The Golfe du Morbihan 1

Semaine du Golfe - a personal view

(From something first published in "Watercraft" magazine 2009)  

At the Semaine du Golfe we have big  boats.....  

 ..bigger boats....

...little boats....(mine, this one)...

...or even no boat at all.

But  the Semaine du Golfe at the Morbihan has something for everyone.

Not just some pretty hairy tidal streams......

( You SURE this is slack water? )

....and queues to get on to the slipway..... (Inevitable with nearly 1, 000 boats taking part)....

Queue here for launching.

...but also free food and drink...

" 'Ere, Yvonne! That bloke's had seconds!"

...entertainment...

"...but, look here. The invite definitely says Dress Optional..."

... romance and anticipation...

Vannes. Waiting for Flotilla 3

....but it's mostly about the boats.



 

Mediterranean dreams.  A lateen at sunset.

Unfortunately, there is always something waiting to ruin your day - like a tent that won't go up in a gale........

Tent - Not suitable for single hander.....

“Damn! Damn and blast! Curse the ancestors and offspring of the malevolent, evil-minded sadist who designed this misbegotten apology for a tent!”

Not so bad - once the thing's up!

            As usual, the real object of my wrath and the cause of all the invective (here represented as a mere stylistic shadow of its true magnificence) was my own weakness.  After scaring myself silly at the last Semaine du Golfe I swore I would never launch in the Morbihan again… and yet, 2 years later here I am, struggling to erect a tent in three quarters of a gale, wishing I hadn’t been too mean to cough up the extra euros for a ready-pitched and gale proof ‘cabin’ and, above all, seriously questioning my own ability to manage the “Four Sisters” in winds like this, single handed. My crew of 2007, one of the sisters the boat was named for, had seen me coming this time and had taken the precaution of leaving the country for 18 months. Being a public spirited sort she had also put the word out about the 2007 experience.  I had no chance of conning any of her friends into joining up. “He’s rubbish at this!” “He tried to kill us in that tide race!”  were two of the comments I overheard her make to a total stranger (Kathy Mansfield, it transpired)  in the beer tent at Auray, so despite sponsorship (for reasons still unclear) from Wales Tall Ships Trust, I was on my own. Anyway, as my wife very kindly pointed out, no-one in their right mind wanted to share a leaky old tent with a snoring sixty year old, even for the promise of a free breakfast. Certainly she would not.  No hotel equals no wife. Simple.

Was I crazy to be doing this? As I struggled for the umpteenth time to get the fibreglass poles and wildly flapping fabric to look more like a tent and less like a spinnaker I was in no doubt, but now, several weeks later, the unpleasantness is beginning to fade and I am in danger of only remembering the good bits. Before sinking into a rosy glow of reminiscence I better get it all down in black and white to remind me – just in case the lure of the Morbihan catches me out again in 2011.

OK, then, what IS the “Lure of the Morbihan”?    You can make a good, objective case for attending the Semaine du Golfe. Well organised, excellent facilities, beautiful venue, etc. etc. and no doubt you will be seeing all that in other articles - along with stylish photographs of ethnic craft , tall ships and bewhiskered  old salts doing clever things with rope.  This, however, as it says in the title, is a personal view and as such contains nothing of timeless merit so, if you want to know how to plan a trip to the Golfe, go get a pilot book or something. Don’t look to me for answers. I still don’t have a clue….and the tide races still scare me witless.

Perhaps this will explain.

After an uneventful drive and ferry crossing… and a disturbed nights sleep in a buffeted tent, Day One should find me skipping down to Lamor Baden, keen to launch before the rush starts tomorrow. Instead, I am lurking nervously around the slipway, using my camera as an excuse NOT to launch. It’s all very well planned here with yellow-shirted interpreters available to help the non francophone among us as we queue to register with the Organisation. I read somewhere that they are expecting 950 boats by the end of the week. (83% French, 11% British and 4% German, Dutch and Italian.) I immediately start to worry about a long queue of boats preventing me pulling the boat out in time to catch the return ferry. I waste 5 minutes of Interpreter Louise’s time getting Jacque, the understandably stressed-out Harbour Master, to stand still long enough to give me a number for a mooring buoy which, in the event, I never use. (Sorry, Louise. I hope you managed to get some lunch.)

Louise - hard at work...

....and taking a break.

A light lunch of  Moule Frites + Chablis

There’s an onshore wind and people are having trouble launching. Waves are picking up the boats and throwing them back onto their trailers. Typical Morbihan, I say to myself. You have to pick a smooth, act quickly and hope a passing rib doesn’t add its wash to the equation.

In she goes!

The Lamor Baden Car Wash. No way to treat a nice new Volvo.

Single handed it’s going to be tricky so I take advice (Thanks, Claus.) and launch at Port Blanc instead. Easy, with more shelter and the wind is offshore. Somehow I manage to pick a time when there are no ferries and so have no idea of the problems I will have later. (When I come to take her out of the water ferries are going to and fro at 5min intervals. So THAT’S why they wanted us at Lamor Baden!)  I spend a little time sailing and motoring around the moorings to get the feel of the place, watching the tide race slew the big ferries to Ile aux Moines sideways as they shuttle back and forth. Wind against tide makes for a nasty short chop and some small craft look pretty relieved to get through it. At its height it runs so fast that they are swept 200 metres off course in a matter of seconds and even powerful ribs can’t ignore it. I watch, awestruck as a big square rigger (La Recouverance?) sweeps majestically past at an unlikely speed, rounds up into quiet water and drops anchor, jib cracking like a whip. Wow! A back eddy takes me by surprise as I pick my way slowly through the moored cruisers towards the pontoon I’ve been given permission to use. Narrowly avoiding a large buoy, I go around again making a second approach with more power on, wishing Four Sisters had a tighter turning circle. I draw a crowd as I attempt to moor unassisted, stepping elegantly on to the pontoon and tripping on a bollard. One of the crowd spits copiously and inaccurately on to his left boot, curses and turns away.. The other of the two ( Shouldn’t there be at least three to make a crowd?) sends away his dog (That’s three.) and makes my stern line fast. Round turn and two half hitches. He quizzes me about the boat and its rig - knows what he’s talking about, this one - then the Swallowboats.com web address printed on her stern catches his eye.

“What boats will you swallow this week? Eh? Eh?”

“Er..pardon?   Oh! Swallow Boats. I see. Non, non.  C’est le nom de …er.. it’s the name of the builders .. you know…umm.. Hirondelle, is it?”

His smile fades.

“Ah. Wey.” 

He turns sadly away and calls up his dog, the attempt at friendly repartee having failed. No sense of humour, these British.  A few minutes later he’s back from the beer tent with a couple of plastic cups of Lager. Something the British still know how to deal with, perhaps. He probably thought I could do with a drink. He was right, bless ’im. We chat for a while in perfect French (him) and broken English. ( me. I’m still rattled by that back eddy.)

On "my" pontoon. BayRaiders rafted up, ready for a quick getaway.

Next morning I’m supposed to join the rest of the Welsh Flotilla  - I’m wearing the Dragon as a House Flag don’t forget - at Ile d’Arz for corporate schmoozing or some such. I still don’t like the look of the wind. I’m going to need a reef or maybe two – can’t tell how hard it’s blowing out there on the other side of the island – and will that leave me with enough sail power to cope with the tide? Better get some petrol for the Yamaha.

In the event I didn’t get there at all.

Still on the pontoon and all alone!

Screwing the cap back on the 12 litre auxiliary tank a trifle too hard, I managed to split the thread from the cap. Didn’t notice the boot full of spilt petrol until I got back to the Port Blanc car park. Fled hurriedly back to the campsite and  spent most of the morning sponging up the spillage in the boot with kitchen roll hoping no-one came past with a fag on. Made a present of the remaining 8 litres of petrol plus the useless tank to one of the guys running the site - and learned the French for lawn mower. After all that I’m still in Port Blanc and I should be in Lamor Baden. The tide in the afternoon is, of course, going against me so I just have a bit of a sail around to Le Moustoir (very pretty), return to what I am beginning to regard as my pontoon at Port Blanc, have a shower and drive into Lamor Baden for the evening entertainment of Oysters, Folk Music and free food and wine.  Hang about long enough for the wine to wear off. People are still launching at the Car Wash  but the wind is gradually easing -so are my nerves- and I’m begining to enjoy myself.

Norse Boats rafted up in a tideway. I hope the bloke on the inside has got strong dock lines!

The following day Flottilla 3 are off to Vannes.  The winds are light – no more than F3 with the odd gust – and I shake out the previous days reef before leaving the pontoon. It’s very pleasant sailing and I have a good time getting as much out of my balanced lug and sprit mizzen as I can. Slacking off the outhauls to give more draft to the sails gives me the edge on the Drascombe luggers and Skellig 2’s and on the reach to Port Anna I record 5.8 knots on the GPS. Not sure how much of that is due to the tide under us, though. Can’t understand why a heavy French gaffer manages to keep ahead of “Four Sisters”. With a bit of wind we gallop up to her but in the calms she just walks away from us. I’m thinking this must be local knowledge or something special about her hull.  Designed by Francois Vivier, perhaps? It was some thing special alright, as I saw when we finally caught her. A Torqeedo electric outboard!
I notice that even here, miles from the nearest decent road, the shore is packed with spectators. They’re even climbing the trees for a better view. This week it’s the same all over the Golfe. The Morbihan is en fete and small boats are what it’s all about. There are Parisian ladies with little dogs, families with huge picnics, outside broadcast vans with their crews sunbathing on the roof. On a rocky headland a solitary old man leans on his stick and raises a hand over again in slow salute as the boats stream past. 

Once past Port Anna the wind becomes fluky and boats with crew start to row and so by the time we reach the narrow, canalised stretch up to Vannes I have the sails off her and the Yamaha ticking over. I have to knock it out of gear every so often as a queue had formed, travelling in single file, at the pace of the slowest. We each received a hero’s welcome on entering the marina basin, cleared especially to receive us.  It was as if we’d crossed the North Atlantic. Especially loud cheers for the guy who, scorning a tow, had managed to short tack his dinghy all the way up the canal, regardless of chipped paint. The air was fragrant with fast food, bands were playing, commentators were announcing the boats, news helicopters were flying low and small children were losing their Mylar dolphin balloons in a steady stream.  A hail from the left had me throwing the tiller hard over to tuck “Four Sisters” into a space between a mob of BayRaiders where we relaxed with something of about 60% proof (thanks again, Claus!) but it was not long before we were waving our crew passes to be ushered by willing student helpers to the front of a queue for the Flotilla 3 Dinner. I’ve never experienced so much good will, not to mention hospitality, anywhere as at the Golfe du Morbihan. Everyone I meet is interested, helpful and knowledgeable about small boats. Some have brought their families hundreds of miles just to watch the flotillas sail past. Reporting, duty bound, to the Wales Tourist stand there was Celtic music and even more free food, included the best Lava Bread ever, washed down by a glass of Welsh whiskey. I was surprised by how good this was and had to go back three or four times before the surprise wore off.  Wits suitably enhanced, I decided to spend the night in the boat rather than return on the crew transport bus at 5:45am. (The early start due to the tide gate at Vannes closing at 7:00am.) All my camping gear was back at the tent but I was comfortable and warm in “Four Sisters” cabin with foulies as a sleeping bag and a fender as a pillow.  6:00am had a slightly crumpled sailor looking for coffee in town. By 6:20am  I was motoring in sunshine and a glassy calm towards Port Anna. A street sweeper on the bank dressed in blue dungarees waved as I passed, gestured at the cloudless sky and shrugged, arms outspread, head on one side, hugely apologetic for the lack of wind. Not to worry. I had all morning to get to the next port of call and three days before the ferry home. Now, if I can only keep out of the tide races for the rest of the week……. 

Now do you see why we keep coming back?

Take it easy!  (BayRaider in the background. Someone tell him it's lunchtime!)