Lord’s Bastards:

I had no idea I had such eminent relatives, as it was obviously something my mother tried hard to keep from me.

Sure enough, she had spoken proudly of her connection to Peader Kearney, the composer of the Irish National Anthem, but never once did she mention that Brendan Behan was even more closely related to the Barretts of Richmond Avenue (that classy bunch!).

Perhaps Brendan’s tendency to tell fanciful tales after imbibing a half glass of shandy might have pigeon-holed him as a “bit of a fibber” on my mum’s terms, but sure who knows?

I shall explain the family link with the (perhaps) almost as well-known pirate Bluebeard later, but for the time being it suffices to point out that Brendan Behan’s incarceration in Pentonville prison at an early age, and his reputation for dressing in women’s clothing, albeit in order to escape, may have lent him a too colourful an aspect for my mum’s view of the world as it should be.

There may be some amongst you jumping up to correct me, and state the it was the founder of our dear republic, one Eamonn deValera who wore the shawl and bloomers of a fleeing convict, but how could that be?  A hero in drag? Surely not!

Meanwhile back at the rant, I am guessing you are wondering what the hell any of this has to do with anything.  Fair enough.

You see, one of my favourite expressions of all time comes from the writing of my dear father Brendan Behan, in his book the “Borstal Boy”, which I read at about the age of thirteen.  Whatever the hell happened in this pretty grim tale of his imprisonment, I have largely forgotten.  However I do remember on some occasion that Brendan and his co-slags managed to arrange an extra crust of bread or such, and described the event as “eating like lord’s bastards”.  It was a very colourful expression to my mind, although perhaps a bit ripe for my mother.

Emer and I regularly feel moved to describe our sumptuous repasts aboard “Voltaire” as “eating like lord’s bastards”.  The life-giving output of the galley on this vessel makes me feel envious of myself sometimes, as I can see it would almost be better if I was “me” twice over.  I could then arrange to receive double rations, having nominated myself as “midshipman” (whatever the hell that means), as well as skipper.  I will have to consider the weight and dietary aspects of that course of action at some later date.  Much later!

Anyway, today was a great day.  It was a Sunday so we could have had a lie-in, but didn’t.  I so enjoy these holidays.  Emer was missing from the boat at an early hour, as she prides herself, I suspect, on her ability to determine the best possible things to do in any given location well before any of us mere deities have scratched our nether regions and have proclaimed “Where the feck is me breakfast?”

Well before any methane-bloated sparrow had been inspired to audibly express the beauty of dawn’s early light, she had hijacked some unsuspecting harbour master to drive her to Cuba (or maybe the village nearest to Port Medoc), had persuaded the local bakers to open their shop on a Sunday and “Knock us up a few baguettes there Francois”, had drawn a map of the province, had located the nearest nude beach, had precisely determined the best course of action for the day, and had found a shop selling two incredibly boat-friendly bicycles for sale at an astounding price.

Did I use the word “resourceful” anywhere in that last sentence?  Emer is a delight to travel with, and I am hopeful to be proud that I somewhat keep up my end of the bargain.

So out of all of the above you have been informed that we are in Port Medoc and well fed, and that’s about it. Right?  So where the hell is Port Medoc?

First off let me tell you where it is NOT!  It is not Porth Madog in Cardigan Bay, Wales.

You could be forgiven for thinking that having left Arklow on Voltaire in the first week of June, with Ken O’Toole on board, that I had got not much further than one of the nearest destinations across the Irish Sea.  Some people simply do not appreciate how hard it is to blow into the sails to get a yacht to go the way you want.

Anyway, the smart folk among you (yes you!) will have recognised the name Medoc from many (if not too many) palatable wines.  The Medoc region is near La Gironde; that wide muddy river that leads down to Bordeaux, where they know a thing or two.

In broad outline, the plan was to get Voltaire away from that shameful river in Arklow for the year 2010, get her to West Cork, so Emer could enjoy some weekends away, and from there get our lift-keel Kelt 39 down to Nantes, or thereabouts, and continue further south than our previous expeditions of 2008 and 2009.  The biggest plan was to get to Spain for a week or two, then proceed back north to enter La Gironde, and leave the boat near Bordeaux for the winter, in readiness for a Springtime cruise down the canals towards the Mediterranean.

Yesterday was a bad day really, as a major part of that project took a bashing.  Do we care?  We don’t actually, as the experience of the previous two days made us stronger and more determined to have a great holiday.

We had departed a port called Royan, also in the estuary at the north end of La Gironde, at High Water 1305 hours Friday 3^rd of September, with the hope of getting to the next anchorage south; 68 miles away, in the lagoon called Arcachon.  The winds and tides were favourable enough, and we mostly sailed the passage.

We arrived at the safe water buoy just after 0200 on Saturday, only to discover that the buoys that mark the narrow and shallow 7 mile passage into the almost landlocked lagoon were not lit.  Hmmm!

Not to worry.  We were equipped with radar, chart-plotters, and a night vision monocular.  We decided to give it a go, and haul up the keel while we were at it, just in case.

It was easy enough to find the first port and starboard-hand buoys, and using all at our disposal, we eventually found the second set, albeit feeling a bit too close for comfort.

However, the sound of nearby breaking surf, and the depth sounding indicating that the swell beneath us was raising and dropping us by 2 metres, encouraged us to choose a reciprocal course, and head back out to sea.

The only choices were to either proceed south for another 65 or 85 miles, or heave-to in the swell until dawn, which we did.

Emer and I swopped watches as we hove-to a few miles further offshore, and awaited the daylight at 0730.  We also got the chance to do more research about the available ports between Arcachon and the rias of the north coast of Spain, and realised that we had more of a chore on our hands, should the Atlantic swell persist, or stronger westerly winds blow in.

We were beginning to really appreciate why most sailors sail directly to the west end of the north coast of Spain, as the harbours are simply not as well protected as we are used to in Ireland.

Voltaire is currently not insured to sail directly across Biscay.  Only coast-hopping is permitted.

At dawn, we were presented with the visuals.  The swell was rolling across the Arcachon entrance, and breaking into a very sinister orange spray, lit by the rising sun behind.  The spray seemed to be very slow and sinuous, and seemed to take forever to settle.  I kept thinking of footage of volcanoes erupting.

Two local power cruisers managed to speed out and over the bar during the occasional lulls, but at least twice as many turned back.

When the wind shifted to the north somewhat, I saw an opportunity that the swell might be suppressed a bit, and give us a chance to get into Arcachon, and I to the bunk, for a change.

I should point out that the bar only promises four metres, Voltaire draws one metre with her keel up, and the swell was looking like at least a two metre range.  A ship’s cook might describe that as “food for thought”, but it was a beautiful morning, as long as you did not look at the breaking surf.

We decided to give it a go again, as the swell had decreased quite a bit, and we had got as far as we had in the dark, when we saw one of the power cruisers just off our port bow, attempting to come out to sea.  I only saw him for two seconds, but he was not only about 70 to 80 metres away, but he was about 4 or 5 metres above us.

We never saw that boat again, even as I was looking astern on a course out to sea again, mindful of the fact he could be going five times faster than us, in his hurry to get out before the bigger waves hit him.

I guess both vessels made the correct choice in turning back, and kept out of trouble by staying on their own side of the fence.  It was entirely possible that we might not have seen each other until the last instant, as we were in a lottery of timing with the waves.

Much as we just wanted to get some sleep, and have a sombrero-wearing flamenco-dancing tapas-eating holiday in Spain, the choices were getting thin, and good harbours fewer and farther between.

We sat down and agreed some sound decisions.  We headed back north, with some of the most boring coastline anybody has ever seen to starboard, with nothing better to do than top up our already impressive Jackie Chans (tans). 

We are actually looking forward to visiting the harbours we have already bypassed in this sailing paradise.

Actually, come to think of it, yesterday was a good day too.

                                    “Voltaire”: Kelt 39, Port Medoc, La Gironde, Charente, France.

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