Friday, 9 November 2018

Mightily Maritime



As I am hunkering down in the main cabin of our yacht, Zingara, I now know why November is called "Miz Du" in Breton. It is, without a doubt, the "black month". The capitainerie du port has secured the pontoons with extra ropes, we have removed the tent and lowered the sprayhood so they don't get blown away or shredded by the wind, forecast to reach force 10 a bit later today. Gusts cuff the hull, we roll, Zingara tugging at the many ropes that secure her, trembling with anticipation, like an over-enthusiastic dog determined to go for its walk. The slight pitter patter of drizzle on the coach roof, a gentle hopping of birds' feet, has evolved into a stampede of bisons. The riggings are clanking, tapping, whistling. The pitch increases with the wind speed. 
In the 3 minutes it took Phil to check the decks, he got thoroughly soaked and brought in through the hatch a mighty blast of the southerlies that have been buffeting this coast since the beginning of the week. 
Earlier today 


I am grateful to be in a dry boat, with a heater, and only a few isolated drops dripping from portholes slashed with rain. I would have to be paid dear money to go outside, unless it is a dire emergency.
Over the last 10 years, the pontoons of the "Port du Notic", our friendly marina here in Camaret, were torn by storms twice and have been secured with new solid chains. Or so I have been told. I am not feeling completely relaxed with the repeated slaps of an irate weather, while Phil is bright-eyed and energised by it all. 


The "route du rhum", a boat race from St Malo to the Guadeloupe, started last Sunday with up to 4 million spectators massed on waterfronts, cliffs and headlands. A third of those incredible trimarans have been obliged to sit it out in various harbours of Western Brittany. A few are moored here, to the general excitement. Others managed to out-distance the weather and will be arriving as I write, while the rest are keeping a low profile, just like me, and I don't blame them. There will be enough of them for another race. The interest is in participating, of achieving your dream, not in winning, if that's what rocks your boat, hum... 

Thinking of global warming, of this unprecendented weather font that covers most of the North Eastern Atlantic, how can we not see that the Earth is stronger than whatever we throw at it. It will dish it back to us, with interest. As we are witnessing. 

On a lighter note, meanwhile, life goes on during the lulls between blasts, with timid sunshine and fluffy clouds. But never, never say "oh, I think the wind has stopped, hasn't it?", because a gust will suddenly come out of nowhere to prove you wrong. Camaret is unfazed. It has already seen it all. Life continues. This morning, on my walk along the quay to the supermarket, a lady was optimistically moving tables out on the the terrace of a bar, under the awning; two chaps were having a natter in the middle of the most busy crossroads; the same familiar smell of croissants and fresh bread was wafting from the boulangerie. The cinema will be open tonight, for whomever feels motivated to walk the alleyways.


I relish being back in France, storms notwithstanding, reacquainting myself with a more direct, and for me easier, manner of being, enjoying the slide from the formal "vous" to the informal "tu",  a sign of acceptance. I smile at shops being closed between 12 and 2 for lunch, at the conversations in the cafés, at the newspaper-reading coffee-swilling small crowds on the terraces. In spite of my decision to embrace vegetarianism, (or at least pescetarianism while I am here),  I had to, absolutely had to,  eat a "bouchée à la reine", with "ris de veau". It had the taste  of the Sunday lunches of my childhood.





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