Rome to Home

The weather fluctuated for our last days on Familia: The blazing sunshine of the forthcoming summer was interspersed with winter’s dying gasps, echoing the mood on board as we struggled to pack up our lives into more bags than we had possibly imagined, and clean the boat ready for sale. A number of unsteady trips on the folding bike were necessary to collect the extra suitcases and a set of scales to work out what could go where.  It appears we have accumulated about 200kg of additional essential items over here…… A few packs/unpacks and a trip to the freight forwarder was  necessary. Fortunately Antonio was himself a keen traveler and not only took care of our backbreaking extra payload but shouted us a beer and a gelato afterwards.

The Alexanders cast us off

Luckily the kids were kept entertained hanging out with the Alexanders, the Canadian family on their sabbatical just down the dock, who politely showed enough fortitude to spend more time with us despite the appalling first impression from yours truly. Thanks very much for dinner and a few vinos on the last night guys.  

Finally the bags were packed, Familia spotlessly cleaned, and with very mixed feelings we left the dock for the last time for the 30 minute motor to the final berth at the Tecnomar boatyard a little way down the Fiumicino river.

Farewell Familia - not happy

The arrangements were made at the office, bags loaded in the taxi, the last bit of cleaning, and we were off to Rome for our last 3 days. No backwards glance….

Re-visiting the Pantheon

This visit cemented the idea that Rome is the perfect tourist city: the grandeur of the Roman ruins, the renaissance architecture, the classic narrow lanes brimming with food, fashion and trinkets, and locals who revel in the attention the rest of the world fosters on their city. Just as good the second time around really. This time we stayed in the more exclusive Spanish Steps district (actually it was the cheapest apartment we could find).

Climbing the Spanish Steps

The interactive Leonardo Da Vinci Museum

Hilary Clinton was in town and the American embassy was only three blocks away: so the police were out in force with machine guns and flack jackets, choppers constantly hovered overhead, and motorcades seemed to be forever rushing by with sirens blazing. Endless lower key undercover cop cars cruised the streets with the roof light attached (but not flashing). The Italian plainclothes had no idea of self-parody, smoking cigarettes and squinting, driving with unnecessarily tyre squeals, and trying fairly unsuccessfully to look hardbitten with their flashy suits and expensive shirts on. Alfas and Audi A6’s were preferred, in mandatory black. 

Cavorting around the Vittorio Emanuele II Monument

We inhaled as many sights, pizzas, Nastros and chiantis as we could cram into 3 days, but the sound of the clock ticking was never far away. Finally the last morning dawned, the bags were packed one last time, we grabbed a last café latte in the nearby gardens of the Villa Borghese, and then it was into the taxi. A nervous moment with 10 too many kilos at the airport but we got a let off, the bags were checked, tax refund obtained, a last dash to the gate lounge and we were away.  Arrividerci!

Old Rome

We spent a few hours last night in the hotel inside Dubai airport rather than attempt 6 hours of sleep on a chair, and as I write this we are speeding over the Indian ocean at 10,688m, doing 946km/h and taking a break from the 13 hour movie fest to write what may well be the last entry for this blog…..although perhaps one more is warranted after we get home properly to recap the highlights and impressions…..

The 21 hour movie marathon at 33,000 ft.

See youse soon.

The Last Hurrah

The boys and I flew into Cagliari (Sardinia) and a rendezvous with Cathe, Auntie Clare, and of course dear old Familia. It was good to be back on board again and everyone felt relaxed and almost like back at home after 3 months on the road.

A collection of Sardinian artifacts- thanks Auntie Clare
PS we love that crazy Sard flag. What does it mean?

The Sards are part of Italy but this state of affairs is a scant 150 years new. Like Spain, political graffiti is not uncommon and here the phrase Sardegna es No Italia appears on tee-shirts and spray painted on walls. However, one has the impression that the independent fervor would not run to much more than the odd tag or shirt front lest it interfere with a peaceful siesta.

Spring in Sardinia - walking along the peninsula at Villasimius

 
After a couple of days in port, including a good Sunday lunch (and a few shenanigans cleaning the fuel tank -stay away from Turkish fuel trucks) we were finally underway again. We motorsailed over to the south-eastern tip of the island to Villasimius. Here the landscape does justice to the tourist brochures: deserted white sand beaches, crystal clear azure water, and low key architecture. The marina is on an isthmus, on the other side of which featured a lagoon and aforementioned beach to good effect, and we spent a few lazy days walking back and forward, and into the nearby town. The 16 degree water was expected but not a total deterrent; when the sun was out it wasn't too hard to dive in and, as Sholto says, you get used to it. 

Villasimius beach...brrrr.

Martini Rossos en route to Cala Pira

We had a false start bashing into a 25 kt northerly to get to the little picturesque bay of Cala Pira. With the stern anchor deployed the swell was manageable, but a further northing (or even staying put) was not advised in the face of the worsening conditions, so we had a mad southward run to return to the safety of the marina the next day.

Cala Pira - better in the sunshine; and then there's beach rugby.

A jogger and cyclist on a
doomed mission to catch the bus

After a couple more days enjoying Villasimius we finally got away up the east coast. A now easy motor took us back to Cala Pira which was much more inviting with the sun out.  From here we motored up to Porto Carallo to bid farewell to Clare. Alas we found ourselves in a ghost town with no taxis to deliver Clare to the bus stop in the next inland town. After a comical interlude involving the folding bike, luggage, me jogging + Clare riding, and a denouement at a demolished bridge, we finally got her away to Cagliari with an expensive but timely airport transfer.  

A 5 hour cliff walk from Santa Maria Navarrone

We eased our way up the coast, Santa Maria Navarrone and Cala Gonone were high points, the cruisy early season vibe was perfect, and this stretch of coast is terribly scenic: the escarpment rises dramatically from the sea, a hiking and climbing mecca par excellance. Some less picturesque locations and less than clement weather featured as well and we had to wait around for suitable weather a couple of times. Strangely, the cheapest and most expensive med marinas both share this coastline: We paid Eur 6 one night, yet in the Costa Smerelda, in high season, a scant 70 miles north, you might pay 600.  

Sunday lunch at Cala Gonone 

We felt like we'd finally arrived with three nights spent anchoring out under the lee of stunning Isola Tavarola. An arrival it may have been: but a finale as well. This is the end, my beautiful friend, the end. The flight is booked for the 7th of May, so with a dearth of weather windows looming, and with emotions churning, we changed course on a split second decision to do the overnighter to Rome and the reality of packing up and heading home.

Walking on the beach - Isola Tavarola

The sun goes down for the last time - Isola Tavarola

The last passage was a cracker, close reaching in 15-20 kts for 20 hours, moonless and mostly starless, at times driving rain echoing the mood, sleeping to leeward in the cockpit when Cathe was on watch, and dozing in between proximity alarms fom the radar when she was below. Familia performed well: she needs 15 kts to get up and go, and a real overnight sail in a bit of weather (as opposed to motoring through a calm) was a fitting swansong.

Passagemaking en route to Roma

The last romantic Italian lunch

Thankfully the clouds broke for one last lovely long, languid and not illiquid Sunday lunch just at the end of the dock; even grotty Porto Di Roma looks good on a sunny spring Sunday with some pinot grigio under the belt. Perhaps it was part of the trying to hang on: I went from comfortably numb to really disgustingly drunk later when some Canadians stopped by the boat for a drink or 10 that evening.    

This post finds your correspondent backing up after a hard hungover day of packing up our life for the last year, drinking down the last stocks of limoncillo while the rain once again falls on the decks above. The feelings are more than mixed: downright mutinous in fact. There is every sense of summer approaching; yachts being unpacked and dusted off around us, the weather getting warmer, why are we leaving? It's insane, contrary to the outcome of every syllogistic analysis, every weighing of pro's and con's, any SWOT analysis, you name it. However, the real world, work, responsibility, and a wife's and kid's lives and ambitions hold sway: there's nothing else for it but to bow the head to the inevitable. 

3 last days in Rome will be a phyrric bonus; I'm already counting the days until we can return to complete what we have seemingly only just started: 3775 until Sholto's last HSC exam to be exact.

Sardinian sunbaking - thanks for the memories