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Solo to South Brittany – May 2012

Bob Hendicott on Rosinis (Rustler 36)

2012 was my third season as owner of Rosinis and although I had already dabbled with solo sailing on a few short south coast and Solent passages I was keen to do more. My plan for this cruise was to head to the West Country, cross from Falmouth to the north west extremity of Brittany, and then move south via Le Four and the Raz de Sein into Biscay in a series of coastal hops. I had no particular timeframe or route to keep to: just a commitment to meet Bridget, my eldest daughter, and her husband, Jim, somewhere in the Channel Islands at the end of the month as I returned. This was to be the ultimate in leisurely cruising and a great opportunity to get some solo miles under my belt and explore new shores, with no time pressure. So it was with some trepidation that we (Rosinis and I) set off from our base at Marchwood Yacht Club (MYC) on 1 May, conscious of the fact that, for a singlehander, it’s nearly always the first and last few metres of the trip that create the greatest angst. Once at sea things are relatively straight forward, just a little slower and more deliberate than when fully crewed.

Solent to Weymouth

Our first night away was spent at anchor no further than Newtown River: complete solitude apart from the raucous noise of the terns, busily breeding, and a welcome contrast to the previous night on the MYC pontoon, disturbed by tugs manoeuvring container ships into Southampton container port. We were on our way and it felt good. Early the following morning we took the first of the ebb tide out of an empty Solent and set course for Anvil Point, making good progress across Christchurch Bay and watching

parachute drops into Studland Bay in the distance to the north. Heading south of Lulworth range danger area, which was active, the wind dropped and the light wind vane for Millie (the Monitor vane steering gear) came into action for the first time in my ownership. It always amazes me how a heavy yacht can be steered so accurately by wind vane when there’s so little wind. And so we made our way to Weymouth, passing through a preparatory security exercise in advance of the forthcoming Olympics. By late afternoon we were moored outside the Royal Dorset Yacht Club with another solo sailor astern; someone heading from Plymouth to Sweden. This was to become a theme of the trip and I lost count of how many other singlehanders I shared beers, coffees and yarns with on my travels.

Newtown River sunset

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Wildlife on board – but not for long, sadly

A grey day at Dittisham

Weymouth to Dartmouth

It was a dull start to the next day as we headed for the inshore passage around Portland Bill, aiming to be there at slack water to carry the full ebb tide across Lyme Bay. Before long we were out of sight of land and making good progress towards Dartmouth in a moderate north easterly. So far we had been fortunate in having favourable winds, which were to last all the way to Falmouth. Almost midway across Lyme Bay I looked out into the cockpit to find a tiny bird wobbling around on the seat looking exhausted and rather disorientated. It seemed to want to come below, but I didn’t relish the consequences, so kept it on deck where it slept periodically, its head tucked under its wing. A few crumbs and some water didn’t seem to be appreciated and, sadly, the next time I looked out he had passed on, so I buried him at sea with (almost) full honours. By late afternoon we were in Dartmouth and moored overnight alongside another yacht on the Town Pontoon, where berthing is permitted when the local tourist boats aren’t running. This is a much more convenient and cheap option than the expensive Dartmouth marinas. The next morning I needed to be off the pontoon by 0845, so motored upstream and picked up a mooring at Dittisham, close to the Ferry

Boat Inn where our children used to spend many happy hours crabbing as youngsters. A strong tide was running and I was pleased to pick up the mooring successfully on my own at the first attempt. I spent the day doing a few jobs on board, including servicing winches (a winter task that had slipped through the net), and watching the birdlife and a playful seal. Dittisham (Dit’shum if you’re a local) is a beautiful spot for a rest day.  

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The Yealm - idyllic

On to Falmouth

My next step along the south coast was to Falmouth although I planned to split the trip either at Cawsand Bay (Plymouth Sound) or in the River Yealm. A bright and early start, followed by breakfast as we motored down river, soon saw us back at sea and heading for Start Point. The wind was still northeasterly, but now at F6-7 which meant a broad reach in big quartering seas heaving in from Lyme Bay. With two reefs in the main and three in the genoa we made 6.5-7 knots as we pounded south, keeping outside the Skerries, which were breaking heavily. This was tremendous sailing, although there was an ever present danger of a big wave filling the cockpit, so washboards were firmly in place. Millie dutifully kept us on course and we were soon able to gybe to clear both Start Point and Prawle Point, the next headland to the west. We’d just settled onto the new course and I was looking forward to the less lumpy seas we’d find as we came into the shelter of land, when I glanced over the side to see a seal staring back at me from no more than 3 metres away, despite the lumpy sea. I think he was enjoying himself as much as I was. Once past Bolt Head and Bolt Tail, and into Bigbury Bay it was decision time – Cawsand or the Yealm? Having previously lived in Plymouth for four years I had been to Cawsand by road and by sea, but I’d never sailed into the Yealm, despite Noss Mayo being a favourite haunt in the past. So I settled on the Yealm, even though this meant slowing down slightly to allow the tide to rise on the bar.

It was still blowing quite strongly as we crept slowly into this extraordinarily pretty, but quite crowded river. I’d hoped to get onto one of the mid-river visitors’ pontoons, but they were both full. In any case I was beginning to realise that mooring or anchoring is much less fuss when singlehanded than preparing lines, fenders etc, so I picked up a mooring. It was then that I discovered that the water taxi (primarily there to serve the South

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St Anthony’s Head and St Mawes

Devon coastal path) stopped at 1600. I had no need to go ashore, so settled in for a peaceful evening on board. Shortly after, the Harbour Master suggested I move to a different buoy where I would not be disturbed by a returning owner, and where I would have more water under the keel and slightly more shelter. After further mooring practice (I was gettting pretty good at doing this alone by now) I watched a buzzard circling over the wooded river banks being harried by 4 crows, determined they didn’t want this elegant bird of prey in their territory.

The following day I set off in a light ESEly under genoa alone, passing many familiar landmarks from previous cruises and our time living in the west country. Plymouth Hoe, Eddystone, Tregantle, Looe, Polperro and Fowey were all clearly visible. As the wind filled into a respectable southeasterly I hoisted the main and we had a fast sail past Dodman and St Anthony’s Head into Falmouth, passing another Rustler 36 east bound just as we approached Falmouth (no surprise as Falmouth is the home of Rustler yachts). I was sailing a leisurely

down-hill course, whereas the other crew was beating hard and I don’t think they saw me pass within a hundred metres or so of them. By late afternoon we were moored in Falmouth Visitors’ Yacht Haven, just ahead of an almost new Rustler 44 which had left the Solent at about the same time as I had. I needed some exercise, so walked around Pendennis Head in the evening before heading back into town. With the wind still in the east it was a bumpy night on the pontoons, but it was set to veer to the south west before long, and strengthen.

In Falmouth and Carrick Roads

I had only planned to stay in Falmouth for as long as necessary to re-victual and buy charts and a pilot for Brittany, including an e-chart for the plotter. However, a combination of rotten weather and the fact that the local chandler didn’t have the correct plotter cartridge meant a delay, possibly of several days. Although it was early May Bank Holiday, most of Falmouth was still open. I had a look around the Rustler 44 and reciprocated with a guided tour of Rosinis, and also contacted Patrick Clarke (recently REYC Membership Secretary and known to many, who lives in Falmouth) and we met for a beer on my first evening there. However, I didn’t plan to stay in the Visitors’ Yacht Haven whilst waiting, so set off early the next day up river with a view to exploring while I had the chance. In bright sunshine and no wind we motored across to St Just for a short excursion into the creek there, and then headed north to anchor in Channals Creek, immediately below Trellissick House. Breakfast in the cockpit in the sunshine was a real treat and throughout the day I watched a lazy seal floating on his back in an eddy that took him endlessly around Rosinis. Most of the day was spent studying the charts for Brittany, reading

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At anchor below Trellissick House on the Fal

my newly acquired pilot, and reading. After an exhausting day doing very little I had an early night. The following day was drizzly and the wind was rising from the south, so I had a lie in and read for a while. Later in the morning I sensed the anchor might be dragging slightly, or was it just the chain stretching out in the rising wind? It soon became clear that it was time to move, with a lee shore only 200m behind me. I changed quickly into foul weather gear and weighed anchor, motoring further up river, past King Harry Ferry and Smuggler’s Cottage, and eventually anchored again on ‘Maggoty Bank’ near Church Creek, along with two other yachts that had also come up river seeking shelter. With wind against the tide we were veering wildly back and forth, but with 30m of chain out in only 6m of water at high tide the anchor was holding well and I was told by a local crew I met later in my trip that the holding there is amongst the best on the Fal. The forecast, meanwhile, was for F7+ and it was set to stay like that until at least the following evening, so it looked like no departure from Falmouth until the end of the week. Later that day I heard that my chart cartridge had arrived at the chandlers, so at least everything was beginning to fall into place. It was a wild and windy night in the upper reaches of the Fal, but the next morning I weighed anchor again and headed back down to Falmouth under power, making barely 4 knots as we motored into 30 knot gusts. I have a manual windlass and winding in and stowing 30m of chain clean and in some semblance of order so it will run out easily when next needed is no mean task in that wind speed, but it is worth doing properly to avoid chain jams. Fortunately it was a little more sheltered in the Visitors’ Haven than it had been previously, despite the additional wind strength. A quick call to Patrick arranged lunch together, followed by a private tour of the lifeboats, of which he is an offical guide, then back to his lovely house overlooking the harbour for tea. Having picked up the chart I was now all ready to go, so I bought final victuals, topped up with water and had an early night.

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Atlantic swell

Sunset

Falmouth to L’Aber Wrac’h

At 0800 on 11 May I cast off for what would be my longest solo passage so far. The wind was now down to F4/F5 from the north west, a little too close to a run for my liking and I started with just the genoa, but soon hoisted the main as well with 2 reefs all round. I find the Rustler goes just as fast reefed and much more comfortably than with full sail when the wind is around F4, particularly offshore. When shorthanded it makes no sense to carry too much sail, and we were still rushing along at well over 6 knots, albeit unable to hold a direct course for risk of gybing accidentally. With Millie holding us a safe 30˚ off the following wind we were clocking up the miles fast: almost too fast as it soon became clear that we would arrive off the French coast in the dark rather than taking the 20 hours I’d anticipated. I tried cat-napping as we went, aware of the need to stay as well rested as possible, but I found it difficult to relax sufficiently with the adrenalin of a fast trip still running high, and I just wasn’t tired enough. Later in the afternoon the wind eased slightly and, accustomed to our great rate of progress, I shook out the reefs to keep our speed up, even though this made certain we would arrive in darkness. Gradually the wind also veered, first to the north and eventually to the north east so we gybed to position ourselves uptide as we approached the French coast. As the evening set in I spent some time on deck and up in the pulpit just watching in awe as we surged south through the rolling Atlantic swell. Rosinis was sailing really well.

At last light – and what a brilliant sunset – I was expecting the wind to drop slightly, but it increased to F6/F7, still from the north east. My mind now began to focus on how we would tackle a rocky entrance at night in strong onshore winds. Everything I could do in advance I did, including making detailed pilotage notes of the entrance and memorising the approach marks and bearings of transits. My major concern, based on only one previous trip to L’Aber

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Wrac’h 20 years earlier with a strong crew, was the possibility of breaking water in the approach channel. I knew there would be breakers on the rocks each side, but in the channel itself would not be good. I decided to keep some sail up so that I could turn back out to sea in the event of an engine failure on the approach, but dropped the main and tidied it up while there was still sufficient light to do so easily. This turned out to be a very good move: it left one less thing to do at the last minute and all I had to do to reduce sail further was roll more turns into the genoa without having to turn into wind. I also de-rigged Millie and switched to the Autohelm (known as Alfie) for the final few miles: another thing out of the way. I’d decided I would make the final decision on whether to enter at night when I reached Libenter buoy, the cardinal marking the entrance, still a few miles from my destination. If things looked too hairy I would stand back out to sea and wait until daylight.

As we ran in we hit some very confused and lumpy seas as the water shoaled and at one stage a large wave broke into the cockpit and splashed down below, just as we were approaching Libenter. Nonetheless, I managed to identify the leading lights for the first leg of the approach channel quickly, so we turned onto the transit and were committed. Still doing 5.5 knots under just a tiny scrap of furled genoa (and engine also ticking over) we reached fast past rocks and day marks looming in the flanks like shadows. Picking up the first turn mark in the channel we bore away again to head towards the sectored light in the town. By now we were in the relative shelter of the reefs we had passed through and the water was calmer. Alfie was steering (and doing very well considering the conditions, which were marginal for an Autohelm) allowing me to keep a check on the chart. A mile or so short of the large new marina I was surprised by the local fishing fleet putting to sea – all heading my way. Judging by the way every boat turned its powerful searchlight on me they were just as surprised to see me at 0130 in the morning as I was to see them. There are a number of large un-lit buoys in the approach, so I slowed right down to avoid hitting anything in the pitch darkness. A quick look at the outer wave break pontoon of the marina showed only one space that I could fit into, and no means of securing mooring lines. Having decided not to anchor because of mussel beds, or to enter the marina solo in darkness it only left one option; to pick up a mid-stream mooring, which I finally achieved at the third attempt! A tidy up on deck and a celebratory toast to a successful trip soon saw me fast asleep.

Running south under genoa

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Moored in L’Aber Wrac’h Laundry boat

L’Aber Wrac’h approach seen from the signal station

Ile Vierge lighthouse – a clear landfall mark for this coast

Waking half way through the next morning I discovered there’s a free water taxi service so, despite the offer of a berth in the marina, Rosinis stayed put on the buoy. Ashore I bought some of the excellent SHOM (French Admiralty) charts of the south Brittany coast and had a good wander around in the bright sunshine, followed by some laundry ashore and a coffee back on board while the cockpit was turned into a clothes drying area for a short while.

For those visiting L’Aber Wrac’h, I’d recommend a walk to the nearby signal station (now dis-used) from which there is an excellent view across the entrance channel to the north west and to Ile Vierge lighthouse, the major landfall light in this sector of the coast, away to the north east.

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Le Four

Around the Breton headlands and into Biscay

I was able to sail off the mooring at L’Aber Wrac’h and shot out to sea at over 6 knots in bright sunshine, clear blue sky and flat water – very different from my arrival two nights previously. The passage round to Le Four and southwards is a ‘buoy hop’ involving pilotage rather than detailed navigation. It’s well described in the pilots1 and the only critical thing is to get tide timings right. It is possible to get from the north, through the Chenal du Four and the Raz de Sein, and to Audierne on one tide, but I was keen to explore the ports around Brest and further south, so didn’t attempt this. It was a straight forward sail in a good breeze around the coast, past L’Aberildut, Le Conquet and some famous light houses at Le Four, Corsen and Pte de St Mathieu, the latter sharing its clifftop position with a semaphore tower and a ruined mediaeval abbey. Away to starboard were Ushant (with an equally famous set of light houses), Île Molène and a chain of smaller islands closing the coast as we headed south. As I eventually turned south east towards Camaret, my intended destination, the wind began to drop and we motored the final three miles, arriving in the early evening. It seemed earlier than it was, so I walked along the long pier into town only to find everything shut

on a Sunday evening. Returning to Rosinis I found a Swedish yacht moored astern and a Norwegian boat ahead of me, the latter also sailed by a single hander. So we all got together and compared notes over a glass or two. The Swedes were heading south, but the Norwegian had sailed up from the Canaries and was looking forward to visiting the north Breton ports after what he described as ‘the monotonous rias of the Portuguese coast’.

                                                            1 I used Neville Featherstone’s West France Cruising Companion (Wiley), but the RCC Pilotage Foundation equivalent also seems very good, if a little more formal. 

Rosinis in Camaret

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Trawler graveyard in Camaret

Camaret pier

 

I heard the Swedes leaving early the next morning, but waited a while before setting off myself, again in bright sunshine and clear skies. For almost the first time since leaving the Solent I needed to beat into a north westerly to clear Pte du Toulinguet, another headland with a conspicuous semaphore station perched on the cliff top, and bear away through the channel between the shore and La Pohen rock . It was then a case of following the coast to Les Tas de Pois, a spectacular line of rock stacks, and on around Cap de la Chèvre, into Douarnenez Bay. Here I had the option of turning left to Morgat or keeping going to Douarnenez, and I chose the latter, which I suspect was probably the wrong choice.

Whilst Douarnenez was a very pleasant Breton port, the visitors’ pontoon is almost the first thing you meet having passed the outer harbour wall and it’s very exposed to north westerlies, which is exactly what we had, and the wind was rising. In fairness, the pilot made this very clear, but by now I was here, and planning to stay for 2 nights. I had a moment of alarm as I went to start the engine to enter and found the starting circuit completely dead, so I tacked out to sea but managed to fix the problem quite quickly. Soon we were moored and I headed into town for fresh provisions and topped up with water. In the evening drizzle started and then turned into thick fog which disappeared rapidly as the wind rose.

After a dreadful night pitching to and fro in the strong northwesterly, with not much sleep, I had already decided to move on rather than endure more bumping and grinding. The wind was still blowing hard, but it seemed to have just enough north in it for me to stand a chance of fetching along the coast to Pte du Van and the Raz de Sein without needing to tack. Even so, it was going to be interesting getting out of Douarnenez and I hesitated until I saw a couple of locals heading out to fish in small dinghies with single outboard motors, and wearing tweed jackets but no lifejackets. Yet here was I sitting on a Rustler 36 wondering whether to leave or not. So I went, and was very pleased to be away from the pontoon, but as I was motoring out and just about to hoist the main I was hit by a 35 knot gust. Is this sensible? I decided to press on,

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acknowledging that I could always head back if the wind increased further.

Once I was able to clear the first headland to the west I hoisted sail – 3 reefs in the main and the equivalent in the genoa – and found to my relief that we could lay a course parallel to the coast. This was the smallest sail plan I’d ever used on Rosinis, and we stormed along the coast in a steady F6 in some lively waves which increased in size as we headed west, at one point giving the end of the eased boom a wash as they went.

The pilot stresses the importance of taking the Raz de Sein at slack tide (to within 15 minutes) and suggests the buoyed shoal, Basse Jaune, as a suitable point from which to judge timings. My initial concern had been whether I would get there in time, but such was the speed with which we’d covered the distance from Douarnenez that we actually had to lose some time to avoid being early.

Approaching the final turn point we slowly bore away towards the two distant towers – La Plate and La Vieille, sitting just to the west of Pte du Raz. To our starboard the low outline of Ile de Sein appeared and I suddenly realised we were all alone. Not one other vessel went ythrough the Raz on the same tide as us, yet it turned out to be a very measured rounding of one of the most dramatic headlands on the French Atlantic coast. It was still blowing F6 but Rosinis was loving it and so was I, never once feeling over-pressed but also realising the importance of timing the tides precisely: in other circumstances this would be a teacherous place.

Douarnenez looking to the north west

Visitors’ pontoon

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The Raz de Sein from a trough .......... 

......... and from a crest 

Bearing away slightly further and then gybing, we set course for Pte de Penmarc’h some 20+nm away. We were now running, goose-winged before a NW 6 as we headed into the Bay of Biscay, but what a thrill as we raced south, often at over 7 knots despite our tiny sailplan. Within two and a half hours we had closed the coast again near the sombre Eckmühl lighthouse which marks the southern extremity of Audierne Bay and the start of the reefs which seem to extend forever around the next few miles of coast as we

worked our way westward from buoy to buoy again into the Anse de Benodet towards Loctudy. Finally, as we came back into the shelter of land the wind dropped to F4, and having watched the fishing fleets returning to their ports on this long stretch of coast, we made our way into Loctudy and moored temporarily on the outside of the wave break before finding a suitable berth within the marina. What a great day’s sailing, with a few more ‘firsts’ as a solo sailor: my strongest wind so far, a successful and exhilarating passage through the Raz de Sein, my smallest sail plan so far, and now into the bay of Biscay. It was with a great sense of satisfaction that I opened a beer, cooked the breakfast I hadn’t had that morning and then crashed into my bunk, exhausted.

La Plate beacon

La Vieille lighthouse

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Looking across the Pont l’Abbé river from Loctudy to Île Tudy

Loctudy entrance

South Brittany

I woke to bright sunshine and an amazing view from the marina up the Pont l’Abbé river and across to the brightly painted houses of Île Tudy on the far side, almost Scandinavian in their appearance. It had been a cold night and the decks were soaked in condensation, so I decided now was the time to give them a good hose off while they would dry quickly. My plan from here was to get as far as I could along the south coast whilst also leaving enough time to get back to the Channel Islands to meet my

crew for the final week of the trip, allowing also for the highly unpredictable weather. My hope was to get at least as far as the Aven River, taking in Benodet, Port-la-Foret and the Îles de Glénan. I also hoped to stop at Ushant on the return journey.

Like most French marinas/moorings, Loctudy is very cheap compared with those in UK and I paid the equivalent of £14 per night, including shore power. It’s a charming and un-spoilt fishing port with superb fish markets right on the quayside and a quiet town centre. Talking to others in the marina at the same time I gleaned scraps of advice on where to go and where to avoid on my future travels. Concarneau is beautiful, but packed with tourists during the day, so best avoided and Benodet is seen as a better bet than Ste Marine on the opposite bank of the Odet River. My second night in Loctudy turned out to be very windy and as I jumped up to adjust my warps I noticed a few boats being badly thrown around on the outside of the wave break, crews struggling to keep fenders in place. After my experience at Douarnenez I didn’t envy them. Whilst the pilots suggest mooring on these wave breaks they

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Under the Pont de Cornouaille on the Odet River

Heading up river past elegant chateaux

are nearly always subject to waves (no surprise) in all except calm conditions, and often suffer from strong tidal streams: they’re best avoided except as temporary stops.

I left for Benodet just after lunch with some help from another crew to cast off without Rosinis’ bow being blown onto the neighbouring boat before we’d gathered way. I was continually delighted by the way other crews rallied round to help one another and seemed to be particularly adept at identifying singlehanders who might need some help. It was a fast reach out of Loctudy and across the bay to Benodet, only 5nm away, so by 1500 I was moored again, this time alongside an Irish crew from Howth. As I’d intended, I arrived at slack water, but as the ebb from the Odet River began to build it quickly became clear that rafting was not a good idea on the outer pontoon so I moved alongside a closed up French yacht on the inside. This turned out to be a good move as those on the outside had a bumpy night, whereas I slept peacefully. My previous visit to Benodet had been 30 years before, so I spent the rest of the day re-visiting old haunts and sharing stories with a couple of other crews: a large Halberg Rassy from Jersey and a smaller Bavaria from Falmouth. The Bavaria was wearing its Cornish ensign and John, her skipper, explained that he’s not allowed to do it at home, so takes the chance while he’s abroad in another Celtic region. He also turned out to be a Cornish speaker and was able to confirm the origins of the name Rosinis, which roughly translates as ‘the heights of Roseland’, aligning perfectly with her spiritual home in Falmouth.

The next day I looked at some dismal and rather confusing forecasts for the next week and realised I needed to make some decisions about how far to go. In the end I decided to head up the Odet River for a night, with the aim at least of exploring this beautiful inlet, even if it meant I went no further east. Motoring upstream, under the huge Pont de Cornouaille, we passed

elegant chateaux and wonderful wooded banks running right down to the rocky water’s edge, with enough depth in many places to go right into the shore. About 6 miles upstream we found a small creek on a bend in the river, with a stone jetty jutting out of the thick woods, and picked up a mooring, not without some difficulty as the tide was running fast. Once secured we swung to and fro crazily as the wind and tide played alternately with Rosinis. After an evening meal in

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Overnight mooring on the Odet River

Ste Marine, opposite Benodet on the Odet River

the cockpit once the breeze had subsided I sat and enjoyed Rosinis swinging, almost imperceptibly, to lie to the new flood tide in the fading daylight. What a peaceful spot: just the noises of the animals in the forest and the lapping of water against the hull. Pure magic!

I decided I must head back. It wouldn’t take many days of bad weather to stop me meeting Bridget and Jim on time, so reluctantly we slipped the mooring early the next day and headed upstream as far as the large shallow lake south

of Quimper, before turning and careering downstream with the tide through Benodet and out to sea. Upstream of the wooded shores of the Odet River it becomes rather industrial and had no real attraction for me. By 0830 we would have been sailing, but unfortunately it was dead calm and we motored with just the main hoisted to steady us in the slight swell. It would have been an ideal day to visit the Îles de Glénan and I seriously toyed with the idea, but the forecast was not good and, as it transpired, if I had done so I would have been weather-bound on the south coast for several days. As I had come straight to Loctudy from the Raz de Sein on my outward journey, I planned this time to anchor off Ste Evette overnight and take the passage north on the morning slack tide. But as we motored across Audierne Bay amongst a small pod of dolphins it soon became clear that we could head straight on with only a small speed adjustment. By mid afternoon we were motoring northwards through the Raz as if we were on a millpond, having arrived as the tide turned south meaning the remainder of the passage would be against the tide. The only complication was a tug towing a large barge on a

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A calm return through the Raz de Sein (La Plate, on the left, and La Vieille)

very long cable, who seemed keen to edge us the wrong side of La Plate beacon, but this was resolved with a short chat on the VHF. Later the wind filled in and we had a fun beat against the tide back past Les Tas de Pois and through the gap below the Pte de Toulinguet semaphore station, arriving back in Camaret before dark. I was trying to avoid re-visiting ports from my outward journey, but Camaret is so well positioned for yachts on passage in either direction and I liked the place, so it made sense just this time.

Back to the north coast

The forecast was not good for the Chenal du Four – too much northerly wind and fog, and there was certainly no question of stopping at Ushant en route in these conditions. So I settled in Camaret for a couple of days, catching up on a few more maintenance tasks in between coffees, beers and glasses of wine with a Scottish couple heading south on their Oyster 47 to join the Oyster World Rally (where they were expecting to be one of the smaller boats!), and with a Greek lad who had bought and converted a steel hull in England and was sailing it home. He was on a (very) long maintenance stop in Camaret, waiting for his teacher girlfriend to join him once term ended.

Throughout my whole trip I navigated on BST, so tended to work on UK time for everything which meant I was generally late to wake and late to sleep compared with the locals. But on the day I departed Camaret I was up early to buy croissants and prepare to sail. It was drizzling gently and visibility was poor, but as the morning wore on it gradually brightened and the breeze filled in. Although it was a beat to Pte de Ste Mathieu and the southern end of the Chenal du Four it was a tremendous sail for the first hour and half after which the wind slackened again. However, we were now being picked up by the north-going tide and we ghosted at 8+ knots over the ground past the Vieux Moine beacon before the wind returned and lasted until we were at Le Four lighthouse. The islands to the west looked inviting in the haze, but now was not the time to visit, with a fickle forecast and poor visibility. As a French yacht motored past us I finally gave in and followed suit, and by early evening we were on a deep water mooring in L’Aber Benoit, basking in bright evening sunshine to the smell of newly mown hay wafting from the surrounding fields. L’Aber Benoit is the next ‘ria’ to the west of L’Aber Wrac’h and is a gem, well worth a visit provided you don’t need fuel, water or provisions as there’s almost nothing there. Entering at night is not sensible as it’s unlit, but the approach is straight forward in daylight. After a beer, a curry and a glass of red wine I sat in the cockpit and read by oil lamp, having first stood on the foredeck and watched the sun set. Another magical moment.

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Although it meant pushing against the tide to start with I set off early the next day in bright sunshine and little wind, motor sailing between the buoys marking the reefs along the north Breton coast, and with the intention of reaching Trebeurden. I was keen to pass through the channel between the Île de Batz and the mainland, just north of Roscoff, but this meant catching it at slack water and also with sufficient height of tide to clear some very narrow and rocky shallow patches. Slack high water would have been straight forward, but it was approaching low water and I needed sufficient rise of tide without the tidal stream building too strongly to affect manoeuvrability. I was also concerned about the 2 metre swell that was running, which would increase in magnitude as it funneled into the channel, with all the potential to drop Rosinis very hard onto solid rock if I’d mis-judged the depth. My calculations suggested I had about a 20 minute window to get across the shallowest stretch, so I hove to for 90 minutes and had lunch to lose some time. It was very pleasant in the sunshine, but a rather strange motion in the swell, even without much wave action. Allowing time to cover the final distance we sailed on early in the afternoon. A large French yacht was ahead and looked as nervous as I was about going in. Eventually we both ‘bottled out’: I just wasn’t prepared to risk a potentially catastrophic grounding for the sake of going to the south of the island, so we headed northwards and were soon swept past by the new flood tide. As we crossed the Baie de Morlaix, still in very light winds so motor sailing once more, I had a chance to play with some of the routing functions on the chartplotter and autohelm. It’s not often I’m prepared to accept the power drain caused by all the electronics working together, but with the engine running there wasn’t a problem. By early evening we were moored in the marina at Trebeurden, once again assisted by another singlehanding Brit who spotted someone who might be able to use some help to moor, although in the event it was almost calm and wouldn’t have been a problem.

Trebeurden seemed shut that evening, but the beaches looked superb as I explored, and the next morning I had chance to wander up the hill to the small town to buy bread. Like many of the north Breton marinas, water depth is maintained by a sill, with access through a gate when there’s sufficient water.

L’Aber Benoit

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My next day’s destination was Perros Guirec, only a short sail around the headland to the north, but more than I wanted to attempt in a single tide. I needed to leave Trebeurden while I still had enough water, but also couldn’t arrive at the other end until the next tide had covered the sill there, where there is a similar arrangement. The answer was to leave mid morning, which I did in swirling fog but with the promise of the sun burning through before long, and anchor amongst the rocks and islets that surround

the approach channel. Within an hour Rosinis was swinging lazily from her anchor in deep clear water under a blue sky and bright sunshine. There was no

need to leave for another 3-4 hours so I read, brought my journal up to date and had a brief, chilly swim. As the tide turned offshore we weighed anchor and hoisted sail in a north easterly F3, which meant a

beat around the headland. Our first tack, to the north, took us out to the pink granite lighthouse on the Plateau de Triagoz (presumably built with stone hewn from local quarries on the so-called ‘Côte de Granit Rose’) where it’s possible to sail very close to the reef but still in 50m of water. We then tacked east passing close to the southern edge of Les Sept Îles, designated a nature reserve so with no landing apart from on one island. Heading south east we arrived at Perros-Guirec about 20 minutes after the sill gate had sufficient water to cross. I suspect I shared the alarm of most people arriving here by yacht for the first time as I rounded the pierhead, looked for the entrance gap, and found it difficult to believe how narrow it was. Water was still running quite fast through the gap, so it required a quick turn to port once we were through, before mooring in the finger berths.

At anchor off Trebeurden, waiting for the tide to turn

Plateau de Triagoz

Les Sept Îles 

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I’d heard quite a lot (all positive) about this place so must admit I was somewhat disappointed with what I found on my first evening: definitely not up to expectations. However the next day was extremely hot and I was soon up and about. The Capitainerie staff were very helpful, the facilities are great and I was quickly on my way up the hill into the town centre, having first dropped off my washing at the local launderette, where the lady undertook to have it all done by the time I returned. Now I

began to see the attractions of Perros-Guirec, with its market full of local produce, a thriving Centre Ville, some magnificent beaches over the headland with the inevitable sailing school, and a Gare Maritime on the far side of the bay, from which vedettes run to the islands along the coast. It’s well worth a visit, but be prepared for a stroll to see the real town (or take one of the regular buses from close to the marina). Having collected more provisions from the supermarket in town and my immaculately ironed laundry (all done for just a few Euros) I also explored the approach at low tide and worked out my plan for departure. My final day’s solo sailing was to be to St Helier, where Bridget and Jim were due to arrive in two days time. Needing an early start I had to be out of the marina this evening and planned to anchor overnight, or pick up one of the waiting moorings if vacant offshore. After an early supper we motored out and realised quite how much the wind had picked up. Anchoring wasn’t ruled out, but the sea bed was sand and not necessarily the best holding, so I was pleased to be able to pick up a vacant mooring in the lumpy sea and brisk breeze. In view of the tidal range we were now over a mile from the shore and quite exposed. Nonetheless, it was an early night and undisturbed sleep: Rosinis doesn’t bob around in a sea like so many modern light boats.

On to the Channel Islands

At first light we sailed off the mooring and beat into the forecast easterly F4, making good progress with the flood tide and watching a magnificent sunrise. Soon we were in territory familiar from last year’s cruise as we headed east past Treguier, Heaux de Brehat lighthouse and the Trieux River, but I realised it would be a struggle against the tide once it turned. The forecast had been for more wind and I’d toyed with the idea of using the staysail, but was glad I hadn’t as we needed the drive of the genoa to push us through lumpy seas. By early afternoon we had tacked north and were just to the east of Roche Douvres. I was down below planning the subsequent week in the Channel Islands and our trip home, when we tacked unexpectedly in a sudden windshift. Millie was unable to respond fast enough and as I jumped on deck to take the helm the wind went through several circles and fluctuated rapidly between 8 and 25 knots. The sea was almost flat calm, but with dark ripples in the fierce gusts. All of a

The entrance to Perros-Guirec (to the left of the tower)

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sudden the wind settled to a westerly F6 (which had been forecast, but had looked so unlikely earlier in the day). For a while we goosewinged under far too much sail, me helming with the tiller between my legs and the genoa sheet in one hand trying hard not to gybe as we stormed along in a cloud of foam. But this was getting dangerous, so we rounded up, dropped the main and still maintained over 6 knots under genoa alone, but now with Millie coping comfortably. Our course was now bang on for St Helier and I was able to alter our anticipated arrival time from the early hours of the following day to 8pm. I cooked supper as we approached Corbiere lighthouse, and we arrived just as the marina entrance opened, neatly bypassing the waiting pontoon and managing to find what was probably the last remaining berth, belonging to a local who I was assured would not be returning that night.

Epilogue

So ended over 700 nm of solo adventuring and an experience I could not have hoped to better. I had a day to myself in St Helier, spent exploring, re-victualling and listening to jazz in a local courtyard bar, before Bridget and Jim joined me. Our cruise then took us to Sark (an old haunt we really enjoy), St Peter Port, Herm, Dielette, and home to the Solent, most of it in very light winds. It seemed strange having others on board after 4 and a half weeks on my own.

Many people have asked me whether I was ever lonely, and the honest answer is that when we were at sea, at anchor or on a mooring it never crossed my mind. There was always something to do, although there were some really special moments it would have been great to share. In port it was slightly different and company would have been welcome much of the time, although I was always amazed how yacht crews, particularly singlehanders, make a community within minutes of arrival somewhere new.

What would I do differently given the chance? Not much if I were to do it again with the relative inexperience of solo sailing I had at the start of this cruise. The distances between ports were comfortable and I was able to maintain progress without risk of undue fatigue (after all, we do this for fun). However, I now have well over 1000nm of solo sailing behind me, including a number of night passages on another cruise later in the season and I feel very comfortable at sea on my own in most reasonable conditions (ie up to F6/7). So if I were to head to Biscay again I would almost certainly make a faster transit south before slowing to cruising pace, probably going from the Solent directly to Dartmouth, and then straight across the Channel. Ideally I’d head for Camaret, assuming I could meet the critical tide times through the Chenal du

Sunrise on my final solo morning

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Four, but I’d also have the option of diverting into L’Aber Wrac’h if not. If I went to L’Aber Wrac’h I’d probably then head through the Chenal du Four and the Raz de Sein on one tide, stopping at St Evette. Weather willing it would then be possible to reach south Brittany from home in 3-4 days. With a crew sharing watches it could be much faster. In the circumstances, however, this was an amazing experience and a fantastic introduction to solo sailing. What an adventure!