Golden Eye

 

A Kestrel nestles watchfully amongst the clifftop scrub. Maybe for camouflage, or perhaps for respite from the wind. Her choice of landing place varies, so she cannot be guarding a nest.

The waves roll in beneath her. They wash onto the miles of deserted beach, stretching away to the north, as far as the eye can see.

She rises in a blur of movement . Climbs high, spiraling on the invisible updraughts rising up the cliff face . Holds station, to hover above my head . Wind rippling her dappled plumage . Eyes scouring the ground . Beak at the ready . Talons tucked up, to accelerate a stoop . Supreme in her element.

Inside Out

 

A heavily built gaff ketch runs in from seaward. Two handkerchiefs of canvas set. Plunging and corkscrewing in the swell. Had we decided to sail north this morning, Stargazer would have been beating into this, adding five knots or so to the wind speed and exacerbating the motion.

Inside the protective embrace of Point du Roc, all is calm. The crew of the ketch enjoy a sunny respite, before she makes port. The inbound ketch crosses the schooner Le Marite - taking a turn, in the shelter of the bay, to help fund her restoration.

Technical Hitch

Out on the clifftop, the wind is blowing hard. Round to the north, as forecast. Once over the ridge, and out of the protective lee of Pointe du Roc, standing upright becomes difficult. A problem which I share with the mobile phone mast. Mid afternoon all signal disappeared. Now there is phone signal but only a very wan and patchy data capability. Not enough to support the upload of photographs today. Let's hope there is enough for these words.

The wind may have dropped enough by tomorrow to sail north. I will be up at zero four hundred to assess the situation. Hopefully with the benefit of the latest forecasts, if data capability is restored overnight. If not, listening to the note of the wind and gut feel will have to suffice.

Black and Blue

 

A scowling sky glowers across the port of Granville. Sending sharp staccato bursts of rain to drum on Stargazer's decks.  A mischievous wind clambers over the protecting harbour wall, whistling and tugging at flags, before heading into town. They sport playfully, in a rough and tumble game. 

The morning sun joins them, as they play. Casting an eerie glow across the rooftops.

It wins the game by, for a fleeting moment, painting an iridescent rainbow across the heavens. The rain retreats, to think up a riposte.

The wind and the sun play on. Sending pools of light, and then cloud shadows, racing across the waterfront.

Where the roads toil their way up to the brow of the headland, in long zig zags. Breathless houses resting at their sides, looking out to sea. 

The wind is still blowing hard. Today out of the west. It is due to go into the north, when Granville is at its most sheltered, tomorrow. And to keep blowing.

A solitary, gung-ho, race crew brave the elements for some heavy weather frolics.

The rest of us stay snugged down in port. Beneath skies alternately black and blue.

Stargazer and I will need to be nimble, over the next couple of weeks. There are more lows on their way. They will be joined, in the next seven to ten days, by the remnants of hurricane Laura. Between the blows, the wind is forecast to die away almost completely. In order to make progress east, we will need to sail on the days on which the lows arrive and depart. A moving feast.

Not a Moment too Soon.

 

A boat romps out of Granville, as if to greet us. The breeze is building fast.

Stargazer has been circling beneath the Pointe du Roc for the past half hour, waiting for sufficient depth to go in. The headland will shelter us when the next gale blows in from the north. Today the wind and waves are building from the south - it can offer us no respite.

We hold station, stemming the tide, off Le Loup. The marker for a rock which lurks just below the surface. Inshore of it lie shoals. Stargazer will need a seven and a half metre rise of tide to cross them.

I eat lunch with Stargazer nodding, as the building swell rolls beneath her bow. Watching as the dark strip of harbour wall thins - and the water level rises.. 

This morning the forecast had changed. The window between the last blow and the next was closing. Winds of thirty five, gusts of forty, knots are now due by evening. 

There should still be time for us to make Granville, before it arrives. 

Stargazer threads the Grand Jardin channel out of St Malo, as soon as there is light. Reaching in fourteen knots of breeze. We circle, to avoid meeting the morning ferry in the rocky narrows. Then put to sea.

I hoist our Normandy flag. We are bound for the Cotentin peninsula, leaving Brittany. The wind builds to twenty knots. With some help from the tide, Stargazer is making seven knots - and ahead of schedule . Flying. I drop the main, to try to match our arrival time to half tide at Granville . Stargazer slows to five knots, under jib only.

At twelve thirty, half tide, we run into port. Not a moment too soon. The storm front has arrived . Behind us, Le Loup is surrounded by breaking seas.

I snug Stargazer down in front of the twin domes of  St Paul's church. To ride out the blow.

Surf's Up

 

White horses, whipped on by storm Francis, stampede ashore in St Malo Bay.

Half a mile to seaward, the Fort du Petit Be stands stalwart against the waves. The sky is a thunderous black. Spray mists the air. The salt tang is on my lips.

Surf shatters to spindrift under the city walls.

Out in the channel, the reefs boil beneath the Grand Jardin light. Waves leaping in high white plumes.

With a throaty roar, the surf rolls in beneath the battlements.

Stargazer's barometer is climbing steadily. The forecasts have the wind easing tomorrow. If we leave at zero seven hundred, we will be able to carry a fair tide all morning.

Hide and Seek

 

The tall masts, of a square rigged brig, dominate the skyline of St Malo's historic waterfront.

Sail training ship of the Polish navy, Fryderyk Chopin, has run in for shelter from storm Francis. 

So too has the French navy schooner Belle Poule. A faithful replica of a cod fishing goelette. Like those that plied Icelandic waters, in winter, from Paimpol.

Together they are moored beneath the city's battlements. Belle Poule exuberently dressed overall, signal flags cracking in the breeze. Fryderyk Chopin, yards squared and sails flemished, just so. Crew at work, painting the steel deck. 

When she arrived, last night, Polish sailors manned those long yards. One stood on the outer end of each. A taut ship.

The wind shrieks. A rain squall clears the quayside and sends me running for cover. From my shelter I watch as a cargo ship squeezes into the lock.

Her crew nonchalantly observe the delicate manoeuvre from the deck. Gloves on, ready to secure her hawsers.

An intrepid, aluminium hulled, Ovni squeezes into the lock with the ship. There is little room for error.

The squall leaves as rapidly as it arrived. A shaft of sunlight illuminates the cathedral spire.

The jet stream is to the south of us. Spinning stormy lows up the English Channel, in a king sized game of skimming stones. The unsettled weather patterns of the autumn equinox have arrived. Stargazer will have to play a game of her own, on our journey home. Hide and seek. Sail when we can. Take shelter, and enjoy our new surroundings, when we can't.

Agog

 

I stand in the stone archway, agog at the Tolkeinesque scene before me.

 A Needle sharp spire pierces through an undulating sea, of steeply pitched, close set, rooftops, to prick the very sky above.

Heraldic symbols adorn the masonry of the portal. Project power.

Like an uncoiling python, the city standard of St Malo lazily ripples in the breeze.

The battlements are ready to take on all challengers. Towers heavyset and muscular as prize fighters. 

Within the protecting walls, alleys peacefully wind . . . . 

. . . . .and sinuously climb.

Reveal private spaces. . . .

. . . .whimsical street names. . . .

. . . . intimate corners. . . .

. . . . grand facades. . . .

. . . .and leafy squares.

Beyond the walls, the sea laps, neither friend nor foe. Commanding respect.