Trebeurden

We left Treguier at 1430.  We were hopeful that the weather had finally turned and we would, at last, have a passage during which we could see something!  As we pottered out of the river we realised the log wasn't working but didn't fancy anchoring up to take it out to clean it.  A blast in reverse didn't help either and we assumed that some weed or something crusty had attached itself to the little paddle-wheel that indicates our distance through the water.  It wasn't a huge problem because the GPS system tells us other sufficient information for precise navigation.

We were quite astonished at how different the mouth of the river looked in clear conditions and high water.  The water was studded with rocks but the excellent buoyage in this area of France guided us through safely.  I was at the helm and with the northeasterly wind we were able to sail on a reach through the outer marks until we rounded the "Crumblies"  (Bs Crublent) and turned onto a run.  The breeze wasn't suffucient to keep the pace so on went the engine again and the main was sheeted in.  This was the longest stretch of the passage but despite the fact that we had little to do we were happy enough to be occupied by observing the coastline in the best visibility we have had so far.  The gannets swooped by, often in pairs, flying just above the surface. Their distinctive yellow necks and cigar shaped bodies making them easy to identify.

About half way the sun put in an appearance just as we were passing some of the stunning rocky coastline at Tregastel.  The rocks look almost as if they have "bubbled up" out of the water and one, resting precariously on top of a pile, particularly caught our eye.  A while later we realised that if visibility was this good we could change our approach to Trebeurden and cut in closer to the coast.  At our third waypoint we turned to port, putting us on a broad reach and we had made such good time we were now concerned that we would be heading into Trebeurden on a falling tide so we were more than happy to turn off the engine, goose wing the sails and sail at a slower pace. 

I disappeared below to fry up some sausages and onions to put in some French bread for tea, as it was around 1900 by this time.  Just as I emerged from the companionway with plates of "ChienChaudes" the wind gathered speed and Chris had to dismantle the goose wing.

We sailed until our final turn into the harbour approaches brought us conveniently head into wind and the main could be dropped easily.  We nudged past little islets and rocks at quite a slow speed because, as we thought, it was close to low water and this was unfamiliar rocky territory.  The marina was hidden behind Mileau Island but it soon appeared and we spotted the red lights indicating the sill gate was shut.  Ten yellow mooring buoys were clearly numbered and according to the pilot were in sufficient water.  So, we chose number 8 (because number 6 was taken!) and moored up safely.  We decided that there was little point in staying up to get into the marina later that night and a beautiful sunset developed as we sipped some wine, content at the completion our day's passage.

One of my over-riding memories of this little holiday town is lying at the mooring in a natural bay with the sun streaming down, gentle ripples scattered over the surface of the water and the pink-rock islands as a backdrop. 

We did spend one night in the marina which enabled us to do the shopping, shower etc. but were keen to get back out to the mooring for the last day and night.  Whilst ashore we were also able to explore the rocks and beaches and  it was during an evening stroll that we observed a sea gull swoop down into the shallows by the shore and struggle to lift his chosen meal, a crab, onto the beach.  There, he continued to peck his way through the shell while the crab opened and shut his claws in futile self-defence.  I thought about watching until the gull flew off to have a closer look at the remains but then decided that he might be some time.  Having successfully captured a good meal if I were the gull, I would bother to get every last scrap of meat from the crab!

By chance, we happened to be in Trebeurden the weekend of a local regatta, the Tregor Cup.  It was a colourful spectacle watching the yachts venture out of the marina once the gate had opened around midday.  About forty boats in all were taking part, of all shapes and sizes ranging from Melges and Mumm 30s to classic wooden hulled yachts.  Many waved to us, apparently quite bemused to see a British boat moored alone in their beautiful little bay.