Follow our Track @ NoForeignLand

A DEDICATION

This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Garry the Gecko, stowaway, reluctant circumnavigator and last surviving member of a once-happy partnership.

Having lost his companion some months earlier, Garry eventually paid the ultimate price during a particularly unforgiving storm off the coast of Spain.

He may have been small, but his voyage was considerable.

Gone, but not forgotten.

The Mediterranean is a vast stretch of water, covering some 2.5 million square kilometres, with an average depth of around 1,500 metres. It serves as a coastal playground for more than twenty countries across Southern Europe, North Africa and Western Asia, along with island nations such as Malta and Cyprus.

And yet, as we approached our six-month anniversary in the Med, it was beginning to dawn on us just how relatively little of it we’d actually seen.

Most of the boats that had made the same journey as us, crossing the Indian Ocean, threading their way up the Red Sea and finally poking their bows into the Mediterranean, had planned to spend two seasons exploring this part of the world. The strategy was a sensible one: find a marina or boatyard in which to winter through the darker months, either living aboard or flying home for a while, then resume the adventure when the sun returned in the new year.

Luna Blu and her crew, however, were working to a somewhat tighter schedule.

A combination of impatience, logistical constraints (visas being a particularly inconvenient consideration), and the challenge of finding somewhere suitable to winter had made our decision to tackle the Mediterranean in a single season relatively easy. At the time, it had seemed perfectly reasonable.

Now, with the season marching on, the consequences were becoming rather more apparent.

We were beginning to feel the pressure to make the most of what remained, squeezing as much as we could from our time along the coasts of France and Spain, with a little detour into the UK thrown in for good measure, all hopefully before the weather starts to turn.

The Mediterranean was proving to be every bit as captivating as we’d hoped. The trouble was, there was simply far too much of it, and nowhere near enough time.

The French Riviera

It was now the second week of September, and we were just northwest of the French island of Corsica, making steady progress towards the legendary French Riviera.

Our first port of call in this glamorous corner of the Mediterranean was Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, or more precisely, a delightful little bay on the eastern side of the peninsula of the same name. The setting was beautiful, the surroundings decidedly upmarket, and the anchorage generously sprinkled with yachts of such staggering proportions that we began to feel we’d be far better suited to a gypsy camp!

Indeed, much of the Mediterranean had felt like a floating showroom for some of the most magnificent vessels afloat. Against this backdrop, Luna Blu was a rather modest sailing catamaran, with an introverted, slightly skewed personality that perhaps reflected her crew rather well.

Every now and then, she needed a little reassurance that she was exactly the right boat for us. And she was. Practical, comfortable, capable, and perfectly suited to the adventures we had planned.

That didn’t stop our eyes wandering towards some of the neighbouring yachts, though. It was difficult not to admire the sheer scale, the polished finishes and the occasional superyacht, the size of which suggested it might have its own postcode. We could appreciate the spectacle, even if we had no intention of trading places!

The author of this scribble likes to think he can get by with a little conversational French. An optimistic assessment, perhaps, to anyone with even the slightest grasp of the language, but enough to lend me a degree of confidence when striking up a conversation. It certainly made life a little easier here, particularly when compared with Italy, and, as we were soon to discover, Spain.

Villefranche-sur-Mer

Our stay at the first anchorage lasted little more than 24 hours.

We had initially chosen this pocket of water for its shelter from a northwesterly breeze. However, the forecast called for the wind to swing around to the east, bringing a stiff breeze directly into the exposed bay.

The change arrived earlier than expected. By early morning, the wind was building from the east and a swell was beginning to roll into the anchorage. By the time the sun finally broke through, the sea had become noticeably unsettled. Our anchor was holding, but the steady stream of boats weighing anchor and heading for the exit was a fairly persuasive hint that perhaps we should do the same.

And so, an hour or two later than ideal, we lifted our own anchor and punched out into the wind and waves. Once clear of the bay, we made a hurried turn to starboard, timing the manoeuvre between the rolling waves to avoid presenting our beam to an awkward one. It was probably a little overcautious, but when it comes to being caught broadside in a confused sea, I’ve always felt that conservative is a pretty good setting for this skipper.

The hop around the peninsula was short, but not without chalenges. We soon entered what has become one of my favourite anchorages of the trip so far, the magnificent bay of Villefranche-sur-Mer.

Like so many other boats escaping the weather, we slipped into the bay, found a spot to anchor, and settled into relative calm taking in the beauty of our surroundings.

Villefranche-sur-Mer is a spectacularly picturesque seaside town, known for its narrow cobbled stairways, vibrant terracotta and yellow buildings, and the 14th-century covered passageway of Rue Obscure.

Curiously, In 1971, the Rolling Stones moved to the area to escape the heavy taxation they faced in the United Kingdom. Keith Richards rented Villa Nellcôte, a sprawling 16-room Belle Époque mansion overlooking the bay. During the spring and summer of that year, the band installed a mobile recording studio in the mansion’s basement and recorded much of what would become their iconic double album, Exile on Main St.

Not a bad place to find yourself waiting out a bit of weather.

We spent a handfull of nights here, exploring the bars and restaurants ashore, strolling along the track that skirts the peninsual around to the otherside to where we had first arrived, and generally just enjoying this delightful little corner of the world!

Monaco, Yes i’m a wanker!

At the outset of this round-the-world sojourn, I had cobbled together a short list of places I particularly wanted to visit. A few boxes to tick, if you like.

The Suez and Panama Canals, along with passing Cape Passero in Sicily, were all nods to my years in shipping. Then there was the delightfully named Fakarava Atoll in French Polynesia—pronounced fukarava—because every good travel story deserves at least one immature reason to giggle.

And then there was Monaco.

I’d visited Monaco a handful of times before, and each time I distinctly remember looking down from the high walls above the harbour at the floating flotilla of palaces below. I’d gaze out at those magnificent yachts and quietly make myself a promise: one day, I’d bring my own yacht to Monaco Not necessarily to do anything particularly useful once I got there, mind you. Just to show the world that I, too, had made it!

And so it came to pass that our time in Villefranche-sur-Mer was drawing to a close, and we were preparing to shift westward, ever westward!

But Monaco lay a mere eight nautical miles to the east. I wasn’t about to let such a minor bump in the road get in the way of a little personal vanity.

As we approached, however, a rather important question began to nag at me: what the hell were we actually going to do once we got there?

We hadn’t booked a marina berth, and there was no anchorage where we could settle for the night. So, in the end, we did what any well-organised cruising yacht might do, we hovered awkwardly outside the entrance to the main marina, admiring the spectacle from a distance.

Our sightseeing was cut short when a superyacht came gliding out and politely requested that we clear the way. Taking the hint, we snapped a few hurried photographs and, with a growing sense of foolishness and regret, executed a 180-degree turn and got the hell out of there.

We didn’t even manage to add a Monaco fridge magnet to the ever-expanding collection onboard.

Box ticked, I suppose. But as we headed back out to sea, I couldn’t help feeling that this little detour had been, quite justifiably, an abject waste of time.

So much for making it in Monaco.

Antibes and a filthy seagull!

Mention the French Riviera and your thoughts might immediately turn to Antibes, perhaps Nice. But putting Nice and Antibes in the same sentence is about as close to yin and yang as you’re likely to get.

With our foolhardy Monaco side excursion behind us, we pushed west towards Antibes. This quintessentially French Riviera enclave added yet another layer to the richness of this region we’d been fortunate enough to experience.

Antibes is a delight. Its cafés, bars and restaurants were plentiful, the open-air produce market was excellent, and the fortified Old Town was one of the finest European old towns I’d been lucky enough to wander through. It had charm in spades, without feeling as though it was trying too hard to impress.

But sightseeing wasn’t the only reason we’d called in.

Mark and Clare, old friends I hadn’t seen for many years, were also making their way through Antibes as they continued their own European odyssey. We caught up over a few drinks, traded stories and embellished a few old war tales, as one does when the passage of time has made the truth just a little less important than the entertainment value. So nice to have found the opportunity to catch up. Mark and Clare and their traveling companions were heading home to Australia shortly, while we were heading further…….you’ve got it…..west!

Meanwhile, Zippy had developed a particular interest in the oversized seagulls that had taken to scavenging around the stern of the boat. These feathered freeloaders were clearly well practised in the art of begging, and knew that a chorus of squawks was often enough to achieve their objective.

And their objective wasn’t simply the procurement of scraps.

As with all creatures, what goes in must eventually come out. These behemoths masquerading as seagulls had found themselves the floating equivalent of an ancient oak tree: a convenient place to perch, rest, wait for their digestive systems to do their work, and then deposit a god-awful mess across our solar array.

Filthy fucking seagulls!

Pakaah, pakaah!

Cocktails & Dreams & A St Tropez breakfast for Eur 49.60!

A short hop west and then just out from the Bay of Cannes sit the Lérins Islands, Île Sainte-Marguerite and Île Saint-Honorat. Tucked between these two little outcrops of land is a neat hideaway anchorage that serves as a playground for day-trippers and weekenders aboard their boats.

The anchorage has its own floating food-and-drink service. “Catamaran Pizza” will make to order any Pizza you might want, and either deliver to your boat, or have it ready for when you come to take away. Meantime, a fleet of roaming motorboats offer cocktails made to order, bottles of champagne, spirits and, for the younger crowd, ice creams. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon at anchor!

The islands also carry a darker history. During the German occupation, their strategic position gave them military significance, and traces of that period remain. Wandering around Saint-Honorat, dominated by its abbey and adjoining vineyard, we were reminded that this peaceful corner of the Mediterranean had once played a very different role. It’s a fascinating contrast: serenity and beauty sitting alongside reminders of a much darker time.

Saint-Tropez was our penultimate port of call along this magical coastline. The village was considerably smaller than I’d imagined, but what it lacked in physical stature, it more than made up for in the size of its price tags—prices the likes of which I’d never encountered before.

We settled into a quayside café and ordered what amounted to a fairly modest French breakfast: an espresso, a croissant, a toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich and a hot chocolate.

Hardly the feast you’d file under “We’ll only do this once”, but the waiter, or rather the bill he brought to our smaller than adequate table suggested otherwise.

€49.60!

At that point, there wasn’t much left to do but laugh. It was, after all, Saint-Tropez, and apparently, even breakfast comes with a little Riviera glamour built into the price.

The open market in Saint-Tropez was every bit as notable as the others we’d visited along this gorgeous stretch of coastline. Around the marina, the scene was unmistakably one of wealth and excess, with luxurious yachts belonging to all manner of apparently high-net-worth individuals and consortiums.

But venture a little further inland and you began to wonder what all the fuss was about. Beyond the polished waterfront, there was nothing particularly extraordinary about the outskirts of this tiny village. Beautiful, certainly—but let’s calm the farm before we start holding Saint-Tropez up as the pinnacle of elitism!

Toulon, hiding in plain sight

I have a confession.

Ever since we left Greece—

Wrong. Let me start again.

About four weeks prior to us leaving the shores of Greece, we’d checked out of the country and, by extension, the broader Schengen zone. In the months that followed, we’d been skirting European coastlines “in transit” and, for the most part, avoiding marinas which we thought might attract the attention of authorities.

Malta was one exception. The country was notoriously relaxed when it came to visitors arriving by yacht. They weren’t particularly interested in sighting our passports, let alone scanning us into the country. Instead, we were cleared in with a stamped crew list.

Everywhere else, though, we were playing around the periphery, hiding in the weeds, so to speak. Keeping a low profile and avoiding places likely to attract more attention than necessary.

Cruising the world’s waters and skirting the coastlines of countries didn’t seem to attract the same level of scrutiny as arriving through an airport. Presumably, authorities had long since accepted the challenges of policing maritime borders and, in our case correctly, assumed that most sailors were simply passing through.

Until now, things had gone seamlessly. The occasional sighting of a nearby coastguard vessel had caused a brief flutter of the heart, but we’d never been approached or questioned about our bona fides.

The passage from Saint-Tropez to Toulon would be our last coastal hop in France: a short 45 nautical miles. From there, we’d wait for a suitable weather window before making the crossing of the alarmingly treacherous Gulf of Lion.

The Gulf is where the Mistral and Tramontane winds can spill into, funnelled and accelerated between mountain ranges ashore, with rather more enthusiasm than a cruising yacht might appreciate. And if those weren’t enough, there’s the counter-wind known locally as the Marin, which is also best avoided.

This sailing malarkey is a curious business. You spend your time seeking winds to drive the boat in the direction you want to go, only to spend an equal amount of time sheltering from the very thing you were hoping for.

Odd, really.

Not far out from Toulon, we noticed helicopters flying overhead in military-like formation. Nothing alarming, of course, just a few pilots conducting exercises, we presumed. Military aircraft weren’t unusual in these waters. We’d seen countless naval frigates offshore and, back in April, had passed not too far abeam of the USS Gerald R. Ford as she conducted exercises in the eastern Mediterranean.

So, at first, we thought nothing of the helicopters above.

A few miles later, and much closer to Toulon harbour, France’s version of an aircraft carrier came into view. The Charles de Gaulle might not have been the USS Gerald R. Ford, but she was no less menacing, as we approached and passed on our way into the harbour.

The helicopters suddenly made a little more sense. They were likely operating from the carrier.

Then, just as we were entering the port proper, a bloody great submarine appeared to starboard, manoeuvring its way out of the harbour. It was accompanied by all manner of craft: police, military, service vessels, you name it.

We weren’t approached by anyone, but we were certainly close enough to the action to take notice.

Odd, I thought, that we should encounter quite so much military hardware in one place.

A hurried bit of research soon explained it. Toulon was a major French naval base, and i quote “its harbour home to submarines and warships, alongside the fishing boats and ferries”

Fuck.

We’d just dropped our anchor, unknowingly, into the hornet’s nest.

Plans to head ashore for dinner and a glass or two of wine were immediately cancelled. We’d stay aboard, just in case anyone came knocking.

We’d been perhaps 500 metres from the submarine as she glided out of the harbour and disappeared into the horizon, bound for the seas beyond.

Months of carefully treading lightly, and here we were, sitting in plain sight of French military might.

Nobody came calling. After a couple of hours, we began to relax and get ready for bed, although sleep would be light. I was still expecting a knock on the hull.

But it never came.

The next morning, we were greeted by a glorious sunrise and the scent of pine drifting down from the mountain against which we’d found our anchorage. It was quite delightful, in fact.

Not wanting to overstay our welcome, we made quick work of getting ready to leave. Ahead lay the two-day passage across the Gulf of Lion and into Spanish waters.

We weighed anchor and motored past the harbour wall, heading east for a mile or two. Once clear of the peninsula, we unfurled the sails, rounded the headland and turned west. We planned to skirt the coast until roughly abeam of Marseille, then make a beeline across the gulf towards the Gulf of Roses in Spain.

Having rounded the eastern end of the peninsula, we continued west along the coast. Then, from not too far away, a civilian-looking motorboat came hurrying towards us.

I assumed it was a fisherman coming to warn us about a net.

As it closed in, however, we could see that the occupants were men in official-looking uniforms. Military, perhaps. Police? Immigration officers, I hoped not.

Once alongside, one of the men began speaking to us in French. I understood precisely none of it, once again calling into question my belief that I could converse in the language.

Fortunately, one of the men spoke a little English. He politely advised us to head directly out to sea, due west from where we were, for at least a mile before making any further progress along the course. He explained that live-fire exercises from the cliffs we were passing were about to begin.

We were instructed to switch our VHF to Channel 6 and listen for further information.

I thanked them profusely, showing off my very best French, then promptly put the autopilot ninety degrees to port, started the engines and got the hell out of there.

Of all the possibilities that had raced through my mind, immigration officers catching up with us and sending us to prison for the rest of our natural lives being at the forefront, the warning to clear the area before someone started firing live ammunition was a welcome relief indeed.

Once clear of the range, we soon heard the unmistakable sound of cannons, or whatever weapons they were using, being fired.

And that was France.

An unusual farewell, friendly enough, but being warned to clear the area before the French military opened fire wasn’t quite the send-off I’d expected.

At least we’d made it out of the country without being arrested.

Or shot at.

Not bad, really.

Hola Spain, cheap booze gracias!

The French Riviera is a delight, The Costa Brava & Costa Barcelona are a number oif rungs down on the ladder of affluence!

The Spanish Mediterranean Holiday Explosion took hold in the 1960s, cheaper commercial flights and the rise of all-inclusive package deals turned Spain into the primary sunshine destination for working-class and newly affluent British families. The upside of this is that english is more predominanatly spoken in the tourist areas, but it also means you miss experiencing the quintesential Spanish vibe. It’s more Sunday Roasts and Pints, than Sangria and Tapas, in many places!

Our fear of the two significant wind phenomina in the Gulf of Lion were either misplaced, or we got a lucky weather window. Our passage across was calm with a moderate and supportive breeze.

Our first landfall was the port of Roses. The broad bay is exposed to the east, but offers good shelter from northerlies in its northern corner, while a spot some seven nautical miles to the south provides protection from southerly winds. This gave us options, which was reassuring at a time when the changing seasons were beginning to bring notably more unsettled weather.

Despite the average age of holidaymakers in these parts seeming to be somewhere north of eighty, we enthusiastically ventured into the village in search of something local.

Our first taste of “traditional Spanish” fare was tapas and sangria. Though, to be fair, we could just as easily have found ourselves tucking into roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, perhaps washed down with a pint of cider.

The meal was perfectly acceptable, but we couldn’t help feeling that we’d managed to lower the average age of the clientele only marginally, and were still a long way from anything quintessentially Spanish.

One memorable feature of the evening was the international diplomacy taking place around us. A French couple sat at a table to our left, a German couple to our right, and between the three tables flowed a friendly volley of conversation, though I couldn’t help feeling that I’d somehow been appointed moderator of a small European peace accord.

A more convincing taste of Spain came the following day, when we discovered a local bodega.

From the street, it looked like an entirely unremarkable shop. Step inside, however, and it transformed into a cavernous space lined floor to ceiling with wine barrels. The price per litre was chalked onto the end of each one.

Bring your own bottle to fill, or buy a one-, two- or five-litre plastic container from the shopkeeper and fill your boots.

Naturally, we did.

We left with two five-litre barrels of wine at the princely sum of €2.45 per litre.

The more you drink, the more you save!

This bargain would prove to be something of a theme during our time in Spain.

Booze was relatively cheap.

This Bodega was but an amuse bouche for what was to come.

Grau and the Traveling Wilburys.

One of the hidden challenges of living on a boat and moving regularly is the ability, or lack of, to procure parts or personal effects and have them shipped. The simplist task on dry land is transformed into the logistical equivalent of a reverse 4½ somersault in the pike position (rated at a 4.8 degree of difficulty).

Hamilton, fortuitously based in Bordeaux, and had very kindly offered up his address for us to have a growing list of parts and personel effects shipped too. The plan was then that he would drive down to where we were in Spain and not only delivery the boot load of surprises, but take advantage of our convenient geographical location to Vins i Licors Grau, and as they say, kill two birds with the one rock!

To keep boredom at bay during the drive from Bordeaux to Arenys de Mar, the marina we’d settled into after leaving Roses, Ham had enlisted the company of Matt (Palmer, not Mann). And so, the two Travelling Wilburys hit the road.

Eventually, our own travelling delivery service arrived, boot packed to the brim with goodies. We eagerly met them at the marina entrance and set about transferring the contents of the car aboard Luna Blu. There was considerable excitement over the arrival of things we’d been waiting for, although that excitement was soon overtaken by the arrival of drinks.

Vins i Licors Grau is a family-run business whose origins date back to the early 1950s, when it began life as a modest winery and tavern. Decades of expansion and commercial ambition have since transformed that humble establishment into a rather formidable wine and spirits warehouse and distributor.

Speak to any like minded Spaniard, and they will easily recognise the name Grau, and the work it does!

I’d unearthed Grau during the Covid Lockdown Age while holed up in Europe. They promised prompt delivery and competitive prices, and, rather refreshingly, delivered on both. Since then, they’d become something of a favourite supplier.

Now, with Ham and Matt in town and Hams car relieved of contents, and a visit to Grau firmly on the agenda, we had places to go, people to see and, most importantly, a boot to fill!

To give you some idea of where we were so eagerly headed, Vins i Licors Grau operates an enormous 11,000 m² logistics warehouse, including 1,200 m² of temperature- and humidity-controlled storage, housing an astonishing 12,000 wine and liqueur references. The operation also boasts a 1,700 m² retail wine shop, with personal assistance from oenologists and sommeliers, a dedicated tasting room, a winery-bar, a children’s playroom, wine accessories and even a large private car park.

In short, this place has the lot. And for anyone with even a passing interest in wine or spirits, it’s something of a wonderland.

The author has, sadly, no commercial relationship with Grau, nor has he received so much as a complimentary bottle for this unsolicited endorsement. The video link below, however, should give you a much better sense of the place we were about to descend upon.

With military precision, the four of us entered the great hall of booze and immediately divided into two teams of two. One team swept left, the other right. There was no time for hesitation, no room for indecision. We had a mission.

Within twenty minutes, two enormous shopping trolleys, the sort normally reserved for serious expeditions to hypermarkets, had been loaded to the gunwales. We then manoeuvred our precarious cargo towards the checkout, where the damage was assessed and the operation officially concluded.

Boxes of liquid gold were squeezed into every available nook and cranny of Ham’s car. With the boot packed to capacity, and suspension now under a degree of strain, we set off in search of lunch and a bottle of wine with which to celebrate a successful mission.

Operation Grau: accomplished!

The Great Flood and a Balearic

A sailor can often be found staring skywards, searching for anything that might offer a hint of what the weather has in store.

A day or two after bidding farewell to Ham and Matt, and with the liquor cabinet considerably better stocked as a result, we noticed a substantial bank of dark clouds building on the distant western horizon. A quick glance at the weather app confirmed what our eyes had already suspected. A weather front was on its way.

It was early October, and we were about 20 nautical miles east of Barcelona, with still some distance to cover before reaching Gibraltar and making our official exit from the Mediterranean.

Already, though, the weather was showing signs of restlessness. After almost ten months without so much as a drop of rain, we’d experienced our first spells of drizzle. The skies, which for months had been an uninterrupted expanse of blue, were now increasingly cloud-covered, with heavier, greyer formations building on the horizon and taking on an altogether more sinister appearance.

Temperatures had dropped noticeably, too. We hadn’t dipped our toes in the water for several weeks, such was the speed with which the sea temperature was falling.

The seasonal transition had well and truly taken hold. Summer was packing up, autumn was moving in, and the Mediterranean was no longer somewhere to linger.

We needed to keep moving. West was the only direction that mattered.

But before we could go anywhere, what was fast approaching us was most certainly not the sort of weather we wanted to experience at sea. There was little doubt about what needed to be done. We would remain safely tucked inside the marina until the front had passed.

What followed was a long and largely sleepless night.

The winds were already strong, but the gusts continued to build. The sound of them howling through the rigging was thunderous, an almost continuous roar that made restful sleep all but impossible. Then came the rain. Torrential, relentless rain that continued unabated for hours.

Around us, neighbouring boats were beginning to suffer. Mooring lines parted under the strain, and on one unfortunate yacht, a headsail had somehow unfurled. After several hours exposed to those winds, the sail was quite literally shredded.

These were winds and rainfall the likes of which I’d never experienced before. Words really don’t do justice to the ferocity of it all.

By the time the sun broke through the following morning, the weather front had moved on. Boat owners began emerging to assess the damage and count the cost. Debris from inland was now scattered across the water, broken lines were being replaced, and torn sails removed. Slowly, the marina began returning to something resembling normality.

News soon began circulating that Barcelona, barely 20 nautical miles to our west, had received around a third of its annual rainfall in less than 24 hours. The deluge had caused widespread flooding and considerable damage across the city. Even with our boat securely tied to the dock, the combination of ferocious winds and torrential rain had created havoc. Tragically, two people were reported to have lost their lives after being swept away by floodwaters.

It was extraordinary.

And it was also the night we lost Garry the Gecko.

Somewhere during the mayhem, Garry must have ventured a little too far above the parapet. A particularly vicious gust would have caught him unawares. For all the vice-like grip those little feet might have afforded him, there was simply no matching a wind of that magnitude.

I can only imagine he was lifted clean off the boat and carried some distance before eventually meeting his fate in the water.

Poor old Garry.

A stowaway from Thailand, thousands of miles from home, and ultimately undone by a Mediterranean storm.

Gone, but not forgotten.

The storm had strengthened our resolve to make haste. Gibraltar was still some 500 nautical miles to the west, and there was a growing feeling that the longer we delayed, the less forgiving the weather was likely to become.

Leaving Arenys de Mar, we enjoyed a lively sail southwest towards the Balearic island of Mallorca. We’d originally envisaged spending considerably more time exploring the Balearics, but events were conspiring against us. Time was becoming a factor, and making progress westward was now taking priority over leisurely island hopping.

We managed just two days in the quaint fishing village of Port de Sóller. A rather touristy little enclave, its small bay is overlooked by the surrounding hills, while the waterfront is dominated by the historic wooden railway that shuttles passengers around the area.

If you’ve ever seen grown adults accompanying their children aboard those miniature trains you sometimes find inside large shopping centres, you’ll have an idea of the expressions on the faces of some of these passengers. There was an unmistakable sense of wide-eyed bewilderment at what they were doing onboard this contraption!

Once again, the weather had other ideas. With another front approaching, we needed to find shelter. We departed early one morning, well before sunrise, and made our way around to the western side of the island, where we secured a mooring buoy and settled in to wait out another strong blow to pass.

Once the worst of it had passed and the wind had finally spent its enthusiasm, we slipped the mooring and resumed our journey.

Ahead lay the long passage west towards Gibraltar. Thankfully, this time, it would prove to be an uneventful one.

The Prime Meridian

Crossing the Equator has long been celebrated by sailors through an ancient maritime tradition known as the Line-Crossing Ceremony, or Neptune Day. It’s a well-known and widely recognised nautical rite of passage.

Less celebrated, however, is the crossing of the Prime Meridian, that imaginary line at 0° longitude separating the Earth’s Eastern and Western Hemispheres.

As we continued our push towards Gibraltar, we kept a watchful eye on our position, eagerly anticipating the moment our longitude would tick over from east to west. When it finally did, we marked the occasion with a celebration somewhat more subdued than the traditional Neptune Day festivities.

No small achievement, mind you. We’d just sailed into an entirely different hemisphere!

What was rather humbling, though, was the realisation that we’d departed Phuket some nine months earlier and had still covered less than a quarter of the Earth’s circumference.

Granted, spending six months meandering around the Mediterranean hadn’t exactly helped our rate of progress. But it did put things into perspective.

Nine months behind us, and the greater part of the world still ahead.

Fortunately, the next leg of our adventure promised to be considerably faster-paced than the one we’d just enjoyed.

The days of leisurely Mediterranean cruising were coming to an end. There were oceans to cross, continents to reach, and an awful lot of longitude still to tick off!

“Passing Gib Outbound”

I’d never actually visited Gibraltar before, although in my professional life it had been a regularly mentioned port. Ships would call there to take on fuel before proceeding to their respective ports of loading or discharge. The name appeared so frequently in conversations, correspondence and shipping schedules that, in some ways, I felt as though I was already a citizen of the place.

So it was with no small degree of awe that the famous Rock of Gibraltar finally came into view.

On this day it was wearing a magnificent orographic cloud cap, which would remain perched above it over the following days as the winds rushed around its imposing limestone slopes. It was a majestic sight, and an entirely fitting landmark to greet us. Rounding the Rock and entering the Bay of Gibraltar, bound for the anchorage at La Línea, on the Spanish side of the border, marked the finish line of our Mediterranean adventure.

One particularly strong gust as we rounded the Rock served as a timely reminder of just how much the weather was changing. We scurried to furl the sails earlier than anticipated, and they would remain furled from that moment until we left this region behind for somewhere considerably sunnier and warmer.

For now, though, it was time to pause and reflect.

Just six months earlier, the Mediterranean had seemed an enormous playground with all the time in the world to explore it. In reality, our time cruising its waters had been, for the most part, an absolute delight.

The cultural and culinary contrasts between the countries bordering this great inland sea were fascinating. The height of summer, with its mass tourism and frightfully hot weather, wasn’t always particularly enjoyable, but the shoulder seasons either side of July and August were magnificent.

Greece will undoubtedly remain the highlight for us. It seemed almost purpose-built for sailing. Italy, by contrast, often appeared more interested in keeping us at arm’s length. Malta was a surprisingly delightful discovery, France was stunningly beautiful, and Spain perhaps reflected our own mood as this chapter of the adventure drew to a close: a little reflective, perhaps a touch melancholic, and it was’t offering much that might tempt us to stop or slow down.

There was still too much world out there for that!

From Gibraltar, we’d poke our noses into the mighty Atlantic and begin working our way back towards the lower latitudes, this time heading towards the Equator rather than away from it. Our next landfall would be the Canary Islands.

The Canaries would provide an opportunity to regroup, provision and prepare for the next big undertaking: an approximately 25-day open-ocean passage towards the Caribbean.

The Mediterranean was behind us. An ocean lay ahead.

And with Christmas approaching, there was every possibility that the next chapter would involve a little less sightseeing, a lot more ocean, and perhaps a rather unhealthy quantity of rum.

A rum-fuelled Christmas?