High Point: Arriving in Siracusa. The early evening sun lights up the facades of the waterfront palazzos and the towers and spires on the skyline. Their faded elegance and the many architectural styles give us an immediate sense of the rich history of this important trading crossroads. At nightfall the city puts on a firework show and we have ringside seats anchored in the harbour – we treat it as our own celebration that we have now arrived in the Ionian sea!
Low Point: We’ve found the last few days without a break a bit of a slog. It’s too much effort at the end of a long day to launch the dinghy to go ashore. It has to be pumped up, then winched up on a halyard before it can be lowered into the water. The same goes for the outboard, and the whole performance takes about half an hour in good conditions – longer if it’s windy or choppy. And then you have to do it all over again in reverse to get the whole lot back onboard. Spending any length of time onboard with no way off apart from into the sea for a swim is tough for us. It works better when we can sail one day and spend the next day parked up so we can go ashore and explore our surroundings. That’s what we did on passage down the Portuguese coast, and we resolve to do it that way again next time.
On 20th August we see the family off on the airport bus to Palermo from Port Empedocle, before returning to a strangely empty and decluttered Makarma. We must make her ready for the next few days journey along the coast southeast, then north to Siracusa. The first day is a 25 mile passage to Licata. We motor for the first hour in flat calm, which gives the engine a chance to top up the batteries and cool the fridge. Then we beam reach in sparkling calm conditions until the breeze falls light and astern, forcing us to motor for the last 8 miles. The coastline here is barren and rocky with scattered settlements and not much farmland. We pass one or two beaches on the way which are packed with holidaymakers.
It is hot and thundery (37 degrees in the cabin) as we come into Licata. It’s a scruffy harbour and its most prominent feature is a huge cemetery that sprawls over the hill above it. The town is described in the guidebook as ‘a blackspot’. We don’t bother to go ashore to find out what they mean. We anchor in the east side of the harbour, which now has a dog-leg entrance between two new inner walls to the south. Someone told us it’s in preparation for a marina they plan to build.
We are all alone in the anchorage – and it is high season! It was the same in Porto Empedocle, apart from one night when two other boats joined us. We’re the only yacht anchoring tomorrow night off Marina di Ragusa as well. You clearly can still get off the beaten track in the Med, and find places that are not visited by hordes of yachts.
From Licata we plan to stop somewhere close to Marina di Ragusa 37 miles away, which the pilot mentions has a new 800 berth marina. There’s just a seawall marked on our charts, but there’s a bay on either side which should offer enough shelter for the night, given the conditions. Like yesterday, we have a sparkling broad reach in the sea breeze for three hours before the wind dies. We motor the rest of the way. We’re only two miles short of Marina di Ragusa when thunder clouds start to build ashore over the hills. Before long, thunder is rumbling closer and we can see lightning. We put all our portable electronic gear in the oven as a precaution. The numerous little speed boats out fishing all run for cover to the marina. The storm breaks over us bringing a fresh breeze and a downpour of rain that washes our decks nicely. We can’t help feeling like sitting ducks to see the lightning flash around us, and a couple of very loud thunderclaps make us jump in fright, but it soon blows over us. Through it all, a fleet of Lasers is still racing round the cans off the beach.
The anchorage is better than we expect. A pleasant holiday resort extends eastward from the new marina along the sandy bay. The sea is reasonably calm, and the storm has freshened the air. We expect to sleep well – until the disco starts up……
We make an early start the next day to do the 30 miles to Porto Palo, just around the southeast corner of Sicily. By 11am, the wind has filled in, and Leighton helms for almost three hours until the wind dies. It then perversely freshens and comes in on the nose, forcing us to donk into it for an hour until we get round the point. We reach Porto Palo harbour by mid afternoon, but before we can go ashore, Leighton wants to repair a leak in the dinghy, and the glue will take 24 hours to cure. Undeterred, C swims ashore to the beach. It’s the first time either of us has been on dry land since leaving Port Empedocle. The water in the bay is surprisingly clear, considering a small fleet of fishing trawlers is berthed here.
We have Siracusa in our sights next morning, motoring in flat calm until midday when the breeze gets up. It is 15 knots bang on the nose, so we decide to crack off and sail to the beach resort of Fontane Bianchi instead, which gives us an hour of fast reaching before we drop the anchor in 5 metres of clear water over sand. Once again, we’re the only boat around, and it’s Sunday! We snorkel towards the shore, keeping a watchful eye out to avoid a number of brown jellyfish with dark beaded tentacles. Back on board, we realise the breeze has gone round southeasterly, giving us a favourable wind to Siracusa. Once we get the sails up, we can’t manage more than 3 knots and we’re impatient to get to Siracusa now, so we take them down again. A big thundercloud looms behind us for a while, but passes harmlessly by. As we motor along at a sedate 4-5 knots, we’re overtaken by an armada of motorboats big and small that are going home at top speed after a day out. The sea is churned up with so much wash that we lurch and roll our way round Capo Murro di Porco before entering the great expanse of sheltered water that is Siracusa harbour where we anchor.
13th – 20th August –Sciacca to Port Empedocle
High Point: Arrival of the family from Devon to have a week’s holiday onboard. We collect Catherine’s sister Fiona and her kids Tommy and Rosie from Palermo airport on the 13th, stopping off to see the temple at Segesta on the way back to Sciacca.
Makarma has turned into a swimming platform for the week. The swell prevented us from anchoring off the beach at Sciacca, so we walked to it instead for the first couple of afternoons while our visitors acclimatised. Although Sciacca to Port Empedocle is a mere 25 miles, we plan a halfway stop at Eraclea Minoa to split it into two short passages. We have a gentle closehauled sail most of the way from Sciacca to Eraclea Minoa – Fiona enjoying the helming.
Low Point: Anchoring for the night off the beach at Eraclea Minoa. Despite almost no wind, a persistent southeasterly swell caused by winds somewhere off the Tunisian coast make a misery of what should have been an idyllic anchorage. The boat pitched and rolled all night. We all needed lee cloths, our visitors needed stugeron to quell their seasickness, and no-one got much sleep. We left with relief at first light the next morning to anchor in the more sheltered waters of Port Empedocle harbour.
Port Empedocle is a commercial harbour, not exactly scenic. Our anchorage is in the western harbour between the ferry terminal and the power station. At least there’s a small beach just beyond the sea wall, and the kids are happy swimming off the boat in the harbour. The shops are conveniently close ashore. We take the boat out every day from the harbour to anchor off the beach somewhere. The awning is still over the boom and the sail cover on – towels and swimming gear on the rails. The light winds means there’s little point in getting it all down to do some sailing, so we make no pretence of being seamanlike. One day we visit Scala dei Turchi, a brilliant white limestone outcrop which juts out beyond the beach just west of Port Empedocle. It is swarming with people who are climbing up the well worn paths around the structure, stretching out to sun themselves on its blinding brightness, or diving off into the sea below.
The kids have an insatiable appetite for diving, swimming and snorkelling. Keeping everyone fed, watered and de-salted occupies much of the day, whilst still leaving plenty of time to enjoy their lively company, to catch up on the news from home and to show our gratitude for all the shore liaison that Fiona does for us at home.
There’s one more Greek colony we want to visit while we’re here, and the kids reluctantly give up a morning’s swim to come along as well. It is a short bus ride from Port Empedocle to the Valley of the Temples at Agrigento. The three temples built along the ridge – the Temple of Hercules; the Temple of Concord and the Temple of Hera are no less impressive a second time around for Catherine. We see them again from the sea as we daysail out to the Lido San Leone the next day.
The highlight for us both is the Archeological Museum – and not just because we could get out of the searing heat. It has a scale model of the massive Temple of Zeus which would have been the largest Doric temple every built, but was never completed as it was destroyed when the city was sacked by the Carthaginians. Also on display is a telamon, a sculpted stone Atlas nearly 8 metres high, one of dozens which supported the roof of the temple. Until you see the model and the Atlas together, you just don’t get a sense of the colossal scale of the building. Later, in an act of utter disregard for the value of their own heritage, many of the huge stone blocks were taken from the ruined temple to construct the port at Empedocle.
Visiting Selinunte and Agrigento - these ancient cities of Magna Graecia - is a reminder to us that we’re getting closer to journey’s end for this summer’s cruising. Our goal is Greece, and specifically the Ionian islands this year. We have sailed over 1500 miles since leaving Ayamonte in May, and there’s not far to go now. We can’t wait to get on and find ourselves there.
Makarma has turned into a swimming platform for the week. The swell prevented us from anchoring off the beach at Sciacca, so we walked to it instead for the first couple of afternoons while our visitors acclimatised. Although Sciacca to Port Empedocle is a mere 25 miles, we plan a halfway stop at Eraclea Minoa to split it into two short passages. We have a gentle closehauled sail most of the way from Sciacca to Eraclea Minoa – Fiona enjoying the helming.
Low Point: Anchoring for the night off the beach at Eraclea Minoa. Despite almost no wind, a persistent southeasterly swell caused by winds somewhere off the Tunisian coast make a misery of what should have been an idyllic anchorage. The boat pitched and rolled all night. We all needed lee cloths, our visitors needed stugeron to quell their seasickness, and no-one got much sleep. We left with relief at first light the next morning to anchor in the more sheltered waters of Port Empedocle harbour.
Port Empedocle is a commercial harbour, not exactly scenic. Our anchorage is in the western harbour between the ferry terminal and the power station. At least there’s a small beach just beyond the sea wall, and the kids are happy swimming off the boat in the harbour. The shops are conveniently close ashore. We take the boat out every day from the harbour to anchor off the beach somewhere. The awning is still over the boom and the sail cover on – towels and swimming gear on the rails. The light winds means there’s little point in getting it all down to do some sailing, so we make no pretence of being seamanlike. One day we visit Scala dei Turchi, a brilliant white limestone outcrop which juts out beyond the beach just west of Port Empedocle. It is swarming with people who are climbing up the well worn paths around the structure, stretching out to sun themselves on its blinding brightness, or diving off into the sea below.
The kids have an insatiable appetite for diving, swimming and snorkelling. Keeping everyone fed, watered and de-salted occupies much of the day, whilst still leaving plenty of time to enjoy their lively company, to catch up on the news from home and to show our gratitude for all the shore liaison that Fiona does for us at home.
There’s one more Greek colony we want to visit while we’re here, and the kids reluctantly give up a morning’s swim to come along as well. It is a short bus ride from Port Empedocle to the Valley of the Temples at Agrigento. The three temples built along the ridge – the Temple of Hercules; the Temple of Concord and the Temple of Hera are no less impressive a second time around for Catherine. We see them again from the sea as we daysail out to the Lido San Leone the next day.
The highlight for us both is the Archeological Museum – and not just because we could get out of the searing heat. It has a scale model of the massive Temple of Zeus which would have been the largest Doric temple every built, but was never completed as it was destroyed when the city was sacked by the Carthaginians. Also on display is a telamon, a sculpted stone Atlas nearly 8 metres high, one of dozens which supported the roof of the temple. Until you see the model and the Atlas together, you just don’t get a sense of the colossal scale of the building. Later, in an act of utter disregard for the value of their own heritage, many of the huge stone blocks were taken from the ruined temple to construct the port at Empedocle.
Visiting Selinunte and Agrigento - these ancient cities of Magna Graecia - is a reminder to us that we’re getting closer to journey’s end for this summer’s cruising. Our goal is Greece, and specifically the Ionian islands this year. We have sailed over 1500 miles since leaving Ayamonte in May, and there’s not far to go now. We can’t wait to get on and find ourselves there.
11th August - Sciacca
High Point: A week’s wait in Sciacca marina for Fiona and the kids to arrive has given us the chance to take a break from sailing and explore our surroundings. We also have the time to service the engine; wash the running rigging and buff up the woodwork on the dorade boxes. So the boat’s generally in pretty good shape.
Low Point: Dense ‘Homeric’ fog and 30 degree heat – all at the same time. It is a bizarre experience to go for a swim off the beach in almost zero visibility, as if the air and the sea are the same soupy consistency. With none of the usual sea breeze to clear the air, it stays humid and airless all day. Our French neighbours joke it’s ‘comme en Angleterre’ – apart from the temperature, that is.
We have a blast down from Mazaro to Sciacca – 26 miles. We wait at anchor in Mazaro for the forecast NW5 until mid morning before getting on our way down to Cape Granitola, sailing with just the yankee. Once we round the point to head southeast, the wind is dead astern and stronger now. It’s quite a romp. We’re glad we don’t have the main up as it’s gusting 30 knots. Ahead of us, the spectacular Greek temple at Selinunte is visible on a hill just behind the beach. We average 6 knots all the way to Sciacca. It’s no trouble finding the harbour entrance as there’s a steady stream of trawlers heading in. Sciacca is a proper working fishing harbour with all the smells that go with it, and it has a big fishing fleet. We tie up in the small marina here, the friendly reception making us feel very much at home in no time.
To reach the town from the harbour you have to climb up a steep flight of steps – over 200 of them. But it’s worth it when you get there. The view from the main piazza back down to the port is breathtaking. And the town has plenty of historic buildings to see, colourful ceramics, a busy market and loads of ice-cream stalls. And no visit here is complete without going to see the Greek temple at Selinunte nearby, which we saw from the boat as we came along the coast. Cathy has been here before - in 1980 with her girlfriend Cly. It is sobering to think that it is almost thirty years ago since then, and only three years later she was dead. These ancient ruins rekindle the distant memory of that visit, and for a moment remembering her here brings us closer to her.
Leighton writes about Selinunte: Despite the searing heat and my ailing foot, we opted to walk the short distance to the temple ruins instead of taking the tourist buggy-train. The temple (which we’d seen from the sea) has been mostly reconstructed and it was an amazing experience to walk inside among the columns. Further out on the promontory overlooking the sea we could see the pillars of another temple, and despite it being some distance away, we hobbled off in the heat towards it. We had little information about Selinunte as Fiona was bringing out a guidebook, and there was little in the way of signs or information on the site. However, when we reached the temple ruins on the point it suddenly became clear that we were standing in the acropolis of an important ancient city that covered a huge area and had roads laid out in an orderly grid with streets, homes and shops. Much of the site has yet to be excavated. We later learned that Selinunte was one of the most impressive in the ancient Greek world and the city had over 100,000 inhabitants in its heyday before it was destroyed by an army of Carthaginians commanded by Hannibal in 409BC.
A stand of eucalyptus trees in a low area just below the acropolis grow on what was a shallow natural harbour used in Greek times. A river ran along the west side of the point. Sea to the south, fertile land for crops to the north, a natural harbour and fresh water from the river. It was obviously an ideal location, well able to support the population of the city. You are able to go everywhere on the site, there are no sections fenced off to prevent entry. This reminded me of my early visits to Stonehenge and the pleasure of wandering among the stones. There is something very special about walking down a 2,500 year old street, seeing the walls of what must have been shop fronts and imagining the butcher, the baker, dogs, children and throng of shoppers going about their daily business. At each intersection you look left and right. It’s difficult not to wonder ‘now what was down there,’ as you pass each side street. I have not experienced a site that is still so full of life as Selinunte. It is certainly one of the highlights of Sicily.
Back at the marina it occurs to us that we’ve not come across another British flagged boat since we left Sardinia. It’s a good thing we can rustle up a few words in several languages – speaking Russian is certainly unexpected. A number of Italian charter boats use the marina in Marsala as a base, but don’t venture along the south coast. The cruising folk here are mostly French. They sail from the French Riviera down the coast of Corsica and Sardinia, then over to Sicily. Many of them go on to Tunisia as well. We first meet Daniel and Genevieve and their two teenage kids in Marsala, and they turn up again in Sciacca. Over drinks we discover they’re on their way down to Malta before heading back to their home port of Toulouse. Claude and Dominique welcome us aboard Le Gribu II for an aperitif when they’re moored next door to us in Sciacca. They overwinter in Tunisia every year and they are on their way back there from cruising around the Ionian islands. What they have to say about the area makes us all the more impatient to get there.
We’ve met some eastern Europeans too. Alongside us in Marsala is a Cheoy Lee ketch from the Czech Republic with a young family living onboard. A 60’ steel motorcruiser registered in Batumi, Georgia arrives from Tunisia and ties up next to the Czech. The Georgian boat has sprung a hole in the hull (the result of electrolysis in Hammamet marina apparently) and although it’s leaking badly it can’t be lifted out until the next day. The Georgian skipper clearly needs help, so we lend him our hand pump. We reckon that Habib his paid hand will be the fellow who has to get pumping to keep the water level down. Whatever happened, they’re still afloat in the morning and we’re given an excellent bottle of Tunisian red wine as a thankyou.
The crew aboard a chartered 50’ Beneteau that arrives one evening in Sciacca are obviously Russian. What’s more, a teenage girl among them speaks perfect English because – of all unlikely things – she’s a pupil at Rugby! They’re gone by early the next morning, not before they managed to drain the voltage of the pontoon’s electricity supply overnight.
Low Point: Dense ‘Homeric’ fog and 30 degree heat – all at the same time. It is a bizarre experience to go for a swim off the beach in almost zero visibility, as if the air and the sea are the same soupy consistency. With none of the usual sea breeze to clear the air, it stays humid and airless all day. Our French neighbours joke it’s ‘comme en Angleterre’ – apart from the temperature, that is.
We have a blast down from Mazaro to Sciacca – 26 miles. We wait at anchor in Mazaro for the forecast NW5 until mid morning before getting on our way down to Cape Granitola, sailing with just the yankee. Once we round the point to head southeast, the wind is dead astern and stronger now. It’s quite a romp. We’re glad we don’t have the main up as it’s gusting 30 knots. Ahead of us, the spectacular Greek temple at Selinunte is visible on a hill just behind the beach. We average 6 knots all the way to Sciacca. It’s no trouble finding the harbour entrance as there’s a steady stream of trawlers heading in. Sciacca is a proper working fishing harbour with all the smells that go with it, and it has a big fishing fleet. We tie up in the small marina here, the friendly reception making us feel very much at home in no time.
To reach the town from the harbour you have to climb up a steep flight of steps – over 200 of them. But it’s worth it when you get there. The view from the main piazza back down to the port is breathtaking. And the town has plenty of historic buildings to see, colourful ceramics, a busy market and loads of ice-cream stalls. And no visit here is complete without going to see the Greek temple at Selinunte nearby, which we saw from the boat as we came along the coast. Cathy has been here before - in 1980 with her girlfriend Cly. It is sobering to think that it is almost thirty years ago since then, and only three years later she was dead. These ancient ruins rekindle the distant memory of that visit, and for a moment remembering her here brings us closer to her.
Leighton writes about Selinunte: Despite the searing heat and my ailing foot, we opted to walk the short distance to the temple ruins instead of taking the tourist buggy-train. The temple (which we’d seen from the sea) has been mostly reconstructed and it was an amazing experience to walk inside among the columns. Further out on the promontory overlooking the sea we could see the pillars of another temple, and despite it being some distance away, we hobbled off in the heat towards it. We had little information about Selinunte as Fiona was bringing out a guidebook, and there was little in the way of signs or information on the site. However, when we reached the temple ruins on the point it suddenly became clear that we were standing in the acropolis of an important ancient city that covered a huge area and had roads laid out in an orderly grid with streets, homes and shops. Much of the site has yet to be excavated. We later learned that Selinunte was one of the most impressive in the ancient Greek world and the city had over 100,000 inhabitants in its heyday before it was destroyed by an army of Carthaginians commanded by Hannibal in 409BC.
A stand of eucalyptus trees in a low area just below the acropolis grow on what was a shallow natural harbour used in Greek times. A river ran along the west side of the point. Sea to the south, fertile land for crops to the north, a natural harbour and fresh water from the river. It was obviously an ideal location, well able to support the population of the city. You are able to go everywhere on the site, there are no sections fenced off to prevent entry. This reminded me of my early visits to Stonehenge and the pleasure of wandering among the stones. There is something very special about walking down a 2,500 year old street, seeing the walls of what must have been shop fronts and imagining the butcher, the baker, dogs, children and throng of shoppers going about their daily business. At each intersection you look left and right. It’s difficult not to wonder ‘now what was down there,’ as you pass each side street. I have not experienced a site that is still so full of life as Selinunte. It is certainly one of the highlights of Sicily.
Back at the marina it occurs to us that we’ve not come across another British flagged boat since we left Sardinia. It’s a good thing we can rustle up a few words in several languages – speaking Russian is certainly unexpected. A number of Italian charter boats use the marina in Marsala as a base, but don’t venture along the south coast. The cruising folk here are mostly French. They sail from the French Riviera down the coast of Corsica and Sardinia, then over to Sicily. Many of them go on to Tunisia as well. We first meet Daniel and Genevieve and their two teenage kids in Marsala, and they turn up again in Sciacca. Over drinks we discover they’re on their way down to Malta before heading back to their home port of Toulouse. Claude and Dominique welcome us aboard Le Gribu II for an aperitif when they’re moored next door to us in Sciacca. They overwinter in Tunisia every year and they are on their way back there from cruising around the Ionian islands. What they have to say about the area makes us all the more impatient to get there.
We’ve met some eastern Europeans too. Alongside us in Marsala is a Cheoy Lee ketch from the Czech Republic with a young family living onboard. A 60’ steel motorcruiser registered in Batumi, Georgia arrives from Tunisia and ties up next to the Czech. The Georgian boat has sprung a hole in the hull (the result of electrolysis in Hammamet marina apparently) and although it’s leaking badly it can’t be lifted out until the next day. The Georgian skipper clearly needs help, so we lend him our hand pump. We reckon that Habib his paid hand will be the fellow who has to get pumping to keep the water level down. Whatever happened, they’re still afloat in the morning and we’re given an excellent bottle of Tunisian red wine as a thankyou.
The crew aboard a chartered 50’ Beneteau that arrives one evening in Sciacca are obviously Russian. What’s more, a teenage girl among them speaks perfect English because – of all unlikely things – she’s a pupil at Rugby! They’re gone by early the next morning, not before they managed to drain the voltage of the pontoon’s electricity supply overnight.
4th August – Mazaro del Vallo
Soundtrack: Church bells strike the hour in a handsome baroque church tower ashore. A little later, we hear the muezzin from the nearby mosque calling the muslim faithful to prayer. Can it be that some of the tolerance of different faiths and cultures that began in Sicily in the Middle Ages still lingers here?
High Point: Finding out that Leighton’s foot isn’t broken after all. After 5 days his foot was still painfully swollen, and he was finding even a few steps difficult to take, so we thought we’d better go to the local hospital to get it x-rayed.
Low Point: The casualty department at Marsala hospital. The resigned expressions of the sick and injured waiting to be treated say it all. It’s clear everyone accepts that public services don’t deliver, and you just have to sit and wait. There’s no point making a fuss about it. The hospital staff and other patients are incredibly kind and despite our broken Italian understand how to help us. Leighton gets his x-ray without too much delay, but we can’t face waiting to see the doctor (there’s only one on duty in the whole of casualty) and we leave without treatment.
We have come to Lilibeo marina in Marsala after spending three days at anchor in Cala Azzura in Favignana, ghosting down the 8 miles in a light northerly breeze. It isn’t a bad place to sit and rest Leighton’s foot for a few days. Fresh fruit and veg is available from a market stall nearby. We stroll – taking it slowly as Leighton hobbles along – through the old town. We go through the Porta di Garibaldi, following in the footsteps of the famous revolutionary who entered Marsala in triumph to lead the risorgimento. The historic centre has pleasantly shaded streets of small boutiques; piazzas, a cathedral with a fine turquoise cupola and a cinema with a classic 1920’s façade.
Now we know Leighton’s foot will recover on its own, we’re ready to leave Marsala and sail down to Mazaro, a large trawler port some 12 miles to the south. The southerly wind of the last few days has now obligingly gone round westerly, and the forecast is for northwesterly. It is F4, so you’d think it would be a delightful sail. But there’s quite a swell running which makes it a bit of a rough ride. The jib furling line causes a problem by wrapping itself around the outside of the drum, so it has to be re-rove at the bow before we can get the sail in. By mid-afternoon we anchor under Mazaro’s substantial east harbour wall and get out of the swell. So far the wash from the trawlers coming and going hasn’t affected us either.
High Point: Finding out that Leighton’s foot isn’t broken after all. After 5 days his foot was still painfully swollen, and he was finding even a few steps difficult to take, so we thought we’d better go to the local hospital to get it x-rayed.
Low Point: The casualty department at Marsala hospital. The resigned expressions of the sick and injured waiting to be treated say it all. It’s clear everyone accepts that public services don’t deliver, and you just have to sit and wait. There’s no point making a fuss about it. The hospital staff and other patients are incredibly kind and despite our broken Italian understand how to help us. Leighton gets his x-ray without too much delay, but we can’t face waiting to see the doctor (there’s only one on duty in the whole of casualty) and we leave without treatment.
We have come to Lilibeo marina in Marsala after spending three days at anchor in Cala Azzura in Favignana, ghosting down the 8 miles in a light northerly breeze. It isn’t a bad place to sit and rest Leighton’s foot for a few days. Fresh fruit and veg is available from a market stall nearby. We stroll – taking it slowly as Leighton hobbles along – through the old town. We go through the Porta di Garibaldi, following in the footsteps of the famous revolutionary who entered Marsala in triumph to lead the risorgimento. The historic centre has pleasantly shaded streets of small boutiques; piazzas, a cathedral with a fine turquoise cupola and a cinema with a classic 1920’s façade.
Now we know Leighton’s foot will recover on its own, we’re ready to leave Marsala and sail down to Mazaro, a large trawler port some 12 miles to the south. The southerly wind of the last few days has now obligingly gone round westerly, and the forecast is for northwesterly. It is F4, so you’d think it would be a delightful sail. But there’s quite a swell running which makes it a bit of a rough ride. The jib furling line causes a problem by wrapping itself around the outside of the drum, so it has to be re-rove at the bow before we can get the sail in. By mid-afternoon we anchor under Mazaro’s substantial east harbour wall and get out of the swell. So far the wash from the trawlers coming and going hasn’t affected us either.
29th July - Favignana in the Egadi Islands, Sicily
High Point: Completing the 170 mile passage to the Egadi Islands from Sardinia. It’s the last long passage we have to do (unless we choose otherwise) to get to the eastern Med, and it means our goal of cruising this autumn in the Ionian is getting closer all the time. It also puts us within range of a convenient place to meet up with Catherine’s sister Fiona and the kids, who are flying out to Palermo to spend a week with us from 13th August.
Low Point: Leighton is on painkillers nursing a very swollen and bruised big toe on his left foot. Somehow on passage he whacked it, then injured it again by stubbing it hard on the companionway step. Instead of frozen peas, we’ve had to make do with a cold beer tin to try and reduce the swelling. He’s under orders to keep his feet up until it’s better, so we won’t be going any distance for a while.
In Cagliari we say an emotional farewell and good luck to Alan and Ann on Sula-Mac. It’s been great meeting like-minded liveaboards and we’ve enjoyed sailing in company with them for a while. They are leaving to sail to Palermo, then along the north coast of Sicily towards Messina. We’ve opted to sail along the south coast, which we hope will be a little less crowded. We’ve decided to do the long passage to Favignana, the largest of the Egadi Islands the next day – Saturday – when there’s forecast to be a bit more wind.
The Egadi islands lie just off the northwest corner of Sicily. Favignana at around 6 miles long is the largest of the four islands. Apart from the main peak Montagna Grossa at its centre, Favignana is low and cultivated, its trees and fields fed by freshwater springs. Ernle Bradford in ‘Odysseus Found’ argues that Favignana is the Goat island of Homer’s Odyssey, where Ulysses and his men fetched up on the voyage from the Land of the Lotus-Eaters in North Africa. Just across the water on the mainland of Sicily lies Trapani and – allegedly - the land of the Cyclops. Reading about it makes us curious to see the islands for ourselves.
When Saturday comes, the wind instruments show 30 knots over the deck in the marina, and you can imagine our reaction when we see the lifeboat tow into the harbour a British yacht with a shredded genoa and its mainsail spilled all over the coachroof. We delay our departure while the wind blows all that evening and well into the early hours. We leave at 0600 on Sunday morning in a NW4-5 and to begin with we romp downwind under the yankee. This is good we think, as the forecast has the wind staying this way for the next 12 hours. But just short of Cape Carbonara only 25 miles SE of Cagliari, the wind dies. No wind from any direction, just an uncomfortable leftover swell. From then on, it is a tedious passage of motoring all the way.
The only break from motoring comes when the engine conks out at 3am, mid-way across. Cathy unrolls the yankee and while the boat trickles along at 2.5 knots, Leighton opens up the engine compartment to look for the cause of the breakdown. He soon sees that the seal on the fuel filter has started leaking, allowing air into the fuel system. Fitting a new fuel filter on top of a hot engine in the dark is a sweaty, awkward job, but he manages and it does the trick. To give ourselves and the engine a rest, we sail along slowly but peacefully for the rest of the night, and at daybreak we hoist the mainsail as well. By mid morning, the wind has died again and we motor on. We sight the peak of Isla Marettimo by early afternoon, and are approaching our chosen anchorage in Cala Rotonda on Favignana by early evening. As we go in, an Italian charter yacht guns his engine to barge ahead of us and take the only good sandy spot in the middle of the bay. It takes us six attempts to get the bugel hooked through the thick weed that is growing everywhere else. We finally put out loads of chain and Leighton dives down to manhandle the anchor into a sandy trench on the bottom. What a palaver after a long passage.
In the past when things have gone wrong or been difficult, we tended to take it out on each other - which only made matters worse. We didn’t lose it with each other anchoring here in Cala Rotonda - despite being tired. We now try and make the best of what we’ve got instead. Getting this far has made us more confident in our own abilities, and each of us now has complete trust in what the other is capable of too. Life is better as a result.
We have a peaceful rest day in the cala, followed by a short walk ashore – Leighton managing to hobble along despite his sore foot. For a change of scene, we’ve moved to a little bay beside Marsala Point today. Crowds of holidaymakers are crammed into the small beach, and the anchorage is busy with dayboats and a handful of yachts. Judging by yesterday and today, the sea breeze here is a more benign affair than in Sardinia. The pilot speaks of 15 knots tops in the afternoon, which is what we’ve got. It will make a very welcome change if it stays that way.
Low Point: Leighton is on painkillers nursing a very swollen and bruised big toe on his left foot. Somehow on passage he whacked it, then injured it again by stubbing it hard on the companionway step. Instead of frozen peas, we’ve had to make do with a cold beer tin to try and reduce the swelling. He’s under orders to keep his feet up until it’s better, so we won’t be going any distance for a while.
In Cagliari we say an emotional farewell and good luck to Alan and Ann on Sula-Mac. It’s been great meeting like-minded liveaboards and we’ve enjoyed sailing in company with them for a while. They are leaving to sail to Palermo, then along the north coast of Sicily towards Messina. We’ve opted to sail along the south coast, which we hope will be a little less crowded. We’ve decided to do the long passage to Favignana, the largest of the Egadi Islands the next day – Saturday – when there’s forecast to be a bit more wind.
The Egadi islands lie just off the northwest corner of Sicily. Favignana at around 6 miles long is the largest of the four islands. Apart from the main peak Montagna Grossa at its centre, Favignana is low and cultivated, its trees and fields fed by freshwater springs. Ernle Bradford in ‘Odysseus Found’ argues that Favignana is the Goat island of Homer’s Odyssey, where Ulysses and his men fetched up on the voyage from the Land of the Lotus-Eaters in North Africa. Just across the water on the mainland of Sicily lies Trapani and – allegedly - the land of the Cyclops. Reading about it makes us curious to see the islands for ourselves.
When Saturday comes, the wind instruments show 30 knots over the deck in the marina, and you can imagine our reaction when we see the lifeboat tow into the harbour a British yacht with a shredded genoa and its mainsail spilled all over the coachroof. We delay our departure while the wind blows all that evening and well into the early hours. We leave at 0600 on Sunday morning in a NW4-5 and to begin with we romp downwind under the yankee. This is good we think, as the forecast has the wind staying this way for the next 12 hours. But just short of Cape Carbonara only 25 miles SE of Cagliari, the wind dies. No wind from any direction, just an uncomfortable leftover swell. From then on, it is a tedious passage of motoring all the way.
The only break from motoring comes when the engine conks out at 3am, mid-way across. Cathy unrolls the yankee and while the boat trickles along at 2.5 knots, Leighton opens up the engine compartment to look for the cause of the breakdown. He soon sees that the seal on the fuel filter has started leaking, allowing air into the fuel system. Fitting a new fuel filter on top of a hot engine in the dark is a sweaty, awkward job, but he manages and it does the trick. To give ourselves and the engine a rest, we sail along slowly but peacefully for the rest of the night, and at daybreak we hoist the mainsail as well. By mid morning, the wind has died again and we motor on. We sight the peak of Isla Marettimo by early afternoon, and are approaching our chosen anchorage in Cala Rotonda on Favignana by early evening. As we go in, an Italian charter yacht guns his engine to barge ahead of us and take the only good sandy spot in the middle of the bay. It takes us six attempts to get the bugel hooked through the thick weed that is growing everywhere else. We finally put out loads of chain and Leighton dives down to manhandle the anchor into a sandy trench on the bottom. What a palaver after a long passage.
In the past when things have gone wrong or been difficult, we tended to take it out on each other - which only made matters worse. We didn’t lose it with each other anchoring here in Cala Rotonda - despite being tired. We now try and make the best of what we’ve got instead. Getting this far has made us more confident in our own abilities, and each of us now has complete trust in what the other is capable of too. Life is better as a result.
We have a peaceful rest day in the cala, followed by a short walk ashore – Leighton managing to hobble along despite his sore foot. For a change of scene, we’ve moved to a little bay beside Marsala Point today. Crowds of holidaymakers are crammed into the small beach, and the anchorage is busy with dayboats and a handful of yachts. Judging by yesterday and today, the sea breeze here is a more benign affair than in Sardinia. The pilot speaks of 15 knots tops in the afternoon, which is what we’ve got. It will make a very welcome change if it stays that way.
24th July - Cagliari
High Point: 1. Leaving Malfatano we’d intended to go all the way to Cagliari, but slowed by a headwind as we approach Cape Pula, we opt to drop anchor in the lee of the point instead. What luck! If we’d gone on, we’d have missed a real highlight. When Leighton scanned the shore through the binoculars, he saw what he took to be ruins of some kind, so we rowed ashore to investigate. It turns out to be the remains of the Punic and Roman settlement of Nora. We found a forum, a small amphitheatre, a temple, mosaic floors – the works. What a treat - to be on land after several days confined onboard, and to stumble upon an archeological site of such interest.
2. Leighton’s personal high point was driving the marina’s battered Fiat Panda alla mille miglia through the streets of Cagliari to the Carrefour hypermarket and back.
Low Point: Cagliari in high summer is a hot and dusty place, the air hanging heavy with pollution from the refineries on the outskirts of the city. There’s the constant noise of traffic and jets landing at the airport. The cabin temperature reaches the mid 30s by the afternoon, and the supermarket is a tiringly long walk away.
After exploring Nora and enjoying a pizza lunch, we anchor off the beach in the bay next door for better shelter from the sea breeze, and spend the night there. We catch the same sea breeze to take us into Marina del Sole in Cagliari the next afternoon, where Alan and Ann are already berthed. Our friends Chris and Jenny had overwintered their boat here one year and warned us the place was a bit rough and ready. How true! The pontoons are flimsy; the showers are housed in a tent on decking built over the water’s edge and the office is a shambles of paperwork in one corner of the makeshift bar. Never mind, it isn’t expensive and we need to be in the city for access to the internet to reconnect with the family.
We reject the idea of sightseeing in the old city because of the heat in favour of a trip inland – anywhere just to see some of the countryside. We decide to take the bus to the town of Muravera on the E coast about 55 kilometres from the city. We choose it for the simple reason that the road goes through a range of mountains, and we want to see what the highland interior of the island is like.
Leaving the city behind, we pass first through a farming landscape - fields of ripening oats; smallholdings hedged around with prickly pear; vineyards; orchards of olive and groves of eucalyptus trees – fuel for the countless wood-fired pizza ovens in Cagliari. Then we start to climb and it gets a little cooler. The mountain slopes are deep green with the foliage of holm oak, juniper and wild fig. For a while the road winds along the side of the mountain as it follows the course of a river far below. Here and there at the bottom of the rocky gorge, splashes of pink flowering oleander can be seen. Then we descend to the coast, the bus braking hard on the bends until we reach Muravera. Actually we’ve already gone through the town before we realise it, so we get off at the next town instead and have a leisurely lunch in a homely little restaurant where the town’s tradespeople are eating before catching the bus back again.
2. Leighton’s personal high point was driving the marina’s battered Fiat Panda alla mille miglia through the streets of Cagliari to the Carrefour hypermarket and back.
Low Point: Cagliari in high summer is a hot and dusty place, the air hanging heavy with pollution from the refineries on the outskirts of the city. There’s the constant noise of traffic and jets landing at the airport. The cabin temperature reaches the mid 30s by the afternoon, and the supermarket is a tiringly long walk away.
After exploring Nora and enjoying a pizza lunch, we anchor off the beach in the bay next door for better shelter from the sea breeze, and spend the night there. We catch the same sea breeze to take us into Marina del Sole in Cagliari the next afternoon, where Alan and Ann are already berthed. Our friends Chris and Jenny had overwintered their boat here one year and warned us the place was a bit rough and ready. How true! The pontoons are flimsy; the showers are housed in a tent on decking built over the water’s edge and the office is a shambles of paperwork in one corner of the makeshift bar. Never mind, it isn’t expensive and we need to be in the city for access to the internet to reconnect with the family.
We reject the idea of sightseeing in the old city because of the heat in favour of a trip inland – anywhere just to see some of the countryside. We decide to take the bus to the town of Muravera on the E coast about 55 kilometres from the city. We choose it for the simple reason that the road goes through a range of mountains, and we want to see what the highland interior of the island is like.
Leaving the city behind, we pass first through a farming landscape - fields of ripening oats; smallholdings hedged around with prickly pear; vineyards; orchards of olive and groves of eucalyptus trees – fuel for the countless wood-fired pizza ovens in Cagliari. Then we start to climb and it gets a little cooler. The mountain slopes are deep green with the foliage of holm oak, juniper and wild fig. For a while the road winds along the side of the mountain as it follows the course of a river far below. Here and there at the bottom of the rocky gorge, splashes of pink flowering oleander can be seen. Then we descend to the coast, the bus braking hard on the bends until we reach Muravera. Actually we’ve already gone through the town before we realise it, so we get off at the next town instead and have a leisurely lunch in a homely little restaurant where the town’s tradespeople are eating before catching the bus back again.
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