was very little we could have done to prepare for it. In the commotion of trying to reef the headsail, lines had been rushing through my bare palm and, as I would later discover, had also become wrapped around my right thigh.

The pain from the latter would eventually bring into sharp focus the fact that something was very definitely not right!

After about 30 minutes of trying to get everything under control, we could finally breathe again. By then the wind was beginning to abate, and we decided to seek refuge in the first available anchorage, where we could clean things up and carry out some running repairs to the damaged hardware, torn sail and attend to what was now some rather painful rope burns.

What a fucking nightmare!

It just goes to prove that even when you think you’ve cleared a dangerous stretch of water, letting your guard down and prematurely declaring victory is fraught.

Lesson learnt.

Again.

Sardinia

After a day or two convalescing and making repairs while anchored not far from the northern exit of the Strait of Messina, we determined, with our tails between our legs, that it was time to leave, and not return!

What followed was a pleasant, if largely unremarkable, 285-nautical-mile, 48-hour passage due west to Sardinia, the westernmost of the major Italian islands.

Sardinia, with a population of more than 1.5 million, is officially known as the Autonomous Region of Sardinia. It is the second-largest island in the Mediterranean after Sicily and one of Italy’s twenty regions.

We arrived on the southeastern coast of the island and anchored on the northern side of a small peninsula curiously named Capo Carbonara.

We didn’t go ashore very much while in Sardinia. In our experience, the Italians seemed to go out of their way to make life a little difficult for yachties. But when we did venture ashore, we never once saw carbonara on a menu!

We spent about a week inching our way up the eastern coast of the island, stopping overnight here and there and watching the shore activities from the sanctuary of our cockpit.

Getting ashore in the dinghy was problematic. Most beaches were either private or had signs strongly discouraging dinghy landings. Where there were floatong pontoons, they invariably come with a security guard sitting in a small shed, ready to come rushing out at the first sight of an approaching yachtie. His mission appeared to be one of two things: relieve you of some money for the privilege of using the dock, or ask you to leave immediately.

It wasn’t exactly the warmest of welcomes.

There is a joke I sometimes hear that goes something like this:

“Do you know why Italy is shaped like a boot?”

“Because you can’t fit that much shit into a shoe!”

A little harsh, perhaps.

But Italy hadn’t exactly been a highlight.

To be fair to Italy, we hadn’t seen much of her. Sicily and Sardinia were our only experiences, and even then, we hadn’t explored either island in the depth we might normally have liked. There were places we could have visited, towns we could have wandered through and more sights we could have seen. But you simply can’t see everything.

So perhaps it is unfair to judge an entire country on the basis of two islands and a handful of anchorages.

But for now, at least, Italy wasn’t looking like it was going to feature heavily on the Luna Blu highlight reel.

The one good thing going for the Island of Sardinia, is it’s flag – I like it!

Corsica

We left Sardinia and sailed due north, a very short 10-nautical-mile hop to the French island of Corsica. It was a sporty day’s sailing, with strengthening south-easterly winds pushing us along nicely.

After a full day’s passage, we pulled into the quaint little anchorage of Porto Pollo. Here we met a local business operator who assigned us a mooring buoy for the night, assisted us with tying up, and pointed us towards where we could dispose of our rubbish ashore, as well as suggesting restaurants and bars we should visit.

This was an altogether different experience from anything we’d encountered in Italy.

Bonjour et bienvenue!

This was to be a short, sharp visit to Corsica, hpwever.

This part of the Mediterranean is dominated by two particularly notorious wind phenomena, the Mistral and the Tramontane. They are closely related regional winds, both capable of appearing with alarming speed and turning an otherwise pleasant day at sea into something considerably more challenging.

The Mistral is a strong, cold and dry northerly to northwesterly wind that accelerates down the Rhône Valley before bursting into the Gulf of Lion. It can reach formidable speeds and generate very large seas.

The Tramontane is another cold, dry and often violent northerly or northwesterly wind, funnelling through the mountainous terrain between the Pyrenees and the Massif Central before making its presence felt in the Mediterranean.

Both can push southwards into the Mediterranean and, depending on their strength and direction, their effects can be felt as far away as Sardinia and Corsica.

Our weather forecasting suggested that one or both of these winds were beginning to form and that they would arrive towards the end of the week. More immediately, however, there was a period of favourable wind that would support our intended onward journey from Corsica towards the French mainland.

But before we could up and leave Corsica, we had a date with Matt and Nina!

The following morning we moved Luna Blu around to the next bay, just a little further north, and picked up a mooring buoy off the coastal town of Porticcio.

Despite several attempts to hail the owner or operator of the mooring field, no one responded. And so with some trepidation, we picked up a buoy and tied on, expecting at any moment an angry Frenchman to come charging out in his boat, yelling obscenities at us and demanding money.

He never arrived.

And so, not only did we get to spend a very pleasant, beverage-fuelled afternoon with Matt and Nina on board, but I also managed to avoid paying for the mooring buoy.

A double bonus!

Early the following morning, and feeling decidedly dusty from the evening before, we let go of the buoy and set a course for Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, on the French Riviera, If you don’t mind!!

The end of the Med is near

Time is marching on rather quickly.

When we first began our time in the Mediterranean, we had the feeling that we had plenty of it. One of our biggest challenges, we thought, would be finding ways to fill it.

Now, as I write this in mid-September, things feel rather different.

Delightfully, the weather is beginning to cool. The fans that have worked tirelessly to keep us comfortable over a hot summer are finally getting a rest. But our Mediterranean window is closing fast. We have just six weeks left before we need to encourage Luna Blu past Gibraltar and then south, heading for the Canary Islands, where we’ll make our final preparations for the Atlantic crossing.

It’s a strange feeling. We arrived wondering how we were going to burn up all that time, and now we find ourselves rushing towards the finish line, acutely aware that every week brings us closer to our departure from the Med.

And what a spectacular experience it has been.

It’s not over yet, of course. There are still miles to sail, places to explore and, no doubt, a few more adventures waiting to find us.

But when we eventually look back on our time in the Mediterranean, I’m sure it won’t be the miles we’ll remember most, It will be the memories she gave us.

And what memories they are.