Treading Water

I bid my goodbye to the primary school one sweat-salted Wednesday. The pupils had become tiny zombies, distracted and vacant in the afternoons when the sun burned brightest. In my last lessons I got to lead children in joyous song, satisfying Julie Andrews aspirations that had lingered in me since youth. I choked up as class after class nearly toppled me with hugs, and wondered how long it would be before the memory space I’d clogged with their names would be replaced with shopping lists and things I intend to google. The following week the kids would stop being taught after 1pm, and by now the school may well be closed.

Rich has found a few more weeks’ work, so we’re staying in Mallorca until July. It makes sense: we’re happy here, and with a bit more money we could be able to afford to cruise Gwen to the Caribbean. While he toils on other boats I sand and paint bits of ours, freelance online for pennies, vittle, sketch and snorkel. I have started sunbathing topless as we’re in Spain forgodsakes, but I still make an embarrassing half-attempt to cover my boobs whenever anyone rows over and talks to me. Favoured poses for this include “don’t mind me, I’m just putting my knees up” and “do you know what, I’ve just decided to turn over and do my back”. I do this and any outdoors work in the morning, as it is too hot to even walk on the deck in the afternoon.

We move Gwen every now and then between the rocky bay at Illettas and the hotel-strewn strips of Palmanova, seeking safety in a particular wind direction or weighing up the lack of amenities in the former with the lack of arseholes on jet skis in the latter. Sometimes I practice doing all the windlass and engine work myself, with Rich watching, so we both know I can handle Gwen on my own if she drags while he’s at work. It’s a proper workout including a weights session and the occasional 11m dash. The breezy trip across is always refreshing, and clear water shows us turquoise pathways between dark weed for anchoring.

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Between our regular anchorages is this bay, good for going ashore for shopping and playing “spot the difference” between nearly identical motorboats.

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We haven’t sailed anywhere for a month, so our deck is full of bikes, snorkel gear and spare rope

A couple of weeks ago we motored over to Palmanova to shop, eat and spend a few nights within convenient distance of the internet. It’s a half hour trip by engine, but longer when we head first out into open water to empty the composted contents of our toilet. This needs to be done at some point every week: the solids go to the sea, the paper goes to the fire for burning. Afterwards we found a place to anchor, ate a romantic anniversary dinner ashore (three days late) and came back to the boat to sleep.

Unfortunately we hadn’t had a fire since before we moved to Palma. We hadn’t needed one for warmth over winter, and we’d been using the toilet in the marina while we were there. “We really need to have a fire” we’d been saying for weeks, but our old cruising routines had not kicked in. By now the woodburner was so crammed with paper sandwich bags of loo roll there was nowhere else to put them, and when I went for a bedtime wee there was nowhere left to put the paper. So, in the hottest week we’ve had, on a breezeless night, we opened all the hatches and lit an overloaded fire that would have boiled us in winter Cornwall. We still haven’t properly rehydrated.

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I have an eye infection which doesn’t seem to like me snorkelling or wearing make-up, so I looked helluva attractive on our anniversary night out.

I grow fond of Palmanova despite the violent afternoon rolling that is beaten in to Gwen by the wakes of a hundred wakeboards, jet skis, waterskis and inflatables that speed by. I remember when we first got to Mallorca and I found it all so shocking – the Brits, the bacon, the baking frowns – but returning there I feel like an old hand. Of all the holidaymakers heaving around its hot smelly streets, I am one who knows where to get the cheapest coffee, a good wifi signal or a friendly chat with an old ex-pat. When we’re anchored there I enjoy the club singer karaoke lulling me to sleep. When we’re not, I enjoy its absence.

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A couple of shots of sunrise in Illettas…

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…this is when Rich get up for work, and it’s the only time it’s cool enough to go for me to go for a run.

In Illettas I snorkel every day by the island or mainland. Beneath the surface that glistens in patterned folds there is another world, and I am always happy there. Though this part of Mallorca seems to lack the colourful variety of other locations, there is always something by which to become entranced: a pathway between rocks or a crater full of curved white leaves, inhabited by bream, mullet and colourful striped fish, anemones that wave and sea cucumbers that lie like giant turds. Beneath the boat there are flat fish concealed in the seemingly featureless sand – you can only see them when you dive down, chasing a fish or picking up a piece of rubbish from the bed. We are litter pickers everywhere, and now own a variety of flip flops and balls for our troubles.

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Yum

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I thought this was a plant, but when I got a little closer it retreated into its hole in the sand

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I try not to piss off too many fish, but it can’t be helped

Of course, both of us are dying to get going. Even writing this feels like posting yet another placeholder: “the adventure starts again soon”. I’m also planning a quick trip back to the UK, where things sound pretty dire apart from a heatwave that everyone is moaning about (they will also moan when it’s gone). It’s not really in keeping with our environmentally friendly living to fly across for a jolly, but it’s also not bearable to miss the wordy hedonism of Port Eliot festival for another year or two.

We’re dying to get going, but we persist here. Rich persists because each extra day he works might mean crocodiles in the Gambia or turtles in the middle of the Atlantic. I persist because I promised I’d paint these toe rails before we left the UK and they’re still only half done.

In our spare time we go for dinghy sails, rows and picnics in the gentler evening sun. Last night I took Rich for a scramble on the far side of the island to show him a falcon’s nest I’d spotted, before picking some samphire as we drank a sunset beer on the beach. Things could be a whole lot worse.

Down Time

Costa coffee, Palmanova. This is one of only a few establishments that are still open. Since the start of November the hotels are abandoned, the shops locked behind metal blinds, the restaurant staff returned to the corners of the globe from which they hail. Though the pines, palm trees and shrubs are ever green and the sand ever golden, autumn can be felt in the chilly sea and any breeze that catches you. Nonetheless, when the clouds aren’t stealing it, the low sun can still thrill your skin with warmth.

We’ve been anchored here for a month and a half now, save for a few nights’ stay in nearby bays that we’ve pootled to for shelter, and I’ve only just got a phone and internet again. Hello. Today I’m over from Gwen for repairs – recharging my recently fixed computer and my recently frazzled brain. This week we had yet another encounter with an angry southeasterly and, despite our fancy new Vulcan anchor, another drag in the weed-root clogged sand. Rich was with me this time (it was four in the morning) and by the time we’d organised a second anchor and laid out its chain on deck, Gwen was static again. The only damage was to our sleep-deprived energy levels.

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Palmanova on a calm day. Dinghying ashore is nice on these days.

Rich is getting on well with his job and has seemed happy here, if a little tired from the slog of having to work again. We have had some great weekend adventures, from our fun at the closing weekend of the Katmandu theme park and the cheesy thrills of a bonfire night party in Magaluf to an exhausting ride to a beautiful bay and the rare treat of a cinema and dinner night in Palma. My mum visited this week and it was a treat to explore and dine with her and her boyfriend in the city.

With the bikes now ashore we can get around Palmanova and discover shops and facilities with much more ease. Until recently I’d start my days with a swim (I still have the odd dip, but have to overcome an unpleasant initial shock of cold before my lungs will let me go anywhere) and we often end them with a beer, watching ducks and cormorants, jellyfish and baby fish on the row home. I’ve had excellent feedback from two job interviews, though sadly neither school had an opening for a teacher this late into the season. I’ve scrubbed some of Gwen’s bottom and I’ve got plans for all sorts of decorations.

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Everything here in Palmanova shut on the first week of November, but before that, we had entertainment aplenty. If you like that sort of thing.
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Last weekend of Katmandu. Rich was brilliant at this. I sucked, got injured and got scared.
I vow to return an conquer next year.

But something’s wrong. I love my own company, particularly if I can use it for creative pursuits, but after we arrived in Palmanova and Rich started work I started to sense an unusual ache of loneliness stalking me each day. I push through it and get things done, but it takes so long – there’s often as much travelling, swearing at technology and struggling with language as there is actual activity. Occasionally I visit Palma to seek work and sundries, gawping in its galleries and winding streets. It’s 45 minutes to get there after the row ashore, but only during the day as the buses don’t allow an evening out. Most of the time I’m at home – I prepare Rich’s packed lunches and evening meals, I wash up, I get stuff like phone contracts, laundry, job applications, shopping and social security numbers sorted – all the boring stuff. Did I sail 2000 miles to become a housewife? No offence to domestic gods and goddesses, but fuck no.

And then there are the high wind days when I am stuck babysitting Gwen, trying not to worry, hoping the anchor doesn’t drag and preparing myself in case it does. Weeks ago the wind would make this occasionally necessary but now winter is coming and I’ve had three days of it this week, and as many nights. The wind whistles through the recently stripped rigging and jolts the boat against it. I sit, stifled, in a constant motion that kills motivation. Fear blows in and out, and sadness sets in.

I am isolated on a little concrete island without friends or a sense of achievement for anything I do. My Spanish is improving but not enough to make proper conversation. My computer, even repaired, can only be used for a decent length of time when rowed ashore for power in an occasionally risky Bob. Rich comes up with ideas for things I could do to make things better, but they’re often just not possible, and they usually come across as things I should be doing better. I think it’s fair to say I hate living at anchor.

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This is where you get off the bus in Palma. Always brings an awed grin.
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Gaudiness gracious me

Two weeks ago, for the first time in months, I woke up not on the boat. I didn’t know what the wind was doing, I didn’t have fish in the front garden and I didn’t have the warm body of a sleeping man in my bed. I didn’t have to row anywhere, roll anyway, watch for any dangers or tie a single knot. My body smelled of shampoo and deodorant, not salt water and sweat.

The preceding weekend Rich had made a comment about the messiness of a galley in which I cook, clean and wash up every working day of the week, and I had felt hurt. When he went on to justify it by explaining at length how hard he works and how little I achieve in comparison, I agreed, and fell apart. In guilt and anger I was barely able to talk without crying, which made him defensively reiterate my shortcomings. So for a few days I shut up and got on with a lot of housework and, as soon as the wind was quiet enough to make abandonment a safe option for Gwen, I left for a couple of nights in a cheap and nasty hotel near Palma.

As I accessed precious internet from the sterile lobby bar people sat in lined-up corduroy armchairs in front of me, dozing beneath a telly with a news channel on. I couldn’t understand what was being said but I knew the story – Trump had been voted president of the USA. Nobody in the lobby was crying, so I guessed they already knew.

And yet, in that place with of school-dinner meals and bad evening disco entertainment, there was some hope for me. I was able to talk to friends back home and download new software and movies. I charged my unchargable camera, applied for the few English speaking jobs Palma has vacant and started the repairs that would eventually save my laptop. I dreamed and doodled and wandered and messed about and just did what the hell I liked. In that release from Gwen I got a load of ideas for things I could try. There were ways I could make a difference not only to our lives, but also to engage more with the wider world we seem to have left behind and challenge my own creative urges. I picked myself up again and got back on the boat.

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That hope gets kicked down again with each bad weather patch, with each failure that either Rich or I perceive, but it always returns. He isn’t wrong, when he says he works harder than me. He is driven and dedicated, and his focus is almost always on getting the boat and us to where we want to be. It’s his lifelong dream. But in the last week, with my lowness and the many challenges the deteriorating weather has brought, even he has been brought down and felt hopeless. As difficult as my own sadness is to cope with, to see him suffering has shocked me.

So I presented him with an option – an email I had received from one of many marinas that I’d asked to put us on their waiting list in the week before we arrived in Mallorca. This one finally had a spot free. I hadn’t thought he’d be up for it because money is the main thing we’re here for and marinas cost a lot of it. But as we talked it through, bringing up the pros and cons, I saw a glimmer of possibility return to his face.

The place is still available, offering safety for the boat, with facilities that can be accessed without risk to life and precious technology in a dinghy. And it’s in Palma! Gorgeous Palma which might have all sorts of possibilities for inspiration, socialising, working and creating. Palma, where things are still open. We’re going to move over there on Saturday. I can’t guarantee it will solve everything, but it’s got to be worth a try.

Don’t Crash Your Home

It was the morning of Rich’s third day of work. The wind was roaring in to the beach from the east and the boat had shimmied all night to its wet whistling tune. The day before, another murky one in Palmanova’s normally sunny bay, we’d talked about the need for a reliable second anchor – it would be our first priority once Rich got paid. By morning, we’d both decided that we weren’t going to wait for the paycheque. Sod this. Let’s get secure.

Rich went ashore in the early darkness, lowering himself into a leaping dinghy that was half full of rainwater and rowing like crazy to get to the beach in time to meet his lift. I had woken with him, and I popped my head outside every half an hour or so as daylight thought about breaking behind the sky’s grey film. He’d told me how to let more anchor chain out if I was worried, but we’d guessed that we’d most likely be alright now. The whole process had sounded difficult as it would involve untying the snubber rope that keeps the chain from yanking, but I’d got the gist. Watching the waves hurtling into the beach I knew I wouldn’t be popping to Palma today as intended. I’d stay with Gwen and keep her company through the turbulence. At least the wildness seemed to be steadying now – I could get on with a few things on board.

I had a quick nap and did a bit of housework, stowing what wouldn’t stay balanced along the way. I popped my head out of the hatch to check we were still in place. The boat that was beside us seemed a little further out to sea, but I know I can be a bit paranoid about this sort of thing so I turned on the nav computer to check that we were still within range of our anchor on the GPS.

We weren’t.

We had dragged in toward the shore, not by a lot, but enough to have me a little worried. I would probably have to take action. Then the boat icon moved further toward the land. And then further. Our trusty fisherman anchor was still dragging, and not slowly! I turned on the depth sounder and our safe 4m had shrunk to 3. From the deck I saw that the yellow swimming buoys that line the beach were getting close. I was on my own, and Rich was a half hour drive away at work. I let out a long, low wail. One of our worst nightmares was about to become real and the guy who knew what to do wasn’t there.

I turned on the engine battery and water flow, and released the tiller from its lashing. I sent Rich a quick text, “hey, we’re dragging…” apologising that I was about to call him. I turned the key in the aft cabin and revved the engine on deck, then drove Gwen slowly out of the swimming area into which she had now drifted. We’d been in two and a half metres, and Gwen has just under two metres of draft. I tried to call Rich but couldn’t get through. I had to keep driving Gwen into the whipping wind just to keep us from re-entering the shallow swimming area, and I couldn’t figure how I’d get to the front of the boat to deal with the anchor while doing this. I kept driving forward, hopefully towards wherever our anchor now was, and cried. Over the din of our engine and the sea I heard a dinghy engine and a voice with a strong Spanish accent “do you want some help?”

Juan, the neighbour that Rich had met on our first morning here, tied his inflatable dinghy to Gwen and got himself on board. I stuttered thanks, and said I couldn’t get to the anchor and steer at the same time. He wobbled down the concrete deck towards the anchor chain, but then wobbled back “I don’t know what to do”. Of course, the anchor was snubbed up, the windlass incomplete without its handle – there was no indication of how any of this worked. I asked him to take the tiller, and tried to think of a plan of action. I’d have to get the anchor up so we could get away. I’d only done this a couple of times, and then with supervision from Rich and no snubber on. Rich does the anchor, I steer us away – that’s how it’s supposed to work, but there was no time to think about that.

I grabbed the heavy rusty bar that is the windlass handle from its deck home among a pile of snorkelling gear and hose, and put it in the right hole. I pulled on it a few times and took in a bit of chain. Then I dangled myself over the front of the boat, towards the rushing waves, and was relieved to find that I could undo the huge knot on the thick snubber rope. I edged back under the guard wire and threw the rope to one side.

I opened the bedroom hatch and, to Juan’s confusion – “are you alright?”, disappeared below to open the locker that our chain falls into. I pushed myself off the mattress and back on deck, groaning little releases of tension with every push of my body, and went back to the windlass to ratchet in the chain. But the chain wouldn’t come. Pull after heavy pull hoiked it in a little, then returned a little to the water. Juan and I swapped places, me trying to coax Gwen forward though she didn’t seem to want to move, and Juan hauling huge lengths of chain by hand. We realised that the chain was caught around an escaped yellow buoy that we’d dragged from the swimming area, and I had to reverse and steer around that before we could get going or haul more chain. Then the chain got caught around a lower bobstay fitting, which took both of us peering over the sides of the bow to figure out. It was soon released with a slight change of direction.

Ashore Palmanova life went on oblivious to our plight. People walked along the murky beach front, ate at restaurants, ran around the hotels. A few metres out to sea the story was more dramatic. Along the bay a huge unmanned motor cruiser had also dragged and was threatening to destroy a small sailing yacht on its way to a hotel pontoon. The wind seemed to be dying a little, but it had already had its way with we sea folk.

On Gwen, we were finally moving in the right direction. When Juan called back that the anchor was up I drove us further out until our depth went over 4.5m. I called him back to the tiller, showing him as best I could how to put it in neutral (it always catches in reverse or forward – I’m used to it, but how was he to know?) and went to drop the anchor, bashing at the windlass clutch with its own removed handle to release lengths I couldn’t determine. I kept bashing and kicking more chain out until all the wet stuff was out and I could see the faded pink spray painted markings that I guessed meant “50m”. That’s over 10 to 1 chain length to depth. That’s as good as it’s going to get, I figured, then spent a couple of minutes trying to get the windlass to hold there, pulling chain in until I could get the “dog” on, and eventually tightening the clutch the right way. Righty tighty, lefty loosey – who knows where I remember that from, but it did the trick.

Back in the cockpit I thanked Juan for the hundredth time with a wide eyed fake grin, and offered him a coffee, but he had his own boat to get back to. “Are you… around.. this afternoon?” “Yes, I am on the boat all day” Oh thank heavens. I felt rude, rushing inside to text Rich and let him know that his boat was okay as Juan got in to his dinghy. I helped untangle its painter from those of our two dinghies and jabbered out more thanks as he left. And then I was alone again, on the boat that might drag, waiting for the wind to go.

When Rich got back to Palmanova that evening I was ashore and waiting for him. The GPS had showed that we were holding okay for now, and the wind had died down to a gentle flutter in the palm trees. We went for a drink – him a beer, me two beers and a long long whiskey, and I told him of the day’s events in a stream of excited blether, waiting for him to tell me what I could have done better.

“You did everything right. You saved the boat.”

Oh, okay. That hadn’t really occurred to me.

We would make moves to buy another anchor over the next day or two, as our CQR really isn’t up to being a reserve anchor in this sort of wind. We would go back to the boat and relax and have a weekend of fun. For now, all we had to do was buy a couple of boxes of beer and row over to a neighbours’ boat to offer them in thanks to someone without whom Gwen might not have made it back to safety. We found a warm reception, some pizza and a good evening’s chat. Everything’s been safe enough since then, and the new anchor, a fancy and very very expensive Rockna Vulcan (sorry, overdraft), should arrive on Friday.

There’s a lot more to tell you. Rich’s job is going well and leaves him still able to enjoy his evenings, and I had an interview yesterday with a language school. I’ve started running again, and I still swim most days although the water’s colder than off mainland Spain. We’ve visited Palma and it’s gorgeous. We’ve made plans to spend this weekend at our local theme park and eat one of these much-advertised full English breakfasts before the whole area closes down for November. That low level fear that keeps you alert to the wind forecasts and a myriad of other factors, that one that I thought we’d leave behind with the cruising if we spent winter at a marina, that’s not going. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. We chose this life, and we like it, and there are going to be scary days. We need to be ready for them, and know that we can get through them. Even at rest, the adventure goes on.

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Palma. What is this Mallorcan obsession with upside down buildings?

Not At Home

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Flamingos on Calpe’s salt marshes

We didn’t rush out of Calpe. I knew this would probably be our last night sail this year, and I wanted to savour the evening’s impressions – the two-step grumble of the racheted chain falling in to the locker, the almost imperceptible motion of sailing off anchor, the helicopter whirr of the wind in the jib, the squishy splashy sounds of waves against us, the salty stick of sea air on sun tightened skin. We sped up gently as the staysail was hoisted, and glided down the bay past the beaches where we’d made landings for this and that. This place hadn’t been the most beautiful or interesting, but it had been incredibly happy, and we were prepared to miss it.

Our usual system for tacking involves Rich bringing in one running backstay and me steering with an outstretched leg while undoing the other behind me, then a swap of position as I release the head sail sheets and Rich tightens them in on my original side. We performed this while sunset orange flashed in the windows of beach hotels and stained the light rock of the penon, and I took some photos as we headed out into the Ibiza strait. As night fell the great rock dulled to grey, then black, and was left behind without us, and we thanked it and called goodbye with fearful glances to one another. I was scared of the stresses of finding work, Rich nervous about his new job, both of us intimidated by the notion of finding, approaching and affording a marina. We were full of hugs, touches and reassurances, with talk alternating between discussing what we needed to do when we got to Mallorca and consoling each other that we could manage it whatever.

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Last sunset over mainland Spain

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Cheerio Penon de Ifach. Love you.

Overnight the sea was less supportive. The waves didn’t look big but they were going in odd and different directions, and beating towards the wind had us hitting them at funny angles, jolting the boat and making both sleep and waking watches uncomfortable and effortsome. When we got to our anchorage in North Ibiza the next morning we were cranky and exhausted, and though Rich managed a snorkel I mostly watched movies, cooked and ate until I allowed myself to pass out. The beach looked busy, but the land looked green and lush and gave me hope for Mallorca.

The next morning we had anticipated a huge wind, but there was none in the unusually cloudy bay. Ah well, we’d tack out to sea. Ah, none here, we’d sail past the end of Ibiza that must be sheltering it. Ah, none here… We had halved our main sail area with two reefs the night before to cope with the onslaught, and though we filled most of the space with a topsail we were still doing only two knots. Then one. Then none.

Thunder rumbled over Ibiza. We decided to put the engine on if only to get further from the storm that seemed to be approaching. Within an hour or two the wind was finally up and we cut the engine to speed downwind towards Mallorca, whose mountains we could already see some 50 miles away, but the storm did not like being left behind. A downpour descended, our first rainy sail this side of Biscay, and we laughed a lot while both staying on deck like the idiots we are. I’m not sure about the psychology of it all but getting soaked does seem to put both of us in very good spirits. Then the wind got up, and by the evening we were removing the topsail and staysail to stay at 7 knots as we bashed our way into Mallorca’s south west approach to Palma. The rain had cleared, but darkness and high winds were our new challenges as we headed towards Magaluf and on to our anchorage for the night.

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Aw, it’s just like being back in England. Except warm.

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Pretty spatters and run-offs not captured very well here

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Mallorca looking less than inviting

The wind eased as we got closer in, the pair of us pointing and exclaiming at yet another bay of outrageous development and its sparkling lights. Just after Magaluf’s north end (lit by a gigantic pair of blue tips that it turns out are a bungee chair ride) we went to nip in to the south corner of Palmanova, the next bay, to stop for the rest of the night. Though we could make out most of the larger outlying obstacles we found ourselves bewildered by other craft whose lights were difficult to discern against all the lights ashore – a tall tower that seemed to be on land turned out on closer inspection to be a yacht’s well lit mast, and then a hotel on the far shore whose orange lights shone in line after line turned out to be a single super motor yacht, much closer than we’d realised. We had more neighbours than we’d had in all of northern Spain put together, and we wove our way between them cautiously by motor, a torch at the ready, before putting the anchor down and breathing sighs of relief.

Neighbours can be helpful things to have, and the next morning one of them dinghied over and told us that this bay can actually be anchored in all year round. Our brains whirred – could this be true? Could we live this far from Rich’s job in Palma? Would it work for us? What’s ashore here apart from hotels? Are we about to save a tonne of marina money? We decided to give it a try for a couple of weeks and see what happened. Gwen seemed happy for now, bobbing in the sunny bay with Fanny and Bob trailed out behind like ducklings. In a spirit of “checking out the new neighbourhood” I went ashore on my own for some shopping, and came back in a state of shock.

First impressions of Palmanova: It’s Magaluf. It’s Benidorm. It’s Daily Mails and Full Englishes. It’s theme pubs and inflatable toys. It’s cock shaped key rings and lapdance clubs. It’s stags and hens getting wasted and performing sex acts for bets. It’s “Prince William’s” menu del dia featuring real yorkshire puddings. Exposed white skin coated in raw burn or inch thick foundation, head-wide necks and muscle carved chests dribbled with football tattoos, gawping dead stares giving you “evils”. I looked for veg in all the self-styled “supermarkets” and found only crisps and booze. I went to buy a postcard and got chatted up by the checkout clerk. I went to get a beer and talked myself out of a panic attack. I rowed home in tears. This is my new home? What is there here for me?

That night I worried. Rain poured down and we leapt out of bed to shut hatches and protect items on deck. The next morning the sun shone, the sea beckoned and the world seemed a little better – this is not all there is. I went online to find out about Palma and was intrigued by what sounds like a brilliant city, and snorkelled round the boat to check on the anchor before the waterskiers and jetskiers got started for the day. Rich and I went ashore together and found areas beyond the busy sea front scariness, and popped in to an enormous Aldi where they have real fruit and vegetables. We found the bus stop, and saw that Palma is only a half hour ride away. We went to Magaluf and found a cool looking theme park among the pubs and hotels. In the evening we had a quick drink with Rich’s new boss, who seems like a really decent chap, and his adorable wee son. By evening we were back on Gwen and enthused, making plans to the sounds of battling crooners in distant sea front bars (“Delilah” overlapping with “I’m Still Standing”) and the first chants of karaoke that would go on until long after we fell asleep.

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Kathmandu Park in Magaluf has an upside down pub, a huge awesome climbing frame and a mini golf course with waterfalls…

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…and this crazy octopus. We must go round it before it shuts for winter.

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“You know how you always see people taking photos of each other in front of pointless things? Well, I’ve decided to take one” says the man I love.

We’re going to check out Palma tomorrow, and more of the island over our weekends. I’m still slightly bewildered that we’ve stopped cruising and yet I’m not back in the Shire, and I hope to get there for a visit over the winter. As much if not more than back home, I’m going to miss cruising. I’m going to miss waking up somewhere new and going to explore. I’m going to miss the work of sailing and the life of not working. I’ve learned so much – so many subtle peculiarities of sailing and of how Gwen, Geordi and Rich do it. I am so pleased to be here largely because I am so pleased with how we got here. We’ve logged 2,100 sailing miles since Millbrook. Four years after Gwen became ours she has done what we dreamed of doing with her, and the purpose of any hardship we endured for her back home has been revealed. I still feel like she owes me a bigger trip, another adventure, and we’re going to work towards that. But, for the next six months at least, we’ve got a new life to live, hopefully one that can include the odd weekend sail to remind us of Gwen’s brilliance, the glory of the sea and the joy of a silent secluded anchorage. We’ve got a lot to get used to and a lot to discover, and hopefully a lot more to enjoy.