We are on our way again!

We are on our way again!

Just as we thought our circumstances in the yard at Port Corbiere were getting intolerable Christophe, the yard man, came to see us and said "Desole" which basically means sorry. He had spoken to Ludovic our engineer and had realised that he had put us in a 'merde' position. 

He promised to move Hermy to a more becoming spot for a lady to have her bottom seen to, which he did. And, to top that, while we were seeing the(Monsters Inc) lady in the office about invoices, he came in and insisted that we should be given two free days because of all the dust and shit we had endured.

'Ce matin' may mean this afternoon, 'apres midi' may mean tomorrow and 'prochaine semaine' may mean never but we like the French very much. Who voted for Brexit?

At this point the French could do no wrong. They do however seem to have a single, but most important,  weakness. Launching boats!

Bottom soothingly repaired, we are told we can go back in the water a day earlier than expected. 

Hooray I don't like living in yards. So all we have to do is to speak to Christophe to get an early launch and we can hit Sanary Sur Mer about 30 miles away. A quick phone call on the advice of Ludovic, our engineer mate, tells us we can book a berth but we have to get there before six.

Christophe is duly button holed and agrees that we can be launched in a 'petite heure'  We haven't heard of this time period so we ask for an indication on my watch. It's a quarter to ten so he points to quarter past. Ah half an hour. So that will be an hour then?

No.

It's two hours.

Not in a particularly good mood, we watch as Hermy is dragged to the water's edge for craning in. At least it's a crane. What can go wrong? It's not Christophe but some chap called Philippe who appears to understand some English and is surrounded by a number of young, gazelle like, men.

All seems to be going okay as they pass the strops underneath the boat to be attached to the large hooks on chains above. I notice that one of these young chaps is on board and taking the two hooks for the starboard side around the backstay. He then encounters the bimini strop and the antennae on the pushpit. The next bit, in hindsight, was the exuberance of youth. But, sod hindsight. 

This utter prick does no less than stand on the top of the life raft, taking the two massive hooks in each hand and launches himself, chimpanzee like, around the antennae and bimini strop, hitting both and crashing in to the stantions on the starboard side.

Well, that was it, the French may have been the recipients of a few British salvos in their time but not quite on the level of this truly Kilbride rant. It is safe to say that the yard men at Port Corbieres now say 'mind my English' if they inadvertently swear. 

Apoplectic does not quite describe two weeks of pent up frustration. I immediately climb the ladder on to the boat, amongst a silent lifting crew and start looking for damage. All appears to have survived. Not least the pillock himself, although it wasn't the stupid leap that brought him closest to death during this incident. His reprieve coming from the fact I could find no damage despite some of the cracking, crashing noises I heard.

This was a poor way to leave Port Corbieres but we were very glad to leave. I wish I had had the vocabulary to explain that old Bill,from SEGAS club, launches over 50 boats in two days voluntarily -ish every year in British weather, with tides and I have never seen the slightest damage to anyone or anything. Admittedly his youngest 'Gazelle' is around 65. The French have taught me to appreciate Bill. He could clearly teach them a thing or two.

No leaks (neither the boat or me) and finally on our way.

 Brexit was clearly the right thing to do!

We make it to Sanary Sur Mer and by the time we are there we have reduced the blood pressure considerably.

What a pretty little spot. 

Healing Hermy's bottom.

When you have been married for 23 years there are small, intimate, little occasions that demonstrate that bond of love, fellowship and togetherness. Whilst returning from a very warm visit to the Marseille history museum one of those small, heart warming, moments occurred. We entered the bus back to Corbiere at Joliette and as we sat down on the, just about, double seat, briefly our bare knees gently came in to contact, our eyes met.

Mrs K cemented the moment: " Keep your sweaty leaking body away from me you great big hot fatty lump."

Love!

And so the process of getting Hermy right again begins. Port Corbiere, or infact the village of L'Estaque as it happens to be in, is not a bad little spot. Nice village centre and a small beach the other side of Corbiere yard. The beach was very crowded at the weekend to the extent that you knew you were swimming in 20% urine but it was much more pleasant during the week.

Living in a boat yard however is not quite what we were looking for.  Hermy has been left to defend her dignity amongst old work boats all of whom seem to be having a grinding festival. Dust everywhere.

We believe that Hermy's bottom suffered damage during her launch at Port St Louis. We think the strange tractory thing that works like a forklift lowered her in to the water but as it was being extracted the pad upended and dug in to the hull.

It is in a very awkward position beneath the fuel tank. We have been very impressed with Lud'eau Services undertaking the repair.  Communication is through sign language and a nice old boy who has a boat in the yard and is a mate of Monsieur Sorroche, the boss. They are all so helpful that we may need to hand out some alcohol at the end of it.  Our insurance people, Navigators and General, have also defied the commonly held belief in the yard that they will take weeks to okay it. Having received the quotes it took them less than a day.

 The question is, can we get back in to the water before the holding tank overflows? Or the urine to bodily contact ratio may increase dramatically.

So we have had to rough it wandering around Marseille for a week. 

Scavenging for food and drink.

I was happily wandering around the market in Jolliette square thinking what a lovely peaceful lot these Marseillians are when I found myself looking over a stall of bits and pieces, my eyes fell upon a range of knuckle dusters for sale. As I was trying to work out what charges the stall holder might face in Blighty, I was joined by a well dressed, very slightly built lady who, at a guess, was, well seven stone fully hydrated and in to her seventies. She picked up several of the weapons and slid her boney fingers in to each to try them for size. She picked one and paid the stall holder while we stood there with our mouths open not really knowing what to think. Yet another French moment that I missed getting a photo for. I bet her old man is in for a shock when he gets home and says "where's my tea?" tonight.

Mrs K did look at them thoughtfully I noticed.

They have started healing Hermy but as always things have to get worse before they get better.

Hermy has joined in the grinding fest. Very unbecoming for a 'Lady'.

The yard is about half a mile up the road from the village but unfortunately there is some sort of club next door and as we have now experienced a full week here it seems that the night air is saturated with some kind of Bongo band on a Saturday and some sort of clubby music on a Wednesday going on until 3:30 am. As well as a lot of screechy cars. Oh and on Friday we woke up to the pleasant sound of a pneaumatic drill beside our boat.  Despite this, the proximity of a busy road and the odd nuisance group of rowdy youths everything is fine! And I use to complain about generators on hotel boats.

So what shall we do about the holding tank? Well we could carefully pump some out in to a bucket and dispose of it. This would take careful coordination and communication between a couple who know how each other think, can second guess the others next move,  who are used to working to a plan with precision. I'll hold the bucket you pump three times and then only pump when I knock on the hull. Bucket one filled and disposed off carefully. The plan works like clockwork. The second bucket reaches completion and is moved from the outlet. I didn't knock - but she did pump!

Straight to the showers whilst wife cycled behind giggling. Not a good week.

Hopefully we will be out of here by Wednesday.

Hermione's bottom has been violated

When you have been married for 23 years your responses to incidents regardless of their nature,  change from" It wasn't me dear"  to "of course it's my fault dear." And so it came to be that we are now back out of the water one week after our launch.

Apart from the slight leak we had a very pleasant little stay in Sausset Les Pins. 

We left Les Pins and had a lovely sail to the Iles Frioul,  just off Marseille. We were looking to anchor in one of the many bays but the whole of France had had the same idea. It was the weekend so we made use of the harbour.

We know we are in the South of France because Hermy is one of the smaller boats.

 Mrs K has treated us to some art photography.

A Sea Eagle!

Then from here past the Count of Monte Cristo's prison.

And into Marseille where we had decided that we needed to download our new set of charts for the Med. The Navionics lady at the boat show had reassured us that since we already had a Navionics card then all we needed to do was follow the instructions on the screen to download the new ones. She said it in a tone that had a slight hint of " and even an incompetent old fool like you should be able to manage that."

How wrong she was. A whole afternoon in ' The Queen Vic' in Marseille clearly demonstrated that all computery efforts on my part failed with various pop up little screens saying such helpful  things as  "no I'm sorry you pressed the wrong button" No I'm sorry you took too long making sure you didn't press the wrong button"  " Are you sure you have the right version of office?"  Do you know the model number of your chart plotter? And finally "oh is that an old platinum card I see? You can't use those to unlock a new card."

Well by this time Mrs K was reaching for my blood pressure tablets and looking up a few words new to the English language. 

We gave up.

I have to say the lovely people at Navionics, on being informed of my best efforts made a phone call to Italy who unlocked the card remotely and, hey presto, even I was able to download it.

Marseille is a busy old place with fantastic scenery particularly from the Notre Dame De La Garde. 

A splendid church on the hill.

I think the same psychological process that comes in to play to allow women to have a second child following the agony of birth came in to play when we saw one of these.

That will be a pleasant way to visit Notre Dame dear. Completely forgetting our experience in Avignon last year. A thirty minute spine jarring, bottom bouncing, teeth shattering ride up the hill convinced me that there would not be a third child. Oh yes a whole class of primary school children joined us too, adding to the merriment!

The Marseille guide book talks of a monument to the King of Yugoslavia who was murdered in Marseille in 1934. Not many towns can boast the murder of a king within the last hundred years so I set myself the task of visiting this monument. 

My first attempt failed, I must have got the location wrong. Our second attempt discovered it. We were in the right location but on the wrong level.

Half way up a lamppost. Not sure what the coat hanger is for? Interestingly we read that the French Foreign minister, who also died, was in fact shot by a French policeman but this was suppressed until the 1970s. A French Cavalry man sorted the assailant with his sword then the crowd joined in.

Right we need a night at anchor to save on Euros following Mrs May's best efforts, so leaving Marseille we head for the little uninhabited island of Jaire ten miles up the coast.

We drop our 'Vulcan' anchor (or Mr Spock as we call him) in 9 metres of water on to sand. All looks lovely and both Mrs K and myself decide on a late afternoon dip before tea.

Now you don't often get the chance to have a good look at another girls bottom so I decided to take a good long look at Hermy's. 

Rudder, propeller, bow thruster, all good. 

I was just admiring the lovely gentle curve of her starboard hull when I saw what no boat owner wants to see. 

Lots of damaged fibreglass. It was at this point that I realised that my husband development training had failed to consider that there may have been a cause other than my shoddy plumbing to create the leak. Hermy's bottom had been violated. 

These are my thoughts. Will it cost a fortune? Will it involve major hastle? Will it take forever? It seems the answer will be yes!

Bloody hell!

It's all beginning again.

It's all beginning again!

What a winter that was. A year away from work with the most taxing thing being this blog then the old job rings me up and says, " you use to train people, we've got a bit of a job for you. Don't worry it will only be part time and you'll always be in your comfort zone." Er okay what am I training and who to?" Don't worry about that it's all child protection related and you'll have an academic with you. You'll be fine." Okay then when do you want me? "November 1st." Er okay!

20 flights later, a learning curve that required a pipe bender, a ferocious academic from the University of Liverpool and a realisation that my comfort zone is, being old and slightly confused, nearly broke me but, with the fine support of young, very clever people and a senioretta with a work ethic like an express train, in fact it could have towed an express train. (She may argue that she was doing some towing) I survived an unimaginable winter of work.

Mrs K said "we/you needed to pay for our future."

Talking of Mrs K, this old wife had so much confidence in the old sailing plan that she has now retired full time and we are now boat gypsies together. ( I may have over stated the " so much confidence" bit.) There were a few that thought she may have invested poorly!

Raw attraction wins the day!

So here we are back with Hermy, although a little later than anticipated. Managed to spend a week in March after I was released, from whatever it was I was meant to be training, to start working on things that didn't work before and discover all those things that used to work but don't any more.

Note the bags, not full of personal belongings but bits that will maintain the boat.

5 days of frantic putting things away, out, on and up saw us ready for our launch. 

This brought back traumatic memories of how this yard uses a sort of boat forklift with Hermy teetering around as they drive her towards her reunion with the water.

Slightly less scary this time.

And in she goes. No issues. Well, that is until I check the bilges for a second time and see rather a lot of water. "Don't want to worry you dear but I think we are sinking!" 

Having just begun to relax I return to a state of frantic bilge searching ably advised by Mrs K who helpfully directs me towards  anything I have been "bloody messing about with." This proves to be a helpful tactic with the new toilet seacock pipe being a culprit together with some "I mustn't forget to tighten them up before we go in the water" jubilee clips. 

Two days work brings the leaking down from a gallon an hour to a gallon every 24. That will do.

With this in mind I am urged to fit and ready the new life raft.

Here we are all ready to start off after a season pootling along the canals we can now sail properly.

As we head out in to Fos bay with the sun shining and all being tickety boo on 9th June 2017, we see a sobering sight.

HMS Conservatives?

After a lovely lunch at anchor in Verdon bay we take our first dip in the Med of the voyage and all is lovely. We up anchor and slip in to the Port of Carro but there are no clear visitors berths so we make for Sausset Les Pins. 

Much more welcoming and a very helpful young Capitanaire shows us the French lazy line technique of mooring up. And once again I am able to break the ice with the French as I leap about forgetting that Hermy is now a sail boat and welt my swede, with almost unprecedented force, against the boom. 

The large aluminium spar resonates with a bell like "boing" followed by an expletive that needed no translation. The Capitain cannot contain his composure as a trickle of blood seeps from underneath my cap as I try to carry on as if it didn't happen. 

I'm Back!