Ireland

Date: July 21-28 2007
Boat: Fizzgig, Westerley 33

Trip: Cork; Kinsale; Baltimore; Cork

Days: 2
Skipper: John Alden
Crew: Nigel, John, Steve

Right: RYC Crosshaven:

Ryanair have delivered me to Cork in Southern Ireland for a week on Fizzgig and as it stands the weather doesn't look too promising as I exit the airport to a sky as grey as John Major's image and a light but steady drizzle. Of course this is stereotypical Irish weather but one can't help but hope for warm sunshine and a good breeze to fettle us along the coast. The taxi driver fills me in on all the local news as we wind our way down to the Royal Cork Yacht Club no less, the oldest yacht club in the world having been established in 1720, where John has berthed Fizzgig for the crew change. Looking around I initially fail to spot Fizzgig due to her smart new topsides. The scruffy (sorry John) partly stripped deck paint has been replaced with immaculate and perfectly edged light grey panels courtesy apparently of Grovsey who cast aside cravat and cigars to do a mighty fine job, a sort of 10 years younger treatment for boats. I think Dave could have found a new niche for his talents. I imagine I should perhaps remove my shoes and wait for some beautiful young porcelain skinned Japanese girl to appear sporting my tea, but alas a glance down the companionway reveals only the familiar rough beard sporting a cap and a pipe as John A emerges. The rest of the crew are already here, Nigel, John and Steve. I stow my gear in the fore-peak and we gather round to thrash out a plan for the week ahead. We decide to head west the following day for Kinsale a short hop that will get the new crew members back in the swing of things.
Cork to Kinsale
Cork it transpires is not so much a harbour as a collection of harbours, marinas and islands rather like Poole but on a bigger scale. RCYC is situated at Crosshaven a short distance from the main entrance and the first thing that strikes one is that the small charts in the Almanac and the usual details are really not enough (Of course they should never be used in isolation) unless you know the area pretty well. The proper charts expose numerous places for potential embarrassment that appear perfectly straightforward at Almanac scale. The channel into Crosshaven is typical, the outer markers being single rather than pairs and instead have a leading line. Venture too far off the line other than around high water and you may need a tow. We have no problems however and venture out into the Celtic Sea, aka North Atlantic, my first time sailing outside the confines of the English Channel and first chance to see why Ireland is called the Emerald Isle. Conditions are pretty average, it's a nice solid straightforward sail in F3-4, overcast but not raining and not too cold, perfect to get back into the boat routine. However perhaps it's just my perception but the sea here seems to somehow feel bigger and more intimidating for no good reason. There is a steady procession of swell from the Southwest, not big but purposeful and persistent like the rise and fall of a sleeping giant's chest it gently lifts and lowers Fizzgig along it's route towards Kinsale. Navigation reveals little to worry us. The cliffs here seem to plunge immediately to five or ten metres or more such that the brave could almost be temped to sail alongside and reach over to touch the rock-face. There are a few rocks but all are well marked and we can't fail to miss the Old Head of Kinsale jutting out west of Kinsale entrance and sheltering the harbour approaches. The only guide up the outer river is a light, there being no port or starboard hand buoys until you reach the narrows just before the river bends. This point is guarded over by the ruins of two impressive forts, Jame's and Charles's which would once have had us in their sights for a considerable distance. We have a choice of the yacht club or castlepark marina but decide on the closer yacht club as the weather is closing in fast and it's starting to rain. John sticks Fizzgig's nose into the marina entrance but it's quickly evident that the pontoons are all full and we pull a quick about face to avoid having to manoeuvre in the confined space. Outside the main marina there is a long visitor pontoon that is already cluttered with boats. We will have to raft up alongside a Swedish boat of a type that I don't recognise in the only really suitable gap. There is no sign of life aboard and as we come alongside realise that while the chosen boat looks only around 38 feet it's topsides are remarkably high, a big step up from our decks so we go round again to allow us all to shift our positions to suit. As we come alongside the second time the owner appears as if by magic to assist and we raft up without incident. It turns out that the boat was built in England but the Swedish owner has had it only a short time - having gone to Israel to buy from the previous owner and sail it back from there to Sweden single handed.
He has endured several big storms en route and is pleased with how his new baby handles in bad weather. We partake of beers and a fine meal at the yacht club while the locals get all of a fluster over Padraig Harrington closing in on a win in the Open. A good wind blows all night.

Kinsale to Baltiomre
The following morning dawns bright but grey and windy. We have decided to go further west and have five options depending on the weather. If conditions outside the shelter of the Old Head of Kinsale are bad - 1. turn around and return to Kinsale, maybe go to the marina rather than the yacht club, 2. Tuck into Courtmacsherry, 3. Glandore, 4. Castle Haven or all being well 5. Baltimore. Baltimore is favoured particularly by Nigel who expresses a very keen interest in rounding the Fastnet rock. If we can get to Baltimore early in the week this will be possible in a day sail from there. I have to admit I also would love to see such a fabled place if we can and I suspect Steve and the two Johns are also secretly keen. The wind has been blowing pretty much from the south west for a few days as a number of anticyclones of varying degrees follow each other along almost identical tracks which presumably has caused the persistent swell. As we exit the river entrance and head south the sea state becomes quite confused under the influence of wind, tide and the Old Head jutting out a good distance off to starboard. In fact Fizzgig is being tossed all over the place in a most uncomfortable motion under a darkening sky with the long and languorous swells of yesterday chopped up into a random combination of lazy stomach churning dips and thumping slams into short steep waves accompanied by a shower of spray. I am not feeling sick yet but having checked out the chart before we left am performing a mental estimate of the long haul to Baltimore and have come up with at least nine hours. If conditions stay like this it's going to be a very long day indeed. We continue due south not wanting to be too close in to the Old Head when we turn west. We observe a cargo ship at anchor that appears to be so close to the rocky Old Head shore that we wonder if she has dragged onto the shore overnight. However when we finally turn west and the angle of view changes she is clear of the rocks by a reasonable distance, but much closer than I would have dared go in a yacht let alone a ship, local knowledge I assume improves confidence. It had been my intention to do the navigation today but the conditions are suggesting that staying below for more than a few minutes would be inadvisable so I decide to leave the nav to Nigel and the bacon sarnies to John. Mercifully on our new course we seem to lose the short sharp waves that slam into Fizzgig with a shudder. Unfortunately this respite has come a little late for Steve who suddenly crosses to the rail and kindly donates his breakfast to the passing fish and gull population before retiring to a bunk. With Steve in the land of nod the four of us take turns to helm on the long haul down the coast. A good consistent force 4 to 5 on the port beam means we can make a steady course and a good 5-6 knots through the water as the sun begins to shine and I have to reach for the factor 50 if I am not to morph into my Lobster man alter ego by evening. When lunchtime arrives I go below to make up some cup a soups for us which also serves to get me out of the midday sun. I leave the mad dogs or Englishmen, not sure which, and descend into the cabin. The boat is still rolling significantly so making anything more demanding is pretty much out of the question and I wedge myself in the galley area, arrange four cups in the little sink and put the kettle on. Four cups because Steve is sleeping soundly and I doubt he would fancy one if I woke him. When the kettle boils I brace my feet against the bulkhead and back against the bunk post while attempting to pour boiling water into the cups arranged neatly in the sink and not all over the boat or myself. You have to try and anticipate the random motion and the kettle suspended from my hand ranges wildly over the cups sloshing water all over them like some bizarre game from the old 'It's a Knockout' where you hope to have filled all the cups before the kettle is empty. I can practically hear Stuart Hall laughing maniacally at my attempts as it appears I have little control over my pouring arm. I plonk the kettle back on the stove, crash back against the bunk post as a roll catches me out, and mix up the soups. At this point I am hit by the simultaneous smell of mushroom, chicken and vegetable. Within seconds I go from feeling fine to feeling distinctly iffy and quickly pass three cups up to the cockpit. I have to make a quick decision - get up on deck or hit the other bunk and lie down double quick. As the sun is still blazing I choose the latter, occupy the port side bunk and hold on. Fortunately the feeling of sickness quickly passes but I decide I may as well stay put for an hour or two until the sun loses some strength and catch some sleep. The familiar rushing and gurgling of water along hull and occasional fluttering of sail soon sends me off. When I awake I make bleary eyed cups of tea and venture up on deck and onto helm duty in time to take us between the
mainland and the infamous Stag rocks, scene of many a wreck along this stretch of coast including the famous Kowloon Bridge a 169,000 ton bulk ore carrier that went aground and broke up in 1986 after suffering steering failure in the worst possible place. The wreck is submerged in 36 metres. Happily it seems we won't be joining her today as conditions and visibility are now perfect. The rocks are an impressive sight jutting like giant saw blades out of the sea, there would be no gentle landing here in an emergency. We enter Baltimore in a blaze of sunshine and see that what appeared to be a space rocket on the starboard cliff top turns out to be a white painted stone marker the shape of a gherkin, a lighthouse with no light or house but visible for miles on a clear day. We tie up at the 'marina' which is basically a concrete filled barge with a small shed. Six or seven yachts are tied along the sides and across the bow which has been 'squared off' with wood decking. A rickety looking but covered ramp leads to to the top of the old harbour wall and it's a two minute walk into the little village.

Baltimore to Fastnet and return
The following day starts bright with ideal conditions and we set off down the coast that is breaking up into that tail of tattered rocks, islands, inlets and bays familiar from the TV weather maps. It would be easy to get lost in this maze. We decide to duck in between two islands and run down the backside where there is more shelter from the sea but still plenty of wind. The bright green hillsides of some of the Islands are dotted with the skeletal remains of the stone houses of long dead communities that once fished these waters. It seems a remote place and when the sun is shining you can see the appeal, but it must have been a very harsh place to live in the winter. As we exit the islands we catch our first sight of the legendary Fastnet rock in the distance gleaming in the sunshine, it doesn't look so bad. However it seems like the God of the sea can not allow such a place to be visited in benign conditions and it is as if the fabled rock has spotted us creeping out towards it. The weather starts to close in, the sky darkens gradually and we are all pulling on our jackets and reaching for hats. With nothing on the horizon except the rock your sense of scale is diminished and it seems to take an age to close on the famous lighthouse which seemed so close, and by the time we get there the boat is rocking, the wind is whipping around us and it's raining but we manage to circle this final outcrop of land and take some souvenir pictures of a slightly bedraggled crew. We have a great sail back to Baltimore by which time its really starting to blow and the shelter of the harbour is welcome. We start to prepare the boat but quickly encounter a problem. As we take in the foresail the furling line jams solid, it's cold and its pouring with rain. I take the helm and take us around in a slow circle so that the two Johns can venture onto the foredeck and see what can be done as the rain gets ever heavier. Unfortunately it's not good news, the line is tangled in the drum so tightly that it can't be shifted. The only option is to take the sail down manually and a struggle ensues with the wind trying to fill and whip the sail away as it's lowered, while the two Johns grab, hug and wrestle the soaking material, until the sail is finally down and lashed along the port side rail. At last we tie up back alongside the concrete barge, all drenched. The whole structure is lifting and falling on the swell as we adjust the lines in the pouring rain under leaden sky. Yes this is what sailing is all about! We settle down to dinner with that curious feeling that one gets when you have somehow enjoyed an experience that should on paper have been utterly miserable. Shortly after dinner I am at the sink washing up when muffled shouts are heard above the howling wind and I venture up on deck to find a yacht trying to raft alongside. It's bedraggled crew pass us some lines and they have clearly had a tough trip. One of their number has had a bad fall and dislocated his shoulder and is packed off to hospital where it transpires that it was also broken.Being Irish however he is more than fit enough to appear in the pub the following day and gets us a drink to thank us for our help tying them up the previous evening.

Although Baltimore is well sheltered it appears that a swell can enter the harbour if conditions are correct which of course according to the law, they are. It's now dark, the rain is still drumming down and the wind howling in the rigging. The swell is rolling in and the combination of elements is causing the two boats rafted together to pull and snatch on the shore lines with a regular creak and bang, it's going to be an uncomfortable night. We settle in to drinks and a game of cards, five of us huddled around the cabin table in the dim light of the saloon. It's starting to look worryingly like that scene from Jaws and I begin to wonder if we will succumb to alpha male syndrome, start comparing scars and swapping elaborate horror stories while singing obscure sea shanties in a drunken drawl. It occurs to me that my only scar is a tiny mark on my left knee obtained when I fell off my bike aged seven while dismounting hurriedly in a friends front garden. Disappointingly it required no stitches, merely a sturdy sticking plaster. Looking around the table John has the look of a man who must surely expose the hideous marks and amazing tale of an encounter with a giant squid and a boat hook or at very least the landing of an oversize carp with the ancient fishing rod that has been lashed to Fizzgig's back-stay for at least a thousand years. Nigel also must surely have had an encounter with a mad cow or two in his work with DEFRA. Creak, Bang! and Fizzgig again shudders on another big swell and I secretly wonder if our lines will be sufficient to hold us to the concrete dock if this continues all night. John does not show any signs of concern however as he pours over the complexities of his current hand so I figure we will be OK and think instead about the game at which I seem to be appallingly bad. The idea is to gain as few points as possible with each hand and thus far everyone else seems to have between ten and fifty while I have something over five hundred! If I continue like this I can see Nigel reaching for the mobile to call it in to Norris McWhirter and claim a potential record while the ghost of Roy Castle dances through the gloomy cabin playing a jaunty tune on his trumpet and proclaiming to all "The worst ever score at Hearts was achieved in 2007 by.........". The rocking and banging of the snatching lines does indeed continue all night, the noise seemingly amplified by the small space, which makes sleeping in the fore-peak very difficult for me at least. I am shuddered back to consciousness on a regular basis. Dawn finally breaks with a brighter sky. The rain has stopped, the wind has lessened but is still strong and the swell continues to grab hungrily at Fizzgig's sturdy hull. Peering out of the hatch I can see that the Irish boat is still alongside and there is a smattering of blue sky appearing over the great white rocket on the hillside that marks the entrance to Baltimore. The weather may be improving but it's unlikely we will be able to sort out the head-sail if the wind does not abate significantly.
The sun is out and while it's not hot it's not cold either so myself and Steve set off to explore Baltimore, which doesn't take long as it is still a tiny village, albeit one with big plans. A new complex of holiday homes has just been completed and there are plans for a proper marina to try and attract more visitors. They already have quite an established reputation for good diving, partly due to the number of wrecks available to explore and there are several dive schools dotted around. There is also a little pub with an odd name - The Algiers which turns out to be a reference to the Sack of Baltimore in 1631 when Algerian pirates raided the village and took away over one hundred young men and boys to slavery. We check out the recently restored manor house which belonged to the O'Driscoll clan which dominated the town from the twelfth century and then take the walk up to the great stone rocket that stands on the high cliff harbour entrance that is surrounded by vicious looking rocks. The beacon was built by the British following the 1798 Irish Rebellion and is known locally as Lot's wife. By the time we return to Fizzgig the wind has abated sufficiently to get the Genoa back up and sort out the furling line which although we manage to fix still feels unusually stiff and heavy to pull. It will have to do however.

Baltimore to Cork
We bid farewell to Baltimore and the white stone rocket and set off for a return to Cork, admiring the high green topped cliffs off to port. Before we left we listened to the forecast. John has been designated skipper for the day and John A asks how much sail he wants. John decides to go for two reefs in the main. The sun is shining but quite a big swell has built coming from the open sea and running west to east along the coast. Fizzgig rides them quite easily however and we make good progress with a steady force 3 coming over the starboard quarter. Around lunchtime we spot a large trawler that is not quite what it appears. Our course takes us closer and we observe through the binoculars that he is not fishing and in fact the vessel is too pristine to be a trawler. We suspect she is doing some sort of survey. Trying to fix her in the binoculars illustrates the size of the swell as she disappears completely when we sink into a trough despite her high profile and relatively close proximity. The wind too is freshening but with the bright warm sunshine everything seems just fine. Nigel is happy below doing the nav and john decides to go down for an afternoon nap and I take my turn on the helm. The strengthening wind and following sea conspire periodically to try and throw the boat round to port, three or four big swells will push us along nicely and the helm is quite easy, but then every so often the bow will suddenly start to swing round and a mighty heave is required to bring her back on course. I try to anticipate the big ones with limited success but manage to keep us on course. The wind has become unpredictable, gusting suddenly by 15 knots in the blink of an eye and when Fizzgig is propelled by both crest and gust simultaneously the log speed flickers up to 10 knots. I am happy to hand over to John when my two hours on the helm are up.
Nigel pops his head up to suggest we need to head a little further offshore and we do so, but the wind is becoming even more gusty and John suggests we reduce the head-sail. This proves to be hard work as the boat is rolling quite a bit and its difficult to keep ones balance and haul on the furling line which is still quite stiff despite our repairs. Twice I fall forward onto the cockpit lockers and have to regain my footing while trying not to let the line go too slack, aware that even though I have it round the winch a strong gust at the wrong moment could see us with an enlarged rather than reduced head-sail. At the third attempt the sail is reduced by half. I am glad that John decided to go with two mainsail reefs from the start so that we don't now have to venture out of the cockpit. The reduced head-sail improves the handling but the swells keep coming one after the other, powering us along and the log flickers to 13 briefly with a mighty gust in assistance. I guess these sort of conditions are pretty ordinary for experienced sailors as with all said and done the wind strength is not that great and the sea not that big, but for the likes of me it's new territory. It's really the unpredictability that's making it difficult, one moment the wind is 15 knots and the next it's nearing 40. I feel a bit apprehensive because if conditions get any worse I really don't have much idea what to do. We are powering along and I take the main sheet in hand ready to spill some wind in the worst gusts. Half an hour later John A appears bleary eyed in the hatchway. A look about and John feels we are getting to far out and need to head effectively dead downwind for a while. John takes over at the helm and we head in towards land. Coming up from below during something of a lull John takes us dead downwind and for a few minutes things quieten down. I rather stupidly decide I can put the main sheet down and relax back, when suddenly Johan is surprised by a mighty gust and swell combination that has Fizzgig careening round in a sweeping arc, the sails fill and press us over, John calls to let go the main sheet, bugger!, I make a grab for the sheet but the momentum has us all rolling backwards away from it as the boat tips over. Pushing myself forward I make a second grab and get my hands around the rope, I try and snatch it from the jaws, fail, try again and again, fail, then third time lucky and the line comes free from the jaws of the XXXXX and the line whips through in a rush, fortunately more by luck than judgement I don't try to control it, the sail spills some wind and we avoid the impending broach. Fizzgig pops back up and John resumes course with his usual nonchalant confidence. It seems to take a long time to get back to that familiar distance from land that we normally frequent, but as we do so the conditions start to decline and we head into Cork without further incident.