Ayamonte, Spain , on the border River Guadiana - 22nd September - We met up with Alastair and after a Fado evening of our own (mouth organ, guitar and voice) we left Lagos and anchored beside the spectacular cliffs and caves nearby to have lunch in the cockpit; Alastair had a swim and Andy got twitchy because there was WIND and he wanted to sail.  Unfortunately when the time came to pick up anchor the wind had disappeared.  It just came to tantalize.

We arrived at the border between Portugal and Spain by way of Portimao and Isla de Culatra and set off up the Guadiana from Ayamonte on the Spanish side.  Old castles glowered at each other as we motored under the bridge leaving the flat urban landscape behind.  It was so different to be moving along  river banks with storks and herons for company and listening to the clank of sheep bells.  The land became greener and less flat, the banks were bounded by rushes and further back, orange and lemon trees.  There was the occasional small ruin of a house and one or two  little villages.  We stopped at one where there was a Museum dedicated to the river, it was fascinating particularly the black and white propaganda film showing happy peasants fishing and cooking - I now know how to skin, cook and use every last little bit of an eel but I won’t.

At various places along the river, boats were at anchor - some stay all winter.  One looked like the  African Queen stuck in amongst the rushes, ignored and listing.  We stayed one night on the Portuguese side at a village called Alcoutim where it took real detective work to find food.  You spot someone with a carrier bag and try and guess where they’ve come from or rather more reliably you find a lady clutching a handbag who looks as if she’s off to the shops and launch into ‘Hola, Bom Dia!’ - look hungry and say  ‘Pan?’  One such lady took pity on me and led me along the road and into a tiny space, I would never have known was a shop.  There, a clutch of elderly ladies were gathered around the proprietor exclaiming over a letter she was waving and berating.  I had to wait until they had all given their advice before being served but got everything I needed.

We motored back to the mouth of the river where we anchored in preparation for an early start but had a bumpy and noisy night with both wind and sea up and fishing boats roaring past close by.   We set off while it was still dark and as we crossed the sand bar at the exit also had to run the gauntlet of the fishing fleet.  Off the coast the wind was great and WE SAILED for a good few hours before it all died away and the auto pilot and engine took over again.

Rota 27th September -  Rota is in the North West Corner of the wide Bay of Cadiz where Drake was responsible for ‘singeing the King of Spain’s beard’ -  he set his fleet alight and damaged Spanish pride.  Cadiz is absolutely fabulous.  The classic view of a burnished golden dome framed by a tawny stone arch with the blue blue sea beyond really exists.  The old city had many towers where the merchants could look out over the sea and watch out for their investments.  These still exist and one has been turned into a Camera Obscura where we got an incredible overview of the city.  Today I went to the public market.  In constant danger of being mown down by small women with big trolleys I wandered incredulous, not least at the variety of seafood but of their origin.  Here are just a few: Colombia, Falkland Islands, South Africa, Italy, India, Mauritius, Morocco, France - I looked for Scotland in vain.

Two nuns, their habits like small black and white sails glided past as I walked along the long, straight, narrow streets.  Some of the buildings lean in towards each other and every few steps you are stopped in your tracks as you peek into a tiled vestibule, festooned with greenery,  the inner sanctum barred by a wrought iron archway that leads to a courtyard and steps that rise intriguingly. The open top tour buses could never get along here although scooters, small cars and work vans, can negotiate the available space, the latter often having to put many points into their turn and often accompanied by loud advice from locals.  

In all Spanish towns the Plazas are important meeting places and they are beautiful.  Wrought iron bench backs rise from colourful tiled seats and lovely ceramic pots stand at each end full of lush green plants.  There are plenty of large shady trees and tall slender palms and the base of the palm bits seems to be the nesting place for the noisiest of little green birds.  In fact the noise rivals that of the people in the evening as they meet for tapas and drinks, and that’s saying something!

Amundsen (polar explorer) said something to this effect - adventures are nothing more than badly planned journeys - can’t think why that’s just come into my head - let’s hope our planning stays sound!

Jinti

right - one of many Cadiz  towers and bells.

Above left - Spain as seen from Portugal at Alcoutim.

Left - Alastair enjoying a lunch time anchorage off Lagos.