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A Journal describing Hamish & Steve’s holiday on board Peter Fox’s yacht ‘Aventura’ in the Aegean September 2005
_
Saturday 3rd September 2005
We had to force ourselves to get into gear early this morning. Fortunately the taxi arrived bang on time to take us to the station, and we headed to Gatwick and our British Airways Boeing 737 flight which left at 10.20am. BA know how to do things properly when it comes to treating passengers with dignity and respect, something we’d almost forgotten after many flights in recent years on various ‘no-frills’ budget carriers.

We spent too much time hanging about in the airports at Thessaloniki and Athens before our third and final flight of the day, in an Aegean Airlines Avro RJ-100 to Rhodes, and Peter waiting for us in the Arrivals hall. We got a taxi in the balmy Mediterranean evening to the ancient Mandraki Harbour to board his boat, Aventura. We spent some time unpacking and familiarising ourselves with Aventura's nooks and corners, and toilet flushing idiosyncrasies. And finally we began to relax and allow ourselves to feel truly on holiday.

Sunday 4th September 2005
I was woken at some seemingly unearthly hour by rhythmic and persistent church bells.

I am writing this having just emerged from 'down below' onto the deck, Steve & Peter having wandered in search of a reputed shower block to eke out dwindling water supplies until a refill is arranged later.

The sight which greeted me did make me exclaim, rather rudely I’ll admit, "well f*** me!": distant Turkish mountains, waves crashing onto rocks on the other side of the breakwater jetty where we are moored, and a beautiful, clear, blue sky. At this point, the coast of Turkey is probably only about 10 miles away. A Hellenic Coast Guard motor launch slowed to pass between the nearby and famous deer guarding the entrance to this historic harbour.

We are sandwiched between a Turkish 'gulet' (a wooden boat of uncertain vintage but atmospheric design, this morning sporting a very fine fresh Turkish flag) and on the other side several storeys of enormous white luxury motor cruiser (why is it called 'Cheetah Moon'?), half a block long and with two spiral staircases visible from here, apparently occupied by Ozzies.

There is a very strong wind which I'm sure is getting stronger. We are of course in a very safe anchorage, but with little apparent prospect of its abatement despite a forecast to the contrary, I am at the moment looking around the bewildering collection of ropes and pulleys and stays and knots and rigging (probably nonsense terms, nautically speaking) with some apprehension, wondering what made me suggest to Peter a few weeks ago that I wanted to learn what to do with it all.

~ ~ ~

A little later on we went for a wander around the old town and the medieval fortified town, where some of the walls were several feet thick, and others sections had been rebuilt by the later Italian occupiers. We managed to find a couple of places to stop for a beer or two before heading back to Aventura and an hour or two kip, followed by cheese on toast done the Foxy way.

In the evening off again to find a particular rooftop restaurant with stunning views which Peter thought he remembered from a previous visit, but eventually it turned out to be just a café and was closed. We found another very pleasant rooftop restaurant nearer the centre of the tourist area, but it offered good food at reasonable prices nevertheless.

Monday 5th September 2005
I slept well last night. At the moment Steve and Peter have taken a taxi trip to a supermarket and I've washed up and tidied and ‘stowed’ everything away (see? Getting the hang of this nautical terminology now), and I'm sitting in the cockpit trying to write and go through receipts, but I'm constantly distracted by the sights and sounds of everything going on on the other boats around us and on shore.

~ ~ ~

It’s amazing how many people stop to look at the monstrous boat next door, but last night we saw one even bigger and more opulent and we did a lot of staring - imagine something the size of a small cross-channel car ferry.

~ ~ ~

Once the others got back we went through a slightly surreal life-jacket instruction session, and then we were ready to… erm… cast off.

After some detailed instruction I went for’ard to take the anchor in. I cocked it up fairly predictably, and had to be helped out by Peter, who, after all, was also dealing with casting off at the stern and sorting the engine out. Oh well, I’m learning.

We motored out of the harbour (with me at the helm!) and along the north-east side of Rhodes. Just after we left, the enormous US helicopter carrier we had noticed the day before steamed from around the headland and made off ahead of us. It really shifted and was soon out of sight.

Foxy showed me how he navigated using GPS and a chart. I could try and explain the principles, but it went over my head a little. I may pick it up as we go along, or I may not. He clearly knows what he’s doing, so it matters not if I don’t.

For two reasons we didn’t set the sails, but instead used the engine: we were in a bit of a hurry to get going; and the wind was in the wrong direction. Mind you it was fairly rough, and Steve got pretty soaked, perched Kate Winslet-like in the bow. It got rough enough to soak me a couple of times, and I was cowering in the cockpit! I tried to go below once or twice, but felt sick each time. So did Steve, so he had a slash off the stern when nature called: so civilised!

I am writing this in Panormítis bay in Sými. We are anchored some way from the shore in the middle of the wide, natural bay, with a fantastic view, in the dark now as Peter prepares the meal: the harbour wall path lit with white street lights; the Italianate monastery and fabulous bell tower; a rusty Greek cargo vessel noisily unloading (what? A new supply of monks?); a spectacular three-masted schooner moored some distance away. We’ve got a selection of classical music playing, the stars are out, and we’ve just watched Venus setting.

A snatch of conversation from a little while ago. Peter: “Do you know what Steve did when we were swimming in the water earlier? He splashed water in my face.” I looked at Steve. “Why?” I asked. Peter answered for him. “I said, ‘You know what? This is my life now.’” “So you were provoked?” I asked Steve. “Oh yes!” he said.

Half an hour or so ago, while it was still just light, we were startled by several gunshots. A puff of smoke rising slowly in the still air each time betrayed the source – a couple of guys and two gundogs, shooting for the pot (one presumes and hopes).

A simple life exists here, and we are privileged to drop in on it and share it fleetingly – and perhaps a little vicariously. Tomorrow we shall move on (but first we shall pay our respects to St Michael, patron saint not only of underwear but also of all sailors, in the monastery).

~ ~ ~

I’ve just sat on the stern with a glass of red wine and a cigarette and looked at the stars – something that always makes my brain hurt. The only sounds are the distant cranes unloading the cargo, a few voices from the shore, Carl Orff on the stereo, the water slapping against Aventura’s dinghy, and cooking noises from below. An occasional car winds down the twisty road to the village. Life is good today.

Tuesday 6th September 2005
“Steve! Hamish! Come and watch the sunrise!”

We were awake in moments and joined Peter on deck. The sea was green and glassy, the bottom reach-out-and-touch close, or so it appeared. Patches of sunlight were already visible on the hills behind us, casting strange, high-relief shadows. A great glow showed us the sun would rise, to us, over a hill to the left of the monastery, already the subject of some human activity. The great hulk had gone sometime in the night, and the three-master was already awake. The line of the sun crept down the hillside opposite and then raced towards us over the water. Glancing up at the top of the hill behind which it was still hiding, we could just start to see the brightness which would very soon become too much to look at. And then there it was! The first rays hit us.

Within minutes the temperature had risen, and the day truly began. Peter and Steve dived into the clear water and swam.

Hunger took hold, but first there was the little practical matter of last night’s washing-up, left in the boozy laziness of after-dinner.

With an ever-changing light show, I watched as the monastery bell tower became a hazy pink underneath the rising sun. Goats congregated at the bottom of the hill where the hunter had been the evening before. An Orthodox monk walked from the main buildings towards them, perhaps to feed them. Some of the other boats similar to ours slipped from the bay as the day took hold. An enormous catamaran ferry arrived and tied up to a special fanfare from the monastery bells, about two hundred touristic passengers disembarked, and two hours later as I write this a long blast on her horn indicates she is leaving now, her passengers having perhaps asked St Michael to protect their onward journeys across the great seas around these islands. Our engine too is started and duty calls me to the anchor winch.

~ ~ ~

The part of Sými where we were is five miles behind us now. As we cut through the smooth water, I spent half an hour sunbathing (don’t want to burn, you know!) on the deck. Two large warships are steaming between us and what remains of the north of Rhodes way over to the east. I’ve seen today the first clouds since arriving in the islands: a modest bank above the mountains of Rhodes, and what I can only describe as an excuse for a small wispy bit of cotton wool above the Turkish mainland to the north.

~ ~ ~

Choppy; set the sails for the first time. Silence, main noise the dinghy cutting through the water behind us. Heeling sharply, so difficult moving about below deck. Then… dead calm, so give up sailing and motor again. Approaching Kos, Peter talks to a nice man in the marina on the radio, who guides us in. Blissful showers, then a meal (omelettes all round). I have sunburned knees – woops! Steve helps Peter set up a GPRS link for his laptop onto the internet via his mobile.

~ ~ ~

Morning: showers again (take full advantage while we can!); deal with the new overnight set of insect bites, and sunburned bits while Foxy deals with the engine and washes the boat. I hang the duvet over the boom – this is the duvet that got soaked yesterday when I failed to close and check as instructed one of the hatches in our cabin at the front, so consequently in the rough seas of the afternoon it let sea water in. Bugger.

~ ~ ~

Parked in our marina is the most beautiful Riva motor boat – well it’s more of a cruiser really. Rivas have been made in Italy since at least the 1930s, and are the stylish wooden motor boats you saw ‘50s and ‘60s movie stars and jet-setters in, or from a James Bond film of the era. Times have clearly moved on and now they appear to be made of fibreglass, but they are just as stylish and, really, timeless as they ever were. (See Jeremy Clarkson’s excellent book I know You Got Soul for the full Riva story.)

Wednesday 7th September 2005
Up for breakfast ashore and showers. I don’t normally like to have ‘English’ food when abroad, but I have to say it was rather nice.

On the way to Kálymnos – our island destination for the next few days – we got a bit fed up with being constantly splashed by waves, so Foxy set the sails again, and I helmed. What a huge great big family-sized bucket full of fun! Heeling right over and then catching a 30+ knot gust coming down from the nearby island was… shall we say… entertaining. I learned to turn into the wind enough to bring Aventura back up without upsetting the sails and rigging too much. But after we lost the boat hook overboard the fun went out of it, so back we went to motoring and putting up with the breaking seas.

It didn’t take too long to come round into the lee of the island and follow two other boats into the anchorage at Vathy´ – but unfortunately they had taken the last two deep places at the quayside. Vathy´ is at the head of an inlet with steep, rocky sides around 75m high. Aventura needs around 3m of water, so we found a place to anchor back from the end of the bay; Peter dropped the anchor and went astern while Steve swam to a rock with a line, grazing his shin and knee quite spectacularly in the process of hauling himself out of the water, and then swam back to the boat; we were secure, but a dinghy ride from any landing. After a gulet had left the other two went ashore in the dinghy to check out mooring; they returned pronouncing themselves satisfied, so we took up the anchor and moved up to a position against the little jetty. It is fairly peaceful here apart from local children swimming and playing noisily in a roped-off pool area of the bay (which is nice, to be honest), and a JCB in the hills above, pile-driving or somehow rhythmically drilling or digging, apparently constructing part of a house whose owners, probably not here to be annoyed by the digger, will return to a home with a fantastic view.

~ ~ ~

Earlier, as we first arrived in the bay, we passed a young man climbing, with some considerable skill, along the shear rock face just above the water line; eventually, after our first anchorage was complete, he reached a particular outcrop around 200m from the jetty and dived into the sea to return, his goal presumably achieved.

~ ~ ~

We are now happily moored, the guys have both swum (Peter down to the anchor to check it), the water man has just arrived in a truck with a huge square tank on the back, G&Ts (“anchor drinks”, Peter calls them) are being prepared, and although the very hot sun will soon go behind the hill, we are very happy. Tomorrow’s sunrise will be great, and we might see if we can stay here for the whole day to give ourselves time to explore the area.

~ ~ ~

Over quite a number of Bombay Sapphires and tonics we talked and even became somewhat philosophical. Eventually we took a tour of the (surprisingly large number of) local restaurants, passed on the fish restaurant whose owner admitted to recent electrical supply interruptions, and finally ended up back at the one nearest the boat. We talked and drank more, and ate creamy chicken (Peter), mousakás (Steve), and braised kid (me): I decided by doing so I was supporting the local goat-herding industry. We made friends with the handsomest, cross-eyed, grey cat you’ve ever seen. We called him ‘Smoky’. Peter was more asleep than awake as we finished our meal. Then back to the boat for a nightcap, and bed.

Thursday 8th September 2005
I woke in the night and spent several minutes staring at the stars through the hatch in our cabin roof: an amazing scene which included our mast, lit slightly from behind by the lights on the shore. And then sleep again, then Foxy calling us, and stumbling out bleary-eyed, past the kettle beginning to whistle (mmm… coffee soon…) and up on deck to watch the brightening bands of colour out beyond the end of the inlet over the far-away Turkish coast. Cockerels crowed in the distance, the bells gently clattered around the necks of the goats clambering on the rocks, a few small fishing boats came past us heading out to sea, the wind coming offshore came and went. And then there was the sun, its relentless movement upwards quite perceptible, a great glowing orange ball come to give us light and life today. Rising, warming, turning yellow and soon too bright to look at: that was today’s sunrise.

~ ~ ~

Steve has swum and I’ve discovered that his flip-flops float because I dropped them in when taking them ashore ready for him when he came out. The goat-herd has just arrived with some form of dry feed and more goats than I’ve ever seen clattered over the top of the hill and raced down to breakfast, each as sure-footed as any cat. The woman from the fish restaurant arrived on an ancient scooter and dived into the sea still in her dress, swum for a while then emerged and got straight back on her scooter, slowly but extremely noisily polluting her way back through the little village.

~ ~ ~

It was time to explore, and so Steve and I took video and still cameras ashore as soon as breakfast was finished. We climbed both sides of the rocky inlet in turn to visit early Christian basilicas, whitewashed and still actively used judging by the lit candles and curiously out-of-place bottles of cleaning materials and cloths. Some were freshly painted and one even had some very early frescoes partially revealed on the interior walls. Icons everywhere. At one point I left Steve in the shade of a tree while I went clambering and climbing up the sharp rocks, trying to get a view back of Aventura without other boats in the way. We crossed to the other side of the harbour, stopping en route at a café for cold coffees and then a foaming litre each of cooling, refreshing beer, then climbed again and hollered to Foxy way below.

Once back on board we learned that several new boats had arrived, including next to us a beautiful Dutch wooden sailing yacht, apparently with a multi-national, partly British, crew. Another boat had reportedly had some difficulties berthing, and Foxy and others had assisted, which was why on our return we found he was enjoying a drink on their boat. There is still one more space here, though in a shallower place, but a Turkish gulet ferry will apparently be turning up later; Peter and the Dutch captain, their boats in prime positions, have declared that they are not going to be persuaded to move. There may be interesting times later…

~ ~ ~

The gulet story is a short story: it came in, it had a look, and other than a brief loiter at a cave near the entrance to the inlet, it just went away. Meanwhile… Foxy was preparing lunch; a fine meal of chicken cooked in vermouth, with a pasta, tomato and onion sauce. Lunchtime entertainment was provided free-of-charge by the Dutch skipper next door, who belly-flopped into the water with his prescription sunglasses on, with a predictable result. Snorkels were handed out all round, and his English crew went searching for them, and of course once they were located and brought up, back in again they went. Now I am about to continue Robert Harris’s Pompeii, started earlier, but I may just end up… Zzzzzz…

~ ~ ~

Woken with a start by the young‘uns-next-door’s LOUD music. Ho hum. G&Ts on board, a visit from ‘Smoky’ and friend, and then rounded off the day with an adequate but unspectacular meal in the bougainvillea-draped, cat-infested restaurant where we stopped when walking earlier.

Friday 9th September 2005
Despite promises yesterday that a 7am start was completely do-able, I awoke at 7.30 to find Foxy still washing up and tidying. With engine checks still to do and complex mooring ropes to simplify ready for a safe departure in a slightly choppy sea, I pitched in to help get us prepared while Steve, who had slept badly - for the first time – stayed in bed until needed. Finally we set off, leaving the secretive Vathy´ inlet disappearing back into its crack in the rocky side of Kálymnos.

Now we are Kos-bound in “near gale force” (technical term for wind speed of around 30 knots) winds.

~ ~ ~

“Kos Marina, Kos Marina. This is sailing yacht Aventura, sailing yacht Aventura. Are we able to have a berth in your marina for two nights, please? Over.”

Aventura, thees ees Kos Marina. Yes, but you weel have to go alongside. Thee charge weel be 80% extra. Is that acceptable? Over.”

“Thank you Kos Marina, yes that will be fine. Out.”

~ ~ ~

Aventura is a 46-foot Gib’Sea Bermudan Sloop with full masthead rig (the forestay with foresail goes right to the top of the mast), with a roller-furling genoa foresail and in-mast furling mainsail. She has a beam of 4.35m and a 2.35m depth from waterline to the bottom of her lead fin keel, and a displacement of 11,500kg. She also has a fin rudder. Launched in 1997, she was built by Gibert Marine S.A. of Marans, France 17, and originally registered in Palma, Mallorca, but now she is on the Small Ships Register in the UK. She has a 62HP Yanmar marine diesel engine, sail-drive, with a 200 litre fuel tank. She has two large water tanks, one of 200 litres and the other of unknown capacity.

Her dinghy is a 2.6m RIB (rigid-inflatable boat) with a 6HP, 4-stroke Mercury petrol outboard.

~ ~ ~

Kos town is for tourists. A place where everything is ‘original’ and ‘authentic’ – and it spends a considerable and obvious effort in promoting this masquerade. It is everything I despise in a foreign (or domestic, for that matter) destination. It is careless marketing of the most awful, useless and tasteless tat, it preys on the gullible and less intelligent, it stinks of exploitation and ruins any reputation for genuine authenticity that the place may once have had.

~ ~ ~

Another Foxy culinary masterpiece: meatballs, sauce and pasta, and fruit salad and evaporated milk for dessert. We watched ‘Saving Grace’ on DVD on Peter’s laptop. All very relaxing.

Saturday 10th September 2005
Woke refreshed at 0830, but no sounds from the rest of the boat. Padded ashore for a call of nature, and took a number of pictures in the low sunlight in the marina on the way back. I’m hoping one with lots of masts and rigging can be turned into a fiendish jigsaw for my mum.

~ ~ ~

A quick shower ashore (take every opportunity!) and a shave in the boat, trimming my new nautical beard and ‘tache, while Foxy prepared a sausage, egg and bacon breakfast. We’ve left him to wash his boat and come into town, looking for ancient ruins. The Casa Romana was closed but the Agora was entirely open, free to poke about in and clamber over: the best sort of museum – although a few signs and explanations might have helped our understanding. The location of the amphitheatre proved elusive, but we found Hippocrates’ (alleged) plane tree, and we hope to tour the medieval castle later. OK, there is more to Kos than tat. And I’m having a Mythos: cheers.

~ ~ ~

The castle was closed when we got to it, but a wander found us eventually in ‘Ciao Café’, where I’m afraid I started on the Mythos again. We chilled and we watched the people in the tat street outside, and the shopkeepers. We read.

Later Peter joined us, and we headed off to an Italian restaurant recommended by him. A fine establishment in an unlikely location among all the tourist fodder, the garden where we sat was by far the nicest part. Three courses with wine and beer (I continued on the Mythos), liqueurs and coffee came to €112 (around £24 a head), for some fine food. Personally I rounded off my dinner with a couple of espressos and grappas. We toddled back to the boat for a nightcap from Foxy’s private stash of Jägermeister liqueur. Weird thing: I drank the equivalent of over five pints of beer, plus two generous grappas and a liqueur, and I feel as sober as a… sober person.


Sunday 11th September 2005
Hey hey, no hangover! Shower, quick breakfast, quick shop for provisions, little bit late getting off again; taking on board more diesel. But soon we are sailing, Foxy getting me to let the mainsail out (which got stuck and had to be freed – not my fault, honest!) and now, with constant small adjustments to this bit of rigging or that, we are almost silently gliding through the sunny waters away from Kos, on an indirect course designed to fool both Greek and Turkish lookouts, as we plan to land in Turkey for a while, but Steve and I have no official paperwork to allow this. The VHF is now chattering with less Greek and English, and more Turkish.

~ ~ ~

Steve is sleeping his hangover off below; he’s missing the great weather. I keep going below for various things, and consequently feel a little unwell – only slightly though, and probably more as a belated result of yesterday’s imbibing, as I have discovered to my delight that I don’t seem to suffer from mal de mer.

We seem to have become becalmed… so the engine is on, and a special signal called a ‘motoring cone’ has been run up to inform other vessels that we are under sail and ‘steam’ together.

~ ~ ~

Well, we anchored in the harbour at Knidos, on the Turkish mainland, and went ashore in the dinghy. We had a drink in the bar overlooking the harbour before letting Foxy get back to Aventura whilst Steve and I set off to have a look around the ruins. The board at the entrance to the ongoing archaeological digs says:


“The city was established on terraces that slope down to the sea both on the mainland peninsula where they faced southwards and on Cape Krio (also known as the Camel's Hump), formerly an island but now also a peninsula, where they face north. The two parts of the city are linked by a bridge, which also serves to divide the two harbours from each other. The smaller, military harbour lies to the west, while the larger to the east is regarded as the main commercial harbour.

“The city is surrounded by a circuit of walls, interspersed with round and square towers. From their appearance and style of construction it would seem best to date them to the 4th century BC and more specifically, to the time of King Mausols of Halicarnassos. Beyond the walls stretches an extensive necropolis; it continues for some 7km beyond the city.

“In the 6th century BC Knidos became a rich city and for this reason it built for itself a marble Treasury at Delphi. In the 540s BC, when the Persians were expanding their empire westwards towards the Aegean, Knidos controlled the whole of the Datça Peninsula.

“In the 4th century BC Knidos had become a major metropolis with a cosmopolitan appearance. It was during this time that the famous sculptors Skopas and Bryxias worked on the temples at Knidos, while the city also gained the prestigious and well known statue of Aphrodite by Praxiteles.

“The city enjoyed an active economic, commercial, cultural and artistic life, while it also encouraged academic studies by sponsoring intellectuals. So, for example, a medical school was founded, which soon came to rival that at Kos itself. Sostratus, the architect of the Lighthouse of Alexandria, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, was from Knidos. He also built a terraced portico, known as the 'ambulatio pensilis', for his native city. The famous mathematician Ludoxus also studied astronomy at Knidos and had his observatory there (its location has, however, not yet been identified).

“In short, Knidos enjoyed its most brilliant time in the Hellenistic period (330 - 31 BC). Stamped amphora handles from Knidos have been found in large numbers at Athens, Delos and Alexandria (in Egypt) as well as in the north Black Sea area. They bear witness to the major role the city played in the trade and export of wine and olive oil. From the 2nd century BC onwards Knidos also became an important centre for the production of pottery.

“In the Roman period Knidos had the status of a 'free city'; that is, it was exempt from paying taxes to Rome. At that time the family of C Julius Theopompus was one of the most wealthy business families in the city.

“In the 7th century AD Knidos, as in the case of other coastal cities in Anatolia, fell prey to Arab raids from the sea. Evidence for this can be found in the Arabic inscriptions carved into the floor of one of the churches. Later Knidos also suffered a number of devastating earthquakes, and the abandonment of the city may plausibly be attributed to these natural causes.

“Excavation at the site was started by Sir Charles Newton in 1857-58, who worked on behalf of the British Museum. More than a century later, between 1967 and 1977, systematic excavations and survey work were carried out under the direction of Iris C Love. Since 1988 a team from the Seljuk University in Konya, led by Prof Dr Ramazan Özgan, has been conducting excavations at Knidos on behalf of the Turkish Ministry of Culture.”


We sat in the amphitheatre (great acoustics still), saw the old military harbour, walked up a clearly-identifiable street, stared at some unidentifiable piles of stones here and there, dropped a pebble down a well (no splash, but a long wait to hear it hit the bottom), and got very, very hot. We cooled off with Pepsis and ice cream back in the bar below the site, and then went out to the jetty to wait for Peter to pick us up and take us back to Aventura, where he had prepared us a delicious salad lunch.

~ ~ ~

And now we are again sailing, with the two great white sheets full with wind, as I write, with Turkey behind us, and our intended anchorage for the night, the Greek island of Tilos, ahead. Almost time to pump the toilets out and change the courtesy flag from the crimson with the star and crescent moon of Turkey back to the blue and white cross and stripes of Greece. The waves are around one metre, but a few of them are up to two, so we are sometimes pitching, rolling and yawing at the same time, but making 10.5 knots.

Peter has just complimented me on my ability to sit here in the cockpit and write in my notebook without feeling seasick. I assumed that the reason I didn’t feel too good below deck (and I’ve just been down to get something for Peter) was because I couldn’t see the horizon, but sitting here on the port side, facing starboard – in other words travelling sideways – and with my peaked cap on, I can’t see the horizon either, or the sea at all, or indeed anything other than this notebook in my lap, and my legs and feet. So that can’t be the cue for feeling queasy. Sunlight and shadows keep moving across me and back, but they don’t help me make sense of the motion of the boat. I do notice that various muscle groups in turn need tightening as we pitch up and down, or roll from a heel where the portside deck is nearly in the water back to nearly vertical again or sometimes beyond: my thighs and abdominals in particular, as well as whatever it is that keeps my trunk and head as close to vertical as possible while the rest of me folds and unfolds along with the boat around me. So, anatomically, I really don’t understand it, but up here, sitting reasonably comfortably and certainly physically safely, I’m fine; but staggering about below and bouncing off various hard and sharp things ain’t so nice!

~ ~ ~

The sun, straight in front of me over the starboard guard rails has become watery and cool now, barely able, it seems, to hold back the encroaching blue sky around it. The flat horizon of the sea is drawing it down as a magnet, and soon it will crash and disappear, leaving only a waning orangey glow as a reminder of the power it held only a few short hours ago.

~ ~ ~

With the sun gone, and a half moon in the sky, we switched on Aventura’s navigation lights – red on the port side, green on the starboard, and a white mast light – and took the sails in as we motored into the bay at Livádia on Nissos Tílos (Tílos Island). A long, subtly-lit waterfront promenade, shallow beach with gently-breaking waves, a few small hotels and bars, and a little harbour. However, we are anchored in the bay off the beach. Very peaceful. Anchor drinks poured. Relaxing.

~ ~ ~

Wow, how wrong can you be? Peter was starting to prepare a meal of omelettes when a rocking motion started. Aventura was rolling from side to side, increasingly violently, as waves were rolling into the bay and catching us on the side. Stuff started flying about below deck, and it got rather uncomfortable. Actually, very uncomfortable. Steve ate his omelette outside in the cockpit then went straight to bed; I had mine in the saloon, but didn’t enjoy it much (nothing to do with Foxy’s cooking!) and then sat upstairs, although by then it had calmed considerably. Peter has anchored in this bay twice before and it has been very calm, so we are at a loss to explain the unusual conditions.

Monday 12th September 2005
Again a late departure – it seems despite good intentions, we can never get going early. Peter had to take the dinghy to get provisions while we had a bit of breakfast, and then we motored around the curve of the bay, to have a closer look at Livádia. We are so impressed with the remoteness and peace of the place that we might come and stay in one of the hotels for a week next year: it really looks that inviting.

As soon as we were able to we pulled out the sails, and with the wind filling the mainsail and the genoa, we started to make a good six-plus knots. After a time the wind changed and the genoa, which is the foresail, started to flap and lose the wind, so Peter and I pulled a special boom into position, with some difficulty, to keep the corner of the sail stretched out. The boom is a clumsy design (one end coming loose and nearly dropping on my head), and the clip where it joins the genoa seemed to need three hands to hold and pull and keep things twisted and other bits out of the way at the same time – and all in a fierce wind on an open deck at around 30 degrees with very few things to hold on to.

But now it is doing its job and Sými is becoming clearer as Tílos recedes. Way, way over to the north, near the Turkish mainland, are two sailing yachts, the white triangles of their sails clear against the hazy rocky lump of land; and some time ago a cargo ship was just visible on the horizon off our rear port quarter. But other than that we are alone in this part of the sea.

~ ~ ~

A propos nothing (other than that I’ve just been for a wee), a word about toilets. On the boat, they are very basic. We have an ensuite toilet and handbasin with shower hose, and there is another similar ‘bathroom’ for the two cabins at the back. Beside the toilet bowl there is a hand pump and a small lever. To empty the bowl, you pump the handle a number of times, and then move the lever so that the pump brings in sea water to flush, then move the lever again and pump it away. At sea the waste goes out the side of the boat, but near land and in harbours and marinas, a lever elsewhere selects a tank into which the waste is diverted until it can be dumped at sea later. A few days in a marina means you get into the habit of ‘going’ ashore as much as possible. Toilets in Greece look like toilets in the UK, except for a small swing- or pedal-bin in the corner, because here you are not allowed to put any toilet paper into the toilet. So it all has to be folded over and deposited into the bin. (Same deal on the boat of course, except it goes into a carrier bag.) Hygiene in Greece seems to have somewhat less importance than we attach to it, with toilets even in bars and restaurants, with their over-full pedal bins, a short distance from kitchens. In the bar in Knidos in Turkey, the gents consisted of a large, admittedly vitreous china, flat pan, set into the floor with a hole in it and a foot plate each side. Pissing was easy; crapping would be awkward as you would have to crouch. Fortunately I didn’t need to do the latter. Different cultures, different histories, and clearly different sewerage treatment facilities.

~ ~ ~

Having arrived back at Panormítis, the others swam and I dozed off in the sun for a while. After a glass or two of wine Peter took us ashore in the dinghy so Steve and I could have a wander, with a promise that he’d pick us up in an hour. However, we noticed that he didn’t head back to Aventura, but went instead towards a British boat we’d seen before in Knidos.

Just after we’d gone ashore someone on one of the other yachts played what was recognisably the Last Post, but not one I know, on a bugle just as the sun went down. Apparently, we learned later, they were Swiss.

At the appointed time Steve and I were waiting near the steps of the monastery to be picked up. We even texted Foxy’s mobile; but no sign of our skipper. A full forty-five minutes later he appeared, slightly the worse for wear, and conveyed us back to Aventura, where he had to do all the washing-up and dinner preparation he had said he was going to do while we were ashore. He’s proving a little unreliable when it comes to timekeeping, but then having worked with him for nearly ten years, it proves nothing’s changed!

He redeemed himself with the dinner preparations: he produced, from his new Greek recipe book purchased in Kos, a delicious chicken, pasta and tomato dish, and we got stuck into the red wine.

~ ~ ~

I’d never really looked at the moon through binoculars before, but tonight I took advantage of the calm water for a steady view. It was three-quarters full, but, strikingly, with an enormous crater across the dividing line between the light and dark parts, which showed a huge glowing arc cutting into the ‘dark side’, this being the high rim of the crater lit by the sun.

Tuesday 13th September 2005
Up for the sunrise in Panormítis bay, pretty much the same as exactly a week ago. I am reminded of what is possibly my favourite line from any film: in “White Mischief” one of the spoilt white Kenyan Happy Valley characters pulls back the curtains one morning and exclaims, “Oh no, not another f***ing beautiful day.”

Mosquito/gnat/fly bites all round all morning.

~ ~ ~

After the two giant catamaran ferries had been and gone, we went ashore ourselves to look at the monastery. Unfortunately it was closed, opening only when the tourist boats come in. We had a nice lunch and then heard that another boat was due at three, and indeed on cue the monastery opened and we got in ahead of the crowd.

The monastery church of St Michael the Archangel, patron saint of sailors, is stunning, with more frescoes, dark carvings and lamps in a small space than you’ve probably ever seen before. Overwhelming is one word. Over the top might be more appropriate.

And then around the monastery museum, and a folk museum also within the monastery. So much priceless stuff, so few labels to identify what was what, sadly.
In one room, hundreds of toy, model and carved boats and ships donated to the monastery from sailors, and messages in bottles – prayers of intercession – sent from around the world, some having apparently travelled huge distances.

A small display in the museum (and a large memorial outside on the quay) to commemorate a wartime dis-covery and then execution, by the Germans, of the abbot, two monks and two teachers running a radio station for British commandos.

From the gift shop we bought a small St Michael pendant and presented it to Peter. He has hung it from the electronic weather station display inside the boat, much in the same way some car drivers hang a St Christopher medal from the mirror for luck. We hope it helps keep him safe.

~ ~ ~

A very, very warm wind sprang up about half an hour after the sun had set. Quite strong, too, and quite pleasant.

Shish kebabs with sauté potatoes and sweetcorn, and a refreshing, cold white wine for dinner; washing up done so we can make a clean start in the morning. A look at the chart has made us change our plans for the next few days to slightly less ambitious distances.

Wednesday 14th September 2005
Up early enough to do all the necessary preparations on the boat and get ashore in the dinghy, with sacks of rubbish, to the monastery bakery in perfect time to buy warm (no, hot) bread straight from the ovens.

An irritating German man arrived after two young men who were waiting for the bakery to open, and after us, and walked straight in and got his bread first. Politically incorrect comment muttered by Foxy as we chugged back to Aventura: “No wonder they lost the war.” Made me laugh though.

We set off for a fairly short hop around the south of Sými to another bay. Steve is suffering particularly badly from bites this morning; the mozzies like the taste of his blood, and the bites provoke an extreme histamine reaction, so he gets a double whammy. I myself have exactly ten bites that are bothering me, all on my arms and legs, including one on my right little toe which is particularly annoying. Got militant with the big green plastic swatter and dispatched four or five flies this morning already.

~ ~ ~

We are just heading into a little bay, where we can see the same twisting mountain road that climbs out of Panormítis, but from a different angle: we are just around a fat headland from where we were. Foxy drops anchor off the bow then swims ashore with a stern mooring line and puts it round a rock.

~ ~ ~

Warm bread with strawberry jam, orange juice and a large, bothersome wasp. Steve and Peter swimming. So peaceful.

~ ~ ~

A haze is in the air, rendering every rocky coast not absolutely adjacent, particularly when viewed into the sun, washed out and indistinct, lacking in any contrast. The islands and the (geographically identical) Turkish mainland are composed in the main of light brown rock, often streaked with a rusty colour I take as evidence of iron. Mostly sharp, jagged rock, but often with bushes and other greenery clinging with a bewildering tenacity. As we travel now up the east side of Sými, small bays and inlets open up every now and again in the wall of near-shear rock cliffs, revealing a gulet or two with day-trippers enjoying a few hours ashore on a small, sea-only accessible, beach.

~ ~ ~

One quick trip into an anchorage was especially rewarding: the beautifully pastel-coloured houses around Pédi, and the wide bay filled with yachts at anchor, was a joy to come into. We motored gently around, taking it all in, and motored out. Now we are just coming into Sými town, a jumble of white and sandy-coloured houses tumbling down the hillside to the water’s edge. Churches with domes and bell towers, restaurants around the little harbour – very picturesque.

~ ~ ~

A haphazard mooring, due to inconsistent shore-side whistle-blowing harbourmasters (or whatever they are called). Not enough anchor chain dropped for comfort, resulting in a mumbling, cursing Foxy.

Now we are here, we can clearly see how the houses, rising above the harbour in a jumble, are built – and some are still being built – onto foundations of rocky outcrops. Steep, whitewashed steps lead up to the highest ones. The harbour is a buzz of gulets, yachts and other boats mooring, their crews throwing ropes ashore, masters spinning wheels furiously, churning the water as they make tight parking turns, engines racing and quickly throttling back, chains being let out with intense loud clatters. There are small shops of pastel yellows and terracotta reds with rugs, shoes, belts and so on on the pavements outside; bars and tumbledown tavernas; fishermen in boats large and small inspecting and mending nets; sunshade-wearing teenage boys on mopeds scooting up and down the quays trailing clouds of grey smoke; a huge catamaran ferry, stern-to, loading passengers. A grey-bearded priest wanders by wearing long, dark blue robes – he must be hot! So much to see and listen to: holiday-makers, day-trippers, shopkeepers, fishermen. Very Greek, and yet somehow very provincially Italian too, even, and a scene very little changed, in essence, for centuries, I suspect.

An American sailing yacht – Ripple from Scotsdale, Arizona, according to her stern (does Arizona have a sea coast? I wonder) – comes alongside. “Good afternoon,” I say to the helmsman. “Good afternoon,” he says, and then pauses. “It is a good afternoon – we didn’t hit a damn thing!” he says in a drawl.

~ ~ ~

I step ashore and buy a Hugo Boss belt for €3 (yeah, right) from one of the nearby shops. The lady even adjusts it for me. Then we go looking for a pharmacy (there is one nearby) to get some anti-histamine and gel to soothe these bloody bites. The nice lady, who speaks little English, tells us not to mix taking the drug with alcohol. I involuntarily laugh, as we’ve just polished off a good few glasses of wine since mooring. She suppresses a smile – I guess it’s not that uncommon; after all, bites and stings are as likely to happen – more so perhaps – when one is out enjoying the sun and a drink or two. The rubbing-in of ointment, and the swallowing of tablets, will, we hope, ward off this infernal itching.

Returning to the boat and calling to Foxy in case he wonders who is boarding causes him to slip and graze his knee on Aventura’s (normally) non-slip, patterned, deck surface. So the Dettol has to be brought out, and all three of us are quietly suffering in our different ways.

~ ~ ~

As Peter heads off in search of water, a battered old red Lada car pulls up near us on the quayside, exhaust blowing, hub caps missing, trim falling off, and no rear number plate. Out steps, cigarette between his lips, an Orthodox priest, and heads straight for the nearest bar. Fifteen minutes later he reappears and gets back in, screeching up the road. Men of the cloth are only human too.

~ ~ ~

Out to dinner we all went, where I had very garlicky tzatzíki, a large helping of mousakás, and then thick Greek yogurt and honey (giaoúrti kai méli), all washed down with local red wine. On the way to the restaurant Steve bought me a set of the worry beads I have covetously watched the local men twisting through their fingers all over these islands. They’ll be handy at work!

Thursday 15th September 2005
It is early, but I don’t know the time; I don’t care – it is ‘before sunrise’, if anyone was to ask me. I have awoken because it is light. The other two are asleep and I am sitting on top of one side of Aventura’s companionway. One large boat that had been next to us last night is gone. Loyalist from Exeter, quite an old luxury motor cruiser, has moved from opposite us across the harbour to a position further down.

Near silence. A cock crows a long way off. Some very distant sounds of – what? – a dustcart perhaps? A small Mercedes army lorry drives past, half a dozen green fatigue-wearing soldiers in the back. On the far side of the harbour a motorbike starts up but its owner rides as quietly as the machine will let him, perhaps conscious that he is increasing the noise levels ten-fold. Two identical black dogs hold a snarling play-fight just a few metres from our stern as I look on like a spectator in a sparring gym. Then the stone bell tower at the entrance to the harbour chimes. Now I know the time: it is 7am.

Slowly Sými harbour comes to life: the moped traffic increases; the army lorry comes back, empty now; a tiny fishing boat chug-chugs slowly past; a sailing yacht glides almost silently out, its crew probably up at the same time I was, but no opportunity for them to be able to sit and drink in the scene; the dustcart turns out to be collecting empty bottles from the bars and restaurants on the quayside opposite; some hammering starts on one of the rock-clinging building sites; the two dogs return but they are friends again now, trotting side by side in perfectly synchronised rythmn, red tongues hanging from their mouths; some cars drive past; a short, loud conversation takes place on a neighbouring boat; restaurant staff start preparing their outside dining areas for the passing breakfast trade; small groups of back-pack-wearing, brightly-clothed school children chatter past; a yellow pickup truck stops beside the large fishing boat not far from us and two men transfer enormous square-cut blocks of ice aboard; the sun breaks over the top of the rocky, ancient, windmill-strewn cliff above us; the bell tower stikes eight; and slowly, slowly, human activity takes hold and brings the town back towards that bustling, vibrant state we first encountered here yesterday.

~ ~ ~

A tiny drama as we were about to leave. A gulet pulling up its anchor had hooked the anchor chain of a yacht. The procedure is to put a rope around the caught chain to hold it out of the way, and then release it back into the water once your own anchor has passed through it. This was happening but the gulet was going astern at some speed, and the lookout at the bow wasn’t doing his job, so to cries from all around watching, including me (uselessly: I was too far away), the yacht’s chain went taught and jerked the stationary yacht forward before the gulet captain, realising, stopped. No lasting harm seemed to be done though.

~ ~ ~

Leaving the harbour at Sými, I recline on the fore-deck and watch the mouth of the inlet widen on both sides. Calm, calm water, only occasionally disturbed as we hit the wake of another boat.

~ ~ ~

Heading away from Sými now, almost into the sun, towards a blue haze of Turksh coast, gliding over the calmest glass of blue sea we have yet encountered.

~ ~ ~

I awake from a doze to find us coming into Kisil Adasi, a quiet Turkish bay, in an area renowned for gulet-building. In fact through binoculars I can see a busy boatyard. Peter drops his anchor then reverses towards a rocky shore and dives off the stern with a rope; round a rock and back to the boat: we’re secure. A small rowing boat appears with a walnut-coloured Turk who has almonds and pistachios for sale, t-shirts (“Lacoste – very good”) and a jam jar of honey which I buy but which turns out to have an ill-fitting lid so carriage home might be problematic; and a box of coconut-covered Turkish delight. Steve and Peter are now in the water with snorkels. According to Steve, the scene below the surface is “like a nature programme on TV, except in 3-D.” 

~ ~ ~

Our snack lunch of bread, huge juicy slices of tomato, cheese and ham was just ending when Peter’s nautical instincts told him his anchor was dragging in the increasing wind and current, so there was a scramble to clear the decks (well, the cockpit) of lunch detritus and off we went looking for better shelter. Checking out the bays and small islands we did a quick tour to look at Bozburun, a pretty collection of houses, restaurants and small businesses around a small harbour, boatyard and stainless-steel-roofed mosque. Couldn’t go ashore, of course, as Steve and I are sans papers. Finally we found somewhere else to anchor near two other British boats, one flying as we do the Red Ensign, the other a Blue Ensign (denoting ex-Royal Navy).

~ ~ ~

The sun has set, the nearly-full moon is bright, the lights on the shore have come on, and floating across the water we hear the muezzin (or a recording thereof) from the minaret calling the faithful to prayer.

~ ~ ~

Dinner was an unusual combination of store cupboard and bottom-of-the-fridge items. Nice though.

Friday 16th September 2005
It was an interesting idea: Peter would set off before we were awake, and when we came to we’d be half-way to Rhodes. The idea of sleeping through this procedure, while fine in theory, turned out not to work in practice: the anchor chain, for one thing, was clanking into its locker just inches from our heads; the anchor winch remote control and its cable got dropped on me through the hatch; and all the hatches, including those in our cabin, had to be latched shut from the inside, which I had to do. Mind you, once we were on our way, the sound of the engine, obviously being at the other end of the boat, was muffled, and even the pitching didn’t stop me falling asleep again. I woke up at about eight, to discover we’d been motoring since before six, and we were almost half-way to Rhodes Town.

~ ~ ~

We are passed at one point by one of the (jet-powered?) passenger hydrofoils which offer regular inter-island services. It approaches like some bizarre giant water insect, what appears to be a passenger plane’s fuselage held aloft on its water-skis by a complex pattern of legs and braces; then it screams past us, skip-skipping over even the biggest waves, and recedes into the distance.

~ ~ ~

The sky this morning, for the first time in our two-week holiday, is overcast and grey, and a watery sun occasionally succeeds in breaking through for a few minutes; it’s as if the weather has picked up on my end-of-holiday blues and is being sympathetically miserable.

~ ~ ~

Seas slightly rougher as we approach Mandraki Harbour, Rhodes, for the last time. Then past the two stone columns, each topped with a bronze deer (did the Collosus, one of the Ancient Wonders Of The World, once bestride this harbour entrance?) and into the harbour itself, tying up neatly while holidaymakers on the quay look on.

~ ~ ~

We are moored in nearly the same position as when we first joined Aventura, but now the harbour appears different, and after some thought I realise why: when we arrived, we were people of the land (we had got here by taxi), and Aventura was really just a slightly wobbly bit of land for a couple of days. The sea, on the other side of the quay, was an unknown thing, something viewed with detachment. But today, by contrast, and after a fortnight out there, we have arrived here on that sea, and the land and the harbour are slightly odd structures on the edge of the place where Aventura comes to life – the sea. I’m not sure I have expressed that very well, but it is just a question of perspective, I think.

~ ~ ~

Of course, I realise, tourists are congregating just here because they want to photograph, and be photographed in front of, the column and deer on this side of the harbour entrance, which is 50m from our stern. Groups arrange and re-arrange themselves, cameras are thrust into the hands of strangers with international smiles and nods so that whole groups can get in the shot.

~ ~ ~

Souvenir and gift shopping in a deluge in town, fighting through hordes of tourists off an enormous cruise ship docked in the main harbour, after which I dozed. Then the three of us went into town again where Steve bought a new watch and we had a reasonable rooftop farewell meal, with Foxy almost falling asleep into his garlic mushrooms. Some packing preparation, gifts of read books and unused sea-sickness remedies and a bottle of his favourite German liqueur to Peter, and sadly to bed.

Saturday 17th September 2005
First time this holiday woken by alarm. Plenty of time to shower and pack – mostly a black bin-bag of dirty laundry with other sundries, gifts etc wedged in. Breakfast included fresh melon and fresh bread. Then a slightly anxious wait for a taxi – had the driver who picked someone else up earlier understood I wanted him to return for us at 9.30? – suitcases lugged ashore, and a very fast farewell to Peter and Aventura: he was anxious to move her as soon as possible to another vacant position nearer water and electricity hook-ups.

~ ~ ~

We are airborne now on an Aegean Airlines Boeing 737-300, in an almost cloudless sky over islands large and small on our way from Rhodes Diagoras Airport to Thessaloniki and our onward flight to London. I cannot put names to the islands – did we anchor in that bay there? was that a town we visited? – but geologically they are much clearer – this one obviously a volcano, that bay there part of a caldera, those rocks clearly pushed up from below. But higher now, above whispy clouds, they are just brown rocks in a distant sea.

~ ~ ~

White streaks of fast ferries, smaller wakes from slower cargo ships and cruise liners below, and a sky-blue sea, sea-blue sky with no discernable horizon.

~ ~ ~

Quaint Greek air travel custom number one: passengers break into spontaneous applause following a safe landing (a little disconcerting). Q. G. a. t. c. number two: on the way into the terminal building from the apron at Thessaloniki Airport, we pass a security check/baggage scan for flight crew going out to join their aircraft; on the wall, a large, gold, icon-type painting showing Jesus with his hands protecting a blue uniform-wearing airline pilot (bizarre).

~ ~ ~

Three hours to wait. Boring.

~ ~ ~

A demonstration, complete with banners and a man with a megaphone causing the pretty large crowd to cheer from time to time, actually on the apron as we board the bus to our BA 737-400. The cynic in me suggests they are the striking members of the Customer Friendly Branch of Thessaloniki Airport’s Baggage Scanning Department – the Rude And Offensive Team being on strike-breaking duty during our visit today.

~ ~ ~

Holding briefly at the end of the runway, the lady captain comes over the tannoy to wish us a pleasant flight, to warn of some turbulence along the way, and to tell us that the temperature at Gatwick will be 18C. The engines increase power slowly, then quickly. We creep as the brakes struggle to hold us, then they are released as the turbines whine even faster, and we are vibrating our way down the runway, gathering speed, faster, faster; then comes that tip back into the seat, and almost immediately the vibrations cease as the main wheels “unstick”, as the French so elegantly and accurately put it. Now the ground tips away, and I get that miniscule adrenalin feeling of “if I fell from this height it would hurt – a lot” until it goes in the surreal I-am-a-human-and-cannot-comprehend-this-situation of model houses and toy cars. A giggle of delight from the pretty young lady in the aisle seat to my left, straining to look past me and Steve out of the window as we climb and bank. “I live just down there,” she tells me excitedly, pointing to apartment blocks in Thessaloniki overlooking the sea, “and I see the planes taking off every day!” She continues to look out of the window until we ascend into white cloud and then keep gently climbing until we are through it to clear, blue, smooth air above; the land, where visible, grey and rocky and more satellite image than aerial photograph so far below.

~ ~ ~

A miserable bunch of passengers on this flight, I decided as we boarded, but now I think that was just the Americans; the rest seem friendly enough, helping each other as necessary and generally smiling.

~ ~ ~

We’ve just gone through that peculiar charade of the airline meal. Three grown-ups, all more than capable of handling cutlery and bread rolls normally, attempting a (sort of four-course) meal with absolutely zero sideways room: for God’s sake don’t touch your neighbour’s elbow! The wine or beer arrived around twenty minutes before the plastic tray of food, and consequently most people had got to drinking most of theirs before they had anything to eat. I restrained myself, but then discovered I barely had room for everything, including small wine bottle and plastic ‘glass’, on my fold-down tray, let alone space to put things I’d unwrapped, or the waste wrappng materials and containers. Do I sound like I’m moaning? Who else but a British airline would think that a miniature KitKat bar was a suitable accompaniment to an after-lunch coffee?

~ ~ ~

Home. Flat fine, cat fine. Holiday over. Oh, it was a good one! Thank you, Peter, for giving us two weeks of R & R, and letting us share your enviable new life for a little while.


© Hamish Walker 2006