Trimming the taproot, St Malo Corsairs and the Falklands Islands

For years I have spurned holidays as inefficient, stressful and self-indulgent uses of time. I must now suppose that there really is some good in them after all.

A few days boating around the armpit of the Cherbourg peninsula had a surprisingly regenerative effect. Usually, I speed through to a more southerly destination, but St Malo is a treasure worth exploring. It is also the eponymous origin of the 'other' name for the Falkland Islands. The Malouines have been largely ignored by an English history still smarting from the tribute squeezed out of British shipping by these swashbuckling Frankish brigands. Corsairs who made the Îles Malouines their base of operations for a fleeting period of South Atlantic supremacy.

In a St Malo moment of serendipity we met the delightful Kapiten Musiker Erling Matz of the yacht Elisa. He once jammed with ABBA in the early days. Now he lives the dream as a writer and journalist who often works with his photographer wife Corina. They make beautiful books together.

We repaired to the yacht club and consumed Pelforth beer in the heat of the day and long beyond. Whilst quite intoxicated, I made a short film on my iPhone to commemorate the occasion. I should point out that Erling might also have been a trifle less than legally sober at some point during the day. We left him next morning, waiting for his family to rejoin ship before resuming their sea gypsy odyssey once again.

   

The next day, Guernsey proved easy and quick to find. In short order we were again ashore and, like gulls, demanding drink and food. Patient natives supplied us with both, it was this which fortified us for the short but carefully navigated haul to Cherbourg. Even in the relaxed state in which very early morning found us, we saw no sea monsters or, sadly, sirens. 

If you discover yourself to be hungry and thirsty in Cherbourg then there is no better specific than Le Mistral with its spécialités italiennes, its moules-frites and its incomparably friendly staff (24, Quai Caligny, +332 33 43 17 39). 

At an almost unbelievable 05:30 on the last morning we pulled out of Cherbourg in the wake of a seriously fast French Frigate. We wafted across a very calm Channel watching Gannet being very very clever. A long time later, and after a strangely German diet, Weymouth Harbour appeared exactly where the Hydrographic Office suggested it could be found. After some brief and salty housekeeping, a train bore us thirstily away from the sea. A holiday!

What seems like ages ago I used to be a sea beastie. The best of it was meeting people, like Erling, who have great stories to tell. It was possible to make a small fortune navigating race yachts and delivery skippering - but you need a large one to start with, so my career was brief. I had forgotten just how much I love that life though. 

It's not always beautiful. By contrast this return trip was very different from the delivery to St Malo the week before. Crossing the Channel first in a gale then in thick fog is not for those with any imagination at all. Our scary story was of a close encounter in the darkest part of the night. 

The increasing thrash of a big screw heard dimly through the fragile hull of our boat announced a new trial. Not the howling wind and rain of the English side of the Channel but a new threat in the black fog bubble we were traversing. Over the starboard quarter, where earlier Joseph had puked into the turbulent night, a dull glow began to appear. It swelled into a giant and furiously bright cargo ship in thirty seconds. 

Whilst those on 'watch below' lay in their bunks frozen in rigid attention, I spent these seemingly ultimate seconds with one hand over the engine start switch, searching the glow for her navigation lights, and any clue to her course. The thundering leviathan passed us less than a hundred metres off. Another thirty seconds and she was lost in the murk and presumably back to guard the gates of hell. 

Everyone can hold their breath for a minute. Suddenly it was as if she had never been and we breathed again.  In these situations it is vital to keep your attention on what is happening outside, rather than inside the yacht. I think that the makers of sailing trousers might consider the colour brown. 

The fog closed back around our silent bubble, but slowly burned away after a dawn which changed the pace for the last of the leg to Cherbourg where we topped off the fuel tank. The rest of the voyage to St Malo was splendid. We watched a jelly-like sun rise in the far distance over the rocky teeth of the Minquieres, which prudently, we left far to the east. 

I suppose that I must set about cutting that taproot properly. Erling's lifestyle is very appealing and mobile communications are so good. No excuse...