We didn't stop in Sardinia, but pressed on to Mallorca, the largest of Spain's Balearic islands. It's hard to know why you make the decisions you do when you're travelling. So much is done by feel. Sardinia has many more anchorages than Sicily, and God knows, we're desperate for an anchorage, but something was pushing us along, not the least of it the absence of strong winds from westerly quarters. We are heading west from now on.
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| We all agree that breakfasts are the best meal of the day |
For two days we willed the forecast easterly winds to materialise, but they didn't. We motored, and we motored some more. Towards the end of our third afternoon at sea, Alex stopped the engine and allowed the boat to drift with the current on a dead calm surface. Claudia and I tentatively lowered ourselves down the ladder and swam alongside and around
Enki as she wallowed. There is something outrageous about swimming in the open ocean. You ought not to be able to do it. You'd be mad to even think of it in Australia. But here - well, nothing was moving for as far as the eye could see, and below the water, only our legs treading the clear sapphire blue liquid. Below that, who knew.
At 7.30 pm we watched the sun go down and a full moon rise in perfect synchronicity over horizons ahead and behind us. We ate dinner in the cockpit, laying a table and using china plates and Turkish ceramic serving bowls. The candle stayed alight.
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| But dinner isn't too bad either - rice paper rolls on Turkish plates |
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| She's found her sea legs |
Then, while we were passing the dishes down below and preparing ourselves for the night watch, the air around us began to stir, and by 9 pm we were sailing. The direction wasn't bad either. We sailed the rest of the way, more or less, to the cliffs of Mallorca, hitting 8 knots across the flat waters of the bay of Palma. We could have kept going, to be honest - it was that much fun - but we were tired, all of us. On the fourth night after our departure from Sicily we ate squid ink pasta and vongole and tuna (all staples of Sicilian cooking) at a pavement table under the shadow of a Spanish church. Our host was a German who spoke perfect English. Palma is a cosmopolitan city.
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| Enki close-hauled on a flat sea in a moderate breeze |
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| Milling about at the entrance to RCNP marina |
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| Palma cathedral |
It's also a yachting hub, the biggest in the western Mediterranean. The night lights around us at the Real Club Nautico de Palma glitter red. Superyachts with masts so tall they're considered a potential hazard to air traffic are obliged to show a red anchor light, even in port. For glamour though they can't compete though with the floodlit cathedral of Santa Maria. That huge church (the second largest Gothic cathedral in Europe) took me completely by surprise as we closed on the city from the sea - its shock value is something like that of Chartres cathedral rising from the wheat fields of northern France.
Palma's a good place to source nautical bits and pieces. We've had an almost dead electric winch (the one which helps with the mainsheet and the genoa furler) for some weeks now. Alex has being doing forensics on it - in Levkas we put on a new, thinner furling line, thinking the old one might have been too thick and the friction causing the winch to stall under too much strain. That wasn't the problem. Then we pulled apart the electric motor housing hoping that the problem might be carbon dust around the brushes which could be vacuumed out. Sadly, no. Instead of carbon dust, Alex found oil in the electric motor. He suspected a faulty seal between the gear box and the motor, and anticipated having to replace the whole unit somewhere down the line, perhaps Gibraltar, perhaps the Canaries. But as of today, the problem is fixed - a new seal, and a new motor (the gearbox was ok). I might just keep on winching manually though - the effort gives the shoulders a new kind of definition!
We are of course now in Spanish territory which means another language, another internet provider (woeful pre-paid internet options in Spain compared to Italy, by the way), another mindset. Claudia, who has very firm opinions about such things, judges the Spanish to be cooler than the Italians - but really, what is Spain, and what is Italy? These nation states are so modern, comparatively. There are more ancient loyalties, provincial and religious, which you get to understand only after you've been kicking around somewhere for much longer than we plan to stay around Palma.
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| Western entrance to Palma cathedral (cathedral also below) |
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| Heat shield |
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| Which flavour? Italian ice-cream rules, even in Spain |
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| Palma streets |
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| Part of the Parliament building - Palma is the capital of the Balearics |
The Catalan painter Joan Miro spent the last 30 years of his life on Mallorca, and though it's the last thing I expected of this crowded summer holiday island, I have to think that the brightness and joy and freshness in his works owes something to the spirit of this place as well as to his creative genius.
