Rome

The taxi journey from the marina into Rome is not propitious. The young driver is a troubled soul who seems unsuitable for a life on the Italian roads and he gesticulates and groans at every indiscretion by other drivers and then slumps in his seat, seemingly finding it all too much to bear. Eventually we arrive in the centre of Rome at Via Condotti and we are greeted by Francesco, the duty manager of this stylish 5 bedroom hotel and he produces a map of Rome and scrawls all over it highlighting the famous landmarks that we have to pack into our short stay.

The Amalfi Coast

After the isolation of Stromboli, Amalfi is a riot of colour and noise. The entire coast is set against a backdrop of mountains with sheer drops to the sea below and the occasional smudge of terracotta where villages have grown up around natural harbours on this uncompromising coastline. Amalfi is busy: we call ahead on the VHF and a deeply bronzed man in a white vest with a mop of bleached blonde hair and a flashing smile greets us in a red rib and directs us into the port.

Stromboli

We slip away quietly from our anchorage in Panarea at eight in the morning before the rest of the bay awakes. Panarea lies on an underwater platform and unlike the bottomless bays of Vulcano and Lipari it is surrounded by shallow water and numerous reefs, where small day boats anchor and sleep away the hot hours of the day. The most dramatic of the surrounding islets is Basiluzzo which rears out of the sea, with dramatic rock faces of vertical grooved strata like giant organ pipes hanging over the dark caves below where the swell gurgles as it washes in and out. Gulls cry as they circle the cliffs high above us and we glide over the aqua marine blue sea with huge boulders on the sea bed passing under our hull. 

Panarea

The most southerly of the Aeolian Islands is called Vulcano, and it lives up to its name. Approaching the island we see smoke drifting from the top of the crater as we round the top of the island and into the bay where we drop anchor. Kerry and I go ashore in the rib looking for fresh bread and we walk along a beach of black sand which looks like mud but behaves like sand. People lie on the black sand on their towels and deckchairs but the sea looks inky black even though it is clean and clear - all very odd. We ask the way to the supermarket and we are directed down a small lane where a powerful whiff of sulphur greets us.

Strait of Messina

The market in Ortigia is a riot of colour and smells. There are stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and fish counters awash with fish of every possible variety. Shoppers mill around the busy stalls where grizzled merchants hold court, bellowing across the street to advertise their wares. A fishmonger uses a large hatchet to chop three blood red slices off a huge slab of Tuna, his cigarette never leaving his mouth, then throws in another slice for free with a grin and a roar. We buy three varieties of tomato, small round peaches, a bunch of fresh basil and big globs of mozzarella; 'half buffalo, half cow' we are told by a very charming and persuasive woman who convinces Fatty to buy armfuls of cheese, olives and even home-made beer which we lug back to the boat in the searing midday sun.

Syracuse

As we near the port of Syracuse we see the faint outline of Mount Etna in the morning haze with a plume of white smoke hanging over the summit. The natural harbour of Syracuse opens up before us with the old fortified town of Ortiga on the water's edge and a promenade of leafy green trees beneath the huge stone walls of the city. We find our spot in the marina and busy ourselves with the process of settling into a new port; mooring lines to the dock, lazy lines from the sea bed, pasarel erected and suspended by a topping lift from the top of the mast and stabilised by brace lines to the deck. Fatty and Tina go off to the marina office with the boats papers and our passports while Kim and I connect up the shore power and water supply.

La Ragusa

From San Leone we now have 100 miles to travel down the coast to Syracuse, where we will leave Juno to return to the UK. We leave the marina early and spend most of the day motoring as the wind has died away and there is barely a ripple on the glassy surface of the sea. However it makes for a relaxing day as the engine hums away quietly, pushing Juno along at seven knots and by four in the afternoon we have covered over 50 miles and we dock at the brand new marina of La Ragusa with modern facilities, English speaking staff but not many boats. We wonder if this is a sign of the economic conditions or maybe it is still just early in the season.

Agrigento

This morning I am writing sitting in the shade of the bimini as we motor across a calm sea with scarcely a breath of wind. Caroline and Tina are sitting on the foredeck and Kim and I are on watch, an arduous process which involves an occasional glance at the chart plotter and maybe a corrective nudge at the autopilot to counter the gentle current carrying us south.

Sicily

We wake early on Saturday in Cagliari. The wind has moved to the west as forecasted and it's time to head for Sicily. Not having had time to say goodbye to Patrizio, an Italian teacher who we met in Cagliari, we exchange contact numbers over VHF before we are out of range and the Sardinian coastline disappears into the murky haze.

Cagliari

We arrive in Cagliari and at first it seems like just another big commercial port, but as we round the breakwater the old town appears high up on a hillside overlooking the harbour, with its cathedral dome atop elegant facades in terracotta and pale pink. Huge clouds of smoke are billowing from the ferry terminal, but no-one seems unduly concerned, after all it is two in the afternoon and its lunchtime in Sardinia.

Santa Maria Navarese

Gusts of up to 25 knots are racing across the bay from the sandy beach where we are anchored on the south western most tip of Sardinia. It is six thirty in the evening and the sun it still hot and the wind is still blowing. When we left Santa Maria Navarese early this morning the water was flat calm and for the first four hours we motored south in the hottest sun we have yet encountered this season.

La Caletta

Another mistral has started to build in the Golfe de Lion and we slip our lines in the early morning and quietly ghost out of La Caletta to get south before the wind arrives. Outside the breakwater, the sea hasn't yet forgotten yesterday's storm and although the water is a glassy calm, waves like pure pulses of energy roll under the surface and lift our bow as we motor South in the still morning air.

Porto Rotondo

We arrive back in Portisco on the Costa Smerelda to find Juno still battened down for the gale force winds that were howling around the coast when we left ten days ago. But now the air is still, with not a ripple on the water and the marina is noticeably busier than when we left. Excited German families, pale from the long northern European winter, race around the supermarket, shouting encouragement to each other as they pile their trollies with huge quantities of beer, salami and loo rolls, all paid for with their vast accumulation of Deutsche Euros.

The Plan for Summer 2012

Some of you have asked me what our plans are for the summer, so on the the very hot 5.45 from Waterloo to Haslemere i did this.

Porto Cervo

The Costa Smerelda is our first landfall in Italy and lives up to its reputation of being expensive (an overnight berth in the marina in high season is 700 Euros!), stylish and like a scene from a Hollywood film set. We celebrate our arrival with a bottle of champagne then go in search of dinner. Steps from the marina lead up to a deck with large cushions draped over low level seating under canopies made of sail cloth. Buddha bar music is playing and under-floor lights complete the chic setting. We are greeted by an Italian girl who speaks no English, can't mix cocktails and isn't sure where we should sit or eat; but she compensates for all this with charm and beauty and we order Mohitos which have to be concocted by her more functional but rather less attractive colleague who hovers in the wings. We are treated by Paul and Consuelo to a rather liquid dinner in these glamorous surroundings and retire to the boat in a noisy and happy mood.

Bonifacio

Our intrepid friends, Paul and Consuelo Windsor, joined us three days ago in Mahon for the 240 mile trip to Corsica and we set off in calm flat waters under a blue sky at 7am having stocked up on fresh bread and croissants. Unfortunately there is no wind and we motor for most of the day and enjoy the glorious weather. However our forecast tells us that a Mistral will blow out of the Golfe De Lion later today and we have prepared Juno for heavy weather which we are expecting later this evening.

The season starts

We arrive in Mallorca and there is a very different feel in the air. The airport is busier, the queues are longer and everyone seems in a hurry as they push their trolleys laden with golf clubs, bicycles and suitcases towards the exit and the sunshine.  The weather has also changed and a hot midday sun has replaced the cooler days of the winter, bringing with it tourists of all nationality. Down at the port the marinas are now a hive of activity as yacht crews prepare for the arrival of demanding owners who are also infected by the excitement of the first sail of the season. We are making final preparations to leave Palma for our summer cruise towards Corsica and Sardina and i am once more processing lists. We are delighted to have my mother with us for a few days and while i do the chores, she and Caroline visit the cathedral and take the train through the mountains to Soller on the northwest coast. Finally the jobs are done, the tanks are full, the weather forecast is good, and its time to cast off our lines.

Crisp Lists

My last blog entry seems long ago when talk was of Christmas presents and the size of turkeys. Now spring is in the air and in Mallorca there isn’t a cloud in the sky. A warm breeze blows across the bay and sets the flags fluttering on the forest of masts that jostle in the port. The city of Palma is awakening from its winter hibernation and Mallorcans are emerging from shuttered apartments into the spring sunshine. The cycle path that runs the length of the bay of Palma has become a high speed race track, with German cyclists in fluorescent lycra stretched taught across beer bellies, peddling their high tech machines at great speed and overtaking the locals who favour a more gentle form of exercise, jogging or roller blading while talking into their mobile phones.    

ARC 2012

Yippee. ARC 2012 is firmly in the diary and fully crewed. I am so pleased that the team have all accepted and even expressed some enthusiasm for the ordeal. Its still a full twelve months until we leave in November 2012 but already Andrew has prepared his best ragut for a tasting session. Andrew is the most important man on board as he will be in charge of catering. We will all take it in turn for cooking duties but Andrew will be responsible for provisioning and ensuring that we have 21 days supply of delicious fresh food. I think the prospect of this huge responsibility pushed Fatty over the edge and she decided that British Airways would provide a less stressful experience - i suspect she's right.  The cracking news is that the ARCettes have also started planning the joyous reunion in St Lucia and i have witnessed animated discussions about villas and pools and mud baths - well, maybe not mud baths.

Lists, lists and more lists

A storm is brewing in the Golfe du Lion, casting a Transmontana wind deep into the southern Mediterranean. We leave our idyll at Cabrera and motor across to Playa Estrenc, a white sandy beach on the south east tip of Mallorca. The beach shelves gently into the ocean and the anchor drops into soft white sand a few hundred metres from the beach. We swim ashore and walk along the beach in the hot sun, squirming slightly at the sight of nudists parading with no apparent embarrassment as they discuss the price of fish.