On the Road Again



Adios Los Canos de Meca







On the road again - the ubiquitous
"Toro" sculptures throughout Spain



After the easy beachside relaxedness of Los Canos we were tightly packed in the car to start pounding the tourist trail.





Parading past the Catherdral. Seville



Seville is a gracious and enjoyable old city with an aristocratic air. The tourist tat is relatively subdued even in the heart of the most touristic sections, although perhaps the charm stemmed from the way that even these areas were integrated into a well-planned living town that is more than just a showcase for days of yore. We had our first taste of the Moorish influence here; the Alcazar is one of the most famous Moorish-palaces-appropriated-by-later-Spanish-royalty (there are a few). Equally memorable was the Flamenco performance we saw at the Flamenco Museum: vibrant, sexy, superbly performed and beautifully weighted. Much better than the touristy tablao we saw in Barcelona: this was the real deal and even the kids paid attention.




Sexy Flamenco, Seville



Carraige ride, Seville

Cordoba was a bit second best and in hindsight suffered from being sandwiched itinerary-wise between Seville and Granada. The kids were grumbling but at least we had palmed them off into sharing a room with Grandma (“the life sentence” we called it.)

"Generalife" palace,
Alhambra, Granada

Granada is the home of the justifiably famous Alhambra ; The Moorish jewel in Andalucía’s crown, the last Muslim bastion in the 15th century reconquista of Spain. The palace complex is a must see world heritage item that requires bookings days in advance to gain entry and hours to walk around. A series of perfectly sculpted gardens, courtyards, buildings and rooms within suggest not just an appreciation of beauty and architecture, but also a lightness of spirit that is lacking from other Islamic edifices such as the Blue Mosque and the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. Something about those buildings evoked the a sense of the despots and the abject slavery that built them, but in Andalucia, the Islamic legacy seems more benign, notwithstanding 7 centuries of intermittent but bloody warfare that precipitated their ultimate defeat and banishment.

The Nasrid Palace, Alhamba, Granada.

After 8 days on the road looking at historic buildings the kids were climbing the walls, so we switched our focus to nature for the trip North on our way to meet up with an old mate, Rob Ugarte, our only European contact for the trip.



Bushwalking between the
Lagunas, Ruidera



Parc Natural Lagunas de Ruidera is centered on a series of lakes occupying a small part of the otherwise featureless plains north of the Sierra Grande. Winter was having her last hurrah; rain clouds scudded across the sky as the wind whistled through the bare trees and across the cold grey waters. We didn’t mind though: once again we were the only guests, and the food in the Hotel Albanjon was simply superb. A good bushwalk followed by duck liver confit and a bottle of Rioja back in the snug restaurant was right on the money.



A bit wet for us up high
in the Sierra de Gredos

Much nicer further down the valley.

Parc Natural Sierra De Gredos was our next stop: a climbing and hiking mecca in spring and Autumn; we were perhaps a bit early to enjoy the best of the area, with snow falling each day, and the high walks under snow and hence inaccessible without more serious gear than joggers. There were plenty of Spaniards out for a weekend hike though, some bedecked in crampons and goretex, others just in joggers with umbrellas. We followed an old cobbled Roman road though the mists and snow-capped peaks, and spooked the kids with the story of “The Shining” on the drive into the mountains. However, the old world charm of the state-owned Parador Hotel we stayed at was eerily reminiscent of the Overlook Hotel from that film, complete with snow drifts, grey stone walls, long corridors, and sculpted hedges. Nonetheless, the urge to take to the family with an axe seemed no stronger than usual, and the in-house, Michelin-recommended Restaurant once again contributed to the waistline spread: a net calorie gain despite a few good walks in the Park.





Not another old church.....



Segovia is another charming old town and the home of the castle that forms the inspiration for the one housing Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. By this stage only threats of corporal punishment would induce the kids to enter another old building, but happily the displays of swords, armour and cannons were sufficiently distracting to get us through the visit without a major meltdown. The Sephardic restaurant in the Hotel was excellent although a rare night out for the parents was spent happily trawling bars and snacking on tapas.




Awoken beauties in Segovia 




Restaurant Hotel del Oso....
We'll be back



Suckling Pig and Rioja weren't
the only attractions

On Rob ‘s recommendation we stopped next in the Picos de Europa; an amazing mountain range within sight of the north coast and the Atlantic. The drive took us from the high plain, up through a misty mountain valley surrounded by sheer rocks and snow-capped peaks, and up and over the pass of the Puerto de Gloria . The picture perfect Hotel Del Oso is high in a valley and run with warmth, attention and skill by the same family for decades. One day stretched to 2, 3, and 4 as we worked our way through the list of walks in the shadow of these incredible alps, not to mention the menu (roast suckling lamb or pig meant a whole leg) and the wine list.

The lonely and dramatic drive into the Picos de Europa



Working up an appetite in the Picos





The boys grab a wave in the 14 degree
Atlantic on the Spring Equinox.



After 3 years of emailing we finally caught up with Rob in the coastal town of Suances. Rob is a larger than life surfer and adventurer from the Bra who I have variously sailed and studied with over the years and who, for the moment at least, lives in the town his father was born in and calls Spain home. True to form he lost no time calling in sick; He, Tara and their three kids were perfect hosts and we packed a lot into 2 days; a menu dal dia in then nearby historic village, a blokes night (hurrah) on the town, then a family beach picnic, a surf in the chilly Atlantic, and a family night out. They seemed to know everyone in the town (and the next one) and the visit was constantly punctuated by Rob calling out “¡Eh- hombre!” and exchanging handshakes, backslaps and pleasantries with locals strolling by. It looks like a good life; but we’ll see if the lure of the Bra and old Aussie friends wins out in the medium term against Spanish equanimity and the downsides of life on the big smoke treadmill.



Hosts and Guests, Suances.





A giggle at the Gugga: Bilbao

Up early for a big drive back to Barcelona to complete the circuit: A quick stop at the Guggenheim and then across the country in one hit. Barca was as inviting the second time as it was the first; but we had tickets booked and so after only one day for Moira and Cathe to hit the shops we had the whole catastrophe packed in the car and at the airport. Adios Espania!







Sun and Surf in Spain

It seemed a glib statement: "We're going to get a mad beach house, for peanuts, overlooking a point break in a remote part of Spain". I tried to temper my expectations as we approached the Atlantic coast. The rank overdevelopment on the Med side suggested that a tiny apartment nestled amongst a forest of high rises might be a more realistic goal.


Post surf - Bloke, Beer, View,
Private Reef Break. Stylin'.

However, the research paid off.  This part of Spain seems to have escaped the worst ravages of the developers, and retains a sleepy charm not unlike the south coast of NSW. A bit of a drive around looking at the "for rent" signs and bingo: Cheap, white-painted, beach front nirvana in near-deserted Los Canos de Meca, in a cul de sac a few doors down from the National Park. This joint would have the Sydney real estate agents oozing superlatives faster than you could say "underquoted auction expectation". Realistically, about 80% of the town is empty holiday rentals, so we had our pick.



An Aussie Senhora soaks up some Spanish winter sun with good book



It's mostly deserted except for a few itinerant surfers, locals and travellers, but nothing you could call a crowd. At night the light from the lonely Cape Trafalgar lighthouse (think Lord Nelson's Battle) flicks past the windows every six seconds, from about 1 km away. The restaurants are mostly boarded up for the winter, apart from one casual joint that fires up on weekends. There is a single cafe/bar down the road and a couple more if we drive to the cape, which is protected and hence a bit of a weekend family and beginner surfer spot. If there were tumbleweeds in Spain they would be blowing down the main street.

The cruisy beach scene round the cape at El Palmar

The weather has been fantastic. While there has been the odd Atlantic storm crashing on the rocks below our house, (and they can be impressive) mostly it's board shorts and tee shirts. Africa is a scant 40 KM away: sunny windless days are not uncommon and we can see Tangier on a good day.



For the surfers: Not in vain have I dragged that cursed, heavy and seemingly superfluous board bag through half the airport terminals in Europe, not to mention all over the placid Med, often in the face of scathing belittlement from those I hold dearest.  Finally it makes sense - there actually is a reef break right out the front. On weekends it can get crowded though - sometimes as many as five surfers are out there.


Finishing a session at the private reef. Note the non-crowd.



The North Atlantic brews up enormous storms in December through to February that leaves most of Portugal, Spain and France maxed out and unsurfable. Down here though the Algarve peninsula moderates the worst of it, but the long period groundswells still wrap right in. So while it is flat here most of the year, right now it is consistently cranking with ground swells originating from Perfect Storms in Novia Scotia and environs. While we face dead south, to the west of Cabo Trafalgar we have El Palmar, which faces more westerly and gets a bit more swell on the small days. So there's always options and it's usually offshore somewhere. The outer reefs around the cape mean that even when there's 4 m swells smashing in out the front we can find a spot for the kids to get a wave. Best of all, unlike further up the coast, the water temperature is a balmy 16 degrees: the kid's Sydney wetties serve them just fine. My new 4:3 is toasty and a lot less "michelin man" than the forebear I used in wintry Victoria many years ago; albeit that the new front zip design is like escaping from a straight jacket every day.   



Playing "smashes" in the dumpers at Cabo Trafalgar



Spanish cuisine has been good. Tapas is a great way to eat and we have been pleasantly suprised with what we have been dished up in some of the little nondescript bars. Restaurants don't open for dinner until 9pm though, so it's usually a lunch experience for us.  Nothing yet beats the high end Tapas we have enjoyed in Oz, in this area it's more of a cruisy relaxed style of dining. There is one exception though:  Pig. This is taken very seriously. Jamon Iberico (Iberian ham, like proscuitto) is justifiably world famous: Easso will charge you $30 for just a few dissolve-on-the-tongue slices down at Rockpool. Here even the tired, chain supermarkets offer some heavyweight stuff in this department and can charge big money for the real deal. Nonetheless I bought an entire kilo of pork sirloin for eur 7 which seemed at odds with the usual worship of the flesh of that beast -strangely, nothing else was available. The planned slow cook would have been a criminal use of such a prime cut so I made solomillos for the skillet instead ... Queso Curado (Cured cheese) is also a specialty. 

The jamon display in an otherwise dingy and nondescript
Coles-type supermarket in a smallish town.

Cathe's mother Moira has just flown in and joined us. Everyone is excited to have someone else to talk to and hopefully her presence will moderate the worst of the intra-family stoushing. 

But our 3 sleepy weeks are nearly up. Time to get back in the car and do the tourist thing: Here come the Griswalds. We'll try and keep Grandma off the roof though. We're heading north through Spain and then a south-western France stint beckons with the associated lure of French food and wine before we wrap it with 5 days in Paris and a last hurrah on the boat.

Adios amigos.  

Barcelona and onward by Cathe

For the last while, which may be weeks or months, depending on the slippage and consistency of time and how its experienced – or retained – I have had my dad nestled in close to me. Its not a morbid thing. He got a decent life as he lived to 84.

Modernista door, Barelona

We visited the Museo de Miro today. Miro lived till 90, from 1893 to 1983, which seemed a refinement in numbers amongst all the other facts that made up or stepped his life output in chronological seams. Doodling that became fluid, descriptive, symbolic, balletic. Experimentation and the perpetual, relentless effort to pursue and create. Materials that aroused curiosity and eagerness – where was the trepidation? Just get on and do. Sholto had an audio guide which he diligently and absorbedly listened to until the 132 minute was reached and he was lurched into boredom.

Rare Saintly Children in La Sagrada Familia

The visiting exhibition was of English artists from WW2 to the 60’s – people like Barbara Hepworth, Ben Nicholson, Henry Moore, Lucien Freud, Francis Bacon. It was a good selection of works, though my attention was stolen by a group of Barcelonian women on a private tour – all post 60, all swathed in fur coats, expensive baubles and artfully styled volume heightened hair. A dozen individuals clustered in a tight pack. Furs in Ocelot, Leopard, Siberian fox and all to the knee or mid calf, like 50’s movie stars. Sort of like looking at a moving Annie Leibovitz cover for Vanity Fair. A few of them stepped over the floor line demarcating the too close to the artwork barrier setting off the alarm but the guard stoically resisted the temptation to offer a caution.

 

Gaudi Modernista style

Barcelona is really a gracious city. The modernist buildings and streets of the 1800s are the grace we move through. It enhances the people too, or perhaps they are in empatico with this gracious architecture. I soak up the details: a man in a wool bottle green coat, brown trilby hat smoking a pipe, reading a book, legs crossed, completely absorbed. Two women smoking thin cigarettes, sangria bottle, outdoor table, faces turned to the sun. Turning a corner unexpectedly to stop suddenly at the beauty of a Gaudi apartment building glinting in the evening light. Tapas bars and restaurants with legs of ham hung from the ceiling somehow looking inviting when they should be repellent in their withered creepy skins.


The coolness of January unfortunately gave us all a bout of the winter flu, and our forays into the streets became shorter with each passing day. Our favourite haunt was a local bakery café which we had to visit several times in order to work through the selection of pastries.



Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia, Valencia

After a week enjoying the sights we cut a 2 month deal on a hire car for the rest of our mainland stint. Two nights were spent in Valencia, and we visited the sci fi buildings of the Cuidad de las Artes y las Ciencias (City of Arts and Sciences), which show what Darling Harbour could have been like if our town planners had a bit more chutzpah. Can they lift their game with Bangaroo? It seems not. From here we spent a forgettable night in one of the huge number of forgettable Spanish med holiday resort towns. Hundreds of Kilometres of Gold Coast basically. Time to head inland.




Parc Natural Sierra de Grazalema

Skirting the Sierra Nevada we came to a great little mountain village in the Parc Natural Sierra de Grazalema. We decided to stay 3 nights so we could do some hiking. There’s something about a great bushwalk that puts all of us in great spirits. All the walks require permits and a finite number are available each day, so it being the weekend, we were lucky to secure two lengthy hikes. The first hike took us along a gorge famous for some rare griffon vultures but as it was on a long boring road we quickly worked out a more adventurous path would be to duck onto a goat track and orienteer our own way. Steve reveled in taking bearings from his hand held GPS, Finbar relished in applying these coordinates to the map, Sholto was our hunter mage and I found the track down once we realized we were lost. Just kidding – we were just slightly left of the mark. Our last and longest hike took us through the pinsapar (woodland) of rare Spanish Fir, over a sierra where snow and ice were fresh, and into the village of Benhamahoma, where our much anticipated long Sunday grazing lunch was sadly lost amongst mountains of chips.



Rugged Orienteers heading for a long lunch

Fashion and Fee

The post christmas sales in Milan were a sight in themselves. Stylish Milanese everywhere, hurrying up and down the freezing streets, thronging in the Piazza del Duomo, jockeying and jostling for the bargains.



Milanese queuing for
shopping action in the rain

 We followed Cathe around on the mission for the definitive winter coat, and for once it was impossible to remain detached from the thrill of the chase. All the big brands were represented, but so too were the temporary outlets, full of what were apparent (even to my jaundiced eye) as solid bargains.

The excitement built as we elbowed our way through the shopping district. The big stores were run like exclusive nightclubs, with lines of shoppers queuing outside, immaculately turned out major domo’s (majors domo?) guarding the door, and a sense that one might not make the grade to gain entry. We tried to look like rich shoppers in our cobbled together winter gear, but some of the guardians of the portals weren’t fooled by our faux haughtiness; only a timely foot in the door coupled with a determined shove got us into the Prada store for a squiz.



After many false turns we struck gold at last: with the perfect Italian leather fur coat and a clutch of ski gear triumphantly underarm we headed back to the hotel for our last night before heading to Switzerland.



Found the coat: now for the boots



This was our first foray into the famous Eurorail system, and what a pleasure it was. The train ran from Milano, past the summer mansions of Lake Maggiore with snow capped peaks in the distance, and into the mighty Alps. Our own 4-seat cubicle, comfy seats and amazing scenery made it a great trip.



Finbar at 3500 m



mmm...Fondue and beer



Saas Fee turned out to be a great choice. A little village nestled in the snow at 1800 m, ringed by giant snow-covered alps, no cars allowed, and of course oozing historical Swiss charm. La Collina Chalet, run by the Family Ski Company, had separate rooms for us and the kids, on-site child care including delivery and pick up from the ski school, and an infectiously enthusiastic group of young Poms on the staff who looked after every possible need. Despite my pitch that two weeks of solid skiing would help us gain the upper hand in the battle of the bulge, Simon and Max in the kitchen conspired to disabuse us of any such notion. They served up superb 3 course dinners every night, accompanied by free wine that kept being replenished as long as long and as late as the requests kept coming. I seem to recall accompanying some Welsh fellow guests in a very loud version of Delilah (and did we attempt it in rounds?) at about 1am following one of these evenings, but that may have been a just a bad dream. Even so the 8pm dinner time and the endless bottle was hard to resist, and bedtimes seemed to stretch well beyond what we are used to.



mmm...Apres ski beer and
Swiss lemonade

 Each morning we groggily ambled through the postcard-perfect village to the ski depot next to the cable car station to commence the day’s activities. For a skier who had never sampled the delights of the northern hemisphere, Saas delivered the goods. The overall rise of the slopes is 1700m, about 3 times more than anything in Oz. The journey to the very top (by t-bar, cable car and underground vernicular railway) takes about 20 minutes, and skiing hard or soft that run is going to knacker you – it’s about 3-4 km long.

mmm... Apres ski gluvine
and complimentary rugs

The boys took to the slopes like fish to water, both natural skiers. Finbar particularly hit his straps and conquered every run on the mountain, styling his high speed carve turns on the red and black runs, airtime (naturally) featuring significantly. Sholto went from snow ploughs to high speed parallels and was just about to attack the black when our time was up. My ageing knees managed to come to the party to advance the cause of telemark perfection, and by the second week I was feeling pretty solid as I chased Finnie around in the afternoons. Cathe also picked her skiing up a few notches (despite the odd dummy spit at the husband-instructor) and generally enjoyed carving out her parallel turns on the lower slopes, ultimately managing a strength-and-will sapping top to bottom run on the last day.

A kid in the Swiss Alps

We were blessed with near-perfect weather although a cold snap in the last few days was a shock to the system: windless, bright sunshine, but 20 degrees below. This gave rise to a new and ticklish sensation - the private ignominy of frozen nostril hairs.

Too much skiing is barely enough

As I write this we are on the train again passing charming Lake Maggiore, on the way to Milano before jetting to Barcelona tomorrow. A new country and a new language: my research shows that the word for beer is cerveza - apparently there are also many other interesting things to discover.

Adios amigos

Ho ho ho...



The Grand Harbour from the walls of Fort St Elmo, marina in the background



Malta was a welcome (albeit temporary) respite from the impending winter. There have been a few chillier days but when the sun came out the shirts could still come off and the odd swim could still be indulged in.

Trying to keep the guitar lessons going



We got into a rhythm of life in the marina, reading in the mornings, occasionally some schoolwork, but we had a few days where the lure of the sedentary below decks life was enough to keep us in all day, reading, surfing the internet, ordering pizza from the adjacent restaurants and watching movies. Shaking it up we could jump in the car, do the xmas shopping, take in an English movie or (sensation) go out to eat Indian. Definitely low key stuff and ultimately a bit underwhelming.



Christmas decorations on board



Christmas day saw us at an English speaking mass in this most catholic of countries. However, Finbar turning to mouth the words to “Jesus was way cool” impacted on the gravitas of the critical part of the ceremony somewhat.

Walking around the cliffs near St Paul's Island

Other activities included tennis at the sports club, the odd session at the boxing gym, and using the hardstand at the head of the marina for family soccer and tip footy games, all beneath the imposing historic walls of Fort St Angelo where the Turks were bloodily repulsed 450 years ago. All good but seemingly not quite enough to halt the slow but inexorable waistline creep: pizza and vino are winning that particular battle.

In denial - differing views for approriate apparel on the winter solstice.



Schoolwork at anchor

Amongst it all we had a couple of more nights on the anchor in Blue Lagoon and Mista Bay, nice reminders that we do in fact live on a boat. Some sunny moments, but summer it is no longer.

The last two days have been a frenzy of packing up our gear, packing up the boat, cleaning it and getting it ready for sale + photography while we head to mainland Europe. We needed the shake up and we needed a task so it was all good. In typical form we finished this in a rush, working right up to (and indeed beyond) the second we had to jump in the car and head for the airport.



Christmas day hats



The reality check is now complete: those clothes which seemed to be too hot lugging the bags around Malta airport are proving completely inadequate in chilly 2 degree Milano. Unlike our last regrettable visit here we are located in a pretty part of town, not far from the centre andnext to a canal, something of a culinary centre where every shopfront is a restaurant, pizzeria or trattoria. Accordingly, we are looking forward to re-acquainting ourselves with Italian cooking, which has generally been unsurpassed on our trip. Yet more losses upcoming in the battle of the bulge.

We have arrived on the day of the festival of the witch, just in time for the post Christmas sales to begin tomorrow: apparently the sales here in the fashion capital of the world make the Harrods equivalent look positively tame and Cathe isn’t sure whether to be scared or excited.

As well as looking for the ever elusive perfect winter coat for Cathe, we will be heading to the Decathalon (think Ikea store but for sports gear) for discount ski gear to take to Saas Fee in Switzerland where we shall be heading to by train on Sunday.



Ciao Ciao

A little last ray of sunshine

From Milazzo the forecast promised a slight abatement in the weather front, but still a following wind, albeit one that still had some teeth. The spinnaker plan was vetoed by key stakeholders in the blustery 30kt +  levanter, but the poled out genoa plan slipped in under the radar. Alas, the following 2m sea conspired with the near gale to defeat the autopilot, and a broach put the wind afore the beam, destroying both the spinnaker pole and the captain's credibility in one fell swoop.

After lashing the broken pole to the mast we continued on and rounded Cape Peloro, sailing into the dreaded Straights of Messina, in the wake of Odysseus 3000 years ago:

"And all this time, in travail, sobbing, gaining on the current, we rowed into the strait - Skylla to port and on our starbord beam Kharibdis, dire gorge of the salt sea tide. By Heaven! when she vomited, all the sea was like a cauldron seething over intense fire, when the mixture suddenly heaves and rises." Homer - The Odyssey.

We also had some crazy currents, gusts, and odd wind effects: it was all a bit exciting , but perhaps a tad tamer from the stable cockpit of Familia than it was for Odysseus. With the sails down, the wind bullets and cross currents had only a limited effect: the donk chugged away reassuringly to take us down the straight.

We opted for an industrial overnighting in Reggio Di Calabria on the eastern shore - famous mainly as a fertile mafia recruitment ground. The morning swim was much more nipply than expected as there must be a solid 2 degree differential between the Tyrrhenian and the Straits proper. A long motor the next day brought us to Acitrezza where we spent two days waiting out a southerly storm on the town quay. The jagged basalt spires outside the port entry once again provided a link to Odysseus; Homer tells us they were hurled after him by the blinded Cyclops, Polyphemus.

Fort Costello, Syracusa

Once the weather eased we headed to charming Syracusa, the last major town on the east coast. What a great entry to a great town: rounding the old fort on the north headland you enter a great natural harbour, with the old town fully resplendent. The marina is right on the edge of the old town and only 3 minutes walk from the markets held every day from 7 to 1.  The produce was even more outrageously fresh and inviting than the rest of Italy: marinated olives for $5/kg, impossibly glossy ripe truss tomatoes for $1.50/kg, crusty Italian bread to die for only $1 per loaf. So when the southerly weather pattern continued to indicate a rough trip to Malta, a few extra (warm) days were welcomed. The Fort and the local Greek and Roman theatres are spectacular and amongst the best preserved in the world. A chilly excursion to the so called Grand Canyon was fun, as was partaking of the local vino rossi, Nero D'Avola.

Daily Markets, Syracusa- marinated olives to die for....

Finally a break in the weather allowed a short motor to Portopalo, an anchor, and an early departure for Malta. At least it would have been if my dodgy bowline hadnt let the stern anchor go just as I was about to grab the chain at 5.30AM. The dark, icy pre-dawn swim with waterproof torch in hand was nothing less than I deserved:  I was improbably lucky to spot the end of the chain in 6 m of murky water on what I had decided was my last futile dive.  Dolphins in the dawn on the way to Malta were subsequently another lucky find.

The taste buds had reservations as we headed for Malta but what a landfall: The ochre walls of Forts St Elmo and St Angelo vie for attention as you approach Valletta. Once between them and into the aptly named Grand Harbour the buildings ooze history from all sides. Is it still possible to take vows in the Order of the Knights of St John?

The Grand Harbour Marina....indeed.

We have taken a full month's berth in the Grand Harbour Marina: possibly the most stunning location we have yet had the good fortune to experience. Even the screams and tantrums of our unbelievably recalcitrant children somehow seem more grand as they echo off the historic sandstone walls of the nearby forts and cathedrals.



Swimmer in the blue lagoon

 The climate here is more African than Mediterranean, so after a couple of days we took advantage of what was probably the last weather window for an anchor out in the so-called Blue Lagoon. After an evening anchored in the 25kt storm the morning dawned sunny and gentle: a great day of swimming and sun was had by all- probably the last one until spring though.

Blue lagoon in winter - all to ourselves

An ageing, grey haired man enjoys a rare post prandial nap
on board whilst cradling his burgeoning paunch

In the meantime we have been trying to get some fitness going. I have located a boxing gym, so last week I took the boys along and strapped on the gloves after a 2 year hiatus. The acute muscular pain is only just receding: not helped by a punchy 11 year old who now sees himself as the new Rocky (or in fact Mundine if his aptitude for verbosity and confrontation is any indication.)



The Maltese claim to be the earliest Christians, the island having been coverted by a shipwrecked St Paul in AD50. Home made fireworks and timber statues of saints were the features of the feast of our Lady of the Immaculate Conception last Wednesday. Christmas in this tiny traditional nation is therefore the plan, before abandoning our ship and heading landward for a few months in greater Europe. Spain following a skiing session is the idea at the moment: plans are always mutable though so we shall see.


Ciao


A gory statue somehow related to our lady of the immaculate conception...
Did that bloke threaten the Madonna's virtue perhaps?.....Hmm.